Chapter 4.5: One Day More
This is an alternate-timeline work inspired by GRRM's A Song of Ice and Fire world
161AC
The Tower of the Dragon Seal (?)
King Jaehaerys the Second of His Name rose from bed and opened his eyes to a barred window that had been his constant companion for 5 years. He could sense Vermithor in the distance, as if he was still slumbering in the Dragonpit, and for a moment the illusion held. It felt as if he was indeed the prince in the tower once again, the boy imprisoned in the Tower of the Dragon Seal by his brother who was the king. Caught up in a sick game orchestrated by his own brother to keep him out of the public eye, to prevent potential rebels from using him as a banner of sorts. What little love he once had for Aegon was killed on that day and bled into an undying hate. Still, his imprisoned self was barely a man grown, so challenging his monster of a brother then and there would have been incredibly stupid.
Floating to the top of the sea of memories as moonlight glanced across his face, when he turned to face the door behind him, he saw no doorway, only shadows and a dead man. The illusion broke. Again.
"Brother. How nice of you to visit." Sarcasm was pointless against a ghost in a dream, but Jaehaerys couldn't help himself.
King Aegon the Second of His Name loomed in the door, his gigantic frame casting no shadow despite the shards of moonlight piercing the gloom. Framed by a mane of platinum blonde hair, his blood red eyes glowed with malice, and his teeth were bared in a hungry grimace. The echo of a hated memory took a predatory step forward in a dream. The younger king was uncomfortably reminded of Caraxes.
"Kelītīs".
Dragons answer only to Valyrian, he mused as the ghost of his brother stopped.
"Henujās." He did not break eye contact with those red eyes. He wanted to teach these skills to his son just in case, but Baelon had no interest, and the king later learned his son was not haunted like he was. Perhaps he may have no need for knowledge on how to fight ghosts that stalk dreams. That would be very beneficial for a good night's sleep.
Jaehaerys climbed out of bed, standing right in front of the ghost, looking up at the giant as if daring it to attack him. Aegon snarled, and looked as if he might breathe fire into his younger brother's face, but he did take a step back.
There used to be 2 ways this would end. Half the time, Aegon would obey his last command and step out of the door, pale hair and red eyes all swallowed by the shadows beyond. The other half would see his dream-self dying in the flames billowing forth from his brother's mouth, crimson and black and white.
Today, Aegon's eyes burned blue, and then he spoke.
"You killed me."
"I wish I did," Jaehaerys' smile did not break when he said these words.
"Not by the sword or poison."
"You died by dragon. Your own dragon, Dreamfyre. I could not have murdered you, for I had never met her."
"You will meet her soon and understand your guilt. I would be expecting you to put up a good fight, King Jaehaerys. Let us see if you truly are worthy of the Wise King's name and dragon." Aegon sneered as his eyeballs melted, white tears fleeing from the flames that filled his hollow eye sockets.
As his brother stepped back into the shadows, the blue light dancing in his eyes showed Jaehaerys what the mass of shadows beyond the door really was for the first time.
Gaemon.
That was the king's last thought before Dreamfyre's pale blue fire burst from her gullet and burned the entire dream down.
161AC
Small Council Chamber, Red Keep
"And finally, the King has agreed to Prince Gaemon's request." Ser Clarence Tarth, brother of Lord Baldric Tarth and Master of Ships, was obviously distasteful of the piece of paper he held in his hand. The material felt alien from parchment but addressing a bastard by the title of "prince" probably ruffled him a lot more. Younger sons and bastards have more in common than the former would admit, the chairman noted with a small smile.
"The Dragonkeepers report that the boy barely knows how to fly. He isn't up for a journey that would span almost all of Westeros." Lord Steffon Stokeworth, Master of Soldiers, was a balding man with grey streaks running through his black hair. Gesturing across the entire map spread out on the council table, he looked concerned as he turned to the one who sat in the king's highbacked chair.
"The deliberations of His Grace are not mine to challenge. The order is given. We shall prepare Prince Gaemon accordingly, and hope for the best as he tours the realm atop his dragon Ergmaut." The Keeper of the Dragon Seal and regent of the realm Prūbrepȳdes dismissed Lord Stokeworth's objections. His fingers were ornamented with 8 rings of gold set with different gems. One for the Seven Kingdoms each, the last one representing all of them united as one.
"We should alert the lords along his projected course then, by outriders?" Gerold Lannister, Hand of the King, sat on the Seal Keeper's right hand side, his blonde hair darkened by the sunlight passing through the bronze-tinted glass panels above the small council chamber. The regent could detect the suppressed discontent coming from the lion. Perhaps even the lions of Lannisport prefer the biggest chair in the room, he noted as his eyes briefly took in Gerold's sea-blue doublet.
"I don't see a Grand Maester seated among us, so outriders it shall be, Lord Lannister," Ser Garth Manderly toyed with the black iron link on his necklace. The knight from the North had forged 6 links at the Citadel before getting into a very bad fight with Sers Adrian and Tyler Peake, returning to White Harbor with a bruised honor and a broken arm. He then made a name for himself in the following years administrating White Harbor despite never being able to fight in a tourney again. It was how he ended up in the royal capital as Master of Coin.
"No royal progress has ever been expected to be this long. And Prince Gaemon would be flying alone, the Kingsguard could not protect him." Ser Gwayne Grimm stroked his beard as he studied the projected course of the prince's journey. The Lord Commander had once confided in the Seal Keeper his suspicion the King had so many children simply so he could afford to ... be adventurous with some of them. Planning for Prince Gaemon to go through the Dornish Marches, then fly to the Arbor, follow the coast until the mouth of the Mander, then travel upstream before arriving at Stoney Sept, fly across the riverlands to the Twins, past Moat Cailin, cross Winterfell and Deepwood Motte before arriving at Bear Island then attempt to cross into the land of the wildlings without going over the Wall already seems incredibly risky on paper. Even the regent agreed they could only hope the Mormonts would be accommodating.
"Ergmaut is a dragon that could not breathe fire. Surely His Grace knows about this defect? And the risks to the prince's life this entails..." Lord Florian Mooton, Master of Laws, was usually represented at court by his maester, who had studied law and would make a much better councilor than his lord. But the subject of the prince's progress was an issue that reached beyond mere legal professionalism.
"My lords, have faith in the king's approval. He is the one risking his own flesh and blood after all." Bhorash Dhazak's pronunciation of Common carried accents foreign even for a court used to the presence of Free City immigrants. But the Master of Estates possessed an aura of authority that evoked submission, a trait formed in his upbringing as a scion of the Great Masters of Meereen.
Before Lord Mooton could speak again, he was cut off by a gesture from Ser Manderly.
"Our good lord is trying to ask whether the crown would demand blood should Prince Gaemon be harmed on his progress, and whether the lords of the lands shall be collateral."
Prūbrepȳdes and Bhorash traded a look. With both the King and Queen absent from King's Landing, the leading eunuchs essentially represented the royal household.
"While the lords have a duty to ensure safe passage of the prince, any punishment of the local lords should harm befall Prince Gaemon is up to the discretion of His Grace, and His Grace alone." As the senior member, it was Prūbrepȳdes who gave a measured reply. He would do his best to keep his ward - his king - safe and in power.
"You heard that Lord Florian, try to take out that smugglers' ring infesting your port, lest you fall under the discretion of His Grace if those pirates decide attacking a dragon prince is a good idea," the knight was almost smiling, storm-grey eyes glinting in anticipation of combat as Lord Mooton glared daggers at him. Prūbrepȳdes gave the Manderly a pointed stare before he backed down. Then he turned to the Hand.
"Lord Lannister, should you have need of extra men to carry the alerts, bring the issue to council with all haste. It shall not do for the prince to encounter accidents resulting from our negligence, nor because we had not thoroughly exhorted lords on his path to be prepared for his arrival. May the winds grant our prince swift and safe passage." With these closing remarks, the chairman rose from his seat, and the other members of the small council followed suit.
As they filed out of the chamber, the sun dipped further into the sea, casting rays of red onto a map of Westeros laid out on the council table. Just before it was scrolled up by the eunuchs that maintain the royal archives, the rays seemed to dance in accord, coalescing to stain the riverlands with a deep crimson.
161AC
Khrake, Mouth of the Wendwater
Silverwing was having a mouthful of deer in the distance, judging by the scent of cooked meat wafting towards her. Queen Aemma was astride a chestnut courser, enjoying her own dinner of bacon and bread, letting her dragon run amok in her stretch of the woods. Further ahead, beyond the grasping fingers of the Kingswood, stood her newly built small white castle, Khrake. Even the Lion's Gate, named after the huge white lion's jaw enclosing the gate, was barely visible. She had a long journey ahead, so she gave herself a day off from the rigors of managing her small corner of the realm.
Her courser shifted uneasily, obviously wanting to get away from the dragon. For all the training she put into her horses, the queen knew they must still instinctively fear dragons. Her ideas were confirmed when Silverwing suddenly landed in front of the horse with a huge thud, making the courser rear up in panic before fleeing aimlessly. Aemma didn't even care to hold the reins, easily keeping herself ahorse by the stirrups. Calmly finishing her dinner, the queen dusted the breadcrumbs off her blue-and-white riding jacket before bringing her horse to a halt. Her dragon had already flown off after pulling that prank, hurtling off again as she playfully drew silver streaks in the sky. Aemma wondered if dragons laugh, for Silverwing was coughing up curious little spurts of silver flame as she grazed the treetops. Did she find scaring a horse that funny? Did she find scaring a horse funny at all?
Leaving those questions at the back of her mind, she took the reins of her horse and led it downstream, bringing it to a spot where she could see the Lion's Gate clearly before looking out across Blackwater Bay. She felt like she could see distant Dragonstone with her own eyes, as if the island itself called to her. It was a comforting thought, even if the rest of Westeros rejected her house, the island would still hold them in its embrace. There was another, darker call in her blood, one she had been taught to abhor since she was a mere child. Valyria, the dead peninsula. Once the verdant home of her ancestors, yet now actively murderous against anyone who entered its embrace. Still, so fabulous were the tales of Old Valyria, that its artifacts remained popular amongst the mighty and the wealthy, a mark of status that set Houses above their peers. And then there were those that had dared the volcano-blasted lands, including - at least, stories claim - her own notorious father. She could still vaguely remember the enigmatic smile he wore when the king overheard maesters teaching her teenage self never to approach Valyria. Had the Rogue Prince already made the trip then?
Her dragon flew out over the Bay, as if following her thoughts, and scooped up a mouthful of fish which Silverwing blasted with pale white flame before wolfing all the fish down. A wolfing dragon. The queen tried to make sense of the stray thought with her wandering mind, but the spark of inspiration passed, and she settled for watching her dragon dancing across the sea. Her brilliant silver scales glinted in the colors of sunset, reminding the queen of her father's Red Wyrm.
Regardless, some years ago, her father had given her favorite brother a Valyrian artifact that could track down Targaryen blood. Jaehaerys had been uneasy about using it, afraid that the golden compass would dig up things about his own House's past he was better off not knowing. Aemma had suggested he use it to confirm the old legend - that Orys Baratheon was indeed a Targaryen bastard - but the King had refused, on the grounds that Baratheon blood was royal and divine enough on its own, through their Durrandon ancestors. No need to make the stormlords prouder than they already are, just in case the rumor was actually confirmed, even if the knowledge was limited to the royal couple.
How knowledge of the Baratheons actually being their 'bastard house' could make them prouder when the stormlords themselves were not aware of it was beyond Aemma, but she indulged Jaehaerys' little bouts of paranoia. Perhaps anxiety got the better of him when he learned she was pregnant with Borros, and never really went away.
"Your Grace!" a black-clad knight with his order's signature helm rode up to her on his horse, his shout putting an end to her reminiscing. Despite the evening gloom, Aemma could see the Dragonkeeper had her luggage on his back, and when he neared her position, he dismounted with a fluid motion, then kneeled before his queen. With a small nod, she first took up the hooded fur cloak bundled at the top. It was a heavy, sleek black garment, made from the pelt of a shadowcat, and warmth enveloped her as soon as she draped it over her shoulders. Then she unfastened the rest of her baggage from the knight's back, bidding him to rise, holding it in one hand as she handed the reins of her horse to him with the other.
"They say pirates are getting bolder these past few moons. Keep the castle safe and take care."
The knight saluted in acknowledgment before leading both horses back in Khrake's direction. The trio had almost completely disappeared when Silverwing swooped down, landing on the open ground with an excited lash of its tail. She bent down her head to let her rider pat her cheek. Sometimes Aemma wondered if Silverwing knew what she was thinking, and perhaps her excitement at seeing her brother soon was reflected in Silverwing's realization she would also meet Vermithor. As soon as she climbed atop the saddle, Silverwing began to beat her wings restlessly, and Aemma had to force the dragon to calm down as she strapped herself into the saddle.
And then they were off towards the Two Crowns, baggage fastened to the back of the saddle, dragon and rider both braving the clouds that had gathered above their way to the riverlands, lightning and rain lashing. In defiance of the weather, Silverwing lit up the way forward with her silver fire, but one roaring flame, no matter how great, could only do so much when darkness presses in from all around.
161AC
The Bronze Palace, Lys
Daemon, ex-King Consort of Westeros, disliked being ordered to stay on Lys. He disliked the soft city, so quiet without the clanging of steel on steel, without hoarse, dry winds deafening him as Caraxes hunted across the grass sea. He disliked his aging body, his failing eyesight and hearing. He even disliked the very place he lived in, for all its elegant Lysene interior, white and gentle purples and strains of gold and all the beautiful colors that made the palace a miniature of Lys the Lovely itself. The architects his son had hired to build the new permanent foothold the House of the Dragon had on Lys did a good work, work the 80-year-old man could not full-heartedly appreciate.
The only thing he liked about this situation was his son was on the Iron Throne. Daemon much preferred a life of adventure for himself, instead of suffocating courtly life - but he could not deny that it does please him to know his son was Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and the rogue within him approved of his son's wandering lifestyle, not trapped by the Red Keep.
Yet now he was trapped in a palace of his own, by his very own son's command nonetheless. The Rogue Prince could almost hear his old bones creaking at the thought. He was trapped in the Bronze Palace! So near the end of his life, yet he had to suffer something bronze again. At least he couldn't see the bronze so long as he stayed inside, but he couldn't just sit here and let the life slip away from him. He wouldn't, not with what happened to Laena still a vivid memory in his mind.
He rose from his cushioned seat with a heavy sigh before blowing a horn that made a horrid noise. He mildly enjoyed tormenting the servants that ran the palace, most of them native Lyseni steeped since childhood in music and melody, with such intolerable cacophony. There was meaning to the horn, however, and the noise carried a command. As he strode towards the end of the hallway, he could hear footsteps scurrying in the distance, obeying the wordless command.
Prepare the winch basket.
Learning from Laena's tragedy, he built a winch basket into the palace, designed to ferry 2 people to the dragon roof. He refused to be denied the chance to see Caraxes one last time before his death just because he had no strength left in him to climb stairs, so he made the appropriate preparations. There was a small interval he had to wait every time he wanted to go to the roof, and every time Daemon would idly wonder if there were faster ways to power winch baskets as the chains hoisting him up clanked and creaked.
Sometimes, he brought his paramours onto the winch basket and told the servants to suspend it in mid-air. The panicked reactions he got were quite entertaining.
Still, they were never quite as entertaining as the sheer thrill of seeing his dragon. Most honest of all his life companions, Caraxes, who conveyed his opinions clear enough without speaking a single word.
"How would you feel, old friend, when you finally outlive another rider?" In his presence, Daemon felt a strength return to his step, more alive, more like blood of the dragon. He idly wondered what it would be like to die with the Blood Wyrm by his side, preferably in battle, burning bright and hot, searing his name forever into the pages of history.
Caraxes snorted flame from his nostrils, as if he was annoyed. Daemon noted sadly his dragon did not share an old man's sense of deathbed humor. He wonders if Caraxes pointedly ignores these emotions to help him live one day more. If he was, the Rogue Prince appreciated the effort. With each passing day, the longest-lived Targaryen since the Conquest was setting an increasingly higher bar for future generations.
As he approached, the red dragon spread his wings, casting a red-stained shade across the massive white granite rooftop. For all his awe-inspiring size, Daemon was not intimidated, and returned Caraxes' gesture with open arms of his own, hugging the dragon's huge head as he landed back on all fours to nuzzle against the Rogue Prince's chest. It was a ritual both sides had grown quite used to, and with the dragon's breathing ruffling his hair and cape, Daemon could only hope Caraxes' new rider would be willing to coddle him the way he does.
"Fish dinner today," Daemon finally said with a pat to Caraxes' cheek. The dragon rumbled half-heartedly, not approving of the same dinner for months on end. Caraxes had not tasted mutton for a year, but king's orders do not bend for the wishes of a dragon, certainly not for a wish like wanting a more diverse menu. Still, the instant after the 4 clicks that signaled a secure belting, Caraxes leapt into the air with Daemon on his back, turning in a little circle as he rode the last wafts of hot air into the evening sky. Daemon suppressed a groan as the bronze dome which gave the Bronze Palace its byname glittered under the setting sun, reminding him of his past marriage to his bronze bitch.
The setting sun cast a blazing red-and-golden hue across the open sea off the shores of Lys. As Caraxes' head swayed to and fro, searching the ocean's surface for signs of swimming schools of fish, danger unseen by both rider and dragon was brewing in the depths. Daemon Targaryen, clad in his signature black armor with red dragon emblems, noted the waters were abnormally calm today. Lys, once the fertile retreat of the lords of the Lands of the Long Summer, had maintained that fertility at land and at sea. Yet there were no ripples across the surface which would trigger the Red Wyrm's dive-and-attack instincts. Was now the time for leviathan migrations? The great marine beasts could certainly scare off fish.
While Daemon continued to wonder in confusion, Caraxes let out a deafening roar, the sound echoing across the open sea. Suddenly, the waters churned violently, and a kraken emerged. Its enormous tentacles broke the surface, towering over the dragon and rider. Apparently the Red Wyrm had sensed the intruder in his fishing space and forced a challenge from the lord of the deep, one the kraken chose to answer.
The Rogue Prince could not help but smirk in satisfaction. This was a feat he could have songs sung about long after he was dead, whether he won or lost.
With a wordless command, Daemon urged Caraxes to fly faster. The dragon's powerful wings beat the air, lifting them higher into the sky before he dived and attacked. The kraken thrashed its tentacles, trying to reach and ensnare the dragon, but Caraxes was barely a hundred years old. The young and nimble dragon gracefully dodged the kraken's tentacles, dancing in quick circles as he breathed blasts of deep crimson fire in return. The mouth-watering scent of cooked seafood buffeted them, making Caraxes even more aggressive as it opened its maw wider, blowing out a huge plume of raging dragonfire that engulfed the kraken's head. The sea boiled and steamed as the kraken writhed in pain. Its tentacles flailed and thrashed, but the flames were relentless. To onlookers, both combatants were obscured for minutes by the steam rising from the sea, and perhaps they worried which monster would come out on top.
With a final, agonized flailing of its tentacles, the kraken succumbed to dragonfire. Its massive body went limp and started to sink beneath the waves. Caraxes would have none of it, securely fastening his teeth in the kraken's flesh before dragging it onto a nearby rocky outcropping, surveying its handiwork. Daemon patted his mount at the base of his neck in approval, and Caraxes steamed off the seawater from his body before letting out a long, triumphant roar.
As the sun finally set and the stars came out to dance, Daemon Targaryen watches proudly as Caraxes devours its well-earned meal, the scent of cooked kraken filling the air.
161AC
Oldtown
Ser Robar Massey took his time to admire the green sphinxes guarding the gates of the Citadel, thinking of how magnificent sphinxes also decorated the Red Keep. The Hightowers keeping such a blatant display of royal power made the knight come up with a pet theory of sorts, that the Hightowers could claim a dragon of their own should the watchful eyes of the Dragonkeepers ever blink. It would most likely be true, but he also hoped no Hightower would be stupid enough to try that, as he much preferred to read about dragon warfare than witnessing it. For all the brevity of His Grace's Pentos campaign, the knight could not forget how the tops of Pentos' walls sludged off as the dragons did their work. He would never wish for war the likes of that befalling Stonedance.
He would jeopardize his mission should he continue to act like a tourist, so he broke off his gaze and set up shop on one of the bridges that crisscross the Honeywine as a fortune teller. He noticed the disapproving gazes of maesters as a crowd built up around him, but barely an hour was out before even acolytes came to his stall, asking for 'help' on their studies. He did not miss his chance to earn some coppers: lucky charms, exotic nuts, even 'power jewels' decorated with symbols of the Smith, and many of the other overseas kitsch still quite rare on this side of the continent.
"Tell me 'bout my future," a burly man in tattered street dress said as he slammed 2 silver stags into Robar's desk-stand, scaring off most of his customers. Robar was not angry, though. With a brief chuckle, he started.
"You'll get a little lucky today and find a bottle of discount Arbor Red at a tavern."
"Which tavern?" Robar had to silently commend his partner's acting skills as a street thug as he thumped the desk again, making the silver stags leap out of the dent he left in the wooden surface.
"The Goldengrove, of course."
"Hmph. That old bastard might just have some of the good bottles. You'd better hope I find one, or I'll take a tooth from you." The burly man stomped off with that last threat.
After a couple of other customers, Robar glanced at the setting sun. He took apart his desk-stand, stuffed the parts back into his tote bag, and left for the Goldengrove tavern by a roundabout route, passing through buildings, then slightly altering his appearance before every time he emerged onto the open street again, gradually throwing off the men in brown cloaks who were tagging him. He needed a less conspicuous disguise next time, playing the fortune teller was him flaunting in the maesters' faces. No doubt they disliked outsiders who could earn money from their acolytes - certainly some maesters believed the coppers of their acolytes were their exclusive province. Not that Robar cared what the so-called 'knights of the mind' thought. He had a different name for the men who sat at the center of a great net ensnaring all of Westeros: the grey spiders. If he could swipe a small victory from under their noses, he was going to do so.
Rounding another corner, he saw the backside of the Goldengrove tavern. Rumors claim its founder was a bastard of House Rowan and named his establishment after the family seat to spite his birth family. Robar entered the tavern by the barrel door, placing a stag in the bouncer's palm before walking right into its cellar. Cellars were an ideal location for clandestine meetings: it was private, and the spirit of wine was in the air, prompting a frank exchange of views. Amongst the barrels, he saw 2 men: one, who held a surprisingly commanding presence for a man so young, wore a septon's hooded cloak, long platinum blond hair trailing out of the hood; the other was the burly man who showed up at his stall earlier today, the blonde-haired Ser Wyman Rowan.
"Ser Rowan," he greeted the knight, then turned to the other man, "and Septon ...?"
"Call me Aegon," the man in septon garb raised his gaze to meet Robar's, and in the flickering candlelight, Robar had a good look at his honey-brown eyes. Interesting. A dragonseed septon?
"Septon Aegon. I assume you spend most of your time at Brightwater?"
"I am the Prince-Septon's delegate. No need to dance around with words, Ser Massey. The one promise I could give you is your message shall be brought to the Prince-Septon, or I will die trying."
"Relax, relax. Still, the papers are of great importance, and I must keep to the code. Ser Rowan, if you may excuse us."
The knight was obviously not happy about being excluded, but he moved out to guard the other entrance to the cellar, out of earshot.
"Where did Syrax die?" After checking where Ser Rowan was, Robar turned back to Aegon, in a hushed voice.
"The Arbor." Aegon's face was entirely impassive, his reply equally hushed.
"Which dragon died at Helholt?"
"Balerion."
"Which dragon killed the Sundowner?"
"Caraxes."
Robar nodded in approval. These were, of course, the deliberately wrong answers that marked the speaker as a reliable link in the chain of informants, periodically updated.
"I'll give you a rundown of the texts."
"I have no need of reminders regarding the enormity of my task." The septon's expression did not change, but Robar felt he was annoyed.
"You have need of reminders regarding the danger you are in once these papers are passed to you. They regard House Hightower and Osgrey."
"Osgrey? What does the Northmarch have to do with Oldtown?"
"House Hightower exports weapons in bulk to the riverlands. The Tyrells do not object to this trade, so long as the Hightowers give them a share of the profits. However, there is more to this trade than the Tyrells were made aware of, and clues about the conspiracy only very recently reached the ears of my uncle, Lord Alaric Massey."
"The Master of Whisperers. What is this conspiracy you speak of?"
"The Hightowers are diverting some of their weapons to supply seditionist elements in the riverlands. Osgrey men-at-arms disguised as brigands attack the designated convoys and deliver the weapons to those rebels. The Hightowers then write off the lost weapons to highway brigandry, when in reality they were going exactly where they were intended."
"There couldn't have been too many weapons supplied this way. Wouldn't the Tyrells intervene?"
"Weapons lost per year were never enough to trigger the Tyrells' alarm, but the thing is..."
"This conspiracy had been running for many years, hadn't it?" Aegon seemed lost in pondering.
"Correct."
"Not a wonder the Prince-Septon never caught on specific names. Lord Hightower had been discreet enough."
"Perhaps Prince Maekar's connections don't extend very far amongst godless men." Robar quipped as he finally handed the stack of letters to the septon.
Aegon sighed heavily.
"If these letters could provide enough proof for legal action against Lord Lyonel, then no one besides the Prince-Septon shall see these letters. Ser Rowan, do what you must."
Robar's face must have made his own confusion visible.
"I am no spawn of the dragon, Ser Massey. I am something worse. A Hightower."
He dared to say Aegon smiled a little before he started to run.
161AC
New Gift, The North
Lord Rickon Stark grimaced as wildlings who were being skinned alive howled their pain into the night. The Boltons were enjoying what should have been a simple counterattack against wildling raiders too much, taking what they deemed their rightful trophies. Still, the Bolton men had carried the day in the battle against those raiders, shattered the charging raider ponies against their spear-line: it would be unceremonious to deny them the glory they deserved for their contributions. If only the Boltons didn't demand such a grisly sort of trophy...
Rickon raised his head and turned to face the Wall. He could feel it, dimly, as if he was somehow connected to the largest construction in Westeros merely by virtue of being a Stark. The notion was so ... magical, it was unsettling. Don't the maesters teach magic died with Valyria? The Kings of Winter couldn't call upon blizzards to destroy their enemies. His ancestors annexed them by their bronze swords and integrated them by marrying their daughters. Surely there was nothing magical in his own blood, or if the old Starks were somehow magical, their power was drained when the Doom of Valyria happened centuries ago.
But he could not shake off the feeling that there were things he did not know, things his maester did not want him to think about. Perhaps the Bolton tradition of flaying their enemies had something to do with extracting power from their blood and skin? Were those murders their attempts to kindle or maintain magic in their own blood?
Who could he turn to for answers? The Warden of the North tried to suppress his questions with the thought he would never find an answer, but he almost immediately thought of one man who may hold the answers. It had been years since they had last talked face-to-face, but if anyone in the known world had clues to the origins of Bolton cruelty, that person would most likely be the most infamous bloodmage in all of Westeros, King Jaehaerys Targaryen.
"Ser Ben, where is our King now?" He turned to his bannerman, Benjen Tallhart. Astride a black garron, the warrior was newly blooded in battle over these past days, but his grip on his battle-ax remained steady and sure. His eyes, black like his garron, were rapidly blinking as the howls of the raiders continued to echo. It was a night when the winds were unsettlingly quiet.
"In the riverlands m'lord, that's the word those last ravens brought to Winterfell."
Rickon nodded, turning back to the scene playing out before his eyes. Red creeks drew tears across the faces of the weirwoods, twisting faces dancing in the torchlight, as if they too were howling. He had passed the sentence upon the wildlings. It was his duty as a Stark to see it through.
"Once we return to Winterfell, I would ask an audience with the King. If you have any petitions of your own, prepare them. The King ..." Rickon judged his next words carefully, "respects the North."
A loud snort came from his other side.
"Yes, Jon?" Jon Norrey was one of the Warden's maternal cousins. The 2 men had always been on a first-name basis.
"The monster only wants us to keep our mouths shut when his black roads run through our lands." Unusually for a Northman, Jon had reddish-brown hair leaning towards red. Rickon caught sight of the few stray locks that weren't tucked into his small bronze helm.
"He granted the Manderlys a better charter for their support of coin." Rickon countered weakly.
"Rickon, EVERYONE knows how his roads are built! Blood gushes out of the sides by day! Ghosts of the dead walk along his roads at night! Charters be damned!" Jon was obviously agitated. He was not initiated on the terrible secrets of the King like Rickon was, which was probably the best for his clansman's mind. The Lord of Winterfell could only imagine how his childhood friend would react if he was told the things he knew.
"The King is working to solve the bloody groundwork underneath his roads. Say that he fails, dragonroads are still the best roads anywhere in the world. Even the southrons could march up here to help us hold off the wildlings, once the northern sections of the roads are done." No need to mention the Others. Not yet.
"And what worth are the summer lads here? Winter is coming. Southron pigs are worth more than their own sorry asses, at least we could eat the pigs." Jon started to laugh, amused by his own jape.
Rickon couldn't help but follow, laughing heartily. And for the briefest of moments, the howling of the dying wildlings no longer troubled his troubled mind.
161AC
Outskirts of Stoney Sept, The Riverlands
"Brother Redfish, our men are ready." Sword's face was red with excitement. Never in all their years fighting together had the Redfish seen his old friend like this.
21 years. That was three 7s. Seven be good, he had waited so many years. He gave his sword one last wipe before sheathing it. It was fine steel, Reach steel. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Seven for preserving the beacon of light upon this continent of darkness. Soon, his homeland would be part of the bright rainbow realm. He believed it - he knew it. By the support of the gods, by arms loyal to the Faith, his homeland shall be free once more.
"Good. Let me see them - see all of them."
Sword nodded, holding the tent flap open as the Redfish emerged. There were no cheers, no cries of triumph from the crowd with burning eyes. They were too close to Stoney Sept: a host such as theirs may be enough to challenge a lord's army, but the Redfish gave clear orders he wished to give the town a chance to surrender at daybreak. It would not do if the town chose panic and barred gates in alarm.
Neither would it do if the Redfish did not make up to his most ardent followers in some way, return their faith in their shared cause with burning words - for he had ordered them to put out all burning torches as they neared the town.
"Brothers and sisters, tonight our wait has ended. Tonight, we gather here, in numbers greater than the Swords and Stars of twenty years ago. At daybreak!" He paused a little, taking in all of the people who have gathered around the little hill, "At daybreak, we shall raise our banners and sound the call to our brothers and sisters across the riverlands, in the castles and the towns. Already they look to the sky as you now do: in the Twins, Riverrun, Stone Hedge, Harrenhal, and right here, in the town of Stoney Sept before us."
The Redfish's host gathered here, mostly equipped with whatever they could find, but with some mailed warriors among them, rustled visibly with excitement, and at once understood why their commander cautioned against making the city sink into alarm. The revelation came as no surprise: if the benevolent Redfish stayed his hand, his men believed, it was of course because there were faithful brothers and sisters on the other side, whether it was one of the abomination's blood towers, a castle, or a town. Such had been his way of war for decade upon decade. Fold in the faithful, crush the sinners.
"It has been, many years." The Redfish paused, taking a deep breath, "Many good men had died for our cause, before they could ever have seen how much stronger we had become. Much blood has been spilled between the rivers before our fight against the abomination that dares to call himself a king has reached this brand-new stage. His despicable constructions!" Another deep breath. "How much longer must the land of our fathers be tainted with foul sacrifices and foreign blood!"
"I say no more! No more of a king who consorts with demons to build roads! No more of a king who has a demon, a witch for a father! And no more to the lords that support this monster while silencing us, crushing us, muffling, and trampling us as they plug their ears, pretending not to see the blood running across our homeland, pretending not to see the king's crimes for what they are! Crimes!"
The crowd nearly burst into roars of approval had Sword not raised his sword as a signal to keep silent. The cold steel reflected the moonlight, and there was no rainbow dancing across its clear surface. Holding out his hands as if to embrace the entire crowd, the Redfish continued to speak.
"One day more, my brothers and sisters, one day more before the light of the true faith engulfs the riverlands. We are wax for the candles of the Seven Who Are One, the light burning the way ahead for the faithful yet fearful, just like the brothers and sisters who had passed on early had shown the way forward for you all. It will not be an easy way to walk," he let the comment hang in the air as he swept the host with his gaze again, "but it is one we must walk to put an end to all of the senseless atrocities that scar all of us and our land. One we must walk so our children need not fear dragons or their fiendish magics any longer."
"Eat well, rest well. I shall see you all in Stoney Sept tomorrow."
He watched as the men dissolved into bands of three and five, nibbling on the bread they had brought along or dividing up the clearing to into sleeping spaces, setting up their own tents. Good. He had come a long way since the first attacks on the blood towers, where his band of faithful had a lot of zeal but little else, even fighting among themselves for the cursed gold they found in those accursed buildings. Now, his followers were different, and he had faith all of the riverlands would become much more different by the time he was done.
Diving back into his tent again after bidding Sword good night, he held a bundle of cloth close to his chest as he descended into the realm of sleep. That bundle was his banner - a red fish on blue field banner, with the fish's tail ending in a stylized seven-pointed star woven in the colors of the rainbow instead of a tail fin.
One day more, he promised himself. One day more before the riverlands shall be freed from the yoke of the dragon.
161AC
Riverrun
The instant his dream-self died another agonized death, Jaehaerys woke up in his newest lover's bedroom with a suppressed scream. Slender of form, Cassandra Tully was barely old enough to be called a woman, her hair glinting like master-cut rubies in the moonlight, a lighter shade of red than the usual shade of Tully auburn. She would have made a fine bride for his own son, if the Tullys were able to buttress Targaryen power, instead of relying on the House of the Dragon to maintain their own. So instead of becoming a queen, Cassandra got him instead.
As for why he got into her bed, the King picked up an artifact on the bedstand, and opened its circular cap again. Floating in the hollow within was a drop of Jaehaerys' own blood, glowing gently, lighting the runes carved along the Valyrian gold. This signaled that Cassandra Tully had some blood of the dragon. But how? The question troubled him as much as it did 2 years ago. The Darklyns probably got their dragon blood from a marriage to the Velaryons but try as he might Jaehaerys just couldn't come up with a reasonable answer for a Tully without dishonoring his ancestors and predecessors. Still, blaming one of Aegon the Uncrowned's possible dalliances in the riverlands felt more comfortable than even thinking of his father, or gods forbid his namesake. Jaehaerys the Wise had gone down in the history books as a man fully in love with his wife; his great-grandson felt dread at the possibility he might shatter the mythos.
Careful not to wake the sleeping girl, the King removed himself from her bed, and silently walked up to the window, calling out to his dragon by their bond instead of his voice.
Vermithor.
Perhaps understanding his rider wants him to keep quiet, the huge dragon swam silently across the great ring of water that surrounded the castle; Vermithor's distaste of a cold, night-time swim was radiating through their bond, though.
And with his trademark recklessness, Jaehaerys jumped from the window into the river, with a splash huge to his ears but probably insignificant to a people used to the noises of the river.
Before the King was sent on the quick path to the Bay of Crabs, Vermithor fished him out of the river like a fish in his huge maw. He even steamed off his rider's wet clothes, Jaehaerys' panic at seeing Dracarys a second time within the hour gone unnoticed as he clambered out of the dragon's mouth and onto his stiff back. Vermithor was such an old soldier compared to the playful Silverwing. The King wondered what his wife was doing now; what antics she and her dragon might be up to. He cannot help but wonder if she would miss their date. Anxiety rushed into his mind as a million possible accidents that might cut short their meeting started to weave themselves into existence, forming webs of guilt that weighed down all the little things he did wrong when they last met.
Greatest of all his wrongs was of course heading out to the riverlands ahead of schedule, alone. He had dreamed of blood staining the Trident, and that the blood was clearly flowing in one direction. Information to act on he had none; yet he had thought it might be possible to avert disaster if he showed up in Riverrun, against his queen's advice. The Tullys had always been unable to halt the petty conflicts that mar the riverlands, but if this was a conflict so serious it could redden rivers, then it should be a large-scale conflict started by lordly aggression. Jaehaerys believed he could defuse it, at least scale down this future conflict, by the threat of Vermithor hanging above the riverlords.
Yet Lord Kermit Tully's investigations had turned up nothing; not even the Blackwoods and Brackens were preparing major actions against the other, only another duel over ownership of the Teats. His theory had been wrong, and now not knowing what was about to go wrong filled the King' heart with dread. Even Vermithor's bronze scales were bleached in the moonlight, the ghostly pale sheen felt so ... off. He was like an unknown dragon, though the annoyance Vermithor grumbled out did reassure his rider somewhat. When Jaehaerys' panic twisted his view of the world too much, he could always count on Vermithor's anger to draw him back to reality. That, and the Bronze Fury's nosedives, forcing the King to hang on for dear life as he felt himself flying off the dragon's back.
He could only hope his anxiety was proven baseless, that the conflict in his dreams was much less severe than what the imagery implied. Then he could fly forth to the Two Crowns without a worry...
AN: In my attempts to find inspiration, I went through my Les Misérables playlist. I thus decided to 'get some eyes on the ground', so to speak, following - of course - One Day More's style of showcasing a variety of people on the verge of a great change. Following its inspiration, all the scenes happen within at most days of each other, some are happening at the same time and one pair is happening in immediate succession.
It ended up growing a little bloated since I am a worse writer than V.-M. Hugo, but I hope you liked the dragons.
BTW the working name for Jaehaerys and Cassandra's son is Oscar, Oscar Targaryen. If you don't want a Muppets reference, feel free to leave a comment.