"We must turn back," Ser Dyman Darry hissed nervously, gazing at the tangled forest. The evergreens were dense and dark, cloaked by wild briars that hid their secrets. The snow-capped peaks of the Mountains of the Moon had faded from view.
"Let any who wish to flee do so on their own," Vaelar spat. He had only six men left since they had split from Ser Oswell Whent's host at the rockfall: the red priest Thoros of Myr, who had grown sullen and silent since his wineskin ran dry; Dyman Darry, whose knightly vows were fraying in the cold and craggy heights; the fat stablehand Berckon, as useless as the horses they had lost; two Crabb men, the young fisher Pettrie and toothless Orton, who had also lost his voice along with his teeth; and the old hedge knight Ivo.
"We have been on our feet since dawn, my prince. Let us at least make camp," Thoros said soberly, and without waiting for his permission, sat on a dry stump.
"Ember beard speaks true, m'prince," Berckon said in a rough voice, and scanned the forest. "All sorts of things lurk in these woods, both wild beasts and wild men. A tired man can hardly defend himself." If I needed wisdom, I would have brought Pycelle on this folly.
With a heavy heart, he agreed to spend the night in the clearing. "No fire," he just said. They ate salted dry beef and quenched their thirst with water. At these heights, the springs froze even in summer days, but they were not hard to find. For all his faults, his coarse face and coarser tongue, Orton had a knack for survival and they did not lack water.
"His face was cloven by a rock, split in two", Dyman said of one of the Frey lads, who had perished in the last rockfall. Every step on the goat tracks was a gamble with death, and the mountains had claimed hundreds since they began their quest.
It was all his father's folly, Vaelar suspected. Ser Arthur Dayne had marshaled almost nine thousand men to comb the mountains and reclaim the dragon egg stolen by the mountain clans. The realm had lived fourteen years of peace, and yet his father willingly gambled the lives of so many loyal men for a useless petrified egg. But the opportunity was too tempting for Vaelar, to be the first to reach the egg and spite King Rhaegar in a painful way. Maybe I should hurl the damn thing into the Trident.
"I have seen worse deaths. During the siege of Pyke, men were crushed under heavy stones. A clean decapitation by a sharp sword and a steady hand is bad enough, but by a dull rock...", Thoros grunted, with a foreign accent thickening his words.
"Is there truth in the tales of your fiery blade?" Pettrie inquired eagerly. It is true, Vaelar could have said. He had witnessed the cheap trick with wildfire many a time, at tourneys where foes fled from the blazing sword more than from Valyrian steel. Thoros's trick was no magic, nor power, but fear. Fire deters as well as a strong line of pikes deters a charge of horse.
"Ask the prince, he beheld the glory of my lord," Thoros replied.
"The prince beheld a crazed priest wasting a fine blade with wildfire, then squandering hard-earned coin on new swords and ale," Vaelar said sourly.
"When you receive a horse as a gift, it is ungrateful to examine its teeth. I have enough coin for what I cherish. Why did my prince never grace the lists himself? Surely, prince Aegon won the tourney at Lannisport two years past," the red priest said tauntingly.
"When I fight, I have a true blade in my hand," Vaelar shot back.
"Is that what the Blackfish taught you? You share much in common, both of you second sons, not loved by the smallfolk as much as your brothers and not welcome in your own home. Both blessed with deep purses. If I had the same coin, I wouldn't give a fuck about any kingdom." The priest had crossed every line. He was more insolent sober than drunk. Perhaps he tied a loose tongue with wine, drowning his impudence.
"Unlike you, ser Brynden has wits," he did not want the red fool to anger him. "More than to insult a prince, a hundred leagues away from the nearest settlement. Here no one can hear you scream." Vaelar caressed the hilt of his sword. The Frost was sent by uncle Eddard after Ser Brynden knighted him, as a gift and the great gift it was.
The priest laughed, so hard that Dyman anxiously looked into the darkness. "Quiet, you fool, you'll give us away." The darkness was silent, like the cold that crept under their skin. For the first time in his life, he wore plate clad in wool, warm but heavy, pressing on his body on the steep rocky terrain.
"Of course, I mean no ill will, only a friendly counsel. When a man is free of duty and rich in gold, he should live as a men free of duty and rich in gold," Thoros smiled sweetly but quieter now.
"This is the Prince of Summerhall you are talking about," Dyman wanted to be smart. You can't be so foolish. That title had perished with the castle that bore its name, on the day his father was born. After their last quarrel, Vaelar doubted that his father would grant him Summerhall, even if the pleasure palace still stood.
Seething with irritation, he turned his back on them, longing for the days, of freedom and simplicity, spent with Brynden Tully. Vaelar was not entirely true about the man, as Blackfish had insulted him more sharply than anyone, his words could cut to the bone, for he knew how to read a man. "A wolf with scales instead of fur," he had dubbed Vaelar, and in doing so, both insulted and revealed him. There was no flattery from a blunt man like Blackfish, no "dragon-wolf" nonsense that others used to curry favor with the prince. Rhaegar wanted a Targaryen prince in his son, but he always cast him glances of discontent. Nothing he did was ever good enough. Vaelar was not born to be a king, like Aegon, yet his father treated Aegon with more ease and care, as if Aegon was the spare and not Vaelar.
The weight of his eyelids was pulling him into slumber, and he yielded to the call of dreams. There, he saw his mother's tears, though he could not see her face. Lyanna Stark was a ghost in his mind, a fading memory that he could never grasp, but he knew her by the gentle shape of her body, the crown of winter roses on her head, the love that filled the hollow in his chest. The love that Elia Martell tried to replace with her warmth and kindness.
"Khe, krhe, khre, Kheeee... kherehree," a gurgle pierced through the veil of the dream and blurred the image of his mother. "Khereeeee," Orton was shaking him. "Krheerhe," the toothless Crabb pointed his finger into the darkness. His voice struggled to form coherent words. The colorless forest had turned into shades of black and gray, and Vaelar saw dark shapes moving in the shadows.
"To arms," "To arms," he emptied lungs with all of his strength, rousing his companions from the slumber with a thunderous cry. He had erred grievously, trusting in strangers and succumbing to sleep himself, leaving a mute man to the watch duty.
"What is it?" Dyman Darry groaned drowsily. His eyes widened in terror as he saw the shapes charging at them. "By the gods," he cursed, fumbling for his helmet on the ground, as if blinded. A wildling leaped from the bushes and lunged at Darry, but Vaelar was quicker. He plunged his sword into the man's chest. The Frost cut through the thick layers of fur and flesh with ease. The mountain clansman wore no armor.
With a flash, Thoros of Myr's sword burst into flames, casting a red glow on two assailants to his left. The red priest swung a powerful blow that shattered the thick branch that one of them wielded, along with his arm. The other turned to flee, but the fiery blade caught his furs, setting them alight. Wildfire, once kindled, does not cease to burn. The blazing clansman ran in agony, like a human torch, revealing a score of wildlings in the shadows.
The clansmen, awed by the flaming sword, kept their distance and hurled stones instead of sharpened pikes and blunt swords. The stones bounced off the plate and mail of the three knights and the priest. The Crabbs were less lucky. Orton's final "khreee" became a shriek of pain when a stone smashed his jaw.
Undaunted, Vaelar lifted his sword and shield, emblazoned with a three-headed dragon, and called for the charge. "Dragostone." The word escaped his lips, he did not know why he said that, but he did and his companions followed him. The hedge knight Ivo met a burly clansman in combat, parrying wild swings with his seasoned oak shield, until the wildling faltered and Ivo claimed his head with a swift stroke. Dyman Darry, clad in fine steel and mail, realizing that his foes had no real armor, slashed his way through two foes with ease. Thoros alone remained without a kill, for none of the clansmen dared to face the flaming sword he wielded. Vaelar cut down one who fled from Thoros' fire, then faced another who sought revenge with a furious cry, but he too fell before Vaelar's blade.
All of the Clansmen fled, retreating to the night they had sprung from. Stablehand Berckon was bludgeoning the burning clansman, without any rage, as if he was putting down a mad beast. Pettrie was twisting on the ground with a stone-tipped arrow in his neck, groaning with muffled sounds. Not far from him Orton had already drawn his last breath.
Vaelar looked at Thoros, who was quenching his flaming sword, and his face gave him the answer to the question. The red priest went to Pettrie.
"Hold, I am commander, it is my duty," he stopped Thoros and knelt over the wounded young crabb. The Frost felt ten times heavier then, but there was no other way, no maester around. He cleared his mind, aimed at the neck and swiftly gave the boy his peace.
"Mercy is sometimes more harsh than pity," Thoros preached, like the priest he was meant to be. The ground was too hard for digging, so they stacked stones for the graves, but left the dead clansmen to the mountain beasts.
"What now?" Darry asked.
"We follow the stream, with a bit of luck we will find ser Arthur's camp," Vaelar answered, looking at the blood on the Frost, the blood of three wildlings and one companion.
With every step forward, the forest grew denser and harder to cross, it took them three days to escape the green maze, after which the stream vanished underground. To track the lost stream, they had to climb to the top of a rocky hill to see where it emerged again from the earth's womb. They reached the narrow paths of jagged uneven stone, spending another three days. The way ahead was steeper and food rarer. Ivo snared a rabbit, stretching their beef supplies for a few more days. Following the source they had water in plenty, but cold water was harsh on the throat, and everyone preferred to drink little rather than suffer from sore throat and hard swallowing of food. The mountain took its toll, and Vaelar could feel, by touch, on his long face the bony ridges on dry skin.
The goat paths and tangled forest gave way to a flat clearing, where cold winds stung their skin and wool. He almost regretted leaving the shelter of the forest, as the chill tormented their bodies. A massive vulture soared above them, diving down on some prey in the distance, its wings like blades of a scorpion bolt. It was not alone, the sky was teeming with raptors and scavengers, circling over something on the ground.
"Best steer clear of that, m'prince, those birds can snatch a man like a babe," Berckon cautioned warily. A peril hung over them, but they had no choice, the clearing led to the mountain glaciers in the east and ser Arthur Dayne had surely made camp there, before the climb to the next level. If they were alive. On the horizon, they saw what drew the eagles, hundreds of furry bodies scattered like pepper on lettuce. A battle had been waged here, and the mountain clansmen of Vale had drawn the worst lot, crushed by the might of ser Arthur Dayne's host. They skirted around the corpses without disturbing the predators, and pressed on eastward.
"The camp must be close," Thoros croaked, foretelling the finding of a welcome rest, when night fell, in the distance a hundred campfires blazed brightly, forming a crescent. Hope gave vigor to their feet, and they walked through the night, and in the morning reached the base of a huge ice mountain. Around the camp, a shallow ditch was dug, with spikes jutting from the ground. Several arrows aimed at them as they approached.
"Halt! Who goes there?" A voice warned them to stay away.
"Prince Vaelar Targaryen and men in his service," Thoros boomed back, though none of the four companions of Vaelar had sworn an oath and entered the prince's service.
When they ceased to be mere shadows in the distance and the shapes of their garments became clear, all the archers lowered their bows, and the group entered the camp unhindered. Even in the remote Mountains of the Moon, the camp radiated all the might of the Seven Kingdoms and the martial prowess of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and closest friend of his father, Ser Arthur Dayne.
As they strode through the camp, many familiar faces regarded him: Ser Lyn Corbray of the Fingers, ever wild Ser Bennard Brune, valiant Ser Robar Royce, Ser Justin Massey, broad-shouldered Ser Godry Farring, and unexpected face. Brynden Tully sat on a wooden crate, wrapped in a fur cloak beneath which he wore fish-scaled armor. On his back, he bore a short bow and a small quiver of arrows.
"It's odd seeing you here," Vaelar ignored the others and spoke only to the seasoned knight. "Foolish vanity quests are beneath you, I thought"
"True," Tully replied, "but I've heard a certain prince arrived from Gulltown, so this journey must have been worthwhile."
"Hardly so," Prince Vaelar said. "We came from the way of Widow's Tooth, barely escaping a rockfall. Most of Ser Oswell Whent's group is dead or turned back after the goat path vanished."
"They're not alone," Blackfish croaked. "The Blackwoods faced the same trouble. Now there are only two thousand men here. But why are you here?"
"To bring the egg back to my father," Vaelar shrugged. He thought of Pettrie, whom he had given a swift end. If he hadn't come to these mountains to defy his father, he wouldn't have found himself in the role of headsman.
Tully narrowed his eyes. "Is that so?" His question held more weight than met the ear. Revealing his true motives would be perilous within this camp. If Ser Arthur learned of Vaelar's real intent, he'd be sent back to King's Landing quicker than a raven.
"No, but we must talk later," Vaelar said. "You're the best tracker here, and I'll need your help. I have no doubt Ser Arthur awaits a visit."
The gleam in Blackfish's eyes gave a more eloquent answer than words.
He passed several mules nibbling on lush green mountain grass. Ser Arthur Dayne's tent stood apart on a round rock, overlooking the camp from above.
"The brown-haired prince returns. Where have you been?" Myles Mooton chortled, embracing Vaelar warmly. "We've been longing for you in the capital for two years."
Vaelar liked the dark-haired knight; he was likely the best among all the men in his father's inner circle.
"My own business, I reckon. If Father wanted me back, he is always free to send a summons," Vaelar replied dryly.
"Enough of that, it's dreadfully cold outside. Let's warm up with a cup or dozen, of fine wine," Myles said, joy never leaving his face.
The interior of the tent spoke of Kingsguard plainness and order. Everything was in its place—nothing lacking, no luxury or excess marring the room.
"So it is true—you did join our quest," Arthur Dayne said, a faint smile touching his lips. "I'm glad to see you again, my Prince"
"Both young and old in Gulltown were buzzing with tales of the venture and the hunt for the egg. Of course, no one speaks of how the egg came to be in this treacherous hellhole", the prince replied
"On the wings of broken trust," Ser Arthur said, his expression darkened. "Zul Silapher, a red sorcerer, stole the egg. How he ascended so high remains a riddle to me, but one thing is certain: using his arts, he has bewitched the mountain clans, and they now follow his will."
Many a red priest, sorcerer, shadow binder, and more served King Rhaegar at court. Why his father was enthralled by magical tricks had always eluded Vaelar. Powders that changed fire to different hues, acids that dissolved metal and stone, or Thoros igniting swords ablaze with wildfire—amusing for fairs or feasts but ultimately worthless. If Thoros's fiery sword were truly potent, he wouldn't need a new one for every tourney.
"Do you know where he lurks? Can we scour the mountains well?"
"We've captured some Stone Crows and Redsmiths," Ser Arthur answered. "The sorcerer is in mountain caverns, several leagues upward. Tomorrow we march against him."
"And all of this just for an egg," Vaelar spat out the words, looking straight into the eyes of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "At least you could have spoken sense to Father's mind. At Widow's Tooth, dozens of men died crushed by stones—perhaps even Ser Oswell among them."
Unlike his father, Ser Arthur did not take the words to heart. Instead, he showed compassion with his face. "The prince thinks as a man, Rhaegar thinks as a king. Your noble deed would spare all the men who perished on the mountain, but the king's vision would save countless more."
Knight's words only muddled him further. "If someone pilfers an orange from me at a feast, I do not send an army to reclaim it, much less to die for it. Father's hopes are clear to me, but this quest reveals how dangerous those paths are. Now and in the past. Two sons of King Maekar met their end seeking the power of dragons. Aerion, in a folly of his ignorance drank wildfire... and burned. His brother Aegon, whom we all praised as good and wise King, did the same or worse, and how many Targaryen lives were lost. I only hope Aegon does not share the same doom as Prince Duncan because of our father's wisdom."
Arthur's face showed admiration for Vaelar's stance, but his eyes betrayed sorrow. "One day you will understand, my prince. Let us pray that it will not be by force of fate."
Damn it, Vaelar thought, if I venture to the caverns tonight before the host does, I'll be like Father, selfish to the core.
"Mine are gods old and new; and those of old Valyria, more than one man needs for prayer."
"Aye," Myles laughed, "but now we should pray by drinking." By noon, they had drained a cask. The arbor gold warmed them better than wool and the heat of the tent. With his mind fogged, Vaelar finally drifted into sleep, waking up shrouded in darkness and cold. Refreshed by sleep, he decided to join the source of noise and revelry in the camp.
By a roaring blaze, the men sang merry, tossing dice and spilling wine from the supply stocks.
His gaze sought the old companions. Dyman Darry, Berckon and Thoros stood by, watching a game of cyvasse between hedge knight Ivo and Prince Oberyn Martell, the notorious sibling of the Prince of Dorne, famed throughout the land as the Red Viper.
"Can you follow the game?" he asked Dyman.
"Nay, but they wager on the prince's steed, so the stake draws more than the play. The priest knows, though," he nodded at Thoros, who was deep in his cups.
"The old man has more wit than he shows," the Red Viper said with a sly grin.
"Only more wit than people's measure of me," Ivo said humbly, taking the prince's dragon from the board. Vaelar knew the game well enough to see that the Prince of Dorne was doomed, with no mighty pieces left in his hand.
With a swift and cunning stroke, Ivo claimed the king of the prince, sealing his victory. "Well played, my friend. The mare is yours," the red viper spoke with grace, unfazed by his loss. "A mere horse is a paltry prize for such a well played match. Few can match your skill at the board these days."
But the Dornishman who accompanied the prince scoffed, and Ivo saw through his ruse. "Do not take me for a fool," he snapped, drawing a hearty chuckle from the prince.
"A clever man, you are. Clever," Prince Oberyn emphasized the word. The mare they offered to Ivo was fit for hills and toil, but she lacked the might of a charger, and speed of Sand Steed. Still, wealthy lords would pay handsomely for such a horse.
The hedge knight guided his mare to the gloomier side of the camp, with a low whistle of The Dornishman's Wife.
The Blackfish emerged from the shadows, silent as a cat, joining the ring of men around the prince.
"My prince, allow me to fight by your side on the morrow," Dyman declared, feigning courage. He conveniently omitted that he preferred the Blackfish's command.
"You have seen two wars, yet still smell a craven," the Blackfish remarked, eyeing Dyman. "But I suppose Darrys are more fit for court and plow." Dyman Darry's face flushed crimson.
"I want to fight for you too, m'prince," Thoros said, his words slurred by wine.
"Be at my tent before the march, both of you, or I will not look for anyone who is missing", Vaelar said with a sad tone.
"So morning, not tonight", Blackfish looked at him with a curious eye.
"Where everyone goes, the little prince follows", the Prince replied. "But the prince does not want his father's burden or sin".
"Yet, changing one's mind is the only virtue in a man, when he trades feelings for reason", Blackfish said and left the roistering.
The dawn found the camp ready to move, three hundred knights, with eight hundred men at arms, eighty crossbowmen and two hundred archers. The others remained at the camp to defend it, or were unfit for battle.
A treacherous goat track coiled along the mountain cliffs, like a rattlesnake, barely two feet wide. The column advanced one by one, slowly and carefully. The men clung to the rocks, like spiders on a castle wall, for the abyss below called with a strange quiet voice, mingled with the wind that whipped the sharp crags.
Ser Arthur and Myles marched at the head of the column, Vaelar and his companions were a hundred men behind. On the steep mountain, men in a thousand colors moved forward slowly on the levels below, the rear of the column was only a blur in many patterns, blending with each other.
"Shields up", the warning echoed from the front, accompanied by a tumbling stone down the cliff edges. The blunt impacts of stones on shields made a music of deadly instruments, punctuated by screams. His eyes caught a man plummeting on the people on the level below, pulling two more helpless ones with him. The rocks and paths were firm, but the people were not, and the screams and falls grew more common, as the men from higher levels, like dominoes, toppled those below.
The path broadened, with every stride forward, and soon two men could march freely without dread. Huddling together, the men forged a sturdier shield. Through a slim gap between his and Dyman's shield, Vaelar glimpsed dark shapes on the mountain peak. The mountain bore them no ill will, but the savage mountain clansmen in service of the red priest. The crossbowmen unleashed their bolts towards the wildlings, and the tumbling stones nearly ceased. The path expanded so much that it stopped being a path and became a fitting road.
Atop the mountain, the clash of steel greeted them, as the vanguard of their host met the fury of the wildlings. Vaelar joined the fray, eager for glory, and found a foe before him. The savage wielded a curved blade of poor make, and snarled like a beast. Vaelar parried the feeble strike with his shield, and drove Frost deep into his throat. Crimson sprayed from the gash, staining him. He glimpsed Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and felt a pang of envy. The knight was a vision of grace and skill, cutting down foes with ease. Dawn shone like a star in his hand, while Frost seemed a crude thing of iron, in contrast. Ser Arthur had all that a knight could want, strength, speed and precision, and above all grace, moving like the nimble tumblers that amused the court at King's Landing.
The summit became a slaughterhouse, and their men formed a solid square of shields with spears and swords. From within, bowmen loosed arrows in waves, reaping more lives than blades. A thousand clansmen had assailed them, but now they were a broken horde that fled across a stone arch into a gaping maw of the cavern.
"For the King!" Ser Godry Farring thundered. The well-armored infantry marched swiftly towards the stone entrance of the mountain's belly. With a hundred torches lit, they entered the darkness. A hundred clansmen vanished in the corridors of ice and rock. The wind howled like an organ through the narrow openings, carved into the walls. Blackfish shone a light into one of the holes, and the beam disappeared into the gloom. To escape through the vents, the clansmen had to crawl.
"It's like Casterly Rock," Myles Mooton observed, his eyes following the wide corridor ahead. Like crystal chandeliers, the play of flame and shadow danced on the stalactites. Drops of water on the icy walls sparkled in the light.
"More like Kingswood, with Brotherhood within," replied Ser Arthur, "Stay close and keep a steady pace."
At the end of the vast corridor?, a rocky ledge offered a glimpse of a colossal chamber, illuminated by a large circular opening in the ceiling.
"The Eye of the God," Thoros whispered, awed by the sight of the circle, where the sun poured its radiance. The divine eye scorched the ceiling, forming massive stalactites that hung like frozen horses, twisting and merging in grotesque shapes.
Vaelar felt dwarfed by the enormity of the chamber, larger than the Dragonpit of old. The floor was a dark lake, crossed by a spiral of slender stone bridges. Beyond the reach of the sun's eye, countless tunnels branched off into the depths of the mountain.
"Let us divide into companies of a hundred, no fewer for each passage," Ser Arthur spoke with a soft yet kingly voice.
The water beneath the low bridges bubbled and boiled like a cauldron of stew on fire, filling the air with a sulfurous stench. On the stones that formed the bridges, Vaelar saw strange runes, unlike any he knew, with a large spiral circle at the center. But another mark drew his eye, a fiery sigil of tangled lines.
"That is what we seek," he said to Blackfish, whose keen gaze guided them through the maze.
The tunnel they chose was like the rest, narrow and winding, with walls of ice and stone, full of shadows. The ground sloped downward, deeper and deeper, as the wind's howl faded and the air grew warmer and heavier. As a boy, he had once tumbled into a hidden passage in the Red Keep, not knowing how or where he had entered, finding himself in a labyrinth of secret corridors beneath the castle he called home. Losing track of time, until hunger gnawed at his belly, as it did now. The walls had voices then, but not like the wind here. He was too young to grasp the meaning of death, to realize that he could perish in those dark tunnels. The rats came first, and for the first time in his life he craved something wild, something alien to the rich fare of the royal table. Then came salvation, in the form of Rugen.
"M'prince shan't be here," the undergaoler spat at him in a curse and goul voice, and Vaelar clung to the man who reeked of wine and filth. "Royally foolish of you," Rugen said then, in a gentle and soft-spoken voice. How much of that was real, and how much a dream, he could not tell. King Rhaegar Targaryen rewarded Rugen with two sacks of golden dragons, and punished the prince by doubling his daily lessons of High Valyrian from four to eight, as well as his hours with master-at-arms good hearted Willem Darry, Dyman's cousin. Princess Elia's mercy prevailed and the sentence was remedied by half.
A crimson glow beckoned them from the end of the tunnel. A hissing flame sounded in the distance, and their torches revealed the tears of melting ice. High Valyrian prayers echoed on the frozen walls, coming from the source of the redness, where a flight of stairs awaited them, hewn from black stone by a skill of master's hand.
Beyond the stairs, a hall opened before them, with smooth walls and round pillars that supported lofty arches. If they had not come from where they did, they would have thought they were in a great castle.
In the center of the hall, a ring of lava encircled a pyre, blazing like the old funeral pyres of the Targaryens.
"Welcome, my prince, we have longed for your coming," said the man, with a short white beard and a long mustache, in a flawless red robe, under which a hint of red armor gleamed. Priest Zul Silapher was flanked by six Dothraki, wielding curved blades, and wearing lion skins and leather breeches. Vaelar had seen these men in the capital before, but he did not know who they served. Around the vast hall, dozens of clansmen with burned faces brandished steel finer than any their kin had ever seen.
"I do not recall having the pleasure," Vaelar retorted coldly, his eyes fixed on the blue egg with white streaks on the altar.
"Nay, but you have hearkened to mine voice in your sire's behest. The one you dismissed with disdainful scorn, to wed your sister Rhaenys," the priest intoned with a sly grin. Vaelar and his father ever shared a frosty and tense bond, but the decree that shattered their kinship was that one. Vaelar cherished Rhaenys but as a sister, and though Aegon's heart was often closed to him, his brother had not crowned Rhaenys as the maid of summer at tourneys in Lannisport, Maidenpool and Goldengrove for naught. His father always twisted the desires of others to his own will. Out of honour and dignity he defied the command and forsook the court two years ago, wandering through the realm hence.
"Father placed great value on your trust, one which you dearly betrayed. Or mayhaps your colorful tricks no longer pleased him, so you stole the egg to enrich yourself in the Free Cities," Vaelae scorned the priest.
"The Dragon's gift is worth much in gold, yes, but its true power lies in the Fire. Flames revealed to me this place, and I soon heeded the orders from a new master, the one whose might surpasses the Lord of Light. My order name him the Great Other." Shadows overtook the glow of the pyre on the walls of the hall, and warmth fled.
Vaelar nodded to Blackfish and Thoros. A hundred armed men stood ready, awaiting the final battle. "It matters not to whom you pray, for this day is to be your last." Pettrie's bloody face was before his eyes.
"No more is just fire my ally, but shadow and cold, for the night is dark and full of terrors... and all of them are here," the priest screamed and the mountain trembled. The ice that coated the walls and the floor cracked, and stalactites fell from the tunnel ceiling, crushing a dozen men. For the first time, Vaelar saw dark shapes in the walls, silhouettes of men in ice, frozen like statues.
"The dead have slumbered for eons untold, now they rise to obey my master once again," the priest bellowed with a wicked laugh.
A dark shape burst free from the ice, grabbing Dyman and piercing his armpit with a rusty dagger. Dyman shrieked in pain, and blood spilled over his armor.
The creature screeched, its skin dry and half-rotten, revealing brown bones underneath. All the fear in the room was reflected in the blue piercing eyes of the monster. The ice was cracking and more of them were coming out, attacking the people behind Vaelar.
Blackfish released Darry by beheading the dead creature with his long sword, but the headless body charged towards Vaelar, until the flaming sword of Thoros impaled through the rotten flesh. Like oil for a lamp, the flame caught the body, which continued to roll until it ended up in a chasm of lava. Its head on the ground screamed louder in pain.
Vaelar was petrified, surrounded by death everywhere.
"We need to get out of this wretched hole," Blackfish grabbed his arm.
"No, the prince is mine now, he will burn and bring a winged lord to this world," Zul Silapher chanted. The Pyre is for me. He lured me to here.
"Will you shut up," Blackfish cursed.
"Bring the boy," the priest commanded to the Dothraki and the burned clansman.
"The Dothraki are brave, the Dothraki are strong, good on horse, but here they are shit, no horse no armor. Guard my back," Blackfish told them, drawing the bow from his back. Fast as the wind he released shaft after shaft and soon all six Dothraki were lying dead.
Gazing at the corpses in the dark tunnel, the burned men were aghast at the deed of their new master. Thoros was warding off the dead with his flaming sword, while the wights were savagely slaughtering all the living in the tunnel. Dyman Darry had bled to death.
"The way back is sealed," Thoros shouted.
"Really, I couldn't tell," retorted Blackfish.
"Then, we go foward," Vaelar jumped onto a stone block that was floating in the lake of lava. Without faltering, Blackfish joined him and leaped onto another. Casting off his robe, Thoros followed.
Zul Silapher threw the egg into the pyre, then descended near the flames, wielding a black staff with a red crystal blazing on its tip. "You cannot go," he lifted the staff towards Vaelar, but nothing happened. Just a tool, like the wildmen he bent to his will, bound to the whim of this Great Other, a puppet master. Vaelar was the first to the altar, Frost clenched in his hand.
"Are you a warrior or just a prattling priest," he challenged the red priest whose face was blanched with fear. Not waiting for the answer, he rushed at the priest. Stronger than he seemed, the priest blocked blow after blow with his staff. The red crystal shone brighter than the pyre beneath them.
Driving him towards the pyre, the priest was wildly chanting prayers in a tongue unknown to Vaelar. The words gave him power and now the prince was on the back foot. The fire was behind Vaelar and Zul Silapher was pressing hard. The touch of fire was searing his skin.
"My Lord will receive the promised gift," Zul Silapher gritted his teeth.
An arrow from nowhere struck the priest in the exposed part of his neck and Vaelar, seizing the moment, reversed their position, with all his might. Shoving the priest into the flame. The pyre erupted, sending a blast of heat everywhere.
Thoros and Blackfish stood by his side again on the ancient altar. The burned clansmen fled into small crevices, and on the other side of the lava lake, a horde of blue-eyed dead men stared at them.
"Damn fool should have shut his mouth long ago," Blackfish spat on the burning body. "And bloody wights and Others, I wouldn't believe my own father if he told me such things existed."
"Tales from the temple speak of this, I never thought they were true," Thoros said pensively, looking at the living dead.
Were these the evils that his father wanted to fight against, and what was his role in all of this? His father should have told him, but he would not have believed him.
"We must seek a way out," the prince choked on a lump. Facing the wights meant doom, and following the burned men into their mouse holes offered no assurance of salvation, especially if the holes led to dead ends and the clansmen were merely hiding.
The scene in the pyre jolted him, the egg was glowing brighter and brighter, the blue turned to red and the white shimmered orange. The egg was more radiant than any lamp, its power utterly eclipsing the play of flames in which it rested. Like the craft of a swordsmith, the scales melted like iron and Vaelar swore he heard the beating of a heart. Louder and louder, nothing else in the room mattered but the beating of the egg, until like the fire works of his father's priest, the egg exploded in a green flash and in the place of the petrified ellipse stood a baby dragon.
Vaelar felt dizzy and exhilarated at the same time, the feeling was overpowering, he sensed the dragon not only with his eyes but with every fiber of his being. The young dragon spread its wings and soared from the flames onto his shoulder. Its scales were not hot or harsh, but warm and soft, pleasant like a baby girl he held five years ago by his cousin Arianne and uncle Viserys.
"I am too old for all this," said Blackfish, while Thoros murmured a prayer to R'hllor promising to forsake wine or drink less, it was hard to tell.
Like the egg she emerged from the shedragon was blue with streaks of white lightning across her scales, with the eyes of a stormy gray, mirroring his own. She caressed his face with her horned head, so he stroked her gently, feeling the warmth of her breath.
The dragon then soared to one of the narrow holes, letting out a piercing cry. Vaelar sensed in his heart that this was the way they had to go.
"Come on," he urged rather than spoke. The dragon settled on his shoulder once more, her claws digging into his woolen clad armor. Blackfish gave him a distrustful glance, but was the first to follow. The opening was a slippery chute, and they hurtled through the frozen stone as fast as a galloping steed or faster. Vaelar felt calm, for the dragon was calm, and they slid so long that his stomach grew accustomed. A blast of fresh air filled his nostrils before he plunged into deep snow. He scrambled to avoid being struck by his two companions. The silhouette of the camp was far on the horizon. Two muffled thuds of snow landed behind him. They had made it.
"That beast has a sharper nose than I ever had," Blackfish remarked with smile.
A fourth thump startled them and a hedge knight Ivo emerged from the snow. The last time Vaelar had seen him, he had vanished into the night.
"Dead men, who would tell," he said with a youthful voice, shaking off the snow from garments.
"Where did you come from? You were not in the cavern," Vaelar inquired.
"Well, I was and I wasn't, that's beside the point. Now, the prince should be smart and hand me the dragon," he dropped his friendly facade and brandished his sword.
Something fierce rose in Vaelar, a burning rage. He could not surrender his dragon. "No," he answered firmly.
"Violence then," he advanced a step. Blackfish drew his bow with the last arrow. "Beware, old man, I admire your skill, but you are out of your depth here." Brynden Tully did not heed, and before he could loose the arrow, a dagger pierced his hand, hurled by Ivo.
Thoros tried to ignite his sword, but the weapon was too ruined, now more charcoal than steel. Yet, Vaelar had the Frost, and he unsheathed his northern blade. Ivo charged, with swift and powerful swings. The old weary man from the forest was gone, and a young warrior had risen. Before his skill, the prince was helpless to parry the blows, but the hedge knight was playing a game, anticipating his every move. Is this how all those untrained foes felt, clansmen with clubs or peasants with pikes?
I will die, he realized, as Ivo knocked the sword out of his hand. No prince is more precious than a dragon. "Sōvēs," he cried out to the she-dragon before hurling himself at Ivo. You must flee, you must save yourself. "Sōvēs"
Ivo kicked his leg, sending him to the ground, and in terror looked up at the sky, where a small fire came and engulfed the hedge knight's face. The blue she-dragon scorched the man's face with a thin stream of flame, melting it into a scream that altered his voice. Fire burned skin and boiled eyes, revealing another man underneath, not old westerosy but young, with the look of the Summer Islands. Vaelar seized the moment to thrust a dagger into the weak point and the ebony man fell to the ground.
He swiftly rose and hastened to Blackfish, whose wound was being tended by Thoros. "Well done," Blackfish said.
"Thank you," the prince replied, "we must get to the camp as soon as we can, your wound needs a maester's care." Blackfish nodded.
As they walked, the she-dragon flew to his back again.
"Have you chosen a name, my prince?" Thoros asked.
"A name?"
"For the dragon, I mean."
Targaryen dragons of old bore names of gods from the Valyrian Freehold. She was born in the pulsing heart of the moon, cloaked in the malice of flames that violently shook the mountain. The Valyrian goddess of the moon was a creature of beauty and mischief.
"Taēlynn," the prince said. I name you Taēlynn.