Lions
Kevan could hear the faint whisper of Blackwater, concealed from the Lannister camp by rolling hills and dense forests. The river was there he knew, where the road wound over two hills, there where Kevan had journeyed a hundred times on his way to King's Landing or back to Casterly Rock. His eyes were drawn to the Redwood sept, losing count of how many times he had paused and prayed there, a place of refuge and faith for travellers.
"If we take the sept, their formation will shatter like a stool without legs," Harys Swyft, his goodfather, declared confidently what was plain to see and with that he was chosen to lead the first charge on the sept and the small hill. That the sept was the key to victory was clear enough, the enemy surely knew that as well, for the little hill was swarming with golden and dragon banners, but also many others, people from Crackclaw Point, a place that Kevan never thought he would spare a glance at.
"Auuuuuuu", a horn blared and nine thousand Lannisters marched, with rhythm of drums, across the plain on both sides of the road, towards the small hill, towards the sept. The grand banners with a golden lion would never fail to be a splendid sight for Kevan, among them stood a solitary blue rooster of House Swyft, though his goodfather commanded the attack only from the back, the true vanguard were led by Lord Serret and Ser Flement Brax, who might have been Lord Brax, by now. His father had perished near Riverrun, where the water had seized his heavy armor along with him, his brother Robert had fallen in their attempt to ford the Red Fork, while his eldest brother was a captive after Whispering Wood.
The attack had been delayed to midday, for the night rain had drenched the road and the field and they had to wait for soil to dry enough for their horses and men. They drew near to the enemy and a hail of arrows rained down from the direction of the sept, but the high raised Lannister shields held firm and helped them advance without faltering. Twenty yards away, with a swift blast of trumpets, they broke into fast pace towards the enemy, discipline and training guiding the Lannister forces. The two armies clashed and made a bloody banner on the hill with an upper golden and lower red field. Blasphemously most of the enemy archers had taken shelter in the sept and loosed their shafts at Lannisters from there. Soon Lannister crossbows answered back and Kevan saw several figures tumble from the top of the roof. The space to the right of the sept was held by Crabb men and their formation soon buckled under Lanister's onslaught, while on the left, where the road led, the line between red lannister cloaks and golden armor of the Golden Company was as straight as a sword. They were too disciplined to be shaken by our fury. In front of the sept, a ditch had been dug, filled with sharpened stakes and Kevan knew that some unlucky souls from their ranks had surely already impaled themselves.
...
"Come on cunts, bring the ropes, bring ladders", Flement roared, as his column reached the ditch. To the right of the ditch, Lord Myral Serrett's men were pushed back by golden sellswords, to the left his men had driven off crabbs and made a gap towards the sept, the crabbs did not fight half as well as the sellswords. To take the hill, he had to clear those focking archers from the sept.
Beyond walls of the sept, soldiers screamed in a storm of steel and anger. Helmets were crushed, bones broken, and blood splattered. They had to storm the ditch and rampart. Bloody arrows hissed by their heads, Flement had two buried in his shield while a third grazed his mail. Between the lion ranks, dozen ladders were hurled towards the ditch and and soon they scaled the height of the rampart.
Each ladder bore hooks at the top that bit into the earth of the wall, same as arrows rent the flesh of men on the field. Scores of Lannisters ran over the ladders, pelted with arrows their valour turned to shrieks, for though arrows could not breach their plate and mail, they would topple them off the wobbly ladders into the chasm of the ditch, where theire fall skewer them on jagged stakes. Flement was among the first to charge, he felt the full heft of his steel as he trod on the swaying ladders. The span was long seventeen or eighteen feet, but it dragged on forever. A new arrow struck him in the helm, the blow clanged his head like a bell, but he would not yield to the pricks on the sept walls, who loosed arrows upon them, till they perished. When he came to the end, he used the might of his brawny arms to vault over the rest of the wall ofdirth and rolled to the other side. In a blink his mace and shield slipped from his grasp.
The Warrior itself gave his blood strength, to rise, as he saw his father's corpse drowning and Robert's dead face, captured in the rays of the blazing sun that pierced through the slit of his visor and burned his eyes. The clash of swords surrounded him, as crabb cunts, many of men, plunged into the crescent between the rampart and the wall to push them back. Shield and mace were in his hands again, he moved to the wall to hide from the pesky archers. Flement spotted a green boy holding dragons banner, a young squire or so, with curly brown hair and white face half covered by rusty bucket of halfhelm. The Boy looked terrified as he saw Flement coming for him, his heart had no pity, for score of peasent boys, like this one, will perish today. Mightily he swung the mace at boy's head, smashing it like a melon. The banner fell to the ground, stained with blood and brains.
Another shadow, holding a spear, slow and clumsy, appeared before him. Flement laughed, swept his weapon horizontally, breaking the unprotected legs, blood gushing from the sticky mess of meat and bones that used to be the men's right leg. "Please don't", Crabb whimpered and begged, Flement silenced him by smashing his crustacean skull. No dragons here, only vermin not worth to wipe his boot against.
Red of blood, red of lion cloaks, crescent was stained of victory, as below the walls of sept all seven gods witnesed Flement's victory. "Ram ahead", Lannister men beyond rampart shouted, as the metal spiked tip of the battering ram emerged over it.
"Take the ropes!", He barked at his men, and seized a rope himself, as they hauled the ram across the gap, amid the flying death of a shower of arrows which rained from the sky, like a plague of hell. Cowards! We'll end their breath. With sweat and blood, they moved the ram, until it faced the gate. And then a loud deafening bang was heard, as iron and wood collided. The metal head of battering ram smashed through the weak wooden door like a drunken giant stumbling through a tavern's entrance. It kept pounding, each strike echoing like the roars of a lion in heat. The door shatterd into splinters and dust, surrendering almost without a fight.
Among the first to burst into the sept, Flement saw the courtyard full of hostile men, archers lurked from the roof, and on the wall that surrounded the sept wooden platforms were made, on which more archers stood. His men broke through the cheap attempt of a shieldwall, and with torches they set fire to the platforms and flaming blaze drove the archers from the walls. Many of the archers met their doom soon enough, for they did not don heavy armor and chain that weighed them down. They fell like wingless birds under the Lannister blades, desperately seeking a way out of the sept that had turned from a sanctuary into a trap. Soon smoke also billowed from the inside of the sept. Even the gods wanted to leave torching menace of the burning sept.
A knight in golden armor, bearing the sigil of three black castles on orange field, stood before him. He charged at the knight, his mace raised high. The fool parried the first strike with his sword, but Flement's might is too great and the force of the impact knocked him off balance. Flement followed with a second strike, aiming for his chest. He tried to dodge, but was too slow. The hammer hit him hard, denting his breastplate and sending him flying on his back. A crunch has been heard as knight's ribs broke. Not caring if he was dead or alive, Flement moved on to the next target. The Sept is mine.
...
Dragon
The sept was lost. The ancient edifice was consumed by the burden of flames, and smoke shrouded the small hill in the wind. Balaq could only watch helplessly as his men perished under the fire and the fury of the Lannister swords. He had hoped the sept would hold longer, but Aegon was not too dismayed by the result, the small hill remained his, and the large hill was far from the reach of enemy archers. The inferno of the sept and the hammering of the Lannister steel on their ranks had shaken the hearts of some crabbmen and they fled to the woods.
"Damned cowards", Laswell Peake spat and cursed, eyeing the sept, where his brother Torman commanded.
"Let them run, it's all well if they return to camp afterwards", Aegon said, his crabbmen had not failed him, most of them stood their ground and kept the Lannister beast at bay, and above all bought time. His eyes were always scanning the horizon, Aegon searched for a sign of his uncle's arrival. His left flank was not idle either and Ser Franklyn held the narrow passage through the forest. That assault was a feint fight, a ploy of the lions to bind as many of his men as they could.
Serjeant Mudd galloped up to Aegon, coming from the little hill, "Sire, Ser Tristan pleads for more men".
"Tell Ser Tristan that the sept is no more, this is no place for prayers anymore", Aegon said coolly, looking at the plateau where Tywin Lannister wished for Aegon to do just that. Send more men to the small hill and weaken the center. No, nothing but endure.
And they held strong, his men kept both hill's. From the dense smoke, the Lannister horsemen burst forth across the open field towards the Golden Company's shieldwall in the center. They smashed into their lines, flung their short spears, and then their steeds balked at the glittering wall of shields, unwilling to go further, they nervously paw in front of the gleaming spears. The riders wheeled back into the smoke. They hoped to lure them out, Aegon realized, but the Golden Company's ranks stayed firm, no man sought glory by breaking rank and chasing a Lannister with his spear to earn a name or a mount. The golden line was as unyielding and solid as the walls of Pentos this day. Five times the Lannisters charged, five times they were repelled. Each time they faced fresh front rows, for the Golden Company deftly shifted their rows every third of an hour. Every man had his share of battle, every man had his respite.
The sun sank low in the west and shone in the direction of the Lannisters. A mighty thunderclap shook the very foundations of the two hills, followed by smaller ones, that echoed in the sky and threatened to bring down the heavenly vault on the two armies. A break in the clouds sent a torrential rain, and soon small streams began to flow down the two hills. The battle was over for today, Aegon knew, the rain and the night were his allies.
As the first day of battle came to an end, weariness settled upon both armies. Aegon surveyed the rank, the gentle patter of raindrops adding a soothing rhythm to the atmosphere. The muddy terrain, a child of the rain, would work in his favor when the battle resumed the next day, but for the elephants, day will have to be won without gentle giant's.
His gaze shifted towards the distant glow of campfires in the Lannister camp. It was a sight that both intrigued and challenged him. In the midst of his thought, She arrived, riding towards him. Sansa Stark, her silhouette reflecting a mixture of uncertainty, hidden words, and a longing for her family. He wished she was not here, for safe was never safe with enemy so close, though they were beyond the reach of the Lannister gaze. Ser Barristan followed a step behind her, Aegon had no regret naming the old knight Sansa's protector, the man was faithful and valiant. The knight stayed alone to wait, leaving them in peace.
Holding a handkerchief in her hand, she approached him, her voice carrying the weight of false arrogance and of pain, intertwined, "Your grace, I would be honered if you will wear this handkerchief tomorrow as a token of my respect," she spoke, her words revealing her own inner battles she fought.
Looking towards the Lannister camp, his features carefully guarded, Aegon felt Sansa's gesture and was tempted to say yes. It was not merely a handkerchief; but symbol of her hopes and desires. Ouu, how he wanted to say yes. Eira never gave him anything of such, she didn't have to, for her heart was always with him. He fooled himself into thinking that Eira would be lonely in that. Northwomen, will be his death. With a clear and unwavering tone, he replied, "It is not appropriate for a man to wear the handkerchief of a woman who is not his wife or betrothed into battle". Lies are always honeyed and pleasant, and truths… truths are harsh but healing. The king has to stay the king.
Although he could see the hurt etched on Sansa's face, Aegon knew that as he saw through her own facade, she could see the truth behind his mask. Their connection ran deeper than words. In a low voice, she responded, her demeanor befitting a true lady of high birth, with a touch of northern defiance. "Then promise me something..."
Silence enveloped them, their world reduced to the sound of raindrops and the bustling camp. Aegon turned his gaze fully towards Sansa, and in that moment, she seemed even more radiant to him, than ever. "And what would that be, my lady?" he asked, his voice firm yet filled with curiosity.
With determination in her eyes and a slight furrow in her brow, Sansa made her request. "Kill Joffrey for me!"
No words were needed between them after. Sansa could read the answer on Aegon's face, a response that satisfied the depth of her plea. In their own universe, the unspoken carried more weight than any spoken oath.
...
Direwolf
Sansa Stark observed the soldiers from the Golden Company as they joyfully sang a song in some foreign tongue. The melody resonated through the ranks, carrying good spirits.
She listened to the strange verses, finding herself caught in the allure of the song's rhythm. The soldiers' fervor was evident, their loyalty to Aegon present in every note they sang, she felt somehow.
As the song ended, a man cried out, "Beneath the gold the bitter steel", and the other men echoed him, row after row towards the foe. "All hail Young Griff", another voice hailed, and the rest joined in with laughter.
"Who is Young Griff?", Sansa inquired, and Aegon's face was brightened by the question and he answered with a wry smile. "You see him before you. I am or I was at least", he said, "when I reached fourteen my patron deemed it wise that I learn the soldier's trade, beyond just the ways of sword, so he sent me to the Golden Company, under Myles Toyne's wing to make a leader of me. Jon was with me, incognito, in Essos there are those who can alter a man's face beyond recognition".
"Why the secrecy though?", Sansa asked gently.
"Because he was dead", Aegon went on with a smile, "he staged his own death for my sake, drank himself to the grave, the rumors said. He gave me the name, for he was the Lord of Griffin's Roost before his exile, so he became Griff, and I was his son Young Griff. Jon had served long before in the Golden Company, so secrecy was paramount, only Toyne knew. Three years I wore their cloak. Harry and the rest found out I was a prince just before we set the sail, years after".
"I am always the one answering questions. Tell me about the north, my lady, about the wall", he softly said, as the raindrops slid down the thick woolen cloak she wore, but his words brought smile to her face. She lost her words, wondering if she could describe the beauty of the north when she had seen so little of it herself.
The mention of North and the wall brought visions of her distant and fierce land. Sansa's mind wandered to the far-off places only mentioned in the songs, wondering about the wonders unseen and dangers that awaited those who ventured beyond the known world, beyond the wall.
"I did not travel the north, not as much as my brother Robb", and Jon, she remembered with shame how she treated her half-brother, "…but I remember the summer snows, the eternal freshness in the air, the walls of Winterfell warm even in cold nights, so many great weirwoods, their white barks marked with the red eyes of carved faces, which seem to whisper secrets to me as the wind rustles through their branches, a place where one can find solace amidst the silence and listen to the murmurs of the old gods. The north is the realm of beauty, where nature reigns not the men. As the cold winds sweep across the vast expanse, they carry with them the scent of pine and the crisp freshness of untouched snow. Towering mountains stand as ancient sentinels, their peaks often hidden by mist and clouds."
She had so much to say and more, she had not poured her heart out in so many words for a long time, not bared her soul in such a way for ages and Aegon hung on every word, not losing the brightness from his face, this was the Aegon who vanished when they crossed the gate of Maidenpool. He was again with her.
"I hope to visit the north before winter… with you", his words brought her peace, lit a flame that his coldness had almost extinguished. They fell silent again. Aegon was the man she wanted to be silent with.
In the midst of the soldiers' enthusiastic chorus, Sansa felt comfort and safety, in the camaraderie that bound them together, she saw belief in dragon prince, a shared purpose and loyalty that was seen in foreign verses they sang.
As the last notes of the song lingered in the air, still dancing in her ears Sansa's heart swelled with a many of emotions, as her eyes shifted at enemy fires across the field. Lions dwell there, the beasts that took so much from her, the pain that united her with Aegon.
Tywin Lannister, the man responsible for the deaths of Aegon's mother and sister, stood on the other side, an adversary filled with ruthlessness and cunning. Sansa's hatred for him burned deep within her, image of Joffrey's golden hair on her mind. She understood the weight that rested upon Aegon's shoulders, the burden of avenging his family's brutal fate. It was a dutyshe also carried with unwavering resolve, remembering the atrocities committed against those she loved, her Father, septa Mordane, Arya, Jeyne, Jory and so many others.
The memory of Aegon's mother and sister, brutally slain on the orders of the man leading the army on the opposite side of the battlefield, flashed through her mind. Her father had mentioned this crime to her only once, and she recalled stories of the tension it had caused between him and the late King Robert. Her father had pleaded with Robert to bring the murderers of Princess Elia and her daughter Rhaenys to justice, but the king had refused, straining their relationship. Back then, everyone believed that Aegon had perished as well.
The flow of her thoughts was abruptly interrupted by the resounding boom of thunder, illuminating the plains and hills with a sudden flash of light. Her gaze returned to Aegon, who remained composed upon his horse, adorned in magnificent black armor emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Raindrops touched his short silver hair, glistening like jewels. As she observed him, Sansa couldn't help but reflect on the naivety she once held, believing that Joffrey was a true prince, akin to those in the fairy tales she had read and talked with her friends.
But now, as she looked upon the young Targaryen, an unfamiliar sensation stirred within her. A yearning unlike any she had experienced before, awakened between her legs, drawing her towards him with an intensity she could not deny. In that moment, she desired him, yearned for him with a fervor that surpassed all others.
The thunderous storm echoed her inner turmoil, mirroring the tumultuous emotions coursing through her. Sansa found herself caught in a web of so many desires; returnig home and staying with him; Sansa tried to quell the swirling desires that consumed her thoughts.
The rain continued to fall, its rhythmic patter blending with the beating of her heart. Sansa's gaze lingered on Aegon, his noble stature and regal presence captivating her. But she feared that indulging in these fantasies would only lead to further heartache and disappointment.
Sansa Stark's vision blurred as the blow struck her, sending her crashing to the ground. Pain radiated through her face, throbbing with each heartbeat. Disoriented and dazed, she struggled to make sense of the chaos around her. But even in her state of vulnerability, she could sense the raw fury emanating from Aegon.
Sounds of clashing steel and the desperate cries of battle filled the air, a cacophony of violence. Slowly, she managed to lift her head, her eyes focusing on the scene before her. Aegon, wielding his ancestral valyrian sword Blackfire, swiftly dispatched the would-be assassin. The assassin's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, his threat vanquished.
With a mix of relief and urgency, Aegon rushed to Sansa's side, his hands gently cradling her bruised face. In his touch, she could feel his worry and apprehension, a flicker of fear that mirrored her own. Concern etched deep lines on his face as he anxiously inquired about her well-being.
Their eyes met, and in that unguarded moment, she glimpsed the depths of his heart, through purple eyes. Fear mingled with the tenderness that flowed between them, a fear born of the realization that he could have lost her. In that fragile instant, boundaries dissolved, and propriety gave way to an overwhelming surge of emotion.
He pulled her into an embrace, a gesture that defied the constraints of their respective positions. In that warm act, she felt the strength of his arms, the warmth of his presence, and a shared vulnerability that transcended the world they had known. It was a moment that blurred the lines between duty and desire, a fleeting closeness that whispered of possibilities beyond their roles.
Sansa clung to Aegon, her heart pounding in her chest. In that embrace, she found solace and a renewed will to be alongside him, to guard him as he had protected her.
...
Dragon
"How did he pass through our ranks?", his voice a low thunder that echoed louder than the storm raging above them. The sight of her bruised face burned in his eyes, igniting his fury with every passing second.
"Sire, none breached our lines", answered deep voice of Thunderex, "we inspected the corpse of the assailant, he was one of the healers we enlisted on the Kingsroad". Thousands of beggars flocked to their camp, pleading for food, only those with useful skills were accepted, healers, smiths, stablehands...
"I am to blame," Ser Barristan hung his head in shame, "he slipped by me, claiming he bore a message for the King". Aegon would have offered him words of comfort, but it would have been better if the old man had perished rather than let this happen. They all shared the guilt.
"Watch over all those we recruited, and have Keller interrogate them. I demand answers". The Serjeant confessor of the Golden Company was a cruel necessity, but in his hands everyone spilled their secrets, even those buried under their flesh. Thunderex nodded and departed.
...
Lions
Lightning streaked across the sky, heralding a dreadful storm, which, as midnight approached, gradually faded. They had to call off the assault, even though they were close to breaching the lines at the small hill. Kevan sat in the tent, where the war room was set up, Ser Flement Brax, exhausted and with smudges of ash on his face, which he had not bothered to clean, was devouring chicken and muttering.
"Dragon boy has a cunning mind I'll grant him that. He lounges on his arse and bides his time for us to strike because he knows we have no choice", said Ser Addam Marbrand coolly.
"The rain thwarted us from crushing his crabbs, or else our banner would be waving on the crest of the small hill", said Ser Flement between mouthfuls, quenching them with goblets of the Arbor gold.
Ser Addam joked then, "Maybe the gods chastised us for torching the sept." Ser Flement scoffed at the remark, but Kevan did care about sept, though he knew his brother did not dread the fury of the gods, the sept on the small hill could have been a horse stable in Tywin's eyes. The rain doused the towering flame, which like a lighthouse, brightened the late day.
"The Golden Company will be a nuisance," Ser Flement dabbed his mouth with a cloth, "cunts shifted ranks before our eyes, we scarcely hindered them. If they dart back and forth like that tomorrow, there will be trouble in breaking them."
Ser Addam nodded and took a swig of wine from a golden cup, "Aye, but if I cleave them in twain tomorrow, they will flee into the river. How fares our friend Clegane?" Marbrand asked Kevan.
"He would be ready by tomorrow. The black maester at least swore so," Kevan replied pensively, recalling Clegane's body on the vast table in the maester's tent filled with smoke that had odd scents, alien and foul. Clegane was bare except for his privates covered by a rag, his skin had blackened to a ghastly hue, streaked by blue veins. If the knight had not fiercely attempted to rip the chains that shackled him to the table, bellowing through the gag that stuffed his mouth, Kevan would have thought him dead.
'The chains are sadly necessary. As Ser Gregor's might returns, his defiance to the treatment grows stronger. It would all be for naught if we ceased the procedure too soon", said the maester in his hushed voice, dipping a needle in a weird sickening and nauseating emerald concoction, then stabbing it into Ser Gregor's chest, adding it to hundreds of other needles. The brute's arms were crammed with long tubes, pumping some fluid into his formidable limbs. Devilish work, no man should endure this witchery.
"Will he be as he was?", he asked the maester without a chain.
"As he was?", the maester answerd with the inquisitive muttering, "I fear not, the poison ate much of what Ser Gregor was, he lost the use of his tongue and his mind is not in its place". Will you unleash this beast against us? In this world Ser Gregor Clegane dreaded only one man, better he was dead than stopped obeying Tywin Lannister's commands.
"The maester grabbed an object shaped like a candle from the table, forged of black stone or metal, Kevan could not discern, for the material was foreign to him. He pressed it on the skin above the heart and Kevan spotted that there was no hair in that area and that the skin was stained differently. The stone can not burn.
"In terms of strength Ser Gregor will be mightier than ever, his nerves are ruined and he will sense neither agony nor weariness anymore. He will be under your brother's absolute command", went on the maester in his soft voice, which did not suit the environment in which Kevan was. Glimpsing the black candle, the knight began to howl even more furiously and for the first time Kevan peered into his horrifying eyes, ruptured capillaries had tinted his eyes, but not in red, but in blue. Not even the Baratheons had such deep piercing blue eyes. He altered his eye color. Kevan gazed at the spectacle, it felt like a nightmare, in which nothing had meaning, and a drowsy body riddled with fear begged for awakening. From this ratched dream one cannot wake up. This man must not continue to serve Tywin.
"I dread that the next part is too harsh for the stomach, so I would suggest that we part ways", said the maester with plain words as if he bid him a pleasent evening. Kevan did not need to heed the warning twice, and swiftly unhooked the flap of the entrance. As he departed, he caught a flash of the candle as it shimmered faintly for a moment, when he spun back, it was dim again. The reek of the aromas in the tent lingered in his nose until dawn.
...
Thanks to everyone who reads and follows the work. I would be grateful if you would leave comments, criticisms, and suggestions on the current work, both positive and negative. Feel free to share whatever you feel.