Author's Note: This chapter ended up undergoing a lot of reworking, with some old taken out and some brand new thrown in. Truth be told I still don't love it, but I think it helps set up some future activity that was handled poorly in the original fic. It's honestly something of a filler chapter just like it was in the original, but every now and again you have to have those to make the narrative make sense, and there are some details sprinkled in to help the worldbuilding. Hopefully you folks still enjoy.

Thanks again for all the support, and have a very Merry Christmas!

Chapter 27

Original word count: 2,096

Revised word count: 2,138

For Aelor Targaryen it was a time of anger and pain, but for the Seven it was a time of children.

Malessa Rykker's labor had come on quickly in the blackest part of the night one day after Rhaella's death, at the tail end of the storm whose apex had seen Daenerys Stormborn's birth. Aelor had been alerted per his own orders, though he had already been awake when a runner came to rouse him—sleep had been no friend of Aelor's of late. After checking on a sleeping Viserys, the prince had gone to the hall outside the birthing chamber, one door away from where his mother had died.

Rhaella had been near forty, with a history of troubled births behind her and failing health. Malessa was nineteen and with her first child, her build strong and healthy. A boy came into the world at dawn, as big a child as Gorold or the midwife had ever seen, hungry and very vocal about it. His mother, unlike Daenerys', performed beautifully.

Malessa named him Aelor, as Renfred had requested in his final letter before the Trident. Aelor Rykker, Lord of Hollard Hall. The boy's namesake had congratulated Malessa and held the babe, who glared out at him from his swaddles; he had reminded the Dragon of Duskendale so much of Ren it physically hurt. Aelor Targaryen had returned the newborn to his mother's arms, congratulated Lord Donnel on his first grandchild, and returned to his chambers, where he had very nearly fallen apart.

But he did not allow himself to fully; the stitches that had been binding Aelor together since Elia's death continued to hold. They had to, until she was avenged. An hour after dawn found the prince in the Small Council chamber, strengthened by sheer will and black hate.

His sleepless night turned into a long morning.

Maester Gorold, fatigued from his own lack of sleep after overseeing the birth, brought the news. The scroll with the seal of House Velaryon was terse and to the point, Lord Lucerys clearly still bitter about his dismissal as Master of Ships. The Small Council reconvened not long after the raven came, and Lord Manderly was still lowering into his seat when Aelor began.

"Our fleet is gone."

There was a moment of shocked silence, broken by Bronze Yohn Royce. "Gone?" he asked, thick eyebrows furrowing.

Aelor nodded sharply. "Gone. The same storm that saw my sister's birth was particularly savage at Dragonstone, and the entire navy was anchored there. There are a few ships that might be salvageable, but most are sunk or sinking. The Velaryon fleet is in the same straits, and it is reasonable to assume the Redwyne Fleet sieging Storm's End is as well."

Randyll Tarly's voice was, if possible, even more grim than usual. "While the fleet at Lannisport was most likely undamaged, meaning Lannister has superiority at sea."

"No, he won't." Aelor's voice held nothing but confidence, something that was decidedly lacking on the other councilmen's faces, barring Varys. There was silence as they waited for him to continue, but the prince let it linger.

Manderly asked what the others didn't. "I don't see how, Prince Aelor."

Aelor shrugged. "I do, my lords, and it has been taken care of. I won't share more for now for reasons of my own, but the Royal Fleet was never in my plans for Lannisport. It is, however, a main concern moving forward." He turned to Manderly. "Master of Coin?"

Lord Wyman, ever adaptable, didn't ask any follow-up questions. The big northman had a stack of parchment before him, and his chubby fingers were stained black from consistent use of ink and quill over the last few days. "We still have much work to do, my lords, but inquiries have been sent to the Iron Bank of Braavos concerning potential debts. The current vaults in the treasury are still being inventoried, but I can begin arranging the delivery and hiring of necessary materials and craftsmen to the location of your choosing at once."

Aelor nodded. "The King's Landing shipyards all went up during the Sack, and while Driftmark likely has plenty of yards who can fit the bill Lord Velaryon is on the outs with me. Duskendale it is."

Varys tilted his head. "That might start rumors of corruption on your part, Prince Regent."

Aelor shrugged. "In a sense they'd be right, but I won't let grumblings stop me from doing what will be in King Aegon's best interest. Begin working out contracts on lumber and craftsmen, for both ships and rebuilding the King's Landing docks. That is the crown's priority when it comes to coin."

Wyman nodded. "It will be done."

"Ser Barristan." Aelor said his former mentor's name with no small amount of ice in his tone, turning to face the Kingsguard representative on the council.

Barristan the Bold kept his face perfectly blank, meeting the prince's gaze. "My prince?"

"Jaime Lannister's time in the Kingsguard is obviously at an end, whether he dies fighting the crown or is executed afterwards. Compile a list of candidates while we are away on campaign."

Aelor could see Barristan wanted to insist on coming, but the knight had the self-restraint and sense of duty to merely nod. "It will be done." Dutiful now, but not two nights ago when he took Lannister blood from me, the voice said. Aelor tamped it down, though it took effort.

Varys spoke up. "My birds tell me Lord Lefford has yet to call his banners, still seemingly unaware of what has occurred, thanks to Ser Manfred and my own efforts. While my duties are an art, not a science, the flanking force should be able to reach the Golden Tooth long before they are ready."

Aelor nodded. "Excellent. Is all ready, Lord Tarly?"

The Reachman nodded sharply. "Yes, or at least it will be by dawn."

The Dragon of Duskendale rose. "Then we are finished here, at least until my return from the West. Lord Donnel Buckwell will hold regency of the city, as we have discussed. Lord Wyman, I expect you to know every penny the Crown owns and owes by the time I return. Lord Royce, I expect the City Watch to have a command structure at the very least, and to see recruits training. And Varys." Aelor paused, then lowered his head, eyes growing hard. "I know there are some whisperings that I should take the crown for myself instead of leaving it to a child. I want a full list of any and every one that speaks in support of that, be they a noble or a whore. I have feigned ignorance of it up until this point, but once I return…well, any tongues spreading that idea will soon find themselves removed. Make that known."

Varys nodded. "Of course, Prince Regent."

Lord Royce tried once mor, stopping Aelor mid-turn. "Prince Aelor, if I may ask, the Lannister navy—"

"Will not be a concern for much longer, Lord Royce." Aelor smiled, a cold, angry thing. "I promise you that."

Ser Manfred Darke was very good at minding his own damned business, but that didn't mean he was deaf. When a man listened more than he spoke, he often heard a great deal.

He'd been there during the games of stones Elia Martell and Jaime Lannister had played, watching the golden-haired youth for any sign of treachery. While the queen's protection had been his main priority—a spark of pain accompanied that thought, since he'd ultimately failed—Manfred had heard all that she and the boy discussed. He'd listened to stories of Cersei and Tyrion, of the long dead Joanna. Of Casterly Rock and Crakehall and the Sunset Sea.

Of Tywin Lannister and plots to kill a king.

Of Aerys Targaryen and plots to kill a city.

Manfred supposed he was one of the few who knew the whole truth of what had happened with Aerys the Second the day he died. By his reckoning the few meant three now that Elia and Rhaegar were dead; himself, Jamie, and Aelor Targaryen.

That knowledge was why he wasn't surprised to be on the Street of Sisters in the middle of the night, in a hall of black marble. Iron torches, surrounding the perimeter of the gallery where they now stood, reflected green flame off the polished black stone underfoot, turning everything emerald and sinking the many adjoining doors into deep shadow. It would be eerie if Manfred felt such things.

Oberyn Martell apparently did, despite his well-earned reputation. The olive-skinned Dornishman glanced around uneasily. "What in the seven hells is this place?"

Aelor was already in his armor, despite it still being five hours until dawn and six until the army's departure. Clearly, he didn't mean to get much sleep. Though that's no surprise, considering the past week. Manfred heard many things from many places, and even the most loyal servants liked to talk. "The Guildhall of the Alchemists." When Oberyn cocked an eyebrow, Aelor pointed to the torches. "It's where they make wildfire, Oberyn."

Manfred saw the man almost immediately connect the dots. And a near-feral grin appeared on Oberyn's face. He'll stoke Aelor's rage all the more, and the prince is already not himself. "Now we are talking sense."

Randyll Tarly, also already dressed for the campaign road, shook his head. "I still don't like this."

Aelor shrugged. "As you and I have discussed, you don't have to. The decision and the risk are my own." He slapped a hand on the man's shoulder placatingly, which only made Tarly stiffen. I imagine that's why Aelor does it so often. "I trust your disagreement didn't become disobedience."

Tarly's face twisted in disgust at the thought. "Of course it didn't, Prince Aelor. The caravan will be ready on time, and I've placed ten of my best as it's command structure."

The Prince Regent nodded as one of the adjoining doors opened, two figures hurrying forward. "Excellent. See they take all precaution."

Manfred rested his hand in his sword as the two men in robes approached, but they made a point of showing their hands as they stopped and bowed fifteen feet before the prince and his companions. "My apologies, Prince Aelor," the elder of them said. Stooped and gray, Manfred remembered this one calling himself Wisdom Pollitor. "Acolyte Hallyne and I were again confirming the count and lost track of time."

Aelor waved the apology away. "It is forgiven. I have an army to move, so let us not tarry. You have recovered all stores?"

"Yes, Prince Regent. We have scoured the city with the help of your Lord Varys, and all jars have been returned here to the Guildhall." The old man bowed again. "You once more have my apologies, for I do not know how my order allowed so many to be so haphazardly misplaced."

You were ordered to misplace them, Manfred thought, though he said nothing aloud. But all pyromancers who knew that are now dead, thanks to the golden-haired whelp.

Aelor knew the truth as well. It had been him who had come to this Guildhall the night he returned to King's Landing with only Manfred in tow, informing Pollitor that there were vast stores of wildfire hidden throughout King's Landing and ordering him to quietly return them all here. And asked a great many questions about how they might be used. "That is immaterial. The caravan will be ready in half a weeks' time. Will you?"

Pollitor bowed again. "Of course, Prince Regent, as will my most trusted acolytes."

"And the modification we discussed?"

This time it was the other pyromancer to answer, the younger one apparently called Hallyne. "Half are already altered, Prince Regent. The rest will be complete by the time the caravan is forming, you have my personal promise."

"And it will work in the method I have asked?"

The elder man bobbed his head in affirmation. "Yes, we are most confident."

The prince nodded sharply. "Excellent." Aelor produced a clinking bag out of thing air, tossing it to the younger pyromancer, who deftly caught it. "If it does as you say, there will be plenty more. Make certain there are no foul-ups, Pollitor, and none of your order have waging tongues. Lord Tarly here will confirm the final details."

Aelor turned away from them as Tarly stepped forward, Oberyn and Manfred following. The Dornishman waited until they were in the cool night air to speak. "Just so I am clear, your purpose with that is what I think it is, right?"

Aelor swung onto his stallion before answering. "My purpose is vengeance, Oberyn. My purpose is fire and blood."

The Dragon of Duskendale turned his horse towards the Gate of the Gods and the army sleeping there.

And to war.