Dain

"How much further? For the love of the gods, are we there yet?"

Dain glanced back at Quickfinger; the man lay groaning on the deck. He'd just emptied his stomach over the side. Three times now. How does he still have anything left to heave out?

"Soon enough," Dain assured him over the sound of waves. He didn't have the heart to be honest with Quickfinger. The man had never even seen a coastline before this journey, and Dain was beginning to think that Quickfinger might throw himself over the prow to make an end of his misery.

They stood on a galley called Cannibal, captained by Shogg Skipper. He was a squat grey-bearded man with broad shoulders and powerful limbs. Shockingly, his eyes were a deep purple colour, almost the same shade as Daemon Blackfyre's.

"Who was your father?" Dain had asked him on the day they began sailing.

Shogg grinned and gave a shrug. "Buggered if I know. Ma said he was descended from a dragonseed. Not sure how far back those purple eyes go. Maybe he was from the Free Cities instead? Ma was fond of telling tales, she was."

Dain had also been curious about the captain's choice of name for his vessel. "Why is she called 'Cannibal'?"

Shogg had grinned, as if he'd been awaiting that question. "The Cannibal was the last dragon standing, no? If the sea swallowed every ship afloat, I promise you that my ship would be the last one to go down!"

Dain believed him. Despite the captain's questionable grasp on history, Dain had complete faith in Shogg's seamanship. Even away from the water, Shogg smelled of sea salt. He had spent a lifetime learning how to sail in the harshest conditions. Taking them to Dragonstone was a simple matter for him, even if they did so at night.

He and Quickfinger were not alone; Dain had been placed in command of some three dozen men from the Crownlands. Sworn to House Thorne, Buckwell, Faring, and Rambton, these were hardened warriors who had fought Daemon's battles since the beginning of the Rebellion. They had survived the battles fought at Tumbler's Falls, Peasedale, the Greenapple, the Threepenny Wood, Sherrer, Bernarr's Ford, the kingsroad, and a dozen skirmishes to boot. No man would question their loyalty to the Black Dragon. Any man would be proud to have command over such men.

Dain had never dreamed that he would be such a man. Although his house held sway over a prosperous town in the Riverlands, they were a minor house compared to the likes of Bracken, Blackwood, Piper, Mallister or the Vances. Dain's father had been little more than a hedge knight. That was all that Dain expected to be; he'd been a squire to his father for over ten years because Icham could not support two knighthoods.

That had changed when they'd crossed paths with Daemon Blackfyre. Dain had been twenty years old, still squiring for his father, when they arrived in King's Landing to take part in a tourney. Daemon had been twelve years old, but he had still defeated Dain at the squires' lists. Dain had been humiliated; his horse had been old, his lance was brittle from wood rot. This had not gone unnoticed by Daemon.

As Dain was being tended to by his father, they'd been approached by Daemon. He had offered to purchase him new weapons to replace his old ones. The following day, Icham and Dain had applauded louder than any other man when Daemon was knighted by his father.

Dain and Icham were no fools. They had sought out Daemon as soon as possible, throwing themselves at his feet and offering to repay their debt to him with service. If Daemon had seen the self-serving nature of this request, he was gracious enough to ignore it. We swore our swords to him, didn't we? We kept our word to him. Father died in his service.

He had grieved bitterly for his father when he died. Dain was, however, consolidated by the simple truths of Icham's life; he'd lived some twenty years longer than most hedge knights, wearing armour which had been more expensive than the combined cost of the armour worn by the main Rankenfell branch. He had fought bravely, and loyally, and Daemon had personally hailed him as a brave warrior. Dain could think of no end which was more honourable than that.

Sadly, the tide was beginning to turn against Daemon. No matter how many victories he won, the whispers had begun in the camp. Most of it was easily dismissed; words were wind, after all. But none could dispute the dreadful sight which had awaited Daemon at Harrenhal.

Before Dain had left for the eastern shore, the Black Dragon had taken his army to Harrenhal to await his reinforcements.

House Lothston had promised their support before the war had even begun. They had sheltered Daemon and his family when they'd first entered the Riverlands. Since the war had begun, Daemon had sent hundreds of prisoners to Harrenhal, most of them knightly or noble. That was another reason for Daemon to visit Harrenhal; he had sent an assortment of Northmen to Harrenhal under Lord Dalibor Groves. Groves had not returned, nor was there any word from Harrenhal.

When they had approached that vast castle, marked with the scorch marks of Aegon the Conqueror's mighty dragon, they had seen a ghastly sight.

Lord Groves and the men whom he had commanded were awaiting the Black Dragon. Their corpses swung from iron cages. Birds had so thoroughly pecked at their remains that Daemon needed to recognise them by their clothing.

"Traitors," Daemon had screamed at the Lothston men who grinned down at him. "You are as cursed as that castle! When I am king, you will suffer a thousand injuries before you die!"

Words were wind, even from Daemon Blackfyre. He did not have enough men or enough supplies to besiege Harrenhal.

"What of our prisoners?" Joar Butterwell had lamented when they were out of sight of Harrenhal.

"No doubt they have been freed," Lord Shawney gnashed.

"It matters not," Bittersteel affirmed in his grim tone. "We did not intend to win this war with ransoms."

"All the same," Daemon observed, looking at Dain, "your task must not fail."

It was the first time that Dain had seen his king's face clouded with such concern and despair. It had filled him with dread that defeat might be a possibility after all.

He could not return quickly enough from Dragonstone. He had been given spare horses for his journey, but all his mounts had dropped dead of exhaustion by the time they smelled the sea. No matter. Horses cannot swim. From there, it had fallen to the crownlanders under Dain's command to secure them the best smuggler that their gold could buy.

Before leaving Daemon, Dain had vowed to Bittersteel that Quickfinger would not leave his side. Nobody trusted this unscrupulous thief; he could easily slip away in the night, maybe run to the Targaryens and betray the mission. Much to Quickfinger's consternation and resentment, he was closely watched day and night. When he protested too loudly, Dain reminded him that he could put Quickfinger in chains if he preferred.

Quickfinger had not liked that either. "Is this the reward I was promised?"

"Your reward will come after we get the dragon eggs," Dain reminded him.

"Easy for you to say," Quickfinger snorted. "What's to stop you from cutting my throat?"

Dain had actually considered that treacherous notion; his shame over that judgmental lapse caused him to speak more harshly. "You have my word as a knight, and the word of King Daemon Blackfyre! Those words are not lightly spoken!"

That did little to assuage Quickfinger; he had continued to grumble and complain about every little inconvenience which befell him. Dain found himself regularly returning to the idea of killing Quickfinger once the dragon eggs were acquired.

Despite his growing ill will for Quickfinger, Dain made sure to provide Quickfinger with all the information that he required. He drew various pictures of Dragonstone as he remembered it from his visit. He had not seen where the dragon eggs were, but he could at least tell Quickfinger where they weren't.

"We went through the kitchens, the Great Hall, most of the Stone Drum, Aegon's Garden," Dain listed off as they waited for Shogg and his crew to prepare the Cannibal.

Quickfinger pored over the scrawls which Dain had provided, frowning in thought. "Them dragon eggs wouldn't be out in the open," he commented. "Did you check below?"

"There was no way for us to do so," Dain admitted. "Breakspear never took us below. Not even Daemon." Never mind that Daemon had far more of a right to know Dragonstone's secrets than the usurper's heir.

"Do you know how we get below, at least?"

Dain shrugged helplessly. "There's a series of caves which we could try and enter, but we'd be going in blind, and anyone familiar with the caves would find us at one."

"Mayhaps we'll need to fight our way through, then," Quickfinger suggested.

"Easy for you to say," Dain grunted sourly. "You leave matters of war to me, thief. Even without Breakspear and his family, it's going to be a desperate fight if they catch us. I cannot guarantee your safety in that situation."

On and on they discussed their plan, until it was deemed that Quickfinger should sneak into Dragonstone and scour the castle with his own eyes and find the dragon eggs for himself. Dain and his comrades, meanwhile, would enter the caves and explore them as best they could. It was not a plan that either of them liked, but they saw no other alternative.

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As before, Dain felt intimidated and awed by the sight of Dragonstone.

The sun was rising as they approached the island from the west. Even though they were some distance from the castle itself, Dragonstone loomed up into the sky above them. For a brief moment, as he stared up at the intricate black stone dragons which stood out against the red sky, Dain forgot that the dragons had died out.

Keeping a nervous eye upon the horizon for ships, Shogg steered the Cannibal into a tiny inlet on the southwestern end of the island. No ship of the royal fleet could safely anchor there; even the Cannibal had trouble getting in and out of that passage.

Once Dain and his followers were ashore with their supplies, they swiftly set up a camp among the cliffs and rocks. Luckily for them, dark grey clouds had covered up the sun, and a fog had descended upon the shore.

Among their belongings were several outfits that Quickfinger had been given in the Riverlands. He carried clothes which had belonged to a begging brother, a tanner, and a man-at-arms. Quickfinger dressed himself as a man-at-arms, then covered himself with the begging brother's robes. It also served to conceal the tools which he'd brought, as well as a number of freshly sharpened daggers.

After he left, Dain led a mix of bowmen and swordsmen down the shore, hugging the shadows as best they could. A cool wind washed over them as they advanced, along with the occasional raindrop from the ugly sky above them.

Dain could not help but feel afraid as he approached the ancestral home of House Targaryen. Abandoned though it might be, he was nevertheless daunted at what he was about to do. Nobody had attacked and taken Dragonstone since Aegon II, and he had at least made use of treachery and dragonfire. We are not here to take Dragonstone.

Why not? What if we took it for ourselves? Send Quickfinger back to Daemon, and we could claim this island for the true king. What better way to turn the tide back to Daemon?

It was a foolish thought, but it plagued Dain's mind. He could not help but think of what his future would be like if he could deliver Dragonstone to Daemon. The name Rankenfell would be forever held up amongst the bravest of Blackfyre supporters.

Yet, as high as his ambition seemed to reach, it could not surpass the mighty Stone Drum. He felt small once again as he craned his neck to look at it. That was no place to be taken by thirty men. The dragon eggs will suffice.

"Look out!"

It was Ector, an archer from the forest near Stokeworth. Dain put aside his thoughts as he heeded the hissed warning. He and his men pinned themselves against the rocks, peering round at the newcomers.

Four men-at-arms were dressed in Targaryen colours, carrying polished weapons which glinted in the faint light. They were speaking amongst themselves and laughing over some jape.

Dain seized a longbow from one of his followers. He had won three archery competitions when he was younger, and he had not yet forgotten that skill. His arrow flew truly, piercing the nearest man's open mouth. Scarcely had the man begun to wail than ten other arrows struck his companions. They collapsed with cries of pain, which Dain and his followers hastily silenced with their swords and axes.

"A good start," Dain declared. "Hide the bodies, and let's be on our way."

They continued on, far more cautiously and quietly than before. Archers held arrows in their hands, ready for the next guards they saw.

"Only four men to patrol the beach," Bors of Brindlewood observed. "I suspect they'll feel that loss. We might even outnumber the garrison."

"I doubt it," Dain cautioned. I'm not the only ambitious one here. "We cannot hold this castle ourselves. The false king's reinforcements will reach us sooner than Daemon's."

"The dragon eggs, then." This time it was Melion of Wolf's Head who spoke. "Let us go on."

Eventually, they encountered a large cave which opened up to the beach. Far above it stood Dragonstone; the fog had taken the black rock and made it hazy to look upon.

They slowly entered; even if they had supplies to make a torch, no man would have dared to carry it. The darkness consumed them as they crept along as quietly as possible.

Dain held his sword in hand, forcing himself to take measured breaths. Fear was causing him to feel bereft of air. Dain had not expected to be so overcome with apprehension; he had been fighting and risking his life for months. He had been wounded several times, with one injury nearly killing him. How is this different? How can this compare to facing a long line of knights on their destriers?

As they crept on, deeper into the blackness, they realised that the cave had become a tunnel. At one point, Ector made a noise, which caused everyone to halt.

"What is it?" Dain whispered.

"Torch holders," Ector answered in a hushed tone. "The fires must have gone out."

The gods are watching over us. "Onward, then," Dain ordered.

No man spoke, but Dain could hear the rustling of men moving around in the dark. It filled him with a strange dread, even though they were his own men.

Soon enough, an orange light began to glow in front of them. It grew stronger, as did the sound of more men speaking. Dain heard arrows being drawn in anticipation.

A torch appeared, seemingly floating in midair. As it grew bigger, the shape of a man appeared beside it. No sooner was the silhouette visible than three arrows sang out and struck the man. The torch clattered to the ground as its owner crumpled soundlessly.

Dain picked up the torch where it lay, holding it over his head as he pulled the cap from the dead man's head and put it on himself. "Stay in the shadows," he ordered his men.

He felt his heart pounding inside his chest as he walked forward. He had not wanted to take this task, but he knew that he must set an example for the others. Daemon always goes where the fighting is thickest.

He did not know what to expect. Stairs? A locked door? An old dragon nest? All he could do was follow the tunnel. This was not an easy task even with a torch; he often bumped into solid rock before making a left or right turn. Much to his surprise, the rock walls and corridors were warm to the touch. For a mad moment, he wondered if there really was a dragon still living beneath the castle. He also sensed passages going in other directions. This is a bloody maze. He did not know if this was the right way, but he tried to stay on the main path.

"Varrus?"

Dain halted, stiff with shock as the voice called out. He stayed silent, not wishing to call out and reveal himself.

"Varrus! Over here, you dolt!"

As Dain held the flickering torch out in various directions, he suddenly beheld the light reflecting against armour.

The man who wore it was dusky, with silver hair. More bloody dragonseed. "Did you find the prince?"

"Prince?" Dain whispered, in the hope that he might disguise himself.

"Aye, the prince! You bloody-" He never finished his sentence before one of Dain's men stepped out from the shadows and slit the man's throat.

Dain jumped back to avoid the spray of blood. "You fool! We needed to learn more from him! He might have told us where to find the dragon eggs!"

"And he might have sounded the alarm," Bors retorted belligerently.

"I'll sound the alarm myself if you don't-" Dain restrained himself with a frustrated sigh. "Never mind. We must go."

"Prince."

Ector had spoken. Though he spoke quietly, no man could miss the fear in his voice.

"What prince is that, then? I thought this castle was empty!"

"Quiet!" Dain had heard something else in the dark.

"What's going on then, Dain?" Bors drew his sword from its scabbard. The blade glinted from the flickering torchlight. "What have you led us into, then?"

"Who are you?"

Dain turned around and raised the torch.

A little boy stood before him, staring in surprise. It had been some nine or ten months since Dain had seen him last, but there was no mistaking who he was.

"Valarr," Dain rasped. His blood ran cold as he lowered the torch.

Before he could do anything else, the boy turned and bolted away. His shrill voice echoed louder than voice ever could. "Attack! Attack! Attack!"

Dain scrabbled to pick up the failing torch, but the flame was already out. He felt blind panic seize him as he drew his sword. "Get out of here! Go!"

"Where do we go?" Ector screamed. "Which way to the sea?"

Dain heard men running in different directions, cursing and shouting. All he could think of was Valarr. What was he doing here? He's supposed to be in King's Landing. So shocked and puzzled was he that he could not move from his spot whilst the others tried to scatter.

Torch-light returned to his vision, but so did shouts of "Targaryen". He heard his men shout back. Bowstrings whistled, and an arrow flew wildly at the torches. But the men carrying those torches had weapons of their own. It seemed to Dain that they were glowing with yellow and orange flames of their own.

The sight of those weapons seemed to rouse something within Dain, and he raised his sword and gave a shout. "Blackfyre!"

It was the last word he ever uttered. He felt something pierce his neck, so deeply that it went out the back. Spear. Who would bring a spear into this tunnel?

He heard the ringing of metal, shouts of men, but that absurd question was the last one he processed before the torch-light went out again.