A/N: Hi all. Big battle chapter up!

Little note, I received a comment a week ago that had sloganeering in regards to modern politics. Please guys, let's save the comments for discussing the story, Game of Thrones in general, or history/literature to compare to GoT. Nondivisive subjects as Kit and Emilia pioneer, cause I think of this story and the comments as a safe space for the fandom to enjoy stories and fix things those two assholes ruined. Thank you :D

Awesome stuff: I have just started a collaborative project called The Targaryen Dynasty with BlackRose999. It is an interesting take on post-The Bells Targ restoration.

Enjoy and please comment :D

Chapter 48: First Blood

Lord Boros,

I invite you to watch as your besiegers become the besieged. That the traitorous prince find himself and his army of trout-fuckers are annihilated by the noble men of the Crownlands and House Darry. Sit upon the walls of Harrenhal and celebrate the coming victory.

Qarlton Chelsted

Master of War

Crumpling the piece of paper in his fist, Rhaegar Targaryen took a glance at the battlements of Harrenhal before turning back to his war council. "Well, my Lords. Do you doubt me when I say that Lord Chelsted's one of the most craven, ridiculous men that my father could select?"

A chorus of chuckles left the lips of the assembled Lords, reflecting on Rhaegar's accurate assessment. "He may be a bit conventional in his thinking, but he's a brawler as his sigil suggests," stated Aarrax Celtigar, recently arrived with hundreds of men-at-arms to fight for the man he once squired for.

"A mace and sword," scoffed Rickard Karstark. "Probably thinks it's terrifyin'. Now a dragon or a wolf or a Bolton flayed corpse, that strikes fear. A mace is fuckin' juvenile." Leave it to the Northerners to be blunt.

Peeking out the vision slits of the hastily constructed siege works that Thorne and the Blackfish erected around Harrenhal, Rhaegar watched the pockets of the enemy camp several miles to the southeast. "Lord Reed, did you find the layout of their camp?"

Howland nodded, Crannogmen serving as the army's scouts. "Nestled against the shore of the God's Eye for easy access to water. Looks like they're refitting after a forced march."

"Any contact with Chelsted's scouts?" asked the Blackfish gruffly. It became apparent that he talked to everyone this way, so Rhaegar didn't take it personally.

"Yes." Howland gave a tiny smirk, unlike him. "Granted my men didn't let them live to tell any tales." Rhaegar approved, though most of the other Rivermen huffed in distaste. Considering the dozens of 'scalps' collected of Chelsted's pickets, a tradition since the Andal invasion, the crannogmen weren't popular among most apart from the Blackwood levies.

Rhaegar approved, even against who moons ago had been his own bannermen. If they're afraid, they'll break sooner. "Do they outnumber us?" he demanded.

"About twenty-three or so thousand against our eighteen."

"I've faced worse odds than that," scoffed Bronn nonchalantly, chewing on a scrap of dried pork. If the crannogmen were of ill repute, Bronn was outright hated.

Ser Bonifer Hasty hated him most of all, considering him a disgrace to the knighthood. "We'll have less due to maintaining the siegeworks." The pious knight may have hated Bronn, but he was right.

"Means I'll have to fight harder," Bronn shrugged.

"Chelsted's an idiot," grumbled Ser Gerold, looking at the map laid out before them. "He should have attacked immediately but instead he's sticking to convention. Resting his forces before he attacks in a few days in coordination with Boros the Belly within the keep."

Brynden Tully scowled. "Say what you want about that pig Robert Baratheon." Few in the command tent could stand him - least of all Rhaegar. "He would have been bullheadedly aggressive in just the right fashion. Now… we have the advantage to attack."

"Sally forth now? And expose us to envelopment from the rear?" Lord Bracken warned.

Rhaegar shook his head. "Ser Alliser will hold the siegeworks with my Household Guard." A fool like Boros the Belly, the hardened guardsmen would make him piss himself to challenge. "That will protect our rear and serve to annihilate any force that Blount can send out."

Ser Barristan pressed his chin in worry. "And another thousand men taken away from the main battle."

"Not if we divide their forces," remarked he Blackfish. "But how? An idiot like Chelsted will keep his men together if all other things are equal."

Pursing his lips, Rhaegar studied the map. Remembered all war lessons he had learned, all the battles across the history texts lectured into him by his teachers - of the way all armies acted. Could be… "My whispers indicate that Chelsted left King's Landing ten days ago." Technically it was Lord Varys' whispers, but Rhaegar was not about to out his spy in the capitol. "They can't have taken a large wagon train with them, considering rains hit the land around Rosby and Stokeworth." The men would have to travel with light rations.

Oswell, having grown up in these lands and with a personal motivation to defeat Chelsted, seemed to catch on. "They will need to forage, then." He pointed on the crude map. "In these woods of game and these farmlands to the north, away from our cavalry patrols. I would think he'd send significant numbers of men to conduct the foraging."

"They are," clarified Howland. "I'd think hundreds, guarded by men of House Massey."

"My father executed the late Lord Massey several weeks ago." Rhaegar's jaw set in hard brooding. "Ser Bonifer, can your men march quietly?"

The pious knight blinked, not expecting his King to address him. "I believe so, your Grace. We will conduct ourselves in whatever manner the Seven's Chosen asks of us."

Rhaegar smirked. "Good, then you and Ser Bronn will need to get along." He had a perverse sense of enjoyment at how both of them blustered.

"I still think your plan is shite," Oswell added after the strategy meeting, the two of them strolling along the siegeworks. "Dividing our forces of some of our best men? It's asking for trouble."

Keeping his head low, nevertheless an arrow often smacked against the wood staves - his own archers and crossbowmen returning fire at the Blount bannermen manning the Harrenhal battlements. "Boldness is what wins, Oswell, not complacency..."

He was suddenly pushed down just as a crossbow bolt sailed just where his shoulder had been. Barbed tip embedding in the roughly cut wood. "Careful, your Grace." Oswell eyed the stained cloak and armor of his King. "Better mud on your cloak than two brides and three children without a husband and father."

Breathing deeply, Rhaegar nodded. "Fuck, thank you, Oswell." The two of them essentially half crawled, half crouched to a safer set of siegeworks two dozen yards beyond. "I need to take the initiative, he finally said once they were reasonably safe."

"I want to kill Boros and Chelsted more than anyone, but can't you wait till at least Ned Stark or Elbert Arryn arrive?"

"And Robert Baratheon and Mace Tyrell will arrive as well. If I wish to strike it will need to be now, and against a plodding, predictable enemy, boldness is what will win." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you trust me, Oswell."

The Kingsguard bowed. "I trust you, your Grace. Just be careful. I won't go back to your Queens saying that I failed to save their King." Without another word he moved to stand guard outside the entranceway, his armor generic and not signalling he was anyone special - best in case some marksman decided to use a longbow to end Rhaegar's life.

Withdrawing back to his own tent - damp and chilly, but his - Rhaegar's eyes shifted to the letter on a rickety camp desk. One he had hesitated to open since the day before out of… fear? Apprehension? Just the fact that another family member may have been lost, but if he didn't look he didn't have to know about it? You're stronger than this. Sighing, Rhaegar broke the seal of the Night's Watch and unfurled the letter.

Only for him to smile in relief.

Dearest Nephew,

You have endured the same grief as your mother, as your uncles and aunts and grandparents before you. And now, you face the agony of being on the cusp of the title of kinslayer. Gods… I prayed you would not suffer from this. I suppose they weren't heard.

However, you cannot ever allow yourself to think you are pursuing an evil cause. As a King, you will need to conduct yourself in ways that seem as if you are tearing yourself limb from limb, but such is the duty of our birthright. You are a dragon, Rhaegar. Show your babes what our family is capable of and be a dragon.

Uncle Aemon

Holding the letter to his breast, Rhaegar took a deep breath. Seeking to calm his emotions, he instead felt as if a fire was being stoked inside him. As if a mighty forge heating to intense

temperatures. Wordlessly, he walked to a chest in the room - picking up Blackfyre and gripping it tightly in his hand. Opening the chest and removing the green egg from where it was tucked. Relishing in its warmth.

Be a dragon.


Twig snapping behind him, Howland swiveled around, knife held at throat level. A silent warning to the hedge knight behind him. Do that again and I'll slit your throat. The knight paled and seemed to get the message. Normally so soft spoken and withdrawn, once in battle the crannogman lord was ruthless… as were his men.

That made them Bronn's sort of people - especially as they crept silently through the forests north of Harrenhal. Moonlight partially blocked by the spindly canopy of wintertime, the caw of owls and bats predominated the din. Giving them pretty good cover. "You sure they come this way?" he hissed softly. Bronn adjusted his position in the dirt. Just because he grew up in a forest hovel didn't mean he enjoyed the persistent itching.

"Aye," replied Howland, just as soft. "Along that road right there." A dirt track sunken into the ground provided quite the break in the treeline, Crannogmen and Holy Hundreds taking positions within the hills and bluffs scouted out previously by Howland and his best trackers.

Running over in a low crouch, the armored form of Bonifer Hasty managed not to make too much noise. Placing thick wool underneath what mail armor he was allowed to wear sure muffled the noises. "My men are in position for your… plan," he ground out. Bronn smirked, remembering the quick parlay hours before.

"How many men will we be expecting?" Ser Bonifer asked once Howland repeated what he told Bronn.

Howland sheathed his dagger, not seeing any danger around him. "About a thousand… banners of lambs and… a star of circles." The details were ones he committed to memory the morning before.

"Stokeworth and Sunglass, along with the five hundred Masseys waiting at the edge of the forest."

"Massey? The asshole son of the asshole who was killed?" Bronn did not mince words.

"Aye." Howland grinned, looking sinister in the moonlight. "Think he'll turn?"

The captain of the Holy Hundred pushed ahead with the planning. "So they'll march down the road, you said? From where?"

"Farmland north of hear, on the approach to Lord Harroway's Town. Foragers will trickle in through the night and then assemble at dawn…" He pointed to a clearing that led out towards the God's Eye and Chelsted's camp. "Right over there. That's where they organize their supplies to bring to Chelsted. Along with where Massey and his men wait."

He stroked the thin beard at his chin. "We can call forward Lord Karstark and Lord Celtigar. Once they assemble we attack."

"Fuck that," Bronn whispered, glaring. "I say we hit the fuckin' lamb boys right on the road. Wipe em out before anyone can notice."

Bonifer wrinkled his nose. "Ambush and banditry is not the way of the Warrior. We must meet him on open ground or my men won't see their fighting spirit maximize."

Grunting, Bronn pointed towards the enemy camp. "They outnumber us. I'm gonna pull every fuckin' trick in the book to fuck up those cunts." But… he would have to learn some discipline. "Lord Reed is in command, it's his go."

Howland didn't need much time. "We ambush them." Bronn grinned while Bonifer scowled…

Just as he scowled now, but the knight wore some acceptance. "Where are the Karstarks?"

"They're in position," Howland whispered. "When we give the signal, they and Arryax Celtigar will charge." At a loud clacking followed by laughter, the battle senses of the men took over. "Positions, now."

The Stokeworth and Sunglass foragers were in a merry mood for being out overnight, well-loaded with supplies and personal booty from looting the prosperous farmers once sworn to House Whent. A few men were lucky and found a maiden to… sample - hells, an older farmwife worked just as well. Hence the jolly mood as they marched down the sunken road with their haul.

Too lured into complacency by two nights of essentially complete latitude to forage, as they drew close to the assembly point a massive chorus of wolf-howls echoed through the trees. Out of the darkness to the west charged the hidden crannogmen and men-at-arms. Suddenly setting upon the foraging parties with knives, swords, and axes. Attempts to form battle lines lasted but minutes as what had been a skirmish developed into all out slaughter, close quarters and the strung out column negating any advantage their discipline and superior weaponry gave.

Chaos and butchery by the feared Crannogmen unable to ignore, the well-formed Massey swords advanced into the forest, preparing to rescue their Crownlands comrades. But before they could reach the afflicted supply train the horn was blown and the thousand Celtigar bannermen erupted from their staging position in the woods. The charge both smashed into the center of the Masseys while the flanks maneuvered wide to double envelop their foes.

Lord Justin Massey, son of the Lord killed by Aerys for a mere slight, had enough. In mere moments, what had been a close to annihilated force now embraced their Celtigar comrades. Swords held high as they defected to Rhaegar's cause, not willing to fight for the Mad King. Such doomed the foragers, while no one noticed the Karstark horse wheeling far north of the battlefield, sticking to tree cover.

"Why haven't you advanced yet?!" Demanded Ser Jonothor Darry, having just arrived at the camp of the Royal Army of the Crownlands. "Are you addled or just an idiot?"

"I resent your implication, Ser Jonothor," Qarltom Chelsted scowled, crossing his arms. "I understand Lord Connington wishes you to command your House's men into the fray, and you'll be leading the vanguard upon the attack at noon today."

Gods spare me from such fools. Though still dark, the first tendrils of daylight poked over the eastern horizon. "You should have attacked already! At least form up the troops now and assault the siege lines?"

Chelsted seemed perturbed. "And have my men freeze their stones off? They will fight at the best time for victory." He chuckled, besides, Rhaegar would be a fool to attack now. Outnumbered and outmatched. No, he will stay on the defensive."

However, he would be forced to choke on his words as a rider - horse nearly panting as he urged it into the camp - approached. "My Lord! The foraging party has been attacked!"

Eyes widening, Chelsted soon grew pale. "What?! How?!"

"Rhaegar has light scouts, apparently," Jonothor shouted. "Enemy?"

"Crannogmen, Ser." The rider shook his head. "Fuckers came out of nowhere… frog people they said… they butchered us. Knights too… and Celtigar."

"What are the casualties?" Jonothor's questions were crisp and direct, unlike the bumbling Chelsted who seemed out of breath trying to parse everything.

The rider paled. "Most of the foraging party… Massey struck banners. He's with them now."

Jonothor went red. "You sent fucking Massey to guard the damn foragers?!" He swore Chelsted would be stripped of his command once reporting back to Connington… if they won the day that is.

Such a disaster seemed to spur the Master of War out of his fog. "I will not be humiliated by frog people! Ser Balman!"

"My Lord?" Sandy-blonde mustache thick and droopy, the Lord-consort in waiting of Stokeworth and the husband of the Lady Stokeworth's eldest daughter, Balman Byrch commanded his goodmother's bannermen.

"Call your banners and patch up that line. Bring me the head of Justin Massey if it's the last damn thing you do!" Byrch nodded and dashed off. "As for the rest of you, assemble the lines - we attack now!"

Better late than never…

Emerging from the woods about an hour later, the rebel raiding party quickly found the Stokeworth men-at-arms advancing from the loyalist camp. Banners fluttering high and led by Ser Balman on horseback. "To arms!" came the hue and cry from dozens of throats.

"Spears and shields!" ordered Bronn, taking command of the other hedge knights and wannabe sellswords attached to Rhaegar. His command, so to speak. To his right formed the Celtigars and Masseys, while to his left Bonifer Hasty guarded the flank. Behind was Howland, his swamp fighters best to avoid first contact. Already the front row of Stokeworth infantry charged across the dusky field. "Alright, you fuckin' bastards!" Bronn waves his bloodstained sword high. "For Rhaegar!"

"FOR RHAEGAR!" The rebel line charged as well.

The fronts clashed in a flurry of swords and spears, blood soon soaking the ground as the weight of the rebel numbers buckled the Stokeworths. The Holy Hundred managed to carve through the far right of the loyalists and swept inward in an envelopment, Bonifer at the van fighting like a wildcat. Bronn hacked and stabbed with sword and dagger, his men giving the opening for Howland's Crannogmen to dart through and start slaughtering among the lines.

Ser Balman had planned this, ready to attack with his second and third lines, but out of the woods to the east came a shrill battlecry. One that turned his blood to ice just as an arrow sliced through his throat. It was Rickard Karstark and his cavalry, swords waved and spears depressed as they slammed into the Stokeworths. Attacked simultaneously from the front, Howland and Bronn breaking through, the entire loyalist host buckled, routing.

With the men of Karhold sweeping like a scythe across the dark field, slaying men left and right to the cheers of the infantry, the lumbering host within the camp began to awaken. Blocks of infantry and heavy horse emerging to the field, Jaremy Rykker leading the men of Duskendale in front to face Howland's command and rescue the field.

Only the resounding boom of horns from a mile away signalled the awakening of another lumbering host. Cutting down what remained of a Stokeworth man-at-arms, Bronn laughed loudly. "Come on you silver-haired bastard!" The first rays of sun poked over the trees as he twirled his sword. "Ya' can't 'eve all of 'em to me!"


Atop Moondancer, Rhaegar stood taller than any other - seen from across the breadth of the line as he led his army out of the siegeworks and onto the field. His stallion snorted under the glare of the morning sun… as did he. "Shhh, boy, shhh," comforted the King-claimant. If he suffered then all his men did - perhaps that was what Chelsted would expect.

As he had told Oswell, now was not the time to be timid. Now was the time to be a dragon.

Around him rode the knights of the Kingsguard, left resplendent in their white cloaks and gleaming armor - swords drawn and ready to defend their King. "Chelsted's halting in place," observed Barristan.

"Indecisive," growled Gerold, itching for this to be over with.

"Smart, actually." Eyes turned to Oswell. "Black Harren chose the ground well for his keep. No hills, no ridges, just flat ground. Perfect for an offensive army. His best move is to stay put and sacrifice part of his army for the whole rather than…" As if on cue, the faint horns sent the large formations of their enemy lurching forward, banners of House Rykker marching towards Howland's flanking force while the vast majority turned to face Rhaegar's army directly. "I don't fucking believe it."

Barristan snorted. "Guess he is that much of an idiot."

Blackfyre found itself out of its sheath. Rhaegar, helm off, turned Moondancer around to address his men. Letting his silver hair blow behind him from the winds coming off the great lake. In his red and black, he looked otherworldly. "Men, I will not lie to you!" he roared. "Today will be bloody and nothing worth of songs, but we bleed today so our wives and children don't burn tomorrow!"

That drew whoops from the men. Eager soldiers seeking to avenge the slaughter of the Whents and the Mootons. From the knights of House Tully to the cavalry of House Blackwood to the heavy men-at-arms of House Mallister to the archers of House Piper, all were ready to show what the Rivermen could do. Who better to lead them to glory than the Dragon King?

"They call me the Last Dragon!" he roared again, angling his horse towards the lumbering enemy. "Well they'd be wrong. As you fight with me, we are all dragons!" Cheers followed. "BE A DRAGON!"

Horns blew at that moment. "CHARGE!" screamed lord and knight alike, the rebel army surging forward - Rhaegar at the van atop Moondancer, Blackfyre levelled at the enemy forces.

Unlike the two unwieldy blocs of tightly packed men under Chelsted, Darry commanding one and Lord Rosby the other - their commander not eager to get caught in any battle - Rhaegar increased the flexibility of his forces. They were divided into four separate commands, the Blackfish and Ser Myles Mooton at the flanks. Rhaegar personally commanded the Brackens and Mallisters in the center while Tytos Blackwood remained with the cavalry reserve, wheeling around to join Howland. Following their King, the ground between the rebels and their loyalist enemies diminished rapidly until the two armies slammed together.

"Nock!" commanded Lord Piper, remaining back with the archers. Angling their longbows back, they arced high, aiming for the center of the loyalist mass. "Loose!" Five hundred bows thwacked, projectiles sent shooting into the air like a flock of pigeons marring the cloudless sky. They sailed upward before descending on their mission of death - hitting the battlelines just as the two armies met…

For Rhaegar it passed like a blur. Spurts of red blood, flashes of sunlight gleaming off armor and steel. It was as if he charged automatically through line upon line of men, Moondancer barreling through and trampling over dozens while he swung Blackfyre at any in range. Splatters of blood upon him only barely registered… until something knocked him from Moondancer, more pained and abrupt than any tourney.

Any romantic notions of battle were wiped out in that moment.

Head ringing from beneath his helm, Rhaegar forced himself to scramble up. Eyes focusing in the thick of battle. Whatever cohesion among the front ranks of the men had disintegrated, shield, blade, and spear locked together in a furious melee. In this - none of his Kingsguards within sight - the King-claimant made the perfect target.

A knight of Rosby colors made the first move, mace high as he charged. Top heavy, he stumbled when Rhaegar danced out of the way, Valyrian steel cutting through mail and slicing open his back. He wheeled around at a snarl and parried a swing, shield-butt deflected by his armored elbow - making Rhaegar grit his teeth in pain. Twirling Blackfyre in his wrist, the Dragon King used an opening and stabbed upward, hitting him through the chest and throat. Beyond, two men-at-arms hesitated only to get caught in a flurry of arrows thwacking into the ground, driving Rhaegar back. Blood up, he gave a roar of his own and charged at a Sunglass knight.

Within minutes the fields southeast of Harrenhal had become a charnelhouse of death and blood. Two blocs of rebel troops had slammed against Lord Rosby's center, trapping it in an almost crescent envelopment of stabbing and hacking. Blocking it from the flank blocs of Ser Jonothor and Jaremy Rykker, both starting to fall back towards the kingsroad and loyalist camp as the weight of the rebels crashed upon them. Jonothor engaged the Blackfish directly, experience meeting youth in a clash of steel. Meanwhile, the unconventional fighting style of Bronn and the crannogmen put the Rykkers at the worst disadvantage when Ser Bonifer and the Celtigars pressed afterwards.

Snarling, Rhaegar was pushed back as a crossbow bolt pierced the armor of his left bicep. He snapped off the end, finding the arm functional. Charging forward, he found the Velaryon footsoldier rapidly trying to reload - lopping his head off a split second later.

He quickly looked around and found Ser Barristan engaged in a duel with a Kettleblack knight. Rhaegar quickly closed the distance, cleaving through plate armor easily with a powerful swing. Lopping off a shoulder and kicking the knight to the ground. Breathing hard, Barristan smiled warily before his eyes widened. "Your Grace!"

Rhaegar swung around, just barely blocking a morningstar from caving in his head. The man - wearing Targaryen colors - laughed malevolently and surged forward. Black armor blocking Barristan's strikes as he targeted Rhaegar. Shield up and swung nearly knocking Blackfyre from Rhaegar's hands. But the Prince redoubled, charging within the man's swing and smashing his helm into the other's. Pitching back, own helm falling off, the Targaryen sword sword got a blade through his eye courtesy of Barristan. Rhaegar then ran Blackfyre through the back of another Rosby, kicking it atop another man before slashing his throat. "FORWARD!"

Parrying a wild swing, Bronn slammed his body against a Rykker knight's shield. Stabbing his dagger through the man's eye. The bellow of horns found Blackwood light infantry racing into the fray. "To the flank! To the flank!" Grabbing a Targaryen banner, he raced to guide the men where they were needed.

The added reinforcements boxed the Rykker forces on two sides,an envelopment that failed to hack its way through the bristling wall of shields and swords but forced them east… away from the rest of the army. Allowing Lord Blackwood to ride his knights directly at the exposed loyalist center. Lances tearing through flesh and bone, bloody, writhing bodies collapsing to the ground by the scores.

As such, the Crownlanders broke. Pressed at the front by the Dragon Prince's relentless assaults, assailed with swarms of arrows while their own men had run out, the Blackwood charge ended their spirit. First ran the Rosbys, then the Buckwells. Such a trickle became a flood as the center disintegrated.

Thrill of battle fading away, his heart easing it's pounding, such was when the pain hit Rhaegar. Aches and stings all over his body, bruises throbbing if a bit of plate or mail even brushed over it. The arrow in his bicep stabbed like a burning blade, making Rhaegar grit his teeth to keep from screaming as the pain showed its ugly off his helm to suck in the cold air, it managed to temper it somewhat - the King standing strong with his men among the dead.

A neighing caught his attention and Rhaegar felt his steel returning. There was Moondancer trotting to him, not a scratch upon his hide. Seeking out his master with a gentle nuzzle of his snout. "Easy boy… I'm alright. Sort of." All he could think about was how Lyanna and Elia would kill him… then probably ride him till they passed out, but kill him first.

"Dragon King!" The cheer of Richard Lonmouth pierced the hazy din of post-battle silence.

"Dragon King!" added Rickard Karstark.

"Dragon King!" The cheer of the sour Brynden Blackfish was all too surprising, but it was enough to resound across the entire field.

"DRAGON KING! DRAGON KING! DRAGON KING!"

And in spite of the pain, fanned if it didn't feel good.


Behind him, Ser Jaime could feel a slight pulse of heat as yet another burst of wildfire scorched the outer courtyard of the Red Keep. The smoke wafting over King's Landing like a cloud unseen since the mass burnings during the Great Spring Sickness decades earlier. The cost of defeat… Perhaps it was a mercy that many lords and knights of the Crownlands were already struck dead in the fighting at Harrenhal - or had surrendered and bent the knee to Rhaegar with their families. Their keeps would be destroyed, but at least they were alive.

Not much could be said for this wretched city.

Guards clinking their boots at the instantly recognizable Lion of Lannister, Jaime didn't acknowledge them as he prowled through Maegor's Holdfast. A man on a mission - a very specific mission for the one person that mattered to him anymore. His brother and sister were safe in Casterly Rock, friends and mentors fighting with Rhaegar and out of his control. Rhaegar… essentially the same way. Only one still relied on him for anything, and his service to her had consumed all of his soul.

His heart as well.

Such heavy on his mind, at the knock on the door to her private bedchamber the angelic voice from inside made his heart clench. "Who bids me?"

"Ser Jaime, your Grace," he answered. The King wouldn't bother to knock. At her positive acknowledgement, he came upon the most beautiful person in the world.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen leaned against the window of her bedchamber, overlooking the dragonpit and Blackwater Bay. A shimmering dress of white and red adorned her, almost as if diamonds were sewn into the silk. Her silver hair was in immaculate braids, wafting down her back and shoulders and held by a simple tiara. She looked like a goddess, taking his breath away.

"Ser Jaime," she regarded him, Jaime delighted to see a genuine smile forming on her gorgeous face.

It shook him from his stare. "My Queen." He bowed, removing his helm so that she could see his face. "News of the battlefield."

She nodded. "I noticed the green flames. Chelsted lost, I take it."

"Aye. Half the army either annihilated or captured, though Ser Jonothor saved the core. Lord Jaremy Rykker has been given command of it while Chelsted faces a royal inquiry today. Harrenhal capitulated to the rebels as well." Varys' little birds were bound to hear him tell Rhaella the truth, but he was on Rhaegar's side… supposedly. Jaime knew he spoke no open treasons.

"I don't care about Rykker or Chelsted." She approached him, hands falling upon his breastplate. "My son… is he…?" Her voice was low, but no less desperate.

Jaime smiled, his voice also low. "King Rhaegar lives. He fought with the fury of the Conqueror or Rogue Prince."

Relief spread on Rhaella's face. "Oh thank the gods." She looked as young as a maiden with the worries gone from her expression. "Thank all of them…" Her hands drifted to what was the smallest of swells under the dress.

It had been a bittersweet piece of news when the Queen missed two moons of her bleeding. A visit to Pycelle confirmed the pregnancy, much to the smug delight of the King - less about the babe itself but more about what the babe represented. Rhaella had been… far harder to read for Jaime even though he was an expert in her emotions. "Are you truly alright… my Queen?"

Still rubbing her stomach, a serene look passed over Rhaella's face. One that brought Jamie joy. "For the first time in a long while, Ser Jaime, I feel hopeful." Seeing him arch an eyebrow, she sighed. "I know about the hells outside, essentially my entire life only worse." Her parents and brother dead in the flames of Summerhall, her brother and husband abusive, one by one children dying… "But by the gods I feel hopeful."

"You don't worry about your babe?" Jaime willed to protect Rhaella from all threats, even if such a threat was her own optimism.

"Truthfully?" Rhaella took a moment to think. "I don't, Jaime." She cupped her swell. "My daughter will be healthy, I can feel it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Daughter?" I wish she were of my blood. Jaime would have showered Rhaella with love and affection at their child in her womb. The images of what he'd never have tortured him, but he thought it anyway.

Rhaella chuckled. "Yes, a daughter. And I shall name her Daenerys." She grinned. "If they call me Queen Naerys, then why not embrace it."

"You're much stronger than her, my Queen." Eyes sparkling at the compliment, Rhaella reached up and kissed his cheek. It was as if the maiden had hit him with pure joy. "The King… he requests your presence at the royal inquiry." Both their faces fell.

Reaching the alcove that provided the side entrance for the royal family to make their less than dramatic entrances, Jaime took one peek in the throne room only to halt. "What?" Rhaella asked, tone firm.

She received a grim look in response. "Let's go back, your Grace."

"No, what is going on."

"Nothing good," was his reply.

Frowning, Rhaella involuntarily straightened - looking every inch a Queen of House Targaryen. "You will not keep me from my duties and my strength, Ser Jaime." Without another word she brushed past him… only to understand a split second later to what he referred.

Qarlton Chelsted was in full dress armor, the finest imported silks, polished plate… and his face turning purple from the garrote slowly tightening around his neck. The perpetrator was Jonothor Darry, the Kingsguard's lips pursed in a tight line as he brought the King's Justice to the Master of War. Chelsted's hands alternated several times between frantically pulling at the rope and reaching for the Iron Throne, strangled gasps begging for mercy from a monarch not inclined to deliver it.

Rhaella was rooted to the spot, eyes wide and hands clasped together over the glittering dress. Unable to say anything. Watching the once loyalist for her husband be murdered before her very eyes and the fact that her beloved Viserys was being held down by two household guards to watch the whole thing happen. "I told you, your Grace," Jaime whispered in her ear, grieving for what she must be feeling.

She did not respond.

An interminable time passed before Chelsted's struggles ceased. No longer did Ser Jonothor have to strain to hold the garrote in place, for the Master of War slumped. Eyes blown in an agonizing death. He let Chelsted's corpse collapse to the floor, stepping back as drawn out claps echoed from the Iron Throne.

"Your apology is accepted, Lord Chelsted," Aerys announced gleefully, motioning to Pycelle. "Verify he's dead, Pycelle, and be quick about it." The Grand Maester nodded and scurried to the corpse. "See what happens to those that fail, Viserys?"

"Yes, kepa…" Viserys mumbled, his voice numb.

Hearing another of her babes be subjected to Aerys' madness shook Rhaella from her shock. She strode forward, visible to all with Jaime in tow. Respectfully - yet a front to the Kingsguard that knew her so well - she curtseyed. "Your Grace."

Aerys smiled sinisterly. "Ah, wife. I hope you saw the man that lost half my personal army get what he fuckin' deserved."

She wrinkled her nose but was otherwise expressionless. "I saw that, as did our son."

"Hopefully my new babe in your womb did as well. A girl, I hope, for Viserys to sire proper dragons from - she deserves to learn how to be a Targaryen, unlike that weak shit that you bore me first."

A weak shit that annihilated half your army, brother. Rhaella didn't speak her thoughts, though. "May I take Viserys to his studies with the Septa, your Grace?"

Pursing his lips, Aerys ended up nodding after the longest time. "Aye, I have no use for him now. Remember what I told you, son, lest you become a weakling like Rhaegar."

Taking her son's hand in hers, Rhaella hurried him out of the Throne Room. Jaime keeping two steps behind - imagining what he would have done had the child been his ward to protect. The love he would show him and Rhaella both. "Are you alright, my dearest?" he heard her ask Viserys.

"A dragon… kepa says I must be a dragon."

"There are many ways to be a dragon, Viserys."

He shook his head, curls bobbing. "Not what kepa says. Not weak like… Rhaegar…" He hesitated in saying those, but the boy would never have before. Jaime winced under his helm, knowing the pain going through Rhaella at it all.

The steel of his blade cried out to taste Aerys' blood. And yet he was far too much a coward.

A/N: There was no chance Aerys wasn't going full Darth Vader right there.

Rhaegar has won his first battle and proven himself in combat. He is becoming a dragon!

Little Dany is finally here! :D

Next up, the Quiet wolf and dragon reunite.