Aegon VI POW
Forged to defy the onslaught of the grand foe, Tyrosh gleamed like a proud jewel after the barren stones that were the Stepstones. Aegon's forefathers knew art of the war, raising the city on a slender headland that jutted into the sea, shielded by the waves from north and south. There, two harbors lay: the Fountain Port for the lords of the city and all the deep pockets willing to buy their protection; and the larger, ill-named Thieves' Grace, a haven for all manner of rogues and reavers. The tall black wall of the Inner City, severed the isle, leaving the end a mass of crags and cliffs, no fit place for noble halls or towers. Ever wary, Tyroshi carved the sea beneath the walls, making a briny ditch too broad for footmen, too shallow for ships, and turned the jagged end of the isle into a lonely rock. The rainbow-bearded fools named it the spearhead cock, a jape at those who dared to storm their city.
A splendid city, a prosperous harbor and a formidable fortress—haughty and besieged, with its final fleet sunk by the city's lords in the brackish waters of both harbors to thwart Westeroy's ships from breaching its feeblest flank. The allied navies of Westeros and Braavos sealed the narrow sea from Sunspear to the Sea of Myr.
From a high ground, Aegon beheld the royal host launching another assault on the outer wall, which guarded the eastern face of the city, the sole approachable. The River Thyran, the grandest on the isle, clove the way, coursing from the core of the isle along the midst of the narrow headland, gliding beneath the outer wall all the way to the dragonstone ramparts of the inner city—a domain of the most opulent and mighty, and a city in its own right—finishing its voyage by the Fountain Port.
Siege engines battered the city with boulders as weighty as five steeds, colossal siege towers creaked on jagged stones. The river made siege arduous, cleaving the camp in twain, one on each bank. Spiral-shaped turrets, smashed by boulders, toppled on walls crowned with siren-shaped crenels, bringing doom to sellswords, slaves, and rainbow-bearded warriors more suited for a mummer's farce, than to stand a line of the battle. Since the last sack seven decades past, Tyrosh grew smug, reverting to old way, ere learning better. A lesson forgotten is a great weakness and this is not a war for some briny backwater in the disputed lands; they just know it not.
Aegon granted some respect to Tyroshi fighters, though most high and wealthy of the city lingered behind the black inner walls certain in ancient sorcery hidden in dragonstone—too lofty and too stout to be harmed by the force of Westerosi siege engines. Also, too akin, the shade of the Dragonstone, of home, shrouded him, a jail of unfulfilled destiny, a fear of the empty title. Is he truly the Prince of Dragonstone? My crown shall not be a hollow vow. Dark walls will fall beneath my power as white ones do now.
The grandest army Westeros ever mustered ringed the city, so vast that a whole moon had gone since Lord Stannis Baratheon first set his host on the isles, and ships were still landing men in droves. The isle had turned into a thronged chaos of knights and men-at-arms, space stuffed with steel and reeking of filth. Tyroshi dolts never guessed Westerosi might dare to land, so the wood outside the city walls stayed unscorched, wells remained pure to drink, olive trees unharvested, and woods and low meadows swarmed with rabbits and doves.
...
A keen pain sliced through his breast, dragging him back to reality, a stabbing throb that reached all the way to his skull.
"Lyman, go and fetch Qyburn," he commanded Darry squire. The surge of pain yielded path to dread, and, on horizon, in the seawater, the blue eyes emerged, piercing and pulsating, glinting at him with the gaze of death. I need a potion; I must forget, he recalled the night the skeleton wight nearly took his life, leaving him dangling by a tiny thread to the realm of living. Wildfire devoured a quarter of King's Landing, claiming the lives of scores of thousands. But not his. Smallfolk and lord alike perished in the green bane, the last gift Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, bestowed to the realm he once reigned—hidden stashes of wildfire jars.
Oh, the Madmen would relish screams, terror, charred flesh... a great blaze worthy to end the grandest dynasty the world has ever known. Just too late, and too dead. Too dead to ignite the spark of ruin. Someone else did it, someone equally vicious but more shrewd...
Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Bryce Caron kept watch outside his pavilion, the white of their armor stained by the blood of slain foes. Aegon left the mild autumn sun, withdrawing into the spacious tent. Seated on a chair, he pulled off a black gauntlet, the hand under it quivering uncontrollably. "It's getting worse," he mused, fiercely clutching his shivering arm, trying to bring some peace to it.
Fear visited him more oft than before, slinking even during the hours when light beams gilded the world. When he woke from the long slumber of a wounded man, it was only dreams he feared, but now, even open eyes meant nightmare. He gazed at himself in the mirror; the armor was still pure of battle, the face stubbornly refused to return to its old comeliness, tainting fair with the black skin of disease, framed in sharp lines of leanness. And the eyes... No, please, no. I am Targaryen. I am the Dragon. He grabbed the armchair, trying to flee through an unseen barrier... to flee from himself.
In the reflection, the lilac eyes blazed more and more, turning blue. Their blue. Others blue. Until the blue of the eyes blended into the white of the skin, blackening and blackening. No, rotting, he was rotting... He wanted to shriek, but his tongue vanished, decayed away into a web of black rank meat.
The flap parted, and Lyman Darry meant to announce Qyburn. Aegon's eyes met with the perplexed squire, then returned to mirror. Everything was as it was before, naught but a pallid face.
"Just get him in," Aegon raised a voice, troubling the glee on the lad's face. The boy deemed squireing for me will be a glorious affair. I have no time to play a chivalrous knight before him. Darries are mute kind, he shall not spread lackluster experience of serving the Prince, to his young friends. Instinct will bid him to lie. The first proper letdown of his life. Of many to come.
"Master", Qyburn's warm voice resounded across spacious pavillion. Dark robe of false measter gleamed in deep black, unblemished by muddy paths of five thousands pavilion encampment.
"The wound is eating me alive", Aegon groaned pressing hand on his breast, as to hold the pain from bursting out.
Softly, Qyburn lifted hand, removing spotless Jet-black armor, bit by bit. Golden chain mail followed, Aegon whimpered from pain, as burden of protection left. Firm hands then pulled the silken shirt up. Aegon felt touch of crinkly skin.
"The poison never rests", Qyburn appraised the wound, a dark stream flowing from clavicle, over heart ending just past ribs on other side of breast. "Pardon me my prince, as draught might not avail as healing means anymore". Old man's fingers traced across blue vein like branches joining the rotting wound.
"Do as you will," Aegon said in a lordly voice, beseeching the gods for respite. "Save me as you did erstwhile." The wound seared as much as the cut of the blade that caused it. At the end of the Green night, a heartbeat separated him from doom. Where the demon's blade faltered, malady from it rose, fettering the prince to a bed. Death would have snatched him if not for Qyburn; dolts like Pycelle, Gormon, and Erreck had failed at the sole task they had.
"Milk of the poppy, drink only three sips. You'll be more at ease on the bed, my prince," Qyburn handed him a small flask, and the sweetness of the cure grazed his tongue. The deposed maester crushed dragonglass in a mortar, raining heavy blows of the pestle. Brittle stone crumbled into a thousand shards, shifting into fine black dust. In the next step, the antimeaster added a large winter rose, squeezing juice from blue petals. Lastly, boiling wine, Dornish, thick and potent, more sour than sweet, came. To soften the taste, Aegon surmised, as Qyburn blended concoction with other fluids of unknown source.
"Shall Your Grace enter the battle today?" Qyburn inquired, grasping a flask filled with green-red fluid. Aegon nodded. "Basilisk blood, then."
"Such venom steals one's wits, I have heard. 'A mouse wears boldness to assail a tiger,'" Aegon fretted, lifting his head slightly, only to feel pain dragging him back. The feather bed gave him no solace.
"If used rightly, it does. Every poison is also a remedy. By this way, venom shall bestow the vigor of three men, banish fear from your soul, and hone your mind. A Dark glow, it is called" Blending the venom in the dragonglass potion, Qyburn got a pulpy substance with a sweet scent. With gentle motions of tender hands, Qyburn smeared the mixture on the wound, masking the blue and dark skin with the black and green brew. Against expectations, instead of heat, Aegon felt a frost, sending cold shivers all over his flesh. The frostiness slowed the thumping of his heart, soothing him down until sleep claimed him.
Abruptly, pain drove him into the realm of slumber, where earth and skies are black void. Before him a monster loomed. A shadowy behemoth of billowing smoke, bound by iron chains to tall twisted pillars wrought from dragonglass; growled with jaws gaped like a fettered hound eager to snap, longing to break the shackles. Though not within reach, Aegon could not flee, ever just before the clang of the closing jaws. The game of terror lasted as long as an eternity and as brief as a breath until the chains snapped, and Aegon glimpsed the bracelets of scars on his fair hands.
Instead of a bite in the maw of the beast, he was left alone, and the pain swelled from moment to moment, growing from within. Nails on his fingers sprouted into long talons, the skin toughened and cracked into black scales. Tormenting flames burst from his shoulder blades, birthing wings. His limbs thickened and lengthened, and finally, in a deep shriek, his jaw stretched, each tooth becoming a sharp blade. The human voice of pain became the dragon's roar, remote and piercing. Pain sank in fear as Aegon peered through slit-like eyes the statue of the Stranger blocking the horizon, a bare skull with diamonds in hollow eye sockets, opening muscle-free jaws to tell him something.
"Your Grace," Qyburn hailed as Aegon opened his eyes to a painless realm. Relief poured over him; he was awake, and the pain seemed almost to naught.
"Your skill is impeccable," Aegon felt free of the load of pain and dread.
"The well-being of the prince is my utmost prize," the old man dipped his head in modesty. False or true, Aegon could not say. "The good squire brought you repast; I do urge nourishment if you mean to join battle today."
Instead of replying, he neared the laden table, smelling the aroma of young lamb in tomato juice, carrots, springonions and lemons. Scents of roasted duck wafted just by lamb. But when he savored the lamb, he almost chipped his teeth from the hardness and staleness of the taste. The meat is too aged, this is a sheep, not a lamb. He spat the morsel onto the table, grabbing a goblet of Arbor Gold to wash the stink out of his mouth. The wine seemed worse, like the bile they peddle at Flee bottom. One nibble of duck and he has already rued, feeling the stiff meat drenched in greasy lard.
"Lyman", he bellowed for a squire. Darry hastened in at once, flushing at the sight of untouched feast. "When was this made?"
"Half an hour past, if it please my prince"
"I would be pleased by a food fitting of my rank. My food must come from royal cook, none else".
"It is... the royal cook", the boy stammered, lowering the gaze towards white lion carved on mirish carpet covering the floor of pavilion. Damn fool, Aegon couldn't choose if to be wroth by the boy or cook. Meagor would hang for less.
"Get new fare!", he nearly barked at boy.
"Forgive me, your grace", Qyburn chimed in the conversation. "The lad is young, full of youthful greenness. I shall arrange proper dine, at once. Come lad, you are going to aid me". Tinge of ire appeared on Lymans face, he loathes that other wants for his duties. Fool, if so, you should do the work as Seven bid it. Ill-tempered, Aegon motioned to Lyman to heed Qyburn, so he did.
Shadows on tent cloth scarcely stirred when the antimeaster and the dark haired boy came back, more swiftly than he expected. Second fare was simpler, but blessed with taste. Chicken and cheese in some dark sauce. The Prince couldn't point the finger at the flavor, it tasted well, but unlike anything he had before.
"Leave us," he sternly ordered, and Lyman made step back, anxiously bowed, knowing it was him the prince meant.
"By day's end, I shall breach the first gate", Aegon went on. Noise came clear to his ears as cries of battle flew on a sea wind from the outer city walls. Hundred are greeting the Stranger in this hour, he knew. "It is expected of me to lead an assault, I need more of your potion. A Dark Glow, is it". A lie, the isle swarmed of great men, lords and knights, eager to show their worth, valor, skill or simply fealty. Stannis Baratheon for a vow, Joffrey Arryn for friendship, Garlan Tyrell to avenge dead brother slain by wight or a man, able Kevan Lannister in charge of Westermen, Edmure Tully, plain enough to follow any order and uncle Oberyn mad to join in every foolish venture... and gentle not to break mother's heart.
"If you wish it so...," Qyburn said in a hushed voice letting warning to glint on wrinkled face. Additional potion might be too much was left unsaid. Yet, Aegon relished numb peace rising in him. Blissful nothingness conquered fear which had him quivering like a maid for weeks. The blue eyes haunted me wherever I go. Dagger spared me, father saved me... no I triumphed, my hand lifted in defence, my flesh bled whilst taking warrior's stance. I am the Dragon, not a lamb to die waiting for nemesis to doom me.
"Can the light be dead?", he suddenly muttered thought loudly. Question startled himself more than Qyburn. Blue eyes flashed so brightly, two portals to realm of dead.
The false maester arched the grey eyebrows; a puzzle of mystery rimed his eyes. "Some wisdom holds death is the natural state of things. Life is brief and frail, for many unremarkable, and death... is strong and everlasting. A glorious entity.
Aegon nodded, sipping a sip of foul potion - a second flask in a day. It smelled like all the filth in King's Landing, tasted as moss from the wet Bogs. How? Before sleep, it was honey for the tongue, comfort for the soul. Even so, he didn't grumble. Repulsive and acrid, but it worked. Deep down within, the spirit of his hardened, in a sarcophagus, leaving no room for turmoil. The pain vanished completely; the drink chased away the last traces of fear. Royal might thickened his breast, boosting strenght of his arms.
"Your Grace, the drink endures only a span of a day. I warn a retreat before time runs out, else frailty shall claim your body again and serve your foes."
"I know...," Aegon whispered. A few hours were ample. Today, half the city; on the morrow, the rest, cowering behind the dragonstone walls. The wild potion also bestowed might to his mind, opening a world far away in the same sip. His eyes perceived more; they beheld Vaelar lives, the blue scaled dragon slumbering on his shoulder, in the depths of a forsaken fiery chasm. It should have been mine, not his. The red comet blazed the skies to herald my birth. The gods announced to the world, 'Behold, your savior, your king.' A sign even Father could not mistake. The creature recognized me on the roof, feared my power, what I am meant to be: Azor Ahai, the prince that was promised, a champion of dawn so formidable to vanquish its master. If only I had taken the mountain road, the dragon would be mine. Cursed be the Vale, the Mountains of the Moon, and all they shelter.
...
The beams of the sun gleamed from the west, like a beacon calling all knights to serve; the holy honor binding them to the Sunset Kingdom. The realm I should reign, the same thought stood out every time the Seven Kingdoms crossed his mind.
A new day faded in month long siege, a new assault upon high walls faltered. Field of corpses cloaked copperish rocks, from middle ridge all down to the city, split into two fronts by the river Thyran. Tyrosh didn't have crows, though a feather and a fur like blight still seemed to fester on decaying flesh.
Three of four siege towers toppled, two burnt by flaming arrows, the third shattered by keen catapult rocks. The same befell on the western tip, where Braavosi laid small siege, beyond the deep mouth guarding Dragonstone walls and the Inner city. The Spearhead Cock.
"Mayhaps it's better to starve them out," Joffrey wearily remarked, still bound by woe, donning a black armband in memory of his lost sister. Unseemly, the first maiden of the Vale perished amid whores in the Street of Silk. And when I even ponder that I took her hand into account. And she came to the Great Council to charm me. Without the knowledge of her twin brothers, she slipped away with the handmaidens to indulge in passions unknown to the white castle Eyrie, high beneath the sky. The blonde beauty vanished in the whirlwind of flames, leaving only the golden necklace, once worn by Cersei. The green glow of wildfire must have mirrored in her youthful emerald eyes. Death for a harlot.
"The time of waiting is done; the greed of the dye peddlers has taken too much from us, my friend. Today, I shall lead the onslaught", Aegon retorted to astonished gaze of his companion. The flames of the wild fire have long died over Kings Landing, yet the fires of revenge blaze more fiercely with each passing day. The mere utterance of calamity has rekindled the confident spark of vengeance in Joffrey's face.
"Good, because, the Seven be my witness I want them all slain,". A lone tear slid across the carved face of Arryn, dropping onto the bloodied gorget, clearing the way for the white falcon in flight. The moon will glow tonight with a bloody tint, Aegon sensed. Slaughter is the only fate loyal to the furious strides of this campaign.
"As we all do my friend. Your loss grieves, echoing in my breast, will not go unavenged., I swear by my honor, Tyroshi shall not dawn with a grin. Lorraine rests in peace". Aegon amazed even himself, how credibly he spoke the half-truth. Rivers of blood will course through the streets, yet his soul remains calm, colorless in the face of Joffrey's woe, aloof to the impending slaughter.
Pleased, Joffrey nodded, following with a gaze ser Guyard Morrigen as he strode between Aegon's two white guards. Peering at the parchment, ser Bryce Caron permitted a knight to approach the prince.
Morrigen knelt on one knee, "My prince, the Dragon ram is ready, Lord Staunton is commandeering it to the walls."
The colossal wooden giant then loomed into view, a fortress on thirty wheels, driven by the might of five score of oxen. Just another rose, from the abundance of gifts springing from Qyburn's mind. A thick trunk, twenty feet long, hauled across vast seas for the building's needs; they tore apart two galleys for the rest. Every piece of wood was worth it; the machine dwarfed everything offered to the foe. The siege tower and ram fused into an unearthly beast rumbling across the rocky field, the open jaws of the dragon shaped ironhead aiming at the Gate, which already stood in sorry state, partly cracked by the former tries.
"They stand no chance," Joffrey cried gleefully, "we'll smash in like a drunken giant through the inn's door." Well spoken, my friend, the army of the Seven Kingdoms spread wide like a giant, inebriated with hundreds of casks of Dornish wine and raised banners. Only whores are missing... Tyrosh spared the water, rabbits, and blackberries, but the whores still dwell behind the walls. Not everyone has an appetite like Renly Baratheon. A sweet prize, thousands of beauties finely chosen and trained in the skills of the oldest craft. Almost as good as Lys.
"Ser Caron," Aegon hailed to the Kingsguard, "Send a runner to Lord Stannis and Ser Kevan, instruct them to press on attacks on the right bank." Two Kingdoms and Riverlands on one side of the river, two kingdoms and the Crown on the other.
"At once, my prince."
...
Garlan Tyrell led the foiled morning assault on the walls, losing a sixth of his force. Instead of the scent of roses, the wind bore the stink of the recent death to the East. The heir of Highgarden, however, thrived more fiercely than his plump father, fighting at the forefront, right in the blazing core of the battle. With blood on his armor and sweaty weariness beneath, he roused his bannermen once more – the withdrawn and cautious Hightower brothers, the fickle Fossoways, the witless Florents, the measured and dull Mathis Rowan, and dozens of idle lords, whose deeds and names scarcely earned a look from Aegon's eyes.
The best martial mind among them all was absent – Randyll Tarly, brooding on Bloodstone according to Aegon's design. None, who could eclipse him, had set foot on the pebbled sands of the isle. The Northerners of Ned Stark melted on Moonstone, the Knights of the Vale landed on the shores of the Disputed Lands to rout Tyroshi partisans and secure the eastern flank. All, a well-orchestrated ruse, a militarily sound lie, Stark and Tarly were well-earned of independent command, none could question Aegon's decision as a green act of an unseasoned battle leader. On a different note, Tommen was a fool, a perfect puppet for Aegon's shedd, but his lords were not. Bronze Jon Royce, Corbrays, Grafton, each man hardened, leading the best fighting host in the realm.
"We need the dragon to win the war," his father uttered in a mournful voice, as he placed Blackfyre in his hands. The sword of his forefathers, at last in his grip; the long black blade cast a shadow over the air around it, broader than any sword he had borne before. Yet, so light, almost as if it was not meant for might, for the unholy deed of ending life. "The true war. You are now the Protector of the realm."
"I vow, father," a honeyed lie then flowed from his tongue. "I vow to wrest the dragon from the foul pirate claws, to return it to the embrace of our house". The dragon, not the brother. In a queer selfishness, he sided with his father, Vaelar did not count, not as the dragon did. If Rhaegar Targaryen concealed love behind apathy, it had vanished like droplets of the summer rain. The wraiths of King's nightmares left the ink on the parchment and rose, chilling him in the old duty, for which he had once brought the Seven Kingdoms to war. For which he had forgotten his second-born son, perchance he was even willing to sacrifice him for a lofty goal.
Mother, as was her want, had strayed from what Rhaegar was. She had kept vigil for months by Aegon's bed, as he lay motionless, poisoned by an enemy blade. When he, by the wonder of Qyburn's hands, awoke, she looked pale as chalk and nigh as thin as he. The sharper features did not become her as they did Uncle Oberyn. She begged of him what father did not, her lips lacked pragmatism, "Find your brother," she sobbed, vexing him. Vaelar is dead, put him out of my mind.
Rhaenys was equally bitter in spoiling his mood, "Fuck you and the dragon, and the Others. How can aught be on your mind, save to bring Val home."
"He is dead," he repeated what he longed to believe. It would be easiest that way, if the fish were gnawing him now, in the depths, of the Bay of the Crabs, if the pirates had cut his throat. Makes no sense that he was spared, as he was fool enough to have defied them.
A defiant look flashed at him, "I know he is alive," she breathed, more convincing herself than him. "You used to be better than this."
"The waves cannot be turned. I would that he were alive..., I would do aught to make it so" he defended himself from her unforgiving eyes, before which, it was hardest to lie.
"Then do it," she cried, losing the grace he cherished once. "I need not the white walkers to live a nightmare, the days have been cruel enough. You lie half-dead, Vaelar gone. I would wake at dawn, dreading, is this the day I lose both my brothers."
"Perhaps you would be the Queen," he grinned then, and she widened her eyes as if he had stabbed her with a sword. After that, probably for the best, they barely spoke. He got the impression that she was not the old Rhaenys, whom he had passionately taken to bed, the day when it all began. And she ceased resembling herself, dressing more humbly, concealing her charms, no longer putting makeup to her face.
The memory of that talk left a sour taste in his mouth, so he drank the last two, three drops of the Dark Glow, that had eluded him at the bottom of the flask. Still, her words had sparked an idea in him. Varys had managed to find out that the ships, under the banners of the Brotherhood of the Five Shards, had spent a fortnight in the port of Tyrosh, rewarding the host thrice the common price. The same pirates that the fisherfolk from the Cracklaw Point had spotted, the same scum that attacked the Royal Fleet.
"We do not punish only enemies, but also friends of our enemies," Tywin Lannister had taught him. And Aegon knew what he had to do, his father had given him a sword to lead and he intended to do just that.
His subjects were thirsty for blood and he stood to quench their thirst. The burning of King's Landing, the death of tens of thousands, the attack on the Royal Fleet... and Tyrosh became the first port where vengeance would land.
The fleets of Westeros were vast and more mighty than the Tyroshi one, yet danger loomed of Lys, or Myr or even Volantis to join their Valyrian sister, and throw the Westerosi off the leg. Interest rules among the old Valyrian colonies, they easily forge friendship, even easier they forget it. Today's enemies are tomorrow's allies, but not for the first, nor the last time it would be that they conspire, together, against the Seven Kingdoms. Only if one of the free cities came to Tyrosh's aid and all plans would hopelessly fail. So, Aegon played their game, striking an alliance with Braavos, whose seafarers were equally reluctant to watch how pirates lorded around the Stepstones, spreading misdeeds along the southern coast of the Disputed Lands.
The Sealord was a hard nut to crack, hesitating there, where a multitude of his wealthy compatriots wanted war. Their words were coin and trade, and the pirates beggared key sea lanes, while their rivals employed, from other Free cities, thousands of slaves. And Aegon answered his reluctance with a pledge that could not be refused in a sweet dream: the Princess for War. Rhaenys for War.
The decision was easier than he thought, he simply did it. If he even tried, in his soul, to find a reason to resist his own choice, he came across a wide emptiness. Plain numbness, that gave him more and more pleasure.
Again, Father acquiesced in silence, his silence greeted the choice. The rest of the court welcomed the news with a dim fervor, characteristic of the low-minded people as they are, delighting in a fairy tale that is not. The fair princess of their kingdom, weds the wealthy son of the Sealord of Braavos. Mayhaps he is hideous, or witless, like as not both... and most of all, and not a bit romantic, he will not inherit his father's grand position. In his own right, Derro Antaryon is the second son, without inheritance of power, stemming from the position. Aegon, nevertheless, looked at the world with wiser eyes. The son actually inherits the house of Antaryon, coin and fleet, and when, by his father's death, he becomes but one of the magnates of Braavos, Aegon will be a clear senior in their relationship. Almost as if he gains a new vassal, where he needs him, because the Velaryons are no longer what they once were.
Well wrought policies tend to rouse personal sentiments, so Rhaenys petrified, when she was told. Father never denied her of autonomy, why should I do so, she might tought. She did not weep, she did not rage, she just gazed at him mutely, as if seeking the outlines of someone else.
"Aegon, is this needful?" Mother spoke in the tongue, which Rhaenys had lost.
"The alliance is, in matters of the realm, we cease to be a family. And we become what we truly are, House Targaryen. Simple desires of a one are trivial before the interests of the house. Grandmother did not ask you, nor did grandfather Aerys muse what Father wished. And both of you did as you were bid, obeying the choice. So will she. Matter is beyond debate."
The fruits of the alliance had borne a string of victories at sea, and daunted every would-be ally for Tyrosh. If not for Victarion Greyjoy's dismal showing at the Torturer's Deep, the naval part of the campaign would have been nigh perfect, quickly securing the blockade of the island and landings. Thousands of slaves were freed from the seized vessels. The outer walls of the city, a moon hence, lay in wreck, shattered by the ceaseless barrage of siege engines.
Victory here shall be clumsy, strewn with blood and corpses, no matter, a sweet lie is more powerful than an untold truth. The glory of the final victory will cleanse away the news of any doubt. Songs of chivalry may praise singular deeds of valor, but at the core of it all will be him, the Prince who sacked Tyrosh.
Proudly on a white steed, he rode down from the solitary spot of his Pavilion, to thousands of gathered soldiers, banners of the Sunspear on the left, those of the Highgarden taking the right flank. Between them Lords, great and small, sworn to King's Landing and the Dragonstone.
Uncle Oberyn waited by the Dragon ram, and at a distance that spoke volumes, Garlan Tyrell awaited the prince. Even here, under the royal standard, old enmities did not die. With a curt nod, ser Garlan greeted Aegon, from his right side Bryan Fossoway haughtily raised his head to magnify himself, while his cousin Edwyd gazed at the prince with awe. Green Fossoway ser Jon gave Aegon a cheerful knowing grin, as if expecting to witness a great feat.
Aegon passed by Rykker, Rosby and Stokeworth banners, each and every led by cousins, castellans or masters of arms. Crabb men of th Crackclaw Point looked meagre in contrast to Reach armor, bedecked in gold and fine cloth.
Just by the Ram Dornish sang Bear and the maiden fair.
"I called for a knight, but you're a bear!", Tremond Gargalen finished the merry verse, when Aegon's arrival cut him off.
"Nephew, we must end this, I am getting bored," Oberyn Martell chortled, eliciting laughter from ser Ryon Allyrion and ser Gerold Dayne. Joining them, Aegon smiled faintly, until his eyes fell on the image of a skull. In a spark, a blue radiance flickered in the hollow eye sockets, playing like a gleam on ice, wiping the smile from his face. He almost desired to drop his his visor, to hide the fear from the others. Instead, he closed his eyes, reaching for the flask of the Dark Glow at his belt, but he recalled he had drained it all. When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by a white skull crowned with a golden crown. The sigil of House Manwoody. A silver skull, on a black breastplate, shone from the armor of Lord Dagoss of Kingsgrave. Are you afraid of the pictures now?
With distrustful eyes, Uncle Oberyn sized him up, twirling his long spear, with a blade coiled in a desert serpent venom. The Dornish prince was the sole one who marked the shift on Aegon's face, though it was brief. Alighting from his steed, Aegon mounted the steps to the massive Ram, surrounded by soldiers who pulled ropes and turned the mechanism. Beneath his feet he felt stench of the muck of beasts that lent power to the machine, and above his head on the rafters and hoisted platforms, a host of archers and crossbowmen stood ready for the charge on the gate.
Clearing his throat, he addressed the sea of soldiers whose numbers swelled before him in a resounding voice.
"The greed of Tyrosh was paid by our blood. Blood of the Andals, blood of the First Men, blood of the Rhoynar. Blood of Westeros. My foot is on this godsforsaken island, for one sole purpose - vengeance. Honour of our kin lost, is on the tip of blade. Revenge. Revenge". The cry of vengeance soared high with the thick smoky steel of Blackfyre, in the shadow of the great dragon ironhead. Westeros became a beast ravenous for blood, keen to taste revenge.
"Revenge, Revenge", a clamor echoed in a thousand voices. Most were too far to hear Aegon's words, but like a swift autumn wave, a single thought swept through the Westerosi ranks. A call for death swelled in Aegon's heart, he heeded one path. All of them must be put to the sword, every damn traitor.
Empowered by the will of his men he went on, "Take this city in the name of your King... in the name of your prince, you shall be rewarded by my grace. Seven days of plunder, seven days to savor all pleasures. Seven days in honour of our seven true gods. Whatever a man seizes beyond those walls belongs only to him and him alone. My promise is a law"
The entire island burst into cheers. "The Prince, The Prince". The defenders caught that jubilee from the broken walls. The skies already took a fiery hue, when the Dragon ram came in the shadow of the gate. A hail of arrows met the great engine, raining from all sides, from whose womb Aegon led the charge, shielded by a thick wall of oak.
The guards whipped the oxen to hasten, most of the beasts had already faltered. Behind the Machine, the host advanced, shields lifted high in the air. The wheels of the machine crushed over the half-smashed corpses.
"Hard right," the serjeant roared, striving to evade the broken scraps of the toppled siege tower.
Ropes and gears creaked, and the machine changed its course, in a pained bellow of the animals under whose might the motion was made. Arrows glanced off the upright wood, vainly trying to halt the motion.
"Ditch," several voices shouted at once, as the machine rolled towards the dugout moat beneath the walls. Aegon clutched the wooden railing. With a powerful blow, the front part of the machine plunged, with a quake. Lyle Crakehall tumbled down, while Bryce Caron barely kept himself from falling. The wounded beasts below roared in pain. From the top of the Machine, an exchange of arrows brought screams of death.
The Dragon ironhead eyed at the gate from a dozen feet away. "Unleash fire," the serjeant commanded and a moment later, the dragon's head belched green fire at the gate, melting the ring in the middle.
"Come on lads, let 'em have a bite," the serjeant hollered. The chains that held the swinging ram in place were loosed and the dragon's head swung forward and with a mighty blow knocked off both doors from their hinges.
Then, the ram became a bridge, over which scores dashed through the open breach. At the top, ladders were dropped and the eager ones began to scale the ladders, to savor the fight on the walls. Aegon ascended the ladders, flanked by his two Kingsguard, deftly stepping on the battlements. He severed the head of a slave soldier, light of armor, only armed with a short sword, as ser Lyle clove a man in half, striking another with his shield, so mightily, that he fell from the walls. A large eunuch slave with an arakh in his hands, approached Aegon, recognizing the three-headed dragon on the shield. Swinging hard, he grazed Aegon's helm by a hair, cutting the large red-gold crest, that protruded from the black helm. A clumsy move Aegon repaid by opening his thick belly, from which entrails spilled on the floor. Still alive, the eunuch whimpered dully, uttering words in some foul language. A prayer or a curse, Aegon did not care.
The fair-skinned Tyroshi, with a greenish goat beard, and a few sapphire teeth sought to yield to Aegon. The keen edge of Blackfyre smoothly sliced through the soft meat of his neck. Beside them, ser Bryce lopped off the head of his friend with turquoise earrings. The sellswords forsook their employers, fleeing to the city, while the bolder ones turned their blades against their erstwhile comrades, mayhaps expecting Aegon to grant them mercy. The clatter of swords spread throughout the city and in the distance Aegon saw columns of inhabitants, fleeing to the great gate of the inner city, whose black walls, built of dragonstone, were now the sole deliverance.
But only for a little while, Aegon mused, gazing at the last gleam of the Sun, vanished behind the horizon, dissolving on the high peak of the Bleeding tower.