Author's Notes: Welcome back, everybody! Thank you for being so patient while waiting for the next chapter. I hope to continue with the bi-weekly schedule for the time being. For those who were curious, my surgery went very well and my recovery is going great! I have no pain or irritation at all.

Catzrko0l continues to be a phenomenal beta. Thank you so much for all that you do!

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Chapter 111

Euron I

He grinned as he was rowed into the city, standing on the prow of the dinghy. Nearly everything had gone according to plan. Some of his men managed to infiltrate the city through merchant vessels, but it seemed far more of an army was at hand than he had expected. Under normal circumstances, King's Landing barely had more than its gold cloaks at its disposal with maybe a few thousand soldiers from the king and the queen's houses, but it seemed the young dragon was a bloody coward. It was just a shame that there were still enough soldiers to man the catapults on the walls.

Not that it mattered. Even with the cunt of a captain standing in her own way, he would admit that she had enough power in her fleet to be a thorn in the king's side for nearly two months. That she ever thought she would be his queen was laughable. He had considered momentarily suggesting she blow the Dragonbinder to entice the dragons, but he would've been forced to miss such a spectacle. No, it was better this way. He would get Daenerys and then he could dispose of Lucia any way he wanted. As much as he liked fucking her, the greatest pleasure she would give him would be the look of betrayal as he had his crew fuck her to death. No better ending for a disease-ridden cunt like her.

Just then a small boulder crashed into a dinghy fifty feet away, pulverizing half a dozen men. He heard a whimper from the Ironborn rowing his dinghy. He was little more than a kid, but Euron pulled out his sword to tickle his neck.

"Keep rowing or your life will end here," he growled.

The boy said nothing, but his pace noticeably quickened.

His grin widened. He was just getting antsy and considered tickling the boy for speed even more. He nearly salivated at the thought of opening the young dragon's neck. The Ironborn were under strict instructions that he and he alone was to kill the king or he would send them through all seven hells before they died.

The sky was shot with orange and began to deepen into purple as the sun set. The gold cloaks may know the city, but every corner became suspect once the dark set in. He fully expected them to lose their nerve and flee. The Ironborn favored these kinds of conditions, so the odds would turn. It would only make it better if they managed to snag the dragons and set them loose.

"Faster," Euron growled, his blood already singing with the thrill of battle. He only wished it had been possible to ambush the city, but their folk was of the sea. He could only convince so many of them to go overland; they weren't skilled for it.

He frowned when he realized a mist was rising. This was not something to expect. Mist most often formed in the morning or even perhaps during the night under certain conditions but not on the tail end of an otherwise pleasant summer evening. Something else was afoot. This seemed the magic of an aeromancer or possibly a warlock.

As a major trade hub, King's Landing often hosted the likes and flavors of every culture in Essos. Could the king have employed the services of one such as an aeromancer? All of the reports he heard from Lucia indicated that the crown was barely worth a brass penny, but perhaps they were just deliberately sitting on their gold to prevent paying her. It seemed unlikely with all the trouble her crew of miscreants caused.

If the crown couldn't pay for an aeromancer or a warlock, then it seemed unlikely that they would offer the king their help on a whim. They were as greedy for coin as any man, and their services didn't come cheap. Would the king have been able to curry favor with one?

Or, perhaps, it's the Targaryen blood, Euron thought, grinding his teeth. It filled him with a boiling rage that the blood of a Targaryen on the throne should be so naturally gifted or supported. Yet he knew there were still fools in the world who looked to the return of the Targaryen dynasty. He had made his own way, learning the tricks of the shadowbinders in Asshai. He would gladly piss all over the divine right of the Targaryens, but Daenerys Targaryen was supposed to be a silver-haired beauty beyond compare. As soft and radiant as the sun itself. He would take great joy in planting his seed into her womb to make right his conquest.

The bottom of the dinghy scraped the sandbar. With a grunt of satisfaction, Euron leaped into the water and trudged his way up. Because of the other pirates and the close quarters of the city, they were able to land in private to regroup.

"Hurry up, you cunts, or I'll send you to the Drowned God myself," Euron snarled at them as they staggered up the bank. All along the beach, men were spilling out all over the shore. Soon, there were hundreds, and eventually thousands. Euron led the way.

"Uhhh ... Your Grace?"

The mist had continued to seemingly seep up from the ground, broadening and thickening. They could hardly see more than a few feet in front of their faces.

"Do you think the king's armies are letting a little bit of fog stop them? Move it or I'll hang you by your entrails," Euron shouted. He led the way up the beach and toward the city. He had visited the city long ago as a young man. It wasn't any different from what he remembered as he confidently strode up the main road.

"Your Grace?" The voice of his men suddenly sounded distant.

He turned and saw no one behind him. He growled. "Keep moving! It's this way."

"Euron? Euron!" His men called out to him.

Can they not hear me? "This way, you fucking fools," Euron screamed, then turned once more to keep moving forward up the road. He ground his teeth together. I ain't never heard of aeromancers being able to do anything like this, he thought sourly. Then again, the aeromancers were a secluded lot. They had refused to share their secrets with them. He'd slit the throat of the only one he'd managed to corner and his secret had indeed died with him.

It seemed unlikely to be a warlock. They were garrulous and couldn't resist the opportunity to show their power. He had learned a little magic from them and magic to create a mist and separation were far too subtle for the likes of them.

"That's enough now, aeromancer. Playing with mist isn't worth shit! It won't stop the Ironborn from taking what is ours," he bellowed at the top of his lungs. A shape began to take form in front of him as it started to walk out of the fog. He grinned, "That's right. If you dispel your magic, I will be in a light enough mood to let you walk free." He had no interest in letting this aeromancer go. He would get his answers and their magic or it would be death, but he vowed he wouldn't make it so easy as a slit in the throat.

A slight tinkling noise of what sounded like coins jangled, but were actually metal rings that clanked together. Lucia wore such gaudy and ludicrous strings of metal. She materialized before him. The tension went out of his shoulders and he grinned; he couldn't hide the fury that was about to explode out of him just like the volcano that caused Valyria's doom.

"Lucia, you fucking whore! I thought I told you to kidnap Daenerys Targaryen. You better have left her unharmed or I'll let the eels eat your intestines while you still breathe."

She stopped in front of him, her face unmoving.

He furrowed his brow and growled. She was never so stoic. Her anger was like that of a furious cat, all screeching and rage but harmless and easily stomped out. "Well, where the fuck is she?"

A sinking pit began to grow in his stomach and he felt actual fear when she reached up to the base of her neck and began to pull on the skin there. He roared his fury and lunged, to split her in two.

|-The Dragon's Roar-|

Theon I

His heart was in his throat as he peered over the edge of the Bell Tower. The bloody fog made it impossible to see anything on the ground; he'd never be able to see his uncle to kill him in this. Was that necessarily a bad thing?

It had been quite a large adjustment from sneering at Lord Stark's lowly bastard to him now being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms. After having spent the large part of his young adulthood in Winterfell, Robb and Aemon were more like brothers than anything else. Aemon was a mopey killjoy who could not resist frowning over his taste for prostitutes. Once he had claimed his crown, Theon was briefly concerned that he was going to outlaw prostitution. It wasn't until they were going south and Theon was allowed to attend the strategy meetings did it become clear that Aemon had far greater concerns on his mind than prostitution.

Not that they had been able to talk much. Aemon was always in meetings, speaking with the likes of Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Stark, and Ser Barristan. Theon felt like a bug, insignificant and hardly worth consideration. He decided to remain low; he still had Robb after all. He could tell Robb was also smarting from Aemon's distance, but he papered over his hurt with false bravado. But now Theon didn't even have Robb for company. He'd nearly all but disappeared once he was married, clearly preferring to bury his cock in his beautiful Tyrell wife over visiting the training yard, not that Theon could blame him. Now he was gone, set to return to the North.

Almost soon as he left, the focus turned to him. He very nearly pissed his pants at being in the company of Lord Lannister. At first, the man merely made him uneasy as he couldn't help but focus on the discolored scars left by the bear's claws, but that was before the Lannister levied his threat. It didn't matter that Lord Lannister was a hundred miles away, he fully expected him to know if he failed to live up to expectations. He had never met a man so intense.

However, if the rumors were true, his Uncle Euron could give him a run for his dragons. While his childhood on Pike was a distant memory, he distinctly remembered his Uncle Euron. Even as a lad, his uncle's smile could freeze his blood. Euron despised noisy kids and Theon had gotten a smack around the head or two for not being quiet around his betters. He had long given Uncle Euron a wide berth. It had been baffling to see such love and respect between siblings and the lord and lady in Winterfell.

"What is dead may never die!"

"Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!"

"For King Euron!"

The Ironborn clashed with the soldiers below. Theon once again peered over the side and ground his teeth at the lack of visibility.

"I know what I'm asking you to do is against everything we learned in Winterfell, but there's no other way around it. The Iron Islands are of the Seven Kingdoms and they need to be brought into the fold. Only you might be able to do that. It's either Euron's life or the Ironborns'. Only you can save them," Aemon had said to him a few days prior. It was difficult reconciling the soft-spoken king issuing such cold orders with the gloomy bastard in Winterfell who lived and breathed the Stark honor. The change had been startling at first, but then once Tywin Lannister attempted his coup, it was much easier to understand why Aemon seemed so harsh and suspicious since taking the Red Keep.

A cold sweat broke out across him that he might fail to even take a shot at killing his uncle when he couldn't see him.

Where is he?

Theon finally unsheathed his sword and decided he would just have to tangle with the fray if he had any hope of killing his uncle. For King Aemon! And so Lord Lannister wouldn't butcher his people like cattle.

He thumped down the stairs and kicked open the door to the belltower. Even on the ground, he had difficulty seeing at all. There were blurs of orange from the torchlights on the wall to light the street for the battle. He was grateful that Ironborn rarely wore metal armor or he'd never be able to tell one man apart from the other. He snaked his way around and dodged the fights as best as he could. When someone turned on him, he quickly threw them down and disappeared back into the fog. He had no desire to kill his people, only Euron.

"King Euron? Euron?"

Theon heard the calls down the way and furrowed his brow. It sounded like no one could find his uncle.

He flattened himself against the wall as he approached to stay out the way of the Ironborn running past him to join the fight. He stopped when he heard a gurgling gasp and then a pained yell.

"Your Grace! King Euron!"

Theon squinted trying to see through the fog, but it seemed even thicker on this end. The pained cry sounded mere feet away from where he was standing. He reached the corner of the building and peered down the alley, only to find nothing. Suddenly, a high-pitched keening sound erupted from that direction and then it morphed into an unrelenting agonized scream.

"King Euron?!"

"It's an Asshai Devil," one man suddenly cried.

Theon could just make out the shapes of a few men standing nearby, looking for their king.

"I'll gut the bloody devil then," one man said, drawing his scimitar and running through the fog into the alley.

Theon waited on tenterhooks to hear of a difference, whether he saved his uncle or died along with him. The man suddenly emerged and his voice shaky, "He ain't fucking there! I never even got closer!"

"'Tis the devil's magic," one of the men said barely above a whisper.

"Ill-omened, ill-fated," another said.

The scream abruptly cut off and the complete silence that followed caused Theon to shiver and his throat to run dry.

"Fuck this," one of the men said and ran back down the street to the boats.

Another of the men broke up to run toward the fighting, but he raised his voice to be heard over the fighting. "Retreat! Retreat! The king is dead. Retreat!"

With those words, a tide of men came running back down the street. Theon shrank even further against the wall, hoping that the mist and the dark would continue to conceal him. He peeked and became increasingly bold as everyone pelted past him, not even daring to look. In a matter of moments, he was alone as he heard the last footsteps fading way down the cobblestone. Theon stood up from where he'd been hiding. He glanced down the alley, tempted to go down and look for his uncle, but there was no telling whether his killer was gone.

A killer expecting to hide wouldn't linger after a death like that, Theon thought. Just as he pointed his feet towards the alley, he turned his head and cocked his ear. He heard the slow deliberate steps of boots on cobblestone coming from down the alley. With a shot of fear, he realized it was coming this way. Theon lingered for a moment to see if he could catch a glimpse. But as the footsteps came closer and the fog continued to veil, Theon decided he'd pushed his luck far enough and ran back up the street.

|-The Dragon's Roar-|

Aemon XLII

As darkness blanketed the city, he cursed the seasons for causing the days to shorten.

"Can you still see the beach?" Aemon asked Lord Velaryon, who was peering down from the Wall with his far-eye.

"They could swim to the beach at this point. Landfall imminent," he replied, nodding grimly.

"Continue tossing boulders at them. I'm going to join the army on the front."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

Ser Barristan didn't have to say anything for Aemon to sense his disapproval. He had a feeling the old knight was wishing that he would just stay safe on the wall without any risk to his life, but he refused to be like Joffrey. If there was to be a battle, he intended to be at the fore to lead his men.

Once he reached the courtyard, he shouted, "Raise the gates!" The moment felt drawn out like a blade at each clank of the gears. Aemon ducked through it as quickly as he could. Once out on the streets, his Kingsguard coalesced around him like a shell for his protection.

As they strode toward the water, citizens fleeing for their lives streamed past them. A few stopped in their tracks at the sight of them. Some cheered encouragement and others beseeched him.

"Fire and Blood! Drive those thieving cunts back into the ocean!"

"Please, Your Grace, please, my husband. Those rapscallions carved him up when he refused to part with our wares. I've lost everything!"

"Murder 'em! Kill 'em! They raped my daughter and ran her through. The Stranger take every one of them to the deepest of the seven hells!"

"Get out of the city! Spare your lives. The Ironborn scourge will be driven back into Blackwater Bay from whence they came! I will not fail you!" Aemon shouted, glad for the helmet that hid his trouble and his pain for them. The kingsguard carefully pushed through the tides of people, growling admonishments to anyone who tried to get in too close.

The closer they moved, the fewer people they met fleeing. Soon, they entered a mist rising from the ground which made every shadow look like a man waiting to attack. The rhythmic clanking of armor heralded mixed groups of a dozen soldiers, Unsullied, and gold cloaks wandering about, coming in and out of alleyways.

"What's the situation?" Aemon asked one.

"The pirates have taken refuge between the buildings and in the dark. We have to ferret them out. No Ironborn this far yet."

They took a more cautious approach as they got further down the street. Suddenly, a bellowing roar came from down an alley. A dozen or so pirates sprang from the mist, waving their cutlasses and scimitars. Aemon held up Lady Forlorn, but he was surprised by a pirate who ran headlong into him, pushing him into the ground. The Hound ran the pirate through and shoved him to the side. Aemon leaped to his feet and found his stance; he was prepared when a new pirate lunged for him, dodging his first wild blow, meeting the next two, and then batted his sword and ended him through the chest.

Despite the numbers disadvantage, they made quick work of the pirates. Aemon frowned as he kicked the body over. Most of them barely had anything representing armor. Either a couple of haphazard plates strung together or merely the cloth on their back for protection.

Such a foolhardy decision, Aemon thought, glaring down at them. Did Euron really think he had more chance than a fawn against a pack of dire wolves when his men were so ill-equipped? Granted, he doubted the Ironborn would be so bereft of armor. It was in their name after all.

His heart pounded as he strained to see through the mist that had grown thicker as they descended. It felt like his ears were playing tricks on him, as he turned towards every scrape and shuffle, unable to determine if it was a human or a rat that moved.

"I've never seen or felt a mist like this," Ser Daemon suddenly said.

The Hound guffawed.

"What is a mist supposed to feel like?" Ser Torrhen asked. The summer mornings often dawned cold and misty in the north, but it typically burned off by midday.

"The morning and nighttime mists are frequent visitors in Sunspear. With so little water to speak of, our people make traps to collect the dew for our drinking water. But I have never seen one so thick to where I can barely see the sword I hold in my hand. This is a battle and yet I hear not even a sigh; the air is as still as death," Ser Daemon whispered.

Aemon thought he knew what Ser Daemon meant, but it was merely a feeling, an unease. Where were the Westerlands and the Reach army? Surely they should have reached them by now.

He finally heard the sounds of footsteps and the distant echo of shouting voices. He picked up his speed.

"Who goes there?" Gerion Lannister called out.

"It is I and my kingsguard," Aemon called back. He walked just close enough to see shapes materialize and at his voice, Gerion and Ser Kevan both lowered their swords. A large group of soldiers mingled behind them. "How fares the fight?"

"That's difficult to say, Your Grace. With this mist, I have no way to know if I'm sending my men to their victory or their deaths. And with the streets so close, we're not anywhere near the frontlines. We have also been routinely sending men through the alleys to root out the hidden pirates. It's been … quiet."

"Far too quiet," Ser Kevan said, sounding troubled.

"Aye … this fog. It doesn't feel … natural," Gerion agreed.

"How could it be anything else?" Aemon asked.

"There are those who can cast magic of this sort, though I'm not sure how they could blanket an entire city," Gerion replied.

"Why would they blanket the city? If it were someone among the enemy, they are impeding themselves as much as they are impeding us," Ser Kevan wondered.

"No one has approached me about aiding our cause with magicks," Aemon said.

Gerion was quiet for a moment. "A lone individual acting of his own accord?"

"That could bode very ill if that's the case," Ser Kevan mumbled.

Suddenly, shouts could be heard coming from the front. As they grew closer, they could hear, "The Ironborn, they're retreating! We've won the day!"

A shout of jubilation rang out among the soldiers.

"Quiet!" Gerion and Ser Kevan shouted at the same time. Just like that, the shouting stopped.

"Find out why," Gerion said.

Kevan began striding towards the front; Aemon quickly followed.

"Captain Quillan, what happened?" Ser Kevan demanded.

"Not sure, m'lord. I just heard the Ironborn calling their retreat and they broke away instantly. I sent a squad to follow them and make sure they get back on their boats. Stragglers are to be taken prisoner."

"Good work," Aemon said.

"Your Grace!" The soldier threw a fist over his heart and bowed; all of the surrounding soldiers followed suit.

"I'm going up there," Aemon said.

"It could be a trap, Your Grace," Ser Kevan said. "At least take some of my men with you."

"Thank you, Ser Kevan, I would be grateful," Aemon replied, though the response was rote. He already had six of the best fighters in the Seven Kingdoms surrounding him.

"Captain Dietrich, follow His Grace," Ser Kevan commanded.

"Yes, m'lord," the man said.

It did not take long for the murmuring and scraping of the mingling soldiers to fade away. Aemon kept tilting his head to and fro to catch any errant sound, but he didn't hear so much as a whisper of wind. After a few minutes, Aemon stopped as he heard running footsteps on cobblestone and panting.

"Halt! State your name," Aemon shouted, holding up Lady Forlorn.

"Your Grace! Aemon, it's me. It's me," Theon shouted, coming to a stuttering halt. He hunched over on his knees, breathing happily.

"Theon, what happened!? Why did the Ironborn retreat?" Aemon demanded.

Theon took a few breaths before he was finally able to squeeze a sentence out. "My uncle! Euron! He was attacked!"

Aemon narrowed his eyes. "You didn't attack him?"

"Nuh-no! I couldn't find him. I never even saw him in this mist," Theon stammered with a gesture. "I came down here to kill him, but someone else reached him first!"

"Who? Who killed him?"

Theon shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. "I just heard his screams, like he was being tortured."

The Westerland men shifted uneasily and whispered about themselves, but Aemon ignored them. "I have to know his threat is gone," Aemon said. He shoved past Theon.

Theon grabbed his arm. "Don't go down there! Whoever it was … didn't sound friendly. I heard them coming down the alley towards me when I ran."

"I have to know," Aemon said.

"I think the fog is lifting," Ser Daemon spoke up.

Aemon glanced around and realized he was more clearly able to see the entrances to the alleyways.

"I don't think I need to tell you to be on your guard," Aemon said. "Let's go."

Theon sighed, but he fell into step beside them. They walked for a while and Aemon was certain that the fog was indeed lifting as he started to see patches of the night sky when it had been completely covered. Aemon was becoming more convinced with every passing minute that the mist was the result of magic. What mist departs as soon as it's no longer necessary? he mused.

"There!" Theon pointed towards an alley. "I was leaning up against the wall here when I heard the footsteps down that way."

Aemon held his sword up; Ser Barristan and the Hound were at the front, similarly with their swords at the ready. He crept down the alley. He tried a door on his right and found it locked or barricaded. As he kept closer, he thought he noticed shiny patches on the cobblestones in the dark.

"We need a light. Does anyone have a torch?"

"Here, Your Grace," Captain Dietrich said. He pulled out a torch and after a few minutes it was merrily burning. He handed it over.

"Thank you," Aemon replied. He turned it onto the patch and confirmed what he suspected: blood.

Now that he had light, he could see scrapes and stains on either side of the wall. He held the torch up higher and noticed the walls awash with blood down the way, and there was a body in the middle of it. He hurried towards it.

Theon gasped once the body was at their feet then he turned and vomited. Aemon stared. He had only met Euron Greyjoy once at the Dragon Pit. He looked little different save he was actually dressed in darkened Valyarian steel armor. But someone had removed the chest plate and tossed it to the side. His stomach was torn open and his intestines were strewn about like bits of string. The mouth was opened slightly, but Aemon found it so full of blood it seemed Euron had drowned in it. His remaining good eye had been punctured and leaked down the side of his cheek; the eyepatch had been ripped away and showed the ruin of his original eye.

"What in seven hells….?" Aemon whispered. He took a step back, afraid to touch the body.

"Who could have done this?" Ser Torrhen asked.

"A devil," the Hound growled.

It caused the soldiers to stir.

"One of the Ironborn called it an 'Asshai Devil,'" Theon said.

"I mislike this, Your Grace," Ser Daemon began. "It is rare to see a death so brutal and a rarer monster to carry it out. Were he not dead, my first thoughts would run to Gregor Clegane."

"He was brutal, but this is calculated. Whoever did this deliberately drew it out. I imagine the eyes and the tongue went first," the Hound said.

Aemon shivered, pulling his eyes away from the sight, but it was burned to the back of his eyelids. "Captain Dietrich, send a man back to Lord Gerion. Tell him we need Healer David."

Almost as soon as the command was relayed, a bellowing roar greeted their ears.

"The dragons," Aemon whispered. He pelted back toward the street and turned toward the water.

"Your Grace, wait!" Ser Barristan called out, but he ran heedlessly towards the water.

Did it work? Did the horn capture the dragons? He searched the skies, but it was so dark he could not see a thing.

All of a sudden, a light blossomed on the water. He recognized the reddish-black flames of Drogon setting fire to a ship. Just like that, he realized that the horn had stopped its call. It had been blaring unabated for the duration of the battle, but he had taken little notice of it once he had descended into the fog.

"I daresay the Dragonbinder did not work as intended," Aemon said.

"Hmm … mayhap because the true owner is dead now?" Ser Daemon wondered.

"Maybe one does need to be of the blood of Valyria for it to work," Ser Barristan parroted back Aemon's thoughts to him.

Drogon roared in triumph. Aemon could just barely see his figure leap from the mast and disappear back into the night sky.