Author's Note: Well hello. If this is all new to you, welcome! I hope you enjoy. If you vaguely remember a story with this same title, allow me to elaborate-and welcome back, old friend.
It has been 6 years, 10 months and 30 days (or so) since I originally posted the Dragon of Duskendale. While far from the first thing I'd ever written, it was the first thing I'd ever shown to anyone else. The readers on this site encouraged and reviewed like mad, giving me confidence and making me fall in love with writing even more. It had high points and low ones, sparkling reviews and reviews that boiled down to "you suck, your family sucks, you're pathetic go kill yourself", but I was so in love with interaction around my writing and the lovely people who enjoyed it that I wrote and posted at the latest every other day for the first 40ish chapters, despite being in the middle of my undergrad. Even after the initial flood of support and hate and inspiration, when I finally came to earth a bit, I still loved writing it. By the end it was over 200,000 words long and something I'm forever glad I decided to do.
That being said, as the years have passed and my writing has gotten at least a little better (and with the benefit of ever-powerful hindsight and seperation), there were things I wished I had done differently. Dialogue and phrasing that make present-day me physically cringe, plots whose presentation wasn't what it needed to be, places where a touch more detail or a touch less explanation would have helped, etc. In particular some of the final battles and related were rushed, because even though I loved it I was ready to be done at that time. Now I wish I had given it the effort the readers (and me) deserved.
That, paired with being currently blocked on my other fic The Golden Stag and very much enjoying the new House of the Dragon show, has led to this.
The bones of the story, and really a lot of the muscle and sinew, will not be changed. The overall plot, characters, etc. will be close enough that, if one person were to read the old and another the new, they would have mostly the same synopsis. The major pairings won't change or anything along those lines. There will, hopefully, be better detail and presentation. Less SPAG. Less cringe. While it will mostly be a chapter-by-chapter basis, at least early on, there will be minor things added or taken out that may affect overall chapter count but improve the overall story. Even plotlines I wish I hadn't used I will still implement, though hopefully in a better way. I'll play it by ear as we go, but this is more of a cleanup than a fix-it fic.
This is mostly for me, to spark the muse and to have fun. I enjoyed telling this the first time, and I think I'll enjoy telling it the second even more without the pressure and rookie-ness of that first time. I decided to post as I go, hoping it will be fun for some of you as well. I'll be working on this as I can, which is much less than I could in those days, but with the story being written already updates shouldn't be all that sparse.
If you're new, I'd love to hear your thoughts as we go. If you've read it before but would still like to review, please do, as I love interaction as much now as I did then. If you want to flame and curse me for an idiot and get mad about the audacity of someone to tell the same story twice, feel free. A benefit of being a veteran fic writer (as I am now and wasn't then) is how you can learn from constructive criticism yet give absolutely zero fucks about trolls and idiots.
The lovely cover image was created by JaimelelConquistador on DeviantArt, base on the coat of arms in the original version of this story. All credit and many thanks to them for their amazing work!
Sorry for the long intro. Let's have fun kiddos.
Chapter 1
Original word count: 855
Revision Word Count: 1288
It was difficult being the son of the most hated man in Westeros.
Eyes of dark violet peered down at the city of kings spreading out below in a sea of thousands of torches and lanterns and saw none of it. Instead, they saw the green pallor of wildfire crawling across the grey armor of Rickard Stark and the white of his eyes quivering as they melted from the sheer heat. Those visions were juxtaposed with the blood red in the face of Rickard's son, Brandon, as the heir to the north strangled himself with a cord of leather trying to save his father.
A nose, aquiline after being broken three times in childhood, could still smell the flesh of the Lord of the North as he roasted alive, and the reek of spew after more than one of the lords and ladies present had vomited at the grisly sight.
And his ears, Seven damn them, could still hear the screams of Rickard and the dying chokes of Brandon. And laughter, high and piercing, from the man who had ordered it all.
"Aelor?" The deep, familiar rasp in the hall behind him brought the eyes, nose and ears out of the recent past and back into the present. Eyes found the lights, as beautiful from this balcony now as they had been at his birth. The thrice broken nose scented both the honeysuckle vines climbing the wall of Maegor's Holdfast and the sewer stink of King's Landing. The damnable ears now only heard the insects of the Red Keep's gardens, and that same rasp as it began to speak again. "Ae—"
"I heard you the first time, Ren." Prince Aelor Targaryen sighed, straightening from where he had been resting against the stone rail as he ran a hand through silver hair shorn short. "There'll be Seven Hells to pay now."
Renfred Rykker, Lord of Hollard Hall, said nothing as he came to a stop at the prince's side. Friends for as long as either of them could remember, they were a daunting duo. Rykker was six and a half feet tall, broad of shoulder and chest, near always wearing a warhammer slung across his back to match the crossed one of his family crest on his tunic. A broad face was covered in coarse black beard, as black as the eyes peering around a nose that, despite being broken only twice in their adventurous childhood—once less than that of the prince he had befriended—had grown back more crooked than curved.
The prince in question was just as imposing. Two inches shy in height but as broad and thick of chest and arm as his companion, his beard, kept trimmed closely to his jaw, was as silver as his hair. He wore a sword instead of a hammer, its pommel black with a blood red ruby embedded beneath the grip, its crossguard shaped liked dragon wings as they curved downwards to help protect the hand of its wielder. His own tunic, thick and expensive, was as black as night save for the snow white of the warring twin dragons of his personal crest. The beauty of Valyria clung to him, that nearly ethereal appearance that separated most of dragon blood from their common fellows.
Aelor, sighing again, turned and leaned backwards against the rail, peering into the darkened hall Lord Rykker had come down as silence descended on the pair.
The Starks weren't the first men he'd seen die. He'd been a princeling of five and ten during the Defiance, squiring for Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard and waiting anxiously as his mentor scaled the walls of Duskendale to rescue Aelor's father. Afterwards, alongside his elder brother Rhaegar and their livid sire, he'd watched as near every member of the Houses Darklyn and Hollard were killed, one by one. To a man they died screaming. The women and children died the same.
He'd killed his first man two years later during the waning hours of the Kingswood Brotherhood, a hulking brute who smelled like a sewer and fought like a bear. By the time the conflict ended with the death of the Smiling Knight at the hands of Ser Arthur Dayne, Aelor had sent six more to their grave. Ser Barristan had knighted him amidst the corpses and blood of that final clash.
Lord Rickard wasn't the first man Aelor had seen burned, either. As a son of Aerys Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Iron Throne, executions by wildfire had become something of a regular occurrence. Many of blood lower than the men tonight had died by the green, ever burning flame, screaming as his father laughed and clapped. The 'Mad King' they called him. They weren't wrong.
Even so, the deaths of the two Starks of Winterfell were…haunting. Aelor had seen many atrocities, but he already knew this one would be with him until the day he died.
If they ever find Rhaegar, I'll kill him myself.
Renfred broke the silence sometime later. "The king has commanded Jon Arryn to surrender Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon."
The Prince shook his head. "Arryn won't. After tonight I don't blame him for it."
"So you think he will call his banners in rebellion?"
The prince turned to look his friend in the eye. When he spoke, his resonant bass tones held traces of incredulity. "My father just burned the Lord Paramount of the North alive in his armor, while that man's heir strangled to death trying to save him. All of this after my brother, heir to the throne, dishonors his wife and kidnaps the man's daughter, who just so happens to be the betrothed of Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands." Aelor snorted. "My family has done an excellent job of screwing things up. Yes, Jon Arryn will rebel, and the North and the Stormlands will join him."
Lord Rykker nodded. "So it will be war, then. I don't see King Aerys stepping down or trying to reconcile, even in the unlikely case that that were still possible."
"My father hasn't done a sensible thing like that in years, old friend."
The black-haired giant shuffled uncomfortably, glancing both high and low before speaking in a much more subdued tone. "I realize you're angry, Aelor, but you know the dangers of talking like that. Even for you."
Aelor Targaryen laughed aloud, pushing off the rail and back to his feet. "Yes, the walls have ears as they say. It is true, no doubt. Even now you can hear the wings of Varys' little birds as they flap away to report on King Aerys' traitorous son." The Prince waved his hand in sharp dismissal. "Let them. My father will need me now more than ever, and even his madness won't stop him from realizing it." Aelor raised his voice louder. "Ser Barristan!"
The knight of the Kingsguard, never far from the second son of Aerys, stepped out from behind the pillar where he had been waiting, his silvery-white plate glowing in the dark of the night. "Yes, Your Grace?"
Aelor was already walking towards him, long strides matched by Rykker who had silently fell in at his right side. "We're leaving."
Ser Barristan fell into step on the prince's left at once, though he did ask the logical question. "At this time of night, Your Grace?"
"Yes," Aelor said with a nod. "We all know how my father gets after displays like todays. I have no intention of hearing my mother's wails while I sit by unable to help her." The prince's face was as hard as stone. "When we reach Duskendale, send ravens to each of my bannermen. We prepare for war."