Oldtown…
As the sun set on Oldtown, a green beacon atop Battle Isle caught the eye of the city's inhabitants, signaling the call to war. As the flames danced and flickered, their vibrant glow called upon the Hightower's vassals, summoning them to join the impending battle. But Hightower bannermen knew all too well that the beacon served a dual purpose, not only rallying House Hightower's forces but also serving as a warning to the unsuspecting inhabitants of Oldtown. The green flames were a dire signal that an enemy army was invading to attack their city. The people of Oldtown, caught off guard by the sudden threat, were now aware of the imminent danger that loomed over their homes and loved ones. With no time to waste, House Hightower called upon their banners to muster their forces and join them in the fight.
However, due to unforeseen circumstances and inability to advance to join the ongoing war effort quickly, Lord Ormund Hightower and his fifteen-year-old son and heir, Lyonel, were left with no choice but to make a stand against the Caltrops. But they soon realized they were vastly outnumbered. Led by Ser Jon Roxton, the Caltrops' forces numbered over 8,000 soldiers. Their ranks were filled with skilled warriors, armed to the teeth and ready to spill blood in the name of conquest. In contrast, the Hightowers, still in the process of rallying more troops, had only managed to gather a meager force of 300 men-at-arms and 600 knights on foot hastily forming a line of defense, and 1,000 skilled archers taking up positions atop Oldtown's massive, thick, high stone walls, their arrows poised to rain death upon any who dared to breach their defenses. The odds were stacked against the Hightowers, who desperately sought reinforcements to bolster their meager forces.
"Spears and shields! Spears and shields!" Lyonel shouted.
"Form up! Get in line!" Lord Ormund barked orders at his troops.
As if being outnumbered wasn't enough, a horde of more than 10,000 desperate refugees from war-torn regions and ravaged lands, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear, relentlessly sought entry into the fortified walls of Oldtown. Their weary faces reflected the weight of their struggles, their eyes filled with a glimmer of hope that was slowly fading away. The gates, once open to all seeking solace, were now sealed shut, leaving the desperate refugees stranded outside. The refugees, their bodies weakened by the arduous journey, begged the city guards stationed atop the towering walls to let them in. Mothers clutched their children tightly, their tear-streaked faces pleading for mercy. Fathers, weathered by the trials of their journey, raised their hands in supplication, their voices hoarse from countless pleas for entry. Yet, the city guards, clad in armor and armed with unwavering determination, remained steadfast in their duty to protect Oldtown. They had been ordered to keep the gates closed to protect the city's inhabitants at all costs. Like whispers carried away by the wind, the refugees' pleas were brushed aside. The tightly sealed gates stood as an impenetrable barrier, preventing anyone from entering or leaving.
"All forces, don't let one of them through!" Ormund commanded.
In what was deemed a daring yet ill-fated suicide march, the Hightower army charged forward to confront the Caltrops in a frontal assault despite the odds stacked against them. At the same time, Oldtown's outer defenses, fortified with an array of catapults and trebuchets, launched deadly projectiles over the walls and onto the battlefield. The projectiles, ranging from flaming arrows to massive stones, were unleashed with deadly precision, causing chaos and devastation among the enemy ranks.
As the Hand of the King's nephew, Lord Ormund was entrusted with the task of quelling the ongoing rebellions in the Reach, even though the region's Lords Paramount, House Tyrell, had chosen to take no part in the struggle. The absence of House Tyrell's intervention only added to his challenges with various noble houses in the Reach fighting each other. Amidst the chaos, the terrified refugees huddled together, their faces etched with fear and desperation. With each passing moment, they knew the battle drew closer to their makeshift sanctuary. Their screams of terror pierced the air, blending with the din of war and the sounds of clashing steel. Their eyes darted anxiously towards the towering walls of Oldtown, their only hope for safety and salvation. Driven by sheer desperation to find safety within the city walls, they pounded on the sturdy gates, their fists bruised and bloodied, their pleas for entry growing louder with anguish and despair with each passing second.
"The soldiers! They're coming!"
"We're all going to die!"
"Please! Let us in!"
"Seven hells, please! There are children here!"
"Please! Let us in!~"
"I don't wanna die!"
The city guards, torn between their duty to protect Oldtown and their compassion for the innocent refugees, faced an agonizing decision. Once a symbol of protection and security, the gates now stood as a barrier between life and death. They knew that opening the gates would expose the city to the Caltrops, potentially leading to its downfall. Yet, The city's resources were stretched thin, and the influx of refugees threatened to overwhelm the already strained defenses. The Hightower guards, torn between their duty to protect their own and the plight of the desperate refugees, grappled with the weight of their decision.
As the clash between the two armies erupted into a chaotic frenzy of violence and bloodshed, the Blacks and the Caltrops engaged in a fierce battle, their swords colliding and inflicting painful blows upon each other. The Hightower forces clashed with the Caltrops, who were seeking to conquer the city. The clash of swords and the thunderous sound of armor colliding filled the air as both sides fought with a ferocity born out of desperation. Their swords swung with precision and purpose, each blow aimed at protecting the city gates from falling into enemy hands. The clash of steel echoed through the open plains as the Blacks waged a fierce resistance against the onslaught. The Hightowers fought tooth and nail to hold off the relentless advance of the Caltrops. Their swords swung with precision and purpose, each blow aimed at protecting the city from falling into enemy hands.
But there were still too many of them.
The Hightower army stood firm and unyielding, their spirits bolstered by the weight of responsibility that rested on their shoulders. The fate of Oldtown and the lives of its inhabitants hung in the balance, and they knew that failure was not an option. With each stroke of their blades, they fought with renewed vigor, their unwavering determination shining through in every move they made. The clashing of steel echoed through the air, a symphony of war that bore witness to the bravery and loyalty of these defenders. Despite the unrelenting assault of the Caltrops, they stood strong, their swords striking true and delivering devastating blows to their enemies. At this moment, they were more than soldiers – they were sworn to defend Oldtown at any cost.
Brandishing the Valyrian steel sword Vigilance, Lord Ormund fought valiantly against the onslaught of Caltrops, trying to overwhelm him. With each swing of the sword, he struck down his enemies with deadly precision, determined to defend Oldtown and the future of House Hightower. "Ragh! Back, you treacherous curs!" he shouted, his face contorted with exhaustion.
"Father!" Lyonel intervened, thrusting his blade into an enemy combatant and saving his father's life. "There's no end to them! Where are the rest of our bannermen?!"
"We simply have to hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive, my son. Fall back to the city gates. Defend Oldtown!"
"No, I won't leave you!"
"Damn it, boy, you're my heir! If I fall here, the future of House Hightower will be in your hands!"
"We're in this fight together, father, plus you still have Martyn, Garmund, and Bethany!"
Their bodies were covered in sweat and dirt, their faces etched with grit and grime. The clash of swords continued, the metallic symphony growing louder and more chaotic with each passing moment as the battle raged on. Blood stained the ground, mingling with the dust and creating a macabre tapestry of violence. The Blacks and the Caltrops fought primally, their movements fueled by adrenaline and the desire to emerge victorious.
The battlefield was a sea of bodies strewn with fallen soldiers from both sides. The ground was slick with blood, making every step treacherous. Yet, the Hightowers pressed on, unwavering in their sense of duty and unbroken spirits. As the battle raged on, the city gates stood as a symbol of hope and defiance.
However, despite their valiant efforts, the enemy forces seemed overwhelming in number.
The Hightowers knew that if they were to fall, the enemy would have free reign over Oldtown, bringing destruction and suffering to its people. With this knowledge, they fought with renewed purpose, their swords becoming extensions of their will. Minutes turned into hours, and still, the clash continued. The Hightowers, though weary and battered, refused to yield. Their bodies ached, and their muscles screamed in protest, but their spirits remained unbroken. The air was thick with the stench of death, a reminder of the high price paid for victory.
"Father!" Lyonel pointed.
Ormund panted wearily. "They're coming for another attack," he said.
Father and son, Lord Ormund and Lyonel, stood shoulder to shoulder, ready to face the Caltrops. The air was thick with tension as they silently exchanged a nod of understanding, invoking their house's words, "We Light the Way." Their hands firmly gripped their swords as they braced for what appeared to be the final battle. Every second dragged on as they readied themselves for their last stand, but their eyes remained fixed on the enemy, steadfast and determined.
Suddenly, without warning, a fierce explosion of flames erupted on the battlefield, appearing as if it had materialized seemingly from out of nowhere. The blazing inferno swiftly engulfed several Caltrops soldiers, reducing them to nothing but ashes in a matter of seconds. Momentarily shielding themselves from the scorching heat, Ormund and Lyonel looked up to see two large dragons soaring overhead, preparing to circle for another pass. One had great tan wings with thick, hardened bronze scales and was over 215 feet long; the other was smaller at 193 feet, but no less formidable with shimmering silver scales and wings tinged with a hint of grey.
"Dragons!" a Hightower infantryman pointed.
"We've got reinforcements!" Lyonel exclaimed.
Ormund looked at the two dragons, recognizing them. Vermithor and Silverwing… "Jaehaerys; Aemma…" he said under his breath.
The dragons' wings spanned wide, casting an ominous shadow over the battlefield as they circled high above. Jaehaerys rode on the back of Vermithor, rising higher and higher as the raging inferno below them consumed everything in its path. From his vantage point, he surveyed the entire battlefield, scanning carefully for any possible weaknesses in the enemy's lines that he could exploit. Meanwhile, Aemma soared on the back of Silverwing, gracefully gliding above the chaos and destruction below. She took a moment to assess the situation, taking note of the enemy's movements and strategies, before diving down to join the fray.
"Ivestragī, Vērmithari. (Let's go, Vermithor.)" Jaehaerys commanded.
"Urnēptre zirȳ, Gēltīkun! (Show them, Silverwing!)" Aemma patted her dragon.
"*Ruuuuuuuuua!*" Vermithor roared in a deep guttural.
"*Raaaaaaaa!*" Silverwing screeched.
Vermithor and Silverwing flapped their wings vigorously and veered to the side to change direction, repositioning themselves for another attack. Their scales glistened under the scorching sun as the two elder dragons descended, their massive wings creating a thunderous roar that echoed through the battlefield. Vermithor, with his fiery bronze scales and razor-sharp claws, led the charge, his combat experience etched into the core of his being. With each beat of his wings, he propelled himself closer to the enemy as the embodiment of raw draconic power, ready to unleash his devastating breath of fire upon them. On the other hand, Silverwing possessed a grace and elegance that belied her nature. Her scales shimmered like moonlight, reflecting the ethereal beauty of the night sky. She was swift and agile, her wings slicing through the air with an almost otherworldly grace. As they neared the ground, Vermithor and Silverwing coordinated their attack, their minds in perfect sync. Vermithor let out a deafening roar, warning the enemy that their doom was imminent.
"Dracarys!"
The battlefield was a scene of chaos and destruction as the dragons Vermithor and Silverwing took to the skies. Flames erupted from their jaws, creating walls of fire that crossed the battlefield, baking past the Hightower and Caltrop forces. The enemy soldiers were paralyzed with fear as they watched the dragons circle around and come back for another assault. Vermithor spewed an arc of flame again, and Silverwing joined in, creating a sea of fire engulfing the battlefield.
The screams of terror from the enemy soldiers filled the air as they desperately tried to escape the dragons' wrath. However, it was no use. Taking advantage of the chaos, Silverwing swooped down and tore apart armor and flesh alike with her talons tearing through the enemy ranks. Her wings created a gust of wind that sent soldiers flying in all directions, their bodies crashing into the ground with bone-shattering force. With each strike, she left a trail of devastation in her wake. Her movements were a deadly dance of destruction as she flew back and forth, attacking the enemy soldiers with precision and grace.
Meanwhile, Vermithor circled around, his powerful jaws still spewing flames that decimated everything in their path. The enemy soldiers scattered, trying to find cover, but there was nowhere to hide from the dragons' wrath. Now in disarray, the Caltrops attempted to regroup and mount a defense. But Vermithor and Silverwing were relentless. They circled above, their wings beating in perfect harmony, as they prepared for another assault, wreaking havoc on the battlefield and leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. But amidst the chaos, Vermithor and Silverwing never lost sight of their purpose. They fought not out of malice or bloodlust but to protect their kin. Their loyalty to their riders and their commitment to their cause fueled their every move. They were not just dragons but guardians, protectors of a world that humanity's power-hungry schemes and ambitions had long threatened. The enemy soldiers were no match for their power and ferocity, and soon, the battlefield was nothing but a charred wasteland.
The refugees, who had been living in fear and uncertainty for so long, could hardly believe their eyes as they watched the dragons soar through the sky. Vermithor and Silverwing were a sight to behold. The sheer power and majesty of these creatures filled the air, instilling a newfound sense of hope and courage in the hearts of the desperate onlookers. The refugees, who had once felt helpless and abandoned, now saw their saviors in the form of these mythical beasts and erupted in joyous cheers and applause. Tears streamed down their faces as they realized that salvation had arrived. The dragons' roars echoed through the air, drowning out the sounds of battle.
The guards stationed on the walls of Oldtown, who had been tirelessly defending their city against the onslaught of the enemy, were equally awestruck by the arrival of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Aemma on their dragons. Their hearts swelled with pride as they witnessed the power of House Targaryen firsthand. The guards, who had been fighting against overwhelming odds, now found themselves filled with a newfound determination to protect their city and their people, standing tall and proud with their weapons raised high; they shouted in unison, their voices carrying across the battlefield, as they witnessed Vermithor's and Silverwing's arrival. The sight of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Aemma riding atop their mighty steeds filled them with a renewed sense of purpose. With their arrival, the tide of the battle quickly shifted in favor of House Hightower.
As the dragons descended upon the battlefield, their massive wings beat the air, sending gusts of wind across the land. The ground shook beneath their weight as Vermithor and Silverwing landed, their scales gleaming in the sunlight. With a deafening roar, they unleashed their fury upon the invading Caltrops, their fire breath scorching the earth and causing chaos and confusion amongst the enemy ranks. The sight of the fearsome dragons was enough to strike terror into the hearts of even the bravest warriors, as they knew they stood no chance against two dragons on the ground.
"Cousins!" Aemma called out, remaining atop her saddle as Silverwing landed.
"Princess!" Lyonel replied.
"Lord Ormund," Jaehaerys said, "have your men fall back to the city gates! We'll cover your retreat."
Ormund grunted. "All hands, fall back to Oldtown! Fall back!" he ordered the retreat.
Lyonel Hightower trailed behind his father and their soldiers, wearily making their way toward the city gates. Meanwhile, the elder dragons Vermithor and Silverwing remained behind, providing cover as they retreated. Standing steadfastly against the Caltrops were Jaehaerys and Aemma, their piercing Targaryen eyes surveying the battlefield. With their dragons by their side, they locked eyes with the Caltrops' top commanders, Ser Jon Roxton and Lord Owen Fossoway.
"Dracarys!"
With a thunderous roar, Vermithor and Silverwing unleashed their fiery breath upon the front line of Caltrop soldiers, creating a wall of flames that engulfed them in an inferno of destruction. The men cried out in agony as the fire consumed them, their screams echoing through the air. Swords were brandished, a volley of arrows flew, and the dragons roared, their fiery breath lighting up the sky, yet no weapon could penetrate their scales; no arrow could find its mark. Ser Jon and Lord Fossoway swiftly dodged the initial explosion, their bodies moving with a grace born from years of combat experience. They desperately avoided being ensnared in the scorching inferno created by the two elder dragons, their eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of an opening. Their survival instincts kick in, allowing them to dodge the falling debris and navigate through the smoky haze that engulfs the battlefield.
As the Bronze Fury and his mate continue their relentless assault, they trample over the smoldering remains of the flames they have ignited. Their massive frames shake the ground beneath them, causing the remaining soldiers to stumble and lose their footing. With each thunderous step, the dragons unleash a wave of terror, their sheer presence instilling fear in the hearts of their enemies. They employed their formidable secondary arsenal of teeth, claws, and tail with each step, striking down any enemy foolish enough to stand in their way.
The Bronze Fury, known for his unmatched strength and ferocity when provoked, lunges forward with a deafening roar. His razor-sharp teeth sink into the flesh of a hapless soldier, tearing through armor and bone with ease. With each bite, he effortlessly tears through armor and bone, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. The unfortunate soldier who falls victim to his ferocity is silenced before he even has a chance to scream. The chaos of battle masks his cries as the Bronze Fury's power extinguishes his life in an instant.
Meanwhile, Silverwing utilizes her powerful tail to sweep away any remaining soldiers foolish enough to stand in her path. She clears the path ahead with a single sweep of her tail, sending any remaining soldiers flying through the air like ragdolls. The force of her tail is enough to break bones and shatter armor, leaving her enemies helpless and defenseless. Their anguished screams echo into the distance, a haunting reminder of the power and brutality of these two creatures. Any remaining soldiers foolish enough to stand in her path are swiftly dispatched, their bodies crushed under the sheer force of her feet and tail.
The combined might of Vermithor and Silverwing, along with the relentless assault of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Aemma, proves to be too much for the Caltrops to handle. Their once formidable front line now lies in ruins, their ranks decimated by the dragons' fury and their Targaryen riders' skill. The surviving soldiers, their morale shattered, begin to retreat in disarray, their hopes of victory crushed under the weight of the dragons' wrath.
Those foolish enough to confront the Bronze Fury and his mate faced deadly consequences. A torrent of scorching dragonflame engulfed those who dared to challenge them head-on, reducing them to ashes within seconds. The relentless assault of their teeth and jaws leaves no room for mercy or escape. Those who attempt to attack from the sides risk being trampled underfoot, crushed by these colossal beasts' sheer weight and power. Even those who thought they could strike from behind were met with swift and deadly retaliation. Vermithor and Silverwing, with their formidable tails, deliver a punishing swipe that can send even the most skilled warrior flying. No angle of attack is safe from their wrath, as they defend themselves with a ferocity that knows no bounds.
"It's no use! Pull back! Retreat!" Ser Jon ordered.
"No, you cowards!" Lord Fossoway refused.
Once comprising 8,000 soldiers, the Caltrops now dwindled to a mere 2,100 survivors. The hope for victory had long faded away as the two elder dragons continued to wreak havoc, mercilessly slaughtering countless men. There seemed to be no escape from the wrath of these beasts, and the Caltrops were left to face their fate alone. The absence of reinforcements from Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar only added to their despair. Those who were left behind met a gruesome end, as they were engulfed in dragonflame, crushed underfoot, or devoured whole. In a last desperate attempt, Lord Owen Fossoway charged towards the dragons, hoping to turn the tide of the battle. However, his efforts were in vain, as Silverwing swiftly knocked him aside with a powerful blow of her head, sending him hurtling through the air.
As he plummeted to the ground with a sickening thud, Owen let out a pained grunt, feeling his bones shatter in multiple places. He tried to move, but the excruciating pain left him immobilized. Suddenly, he heard a deafening sound - it was the sound of Vermithor's massive, thunderous footsteps approaching him. Owen looked up to see the Bronze Fury staring down at him, his razor-sharp teeth bared menacingly, ready to strike.
Jaehaerys felt pity for Lord Fossoway but knew Owen had chosen the wrong side. Our father seems to have left us with a few issues to solve. He tried to be merciful, but the Caltrops made it almost impossible. They've lost sight of what is most important in life. Greed, ambition, and the lust for power are a poison that eats away at the very foundation of an era laid forth by our forebears. It would seem that there are too many like him. "I am sorry, Lord Fossoway… but you've made your choice." No clear goal, no understanding of their limits… just a pointless rebellion. "The crimes you and your comrades have committed against the realm cannot be forgiven." You use people, and bring war, misery, suffering, and death to these innocent people. He inhaled, then slowly exhaled. As father would have said, you… are a malcontent. "Ipradis jāla. (Eat him.)"
"*Grrrrrrrrrhh!*" Vermithor growled.
"N-No… No, no, no, NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Owen Fossoway screamed in terror, unable to escape his fate.
Vermithor rears his head back and unleashes a torrent of scorching flames upon the helpless Lord of Cider Hall, witnessing his agonizing demise as he is consumed by the inferno like a predator who claimed its prey. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt flesh, a testament to the elder dragon's devastating power. In one swift motion, Vermithor lunges forward, his jaws snapping shut around Owen's body. The force of the Bronze Fury's bite is overwhelming, bones shattering like twigs beneath his immense power. Owen's screams are abruptly silenced as his body is crushed, his life extinguished in an instant. The dragon's teeth, sharp as daggers, tear through flesh and sinew, reducing Owen to nothing more than a mangled heap of flesh and bone. Vermithor tilts his head back with a satisfied rumble, his powerful neck muscles working in perfect harmony. The lifeless corpse of Owen Fossoway slides down the dragon's throat, disappearing into the depths of his cavernous belly. His scales shimmer in the dying light as he swallows, the sound of the consumed echoing through the air. A satisfied shake of Vermithor's head is the only outward sign of his contentment. The lord had become nothing more than sustenance for the elder dragon; his life snuffed out in a display of raw power.
Perched atop Silverwing, Aemma could only observe her brother in silence. She couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and concern. Jaehaerys had always been the one to keep their family together, mediate conflicts, and find peaceful resolutions; ever since he was named Prince of Dragonstone, Jaehaerys had been burdened with the weight of responsibility. But now, as the civil war raged on and their enemies' actions grew more brutal, she could see the toll it was taking on him. The lines on his face were deeper, etched with the weight of his decisions and the lives he had taken.
Aemma knew that Jaehaerys had agonized over each one, weighing the consequences and trying to find a way to avoid bloodshed. But sometimes, there was no other choice. She knew all too well the toll war could take on a person's soul. She had experienced it firsthand during the Battle of Rook's Rest, where she had been forced to make a difficult split-second decision that would forever haunt her. The memory of that day still lingered in her mind, the screams of the fallen echoing in her ears. It was a choice she still carried with her, a heavy burden that weighed on her conscience. But she had made her choice, just as Jaehaerys had made his.
Despite the pain radiating from his eyes, Aemma never blamed her brother for his chosen path. But unlike her brother, she understood the necessity of his difficult decisions, the weight of the Seven Kingdoms resting heavily on his shoulders since he was named Prince of Dragonstone. He had to make choices that affected not only his own life but the lives of thousands of others. Jaehaerys had always been the composed, astute, and mature one of her Targaryen brothers who could see through the chaos and find a way to bring order. His keen intellect and diplomatic nature had always been his greatest strengths, and he had used them to guide others away from their misguided paths. And as much as he tried to find the goodness in people, there were some who were beyond redemption.
Aemma knew that her brother had exhausted every option and had tried to find a way to bring about peace without resorting to violence. But some had betrayed their family, caused irreparable harm, ruined their grandfather's legacy, and showed no remorse. She knew that Jaehaerys had reached a breaking point. For them, if he deemed them irredeemable, he had no choice but to execute them. But she also saw the determination and unwavering resolve to protect their family and uphold their grandfather's memory. It was a heavy burden, but Aemma trusted her brother's judgment.
"Jay… I―"
"I know, Aemma. I know." Jaehaerys dismounted from Vermithor, accompanied by his sister, who climbed down from Silverwing's saddle. "I will have to live with this burden until the day I die. And history will record this as the beginning of our family's steady decline." He glanced at Aemma. "But I will take this responsibility, and I will see it through to the end if I must."
Aemma extended her arm and gently grasped her brother's hand, expressing her empathy. In return, Jaehaerys reciprocated the gesture, tightly holding his sister's hand. They strolled side by side towards the outskirts of Oldtown, where many refugees swarmed around the Targaryen royals. The sight of the refugees surrounding them was overwhelming as the desperate and grateful faces of men, women, and children filled their vision. The refugees were filled with emotions, shedding tears of gratitude and singing praises to the siblings, thanking them for saving their lives from the Caltrops.
Aemma, with her heart full of compassion, dedicated herself to calming and comforting the distressed young women and children who were visibly shaken by the recent events, doing everything she could to provide solace. She knelt beside them, offering a comforting presence and a listening ear. She listened to their stories of loss and suffering, offering encouragement and promising them a brighter future. With gentle words and soothing gestures, Aemma did her best to alleviate their distress, assuring them they were safe now and would help them rebuild their lives.
Meanwhile, Jaehaerys, with his sense of duty and responsibility, turned his attention to the Hightower soldiers who had fought valiantly to protect the city. He meticulously examined their wounds, assessing their physical condition and assessed their readiness for battle. With a keen eye and a firm hand, he ensured that each soldier received the necessary medical care and attention, ensuring they would be fit to fight again when the time came. He organized medical supplies, assigned healers, and made sure that no soldier was left behind. The Silver Dragon understood the importance of restoring hope and confidence in the soldiers' hearts. With his commanding presence and unwavering determination, Jaehaerys reassured them that everything would be restored to its rightful order. He spoke of victory and justice, reminding them of the strength and resilience that lay within them.
"Cousins!" Lyonel Hightower returned to the field.
"Cousin Lyonel," Aemma greeted.
Lord Ormund also returned to the field, acknowledging his young second cousins' presence. "Prince Jaehaerys, Princess Aemma," he spoke.
"Lord Ormund. Lyonel, are you two alright?" Jaehaerys inquired.
"Yeah… Yes, we're a bit shaken up," Lyonel answered.
"The situation could have been a lot worse if you and your sister hadn't come with your dragons. Oldtown owes you a debt that House Hightower could never repay. You saved not just our lives but thousands more in the Reach from the Caltrops." Ormund shook his head. "It's just a pity that House Tyrell refuses to act."
"Never mind Highgarden, my lord. Our grandfather, the Hand of the King, has entrusted Oldtown to lead the counteroffensive in our three-phased strategy."
Lyonel was eager. "Finally, we're taking the fight to them!" he exclaimed.
"Hold it, son. We're still tallying our losses and treating those who can still stand," Ormund reminded his heir. He then turned to Jaehaerys and Aemma. "Our lord uncle Ser Otto Hightower will be informed. What are your instructions, Prince Jaehaerys?"
Jaehaerys glanced at Ormund, Lyonel, and the other Hightower soldiers. They were all looking to him for guidance. "Once you've gathered your bannermen and tended to the wounded," he began, "I want you to start marching your armies east to rendevous with my brothers Prince Aegon and Prince Viserys in the Stormlands; help them lift the siege against House Baratheon. Aemma will take a small contingent of river lords up north to invade the Westerlands. House Redwyne will engage the Lannister fleet by sea while the rest of our allies march on foot to Casterly Rock."
"Ah, so you're planning to create a chokepoint and put the Caltrops in a stranglehold."
"Yes, but we'll need your help to pull it off. Can it be done?"
"Oldtown never forgets and will honor its oath to House Targaryen. Give us time to recover, and we'll begin the campaign."
"Of course, my lord."
As Ormund and Lyonel Hightower were busy giving out instructions to their captains, Jaehaerys Targaryen's keen sense of hearing caught the faint sound of a dragon's roar in the distance. Even though the sound was barely audible, Jaehaerys was sure that he heard three different dragons flying off in different directions - one towards the north, one towards the south, and one towards the west. While Aemma, who was with him, appeared oblivious to the sound, Jaehaerys pondered the possible reasons for such a movement. After a moment of reflection, he realized that only three individuals could have been on the move and which one could be.
Father, Daemon… and Aemond.
Chapter End
Author's Note: With the Caltrops making an aggressive advance onto Oldtown, they outnumbered House Hightower's initial forces. Lord Ormund and his son Lyonel fought desperately, but even they knew they would have been killed if Vermithor and Silverwing hadn't arrived. We also see more of the two dragons' assault against the Caltrops. However, Aemma noticed the subtle changes in Jaehaerys - this civil war is beginning to take its toll on him, making him hardened. With Jaehaerys conveying his instructions to their mother's cousins and relatives, he sensed three dragons on the move. What will occur next?
randomdude24: The siege of Oldtown is a black victory resulting in the caltrops allied army in a complete defeat, the army is broken. If Jay and Aemma didn't arrived, the black army would have been overrun.
Jay is slowly hardening, but isn't compromising his values. He is consistently being challenged, we will see if he comes out the same or another monster. War makes even the noblest of men shells of their formerselves.
The caltrops have to be losing hope in their cause, so far no victory and with Aemond moving to the riverlands, their last dragon is leagues away.
Questions,
Hugh and Ulf have been playing on the sidelines, what allies have they been gathering?
―They're waiting for both sides to wear each other down; until then, they're amassing an army of their own
Have Aegon and Viserys engaged Borros Baratheon?
―Yes
C.E.W: The Caltrops attempted a siege of Oldtown which failed, thanks to the intervention of Crown Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Aemma on Vermithor and Silverwing. Repelling the Caltrops' attack and saving thousands of people including refugee will certainly be a morale boost for the Black supporters in the Reach. Now they're spiting their forces with in three to go to the Stormlands, to Casterly Rock and the Riverlands.
Jaehaerys' little execution Owen Fossoway was... a bit disturbing. But not all too worrying, Jaehaerys is not becoming a monster. He's just desperate for the war to end, he's already lost loved ones, friends and more. Now he has a child on the way, and he doesn't want his child to be born in a realm at war. King Jaehaerys the Conciliator had to make some hard calls to preserve the golden age for House Targaryen he worked hard to make in his nearly sixty year reign. Crown Prince Jaehaerys will fight every day and every hour to end the war.
In the Westerlands, Johanna is barely keeping things together with the death of her husband, and ruling for her son Loreon who is still underage. Rebel Westerland lords against her backed by Riverlords. Now they're facing a fleet of Redwyne ships coming, but I'm sure the Ironborn will get to the Westerlands first to attack Lannisport among other places. This could give Jaehaerys the opening he needs to negotiate the Lannisters' surrender. The Blacks help the Lannisters' repel the Ironborn, House Lannister keeps its ranks and titles. In return for renouncing the Caltrops' cause, Lords Reyne or Tarbeck might be appointed Warden of the West till Loreon comes age, in addition to Loreon marrying a daughter of either Reyne or Tarbeck.
Borros Baratheon is now looking at facing three armies, the Vale, loyalist Stormlords, and troops of the Reach. There's still the possibility of facing a third Vulture King to consider.
Questions:
How many troops can the Blacks in the Reach muster? Where's House Tarly who are known for there production of the finest or at least best trained solders in the Reach?
―House Tarly is still with the Blacks and are still mustering their forces as they're pretty much scattered across the Reach - every neighbor's a friend or foe. But with House Tyrell declaring neutrality, it's basically a free-for-all if the Reach can assemble at least a quarter or less than half of what it can.
The Black supporters in the Reach must be in a disorganized or fragile state if the Caltrops would be bold enough to attack Oldtown directly rather than dealing with them first?
―Disorganized
Is Lyonel Hightower into Samantha Tarly like in the books? Is she married to Ormund in this story?
―Yes he is, but she's still married to Ormund at the moment
I take their lack of intervention in the war, might put House Tyrell's position as Lord-Paramounts of the Reach in question? Will there be some or many who call on a replacement?
―Yes, that would put House Tyrell's position as rulers of the Reach into question for their apparent lack of loyalty. I imagine there will be calls for them to be replaced
The Caltrops are clearly in a fragile state, correct me if I'm wrong but they've lost pretty much every battle of the war. Won't supporters start abandoning them?
―With the noose tightening, I imagine that even some will start to abandon ship
With their losses, will the Caltrops reach out to Hugh Hammer and Ulf White to try get their support?
―No
How big is Hugh Hammer and Ulf White's private army?
―around over 10,000