Chapter 47: Their Finest Hour
Spreading out from the golden orb hovering over the city teeming with the great, rolling mass of humanity, Barth gazed at the vestibule of the Starry Sept. The most sacred site in all the Faith. It was here that the great Andal adventurers had finally settled the holy relics from Hugor of the Hill's overseeing prophecies. Here that the faithful so built the greatest city in the world. Not simply beautiful, but one in which vice and sin were to be fought rather than celebrated.
Where the black hand of the Valyrian evil hadn't dared touch, banished away by the power of the Seven who were One. So strong was their protection that even the Rhoynar sought for protection. Thousands of such faithful gathered inside the Starry Sept, tens of thousands outside, waiting to hear from His High Holiness and the announcement promised by the many criers and Poor Fellows roaming the streets.
Today those people will be united fully under the Star and Sword, the Father's standard – may his glory be everlasting.
Barth bowed as the white-haired figure stepped onto the marbled floor, crystal coronet atop his scalp and vestments covered in gold swirls about optic white. "Your Holiness, everything is ready."
High Septon Hugor Flowers nodded. "Then let us not keep the faithful waiting." As the two walked, Barth could see the great transformation that had occurred in the highest of all earthly representations of the Seven over mere days. His eyes still burned with the patient determination, but the haggard, elderly body of a soul laboring under the yoke of sinful oppressors was gone. The bastard son of a common woman was gone – instead the broad-shouldered, powerful stride of a ruler stood in its place. Clad in the regal robes of what he would soon become, Barth knew that a new age had dawned over Westeros. One that he had been fighting for his entire life.
A green carpet of the fertile fields of their glorious land, emblazoned with gold trim representing its treasures, weaved a pathway to the platform that would overlook the square in front of the sept. Flanking it were the assorted highborns present for this day, obsequious and generous in their praise.
"Your High Holiness," spoke Lord Manfred Hightower, bowing with his son Ser Martyn. "This day… we have prayed for decades for this day to come, and it finally has."
"I have received news that your younger son, Ser Morgan, has achieved the greatest of glory in King's Landing - slaying the dragonspawn abomination that sat upon their throne." He clasped the Lord of Hightower's hand, ever the loyal patron of the Starry Sept since the dawn of Andal reign in Westeros. "You should be proud of his glory."
A nod. "Unfortunately, Cersye couldn't be here. Forgive her of such disrespect, your Holiness."
"No, she shall come around, I am sure. The longer she is away from her sinful husband, the more she will be purged of the Valyrian sin."
"Praise be to the Father, Mother, and Maiden."
Each of the other highborns bowed, a blessing escaping their lips before the procession. Barth had been joined by Mattheus, Boniface, and the rest of the Most Devout. Warrior's Sons screening them. All were greeted with equal deference, though some could barely disguise their loathing. Many stood higher in blood than Barth - very much higher - yet the High Septon chose him to walk with.
Smiling inwardly, Barth knew the pecking order had been firmly set.
Reaching the balcony, anointed with the same scented oil used at the altar during the holy rituals, Hugor turned to greet each of those among the Most Devout. Always the savvy politician, he gave kisses on each of the cheeks of his allies, each of whom had been raised up by him. Slowly replacing those complacent bootlickers that had preceded them.
Much has happened to come to this day. Barth's heart swelled with pride.
Straightening his back, the glinting light of the eastern sun hitting his eyes, Barth followed behind his sovereign to the pedestal overlooking the sea of the faithful.
All at once, the roar of a hundred thousand almost caused Barth to lose his balance. Hugor, on the other hand, utterly loved it. Smiling at the crowd, he raised his hand benevolently. Even in his many years of playing the loyal lapdog of the Targaryens, the people's love of him had never wavered. It only grew.
"My brothers and sisters," thundered Hugor, his voice naturally booming across the courtyard. The faithful went silent, an awe inspiring feat in and of itself. "Praise be to the Seven who are One and prayers and peace upon all those who serve under their banners."
"PRAISE BE TO THE SEVEN!"
"Thousands of years agi, our glorious prophet - Hugor upon the Hill, to which I share a name - proclaimed the vision of the Seven. He envisioned a future in which the faithful controlled all before them. Pointing across the Narrow Sea to where a fertile land free from the domain of the sinners and dragonriders!"
A wave passed through Barth, his sovereign electrifying him. No one could deny bin Hugor's aura of majesty.
"Sadly my brothers and sisters, this has not come to pass. The one true Faith is under attack by the remnants of the Valyrians that slithered out of their den of debauchery before the gods smote it down with the fires of justice, greed and thievery in their minds. They conquered this land with fire, polluting all we have worked hard with the sweat of our brows with their incest and bigamy." He raised a fist into the air. "But this is a world upon which the faithful, under the glory of the Seven who are One, can rise under the banner of liberation. We call on those to fight because we are free men who don't sleep under oppression. We will the restoration of freedom to our land, just as the corrupt Valyrian bigamites lay waste to our nation."
His voice thundered as if the Father channeled his voice as his own. "So shall we lay waste to theirs!"
The crowd erupted in spontaneous cheers, the roar overwhelming. Looking down at the courtyard, Barth could see that the people setting the sigils of the three-headed dragon on fire. The mighty beast disappearing into the orange-red flames.
It was glorious.
"Our cause will prevail, because our call is the call of the Seven who are One. The call of all those that fought and died under their will. We will fight against those who sell themselves to their evil! We have fought them and bloodied them on the faithful's soil. Now, we shall fight them inside the land, the cities, the putrid den of the dragonspawn and the lapdog."
The crowd rose in a collective fervor. Tens of thousands of red seven-pointed stars created a collective whoosh of wind that Barth could feel gusting even from his perch.
"Go! Go my brothers! Go fight the dragonspawn and reclaim the true place of the faithful. Already King Abomination has been dispatched by those glorious souls of our swords! Fight under their example, for with the divine blessing of the Warrior shining upon us, we shall not fail!"
"All hail His High Holiness, Hugor Flowers," Lord Hightower proclaimed, raising the hand of the High Septon. "High Septon of the Holy Dominion of New Andalos!" A roar responded, sea of hands undulating in the rising sunlight.
Tears flowed down Barth's cheeks. The joyous day had come, it had finally come.
Roaring across the city, all saw the royal dragon Quicksilver ascend into the air. His bellows instead a furious, wailing shriek. Pained and mournful, wingbeats uneven as he raced out to sea. Such brought the first warnings to the unsuspecting denizens of the Dragonpalace.
"Open the gate!" echoed from the top of the gatehouse, four bewildered guards throwing open the massive steel-plated ironwood that bore entrance to the Dragonpalace, flanked by two massive statues of Valyrian dragons.
Horses galloping at the fastest clip, Ser Marden Karstark quickly leaped off, bellowing commands. "Close and bar the gates! Siege preparations, all men to the battlements!"
"What is going on…?" began one of the household guardsmen…
"The King is dead! Killed by the Warrior's Sons!" he screamed, all activity within earshot of his loud voice ceasing in an instant. "We're going to be sieged within the day. Move!" Well-trained, even in the face of such grievous news, the soldiers began to dart about, servants scurrying into action. They had trained for this under Ser Marden and Prince Maegor.
Jaehaerys heard none of it. Staggering off his horse, all appeared in a daze, shambling around. The image of his kepa's severed head still displayed in his mind. My fault… my fault…
Two hands gripped his shoulder, hard. Forcing Jaehaerys back into reality rather than stuck in his own grief and self-loathing. "Your Grace!" cried Ser Marden. "What are your orders?"
"My… my orders?" In his haze, he wasn't understanding.
"You are the last royal in the keep. Give your orders!"
"I… I can't…" The tears were caustic, feeling as if lemon juice had been squirted in his eyes. "My kepa is dead… I said the worst things… I caused this. I caused all of this…"
A slap cracked through the air, Jaehaerys' world exploding into red. Into a burning sting that frothed over his whole face, stabbing through his skin, flesh, and even bone. "Snap out of it, your Grace!" screamed the Karstark knight, voice as howling as a northern blizzard - not that Jaehaerys ever bore witness to one as his uncle did. As Alysanne perhaps endured at this very moment. "This is not your fault!"
"Yes it is!" he screamed back, tears coursing as dozens of men - in spite of the orders shouted at them by knights and officers - bore witness. Watching him with a morbid fascination, almost eager to see their own doom play out before their eyes. "I pushed away uncle! I insulted Barth and forced the High Septon to demand my sister!"
Suddenly Ser Marden yanked him out of sight, into an alcove where they could have some sort of privacy. Jaehaerys, normally stubborn and wilful as much as Maegor or his muna had been, just let it happen. "Listen to me, Jaehaerys," he spoke, the kindly mentor rather than the Master-at-arms of the Dragonpalace. "You are grieving, and I understand. You watched the greatest crime men could commit upon the world, and as the son of the King so murdered in defiance of the laws of men and gods. There will be a time to mourn your father, but right now this keep is going to be under siege."
"What… what are you talking… about?" he ground out, trying not to sob.
"There is no chance that this wasn't planned, and planned for the longest of times. Years in the past." Jaehaerys blinked, almost in disbelief. "Barth, Mattheus, Damon Morrigen… likely up to the High Septon himself. They are going to try and wipe out House Targaryen, and it would be far easier for them to do so by sacking this castle and all those who follow the dragon - including yourself."
At that moment, a flap of wings registered as something thudded onto his shoulder. Almost too large to do so, but Vermithor took advantage of his last time at a small size. Chirping at his kepa - and nuzzling his cheek. It calmed Jae down. "What should I do?"
Marden seemed to relax as Jae's voice sounded firmer. More like the Prince he was rather than a grieving child… though as promised, a time would come for that and was completely natural. "My Prince, you must lead. You must fight. All the loyal men and women within this keep, they count on you to lead them. There is no one else but you, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen. As the grandson of the conquerors themselves, are you going to rise to the occasion or let them all be slaughtered?"
Gulping, Jaehaerys… in his young life, he had always wished to be like his grandfather, like his uncle. A powerful dragonrider and warrior, while also an enlightened Prince strong in his wisdom. A future general in Rhaena's armies, a Hand to the King when his kepa was old and needed proper counsel. Never did he expect to be King, but what he dreamed of now was at hand… and it scared him.
Left him close to collapsing. How did his uncle manage it, even hated by most of his family. By Jaehaerys himself.
Uncle… forgive me. Grandfather, kepa… what do I do?
In an instant, a voice - one he couldn't place but was firm in its power - roared through his mind. Fire and Blood!
"Your Grace!" yelled Big Jon Hogg, intruding on the moment with urgency in his eyes. "Riders approaching the gatehouse with the standard of the Warriors' Sons. Should I let them approach?"
Both he and Ser Marden were boring in on Jae, waiting for his orders. His orders! A slight tremble in his hand, Jae nevertheless covered the left side of his head, steadying himself. "We are at your command, your Grace," Marden spoke - the loyal man by his side since his first training session.
Jaehaerys nodded, voice croaking but firm. "Let… let us see what they wish to do. Be ready, but do not molest them."
Big Jon bowed. "At once, your Grace."
"And I wish to speak with them, Ser Marden."
His mentor nodded. "Men, shields about the Prince, now!" Two men brought massive rectangular shields to drape over Jae, granting him what protection that the battlements wouldn't give. He sighed, knowing this was necessary as he walked out to the gatehouse and reached the port to gaze out. All were still staring at him.
Deep breaths, deep breaths…
Finally reaching the party on their horses before the gate, the white banner they carried masked the grievous murder they had committed. Damon Morrigen, many of his fellow knights - including Morgan Hightower, brother of his aunt Ceryse - and Septon Alfyn. All looking completely prim and proper. "Followers of the dragon!" Morrigen boomed. "Our quarrel is not with you! Lay down your arms and accept the Seven, and we will spare your lives. Just hand over the keep and the Prince!"
"We will not betray our Prince!" Ser Marden bellowed. "And he is the one who leads us, so speak to him!"
Morrigen nodded to Alfyn, who trotted forward on his horse. Seven-pointed Star in his left arm. "Your Grace, Prince Jaehaerys, you must understand the futility of your position. We surround you with many men, and siege engines are being brought forth. You have no dragons and no hope of being relieved. Surrender, and you will be housed with the same respect as we planned for your sister. Accept the wisdom and love of the Seven who are One, and High Septon Hugor will guarantee your safety and that of your family."
Many responses ran through Jae's mind. He could be proud that the urge to surrender and just end his suffering was only fleeting. Jaehaerys wished to have them killed, to wax eloquently in a speech that would echo through the ages… but in the end only a single word came out. "Nuts."
"What?" Alfyn blinked.
"Nuts!" he shouted, and in an instant Vermithor shrieked, truly a beast that would become a Bronze Fury once grown. The men around him began cheering, heaping abuse upon the Stars and Swords.
With their Prince, they would fight.
How did this happen?
Aegon asked that question internally as he shook inside of his full armor, watching the field below. Shadow his forces those of Tyrion Lannister did for days, and now their camp was awakened to the drawing of battle by the Lannisters. Baffle him it did, but there was no chance of a quick escape. Their hill was fortified as best they could and the two hundred men - including him - waited as a foot force of at least three times that sounded the charge, making for him.
"You can be at the rear, your Grace," stated Ser Brymon Westerling. "You haven't been in combat before."
Egg shook his head. "What Prince am I if I don't fight for my men?" Inside he was terrified, but the dragon in him refused to allow him to retreat behind his men.
The ground trembled beneath them, but Aegon refused to budge. To flee, even though his heart pounded. Closing his eyes for but a moment, he thought of his wife, his parents, his siblings… all those near and dear to his heart as it filled with the resolve to fight. Regardless of what unknown tidings left the Realm in chaos, the Lannisters had declared war on the Crown by attacking a prince of the blood.
Therefore, they would need to endure Fire and Blood.
Shield-bearing swordsmen nigh upon them, Aegon raised his sword high in the air - the same cry upon his lips. "Fire and Blood!"
"Fire and Blood!"
First upon each line were the missiles - darts and arrows from both sides, though at the higher ground did the archers among Egg's ranks have the better time of it. Dozens of men fell, blood spurting from wounds and screams filling the air, but the mass of Lannister men-at-arms stubbornly continued unabated. Line only shuddering in places. With a loud crash they threw themselves upon the Targaryen shield wall, hacking and stabbing.
"Hold, men!" bellowed Aegon, throwing himself in the fray just as the man in front of him fell victim to a battle axe. With a snarl he ran his longsword through the join of the attacker's neck and shoulderplate, steel marred by the fountaining blood that now covered Aegon's surcoat. It was sticky and smelled like rusting iron. The Prince felt the urge to void his stomach, but repressed it, an almost primal urge driving him to continue. "Beat them back! Cut their fucking throats!"
Locking his shield with the rest of the men, Aegon was now at the front taking the enemy charge head on. He caught his first blow on his shield, reacting with a sharp stab, burying the blade in another man's side. The Lannister shrieked and tried to claw at Egg's shield, pulling it down to expose him but the Prince did not budge. Finally he fell, only for another to take his place. Egg broke formation and swung, but did not manage to find the gap between the helm and the neck-brace as the man fell past him. A counterblow was barely blocked by his shield, and Egg heaved forward, knocking his foe down atop two other men.
Beside appeared Ser Brymon, already engaging with the ferocity of longstanding rivalry. He held nothing back against his Westerlands kinsmen, going for the killing blow and bashing a knight with his shield. Aegon sprang forward, severing the same knight's swordarm and kicking the now screaming opponent down. "Welcome to the fight, your Grace!" the heir to the Crag grinned.
Aegon just managed to grin back as another hail of crossbow darts peppered his shield. The Targaryen archers and missiles answered back, adding more blood to the fight over the hill. Bellowing, Aegon ordered the line forward. Shields breaking against men exhausted from the uphill engagement and the charge that preceded it. Egg took the next hit on his shield and thrust forward immediately. His aim was true, severing his new foe's tendons at the back of his knee. The scream was primal as the man at arms buckled. Instinctively, he stabbed directly at the shoulder, ending the man's life.
And just like that… "They're retreating!" One moment they were assailed at all sides, and the next the Lannisters fled, leaving at least two hundred corpses carpeting the ground, arrows and missiles savaging the fleeing host. It wasn't a rout, but such a bloody retreat made Aegon beam. Laughing like a maniac as he wrapped an arm around ser Brymon."
"We did it! We fucking did it!" He pumped his other fist up, sword still in hand. "I shall see my sister and uncle burn Casterly Rock to the ground for this! Traitors!"
"Your Grace," one of his officers called out. "We have wounded!"
"How many?" asked Ser Brymon.
"About fifty… a score dead."
"Get the ones still capable of fighting patched up and back into the line." The knight shook his head. "They will come back, and we're out about a quarter of our force."
Aegon beat his breastplate, confident from his first taste of battle. "They will fall, my friend. They will rue the day they faced House Targaryen."
His boasting aside, the Westerling knight's premonition came true. Savaged but still largely intact, the Lannister footmen remained at the base of the hill outside of archery range - and behind them appeared the heavy plate lancers under the personal banner of Tyrion Lannister, almost doubling their force. "They're reforming," Ser Brymon declared, his face paling.
"We can take them!" Egg declared, spinning his sword. Readying himself to defend the parapet yet again. "They broke and ran from us once. Our defenses are strong and position good."
But the trusty companion clasped the Prince's shoulder, eyes devoid of any bravado. "They nearly broke us. Many of our men are wounded… they're forming their heavy horse to crash into us and we have not the time nor the manpower to ready a proper wall of pikes and staves to hold them off."
Egg refused to give in. "We can mount up and countercharge…"
"That would annihilate us in moments, the defenses were our only chance." He pointed to the Lannister lines, a glittering wall of plate-clad horse forming in front of the men-at-arms that had attacked them first. "You must take Alys and the other women and head for Castamere with a small guard. We will hold them back."
"No!" Aegon was no coward. "I will not leave my men to die for me!"
But the knight was firm, shaking Aegon. "My Prince! We are ready to die for you. To go down as great knights fighting for their Prince and Crown - allow us this honor and the hope of your life rather than our death… or our death and your capture by Tyrion Lannister."
"His Grace to the rear!" one of the hedge knights begged, armor bloody and dented from the fighting.
"To the rear!" This time the cry came from a man-at-arms… and soon the entire force of battered warriors was shouting it, begging Aegon to save himself while they protected him one last time. Fought for House Targaryen to the end.
Tears openly streaming down his face, Egg embraced Ser Brymon. "I shall protect Jeyne with my life… and ensure your name will be remembered in history and song till the end of days."
Brymon cried as well, returning the embrace as their armor clinked. "Live, my Prince, and earn this life." Pulling apart, Ser Brymon bowed one last time to Egg as the trumpets blared at the bottom of the hill, Lannisters cheering and hollering their warcries. With Aegon being led back to the noncombatants by the last two dozen of his personal guard, he watched Brymon raise his sword. "We are knights of Westeros! We are knights of House Targaryen! Today, we all bring fire and blood on the treacherous lions!"
The cheer of the surviving hundred-fifty men overwhelmed the battlecries and roaring hoofbeats of the charging multitudes six times their size. "Fire and Blood!"
Egg turned away, not wanting to bear witness to this slaughter. To know only the glory of their final defiance. "My horse, my horse!" he shouted, a young page having minded the steed before racing for his own.
"Husband," called out Alys, astride her own mount. "Are we fleeing?"
His wary, tear-filled eyes met his beautiful wife. "Aye, we are."
Alys' gaze widened at the implication, while beside her Jeyne screamed. "No! Brother!"
"He wishes for me to save you, come on!"
"No! I can't leave him!"
"We must go, your Grace," begged one of the men-at-arms. Practically reaching out and dragging the reins of the distraught Jeyne, Aegon's eyes shut as the acrid tears seared his lids. Hoofbeats unable to drown out the sound of fighting and dying behind him.
"Ser Dick, Jonquil," Rhaena stated firmly. "Stay here, I wish for a moment alone with Tyanna and my hatchling."
"Your Grace… we were informed by Prince Maegor that given the situation in Westeros, we were to protect you all day while he can't…"
He silenced as Jonquil smacked his shoulder. "Do shut it, I'm sure the Princess can defend herself in the middle of a deserted cliffside. She has Dark Sister after all." The female sworn sword glowered at him, while Ser Dick sighed. Nodding.
Grinning softly to herself, Tyanna tightened her coat about her slender form as the two of them walked along the grassy plain - bracketed by the wind. "Those two are in love," she mused aloud.
Rhaena, softly stroking Daemon's cheek as he clung to her chest and shoulder, chuckled. "Aye, they're probably fu…" She caught herself. "Coupling every night after they think everyone else is asleep."
"Oh, they do." Tyanna chuckled. "They can't escape me, I have eyes and ears everywhere. A little trick my own muna taught me." Allow that to be interpreted as it will.
"Sometimes I always wish I had listened to you when you tried to explain your mystical skills to me."
"I remember you were always distracted by other parts of me," Tyanna said, eyes twinkling. Rhaena smirked and shook her head, cheeks blushing.
The last few weeks on Dragonstone had been… quite welcome. Free from the intensity and stress of court, for a while each day Tyanna and her friend could forget the fact that the entire Realm was teetering at the edge of utter collapse. "That I was… that I was," Rhaena finally spoke, kissing Daemon's hair. Inhaling his scent. "Have I told you," she spoke again, voice… different. Quiet, with not a little emotion behind it. "That I am indebted to you for saving Daemon and I that day?"
Tyanna shook her head. "Plenty of times." That moment had… terrified her beyond belief - especially since she hadn't yet found the one responsible for poisoning Rhaena. Her birds and her sight had failed her that day. "You need not worry, I would do it even if you hated me."
"But I don't hate you." A sigh. "It's hard to speak of this, but even when we ceased being lovers I never ceased loving you."
The words hadn't registered to Tyanna… and when they did she almost staggered. Knees shaking. "Me neither."
A small smile curled on Rhaena's face. "I've thought about it much since, and given that Maegor has already endured the hailstorm of taking a second wife, what is stopping him from taking a third?"
"I…" She couldn't lie and say the idea hadn't come to her. Rhaena usually didn't find men appealing, but the ethereal beauty of a Valyrian - Maegor had it as much as Rhaena did. "I never saw myself as a wife, or a mother." Tyanna was surprised that those words came out rather than others.
Rhaena giggled. "Here, take Daemon."
"What, no…"
"Please, go ahead." Without hesitating, Rhaena dumped the sleeping babe in Tyanna's arms.
Awkwardly holding the babe, Tyanna gazed at him. "Hey little one," she spoke in a low, soft voice. "I'm Tyanna… your muna's friend." More than that. "I helped her give birth to you."
Daemon's eyes fluttered open and he looked at her. He was a perfect Valyrian, wisps of silver hair and violet eyes. Time would tell whom he took after more, Rhaena or Maegor. He'd be beating the maidens away with a mace either way.
"I know you haven't seen me since that day," Tyanna continued, mesmerized by the same eyes that she had fallen for long ago. "But… if you need me for anything you just have to ask. I'm loyally yours as I am for your muna." She waited on baited breath for what Daemon thought.
Staring at her, purple eyes boring on the unfamiliar woman in front of him, suddenly a quick jerk of his arm smacked Tyanna's nose playfully. Squeals of joy echoed from between Daemon's lips, hands clapping together happily.
"Is that a good thing?" Tyanna asked, slightly apprehensive.
Rhaena beamed. "Are you kidding? Of course." She wrapped her arms around the both of them. "You're a natural… my love." Hearing the term of affection, Tyanna melted. Wishing badly she could kiss Rhaena at that moment…
An ear-splitting shriek broke them apart, Rhaena's hand going to Dark Sister on pure instinct while Tyanna snatched Daemon. The young Prince whimpered and fussed but still refused to cry. A pure dragon Tyanna had to acknowledge as she cooed and calmed the babe. Her concern for him mixing with the fear in general. "Which dragon?" She asked, voice almost breathless.
Rhaena, eyes vigilant as Ser Dick and Jonquil Darke ran towards them, quickly scanned over the cliffs. "None of ours… and it's not Balerion." For their part, Vhagar and Dreamfyre poked their heads up in alert, roaring in return. "Cannibal?"
"Your Grace!" Jonquil shoved her spear into the ground. "Quicksilver approaches!"
"My kepa's dragon?"
"How do you…?" Ser Dick, panting as he slowed to a stop before Jonquil cut him off.
"Each dragon has their own distinct sound, idiot." The love was palpable.
Tyanna, peering out as the shrieks continued, pointed with one hand out to the sea. "It's Quicksilver!" The silver dragon grew closer and closer, wings beating erratically. His sleek, serpentine shape distinctive as the marker of the royal mount.
"What could kepa want?" Rhaena murmured, stroking Daemon's hair.
"To apologize, perhaps, your Grace?" Jonquil offered. Unlike Ser Dick, her oath was to Rhaena personally, not to House Targaryen as a whole. "To invite you back to court?"
Eyes narrowing, Tyanna picked out something peculiar. "I would disagree, Jonquil… Quicksilver has no rider."
"What?!" Rhaena gaped. "Then why is he…?"
Before she could finish the dragon shrieked again as he slammed onto the ground barely two hundred feet in front of them. Clods of dirt fountained in every which way, making all but little Daemon flinch and shield themselves - the Prince waving his arms while in Tyanna's grip, babbling excitedly. That's his kepa in him.
Whatever split-second amusement at the dear hatchling was dashed as Quicksilver acted… much like a madman. His shrieks and roars were almost as if the beast was in agony. Head lashing about, smoke pouring out of his open maw, he bashed his head in the ground. Shrieks turning into… what could only be described as wails. "Get back!" Rhaena commanded, Tyanna watching as Vhagar approached the dragon that had hatched from her own egg. "Ty, stay with Daemon!"
"I'll protect him with my life, Rhae," she replied, to which Rhaena squeezed her free hand before kissing Daemon's head. A deep breath and she forged ahead towards the massive beast.
"Your Grace!" called Ser Dick. "Stand back! It's too dangerous!"
"You may as well ask the sun to set in the east and rise in the west," Tyanna mused back, watching the brave Princess slowly approach the still wailing dragon. Please… be cautious… Daemon's eyes were locked on his muna, as was Tyanna's. I love you…
The ground shook, Vhagar arriving. Visenya's dragon roared at Quicksilver, attitude akin to a concerned parent as she lurched down, jaws clamping just behind Quicksilver's skull horns. The bite… it seemed light, more a scolding or restraining action than anything hostile, and worked like a charm after what had to be the longest moment of Tyanna's life so far. Quicksilver calmed and the smoke dissipating, Vhagar let go and hooted what had to be a question.
When Quicksilver screeched back, Vhagar reared back, as if stricken. "Something happened," Tyanna breathed, the air changing from terrifying to… tense.
Into this Rhaena walked, reaching out to the simmering form of her kepa's dragon. Her mouth moved, and Quicksilver lowered his head. Allowing Rhaena to touch it and they were locked in silence. Speaking in that strange bond that Tyanna just accepted as the due of a Targaryen.
Hopefully the egg in Daemon's crib would hatch soon.
Suddenly Rhaena let out a shrill scream, collapsing on the ground. Her hands covered her face, the sobs audible even from the two hundred foot distance.
Tyanna ran to her. Careful of Daemon in her arms, but Rhaena needed her. "Rhae!" she cried out, kneeling beside her. "What happened? Tell me."
Rhaena reached out, hugging her just as they had before, but unlike that loving embrace this was more needy. More desperate, but not of the passionate sort. Her sobs were hot on Tyanna's skin, needing comfort… "My kepa… he's dead. Murdered by the Warrior's Sons."
Only able to embrace her back, inside Tyanna's heart clenched - her skin going pale and breath failing her. Yes, Rhaena would need her comfort. The comfort of Prince Maegor as well.
But far more had happened. Suppressed since the conquest itself, the immense hidden opposition to Targaryen rule had come to a head. War was here, and unlike before there would be no negotiating out of it.
This would be in at the death.