Mid January, 305 AC
Content warning: brief smut. Again. Oops? Canon-level graphic, but far more wholesome.
Soft and warm, the darkness enveloped him. When a hand shook Olyvar by the shoulder, he should have roused immediately. Instead, he drifted, his eyelids heavy, his nose filled with the sweet sharp scent of lemon perfume.
"Your Grace," a voice said, insistent.
Olyvar opened his eyes.
Ser Edric Dayne stood beside the featherbed. The hand on Olyvar's shoulder let go; the other held aside the drapes of black velvet brocade which guarded their slumber from prying eyes. It would not be dawn for hours yet. The only light came from the hearth fire, and from the beeswax candles lit around the room.
"I am awake," Olyvar said in a low voice. "Thank you, ser. See to the saddlebags, then you may return to help me dress."
Edric left, though not before tying open the drapes on the king's side of the bed, and leaving a lantern on the bedside table. A tactful attempt to keep Olyvar from falling back asleep, no doubt, but an unnecessary one. Once he was awake, he was awake, even if he did not wish to leave his bed.
Really, Olyvar should not be on Dragonstone at all. He should have remained at Duskendale with his host. Leaving his lady wife behind was a matter of cool logic; Sansa must be kept safe, lest the battle against Tarly go ill. But that was not the only battle that lay ahead, and he had to see her once last time, just in case...
The lantern light caressed Sansa almost as softly as he had, that first night. Our true wedding night. Olyvar could still see her in her gown of woven air, silver snowflakes dancing down the sheer ice-white muslin that clung to her bare skin like morning dew.
Now Sansa curled against him in her sleep, her waves of auburn hair strewn over the pillows and across his chest. Olyvar shouldn't have taken out her braid before they slept, but he could not resist running his hands through her hair as they kissed. Not that she minded; she almost purred when he stroked her hair before or after their lovemaking. And oh, the sounds she made when he kissed every freckle on her full breasts...
Thankfully, the covers had hidden her breasts from Ser Edric's view, just as they hid the rest of his lady wife, save for her face and flowing hair. After the joy of finally embracing skin to skin, neither of them could stand to wear a sleeping shift. Beneath the covers, Sansa was as bare as he was, though far lovelier. Her wide hips, whose curves were made to be held; her long legs, that wrapped so sweetly around his waist.
Olyvar resisted the urge to draw her to his chest, to hold her in his arms and never let go. What if some foul sorcery befell her while he was gone? When she awoke on the solstice, pale and shaking, Sansa had sworn the danger had passed, but had it? Her brother Bran was only a boy of fourteen; how could he slay the nameless enemy, the red star who had nearly killed his beloved wife, and all her brothers and sister into the bargain?
He wanted answers, answers he did not have. Failing that, Olyvar hugged himself, and watched his lady wife drool onto the pillow. Her breaths were easy, her cheeks rosy pink. Thank the Seven for that. After her brush with death, he had hoped Sansa would agree to abandon their plan with the ravens, or at least wait for a few days. He should have known better. The moment Dragonstone was secure, Sansa begged his leave to go to the rookery, unwilling to risk delay.
Olyvar found it difficult to deny Sansa's judgment as to her own strength, given how she had saved him from the raging sea. Even so, that afternoon in the rookery was one he hoped never to repeat.
Watching his lady wife converse with the ravens was not so bad, even if he could only hear half the conversation as Sansa spoke aloud for his benefit. As Sansa claimed, the ravens seemed all too eager to cause some mayhem. Apparently they grew quite bored waiting for months before carrying their next letter, especially those who had not been used for years. Following the King's Landing ravens to the city sounded like fun, as did wreaking havoc once there.
"Ravens like to play pranks," his lady wife had said, smiling.
His own smile had faded, the moment her eyes rolled back to show only white. A King's Landing raven fluttered to perch on Olyvar's shoulder, preened at his hair, then flew out the window, leading the flock south. Long, long hours passed as he waited, unnerved by how Sansa's body slumped in her chair, hollow without her spirit. It was the middle of the night when Ser Daemon Sand and Ser Symon Wyl came to relieve Ser Edric Dayne and Brienne of Tarth, who stood guard outside the rookery. It was almost dawn when his wife gasped as she awoke, her eyes blue once more.
Sansa might claim to know her own strength, but Olyvar had needed to carry her back to their chambers. He had lied to Ser Symon and Ser Daemon, who knew nothing of her skinchanging, but quite easily believed him when he blamed her moonblood, even though Sansa had not had a headache in weeks, not since the ship. For several days she lay abed, pale and weak and ravenous. To her shock, she was unable to even converse with the ginger cat who curled at her feet, or with Holdfast the hound, who hovered over her as his master wished he could.
On the second day, a flock of ravens had descended upon the rookery. On the fifth day, Sansa was finally able to speak with them, or rather with the only raven willing to leave their feast of seeds and nuts and fish. Sansa was almost giddy when she informed Olyvar that not a single raven remained at the Red Keep, save those from Dragonstone come to make trouble. Cersei Lannister would be sending no messages, unless she deigned to reply to the letter from King Aegon.
Somehow, Olyvar doubted it, just as he doubted that the woman had failed to surmise the truth of his birth. Cersei Lannister might be a vain, vicious woman, but she was cunning in her way. Even cut off from her ravens, surely she would come to realize the trick that had been played on her. Sweet as it would be to see the look on her face when she realized Olyvar was Aegon, it was a sight he would never see.
Sansa's face was an even sweeter sight, her lips parted in a shy smile. No, he could not wake her, not until it was time for him to leave. Carefully Olyvar tried to pull himself away—
Long lashes fluttered, revealing deep blue eyes. Olyvar froze, tranfixed. His wife had saved him from the sea; it was fitting he should drown in her eyes instead.
"Olyvar?" Sansa murmured. "I dreamt you left without saying goodbye."
"Shhh," he replied. He smoothed a hand over her hair, pressed a kiss to her furrowed brow. "Never, my love. I won't be leaving until after the Hour of the Crone; you should sleep until then."
Olyvar made to rise from the bed, but Sansa seized his hand in hers, her eyes pleading.
"I'm afraid," she said. "The risk—" she swallowed, her lip quivering.
When she tugged at his hand, he let Sansa pull him back to bed, opening his arms so she could bury her head in his chest. To her credit, his wife did not weep, though he would not have blamed her if she had. Olyvar had wept, when he awoke from that awful dream, his lungs choked with the stink of ash and smoke, his eyes almost blind from the sight of dragonflame engulfing the world.
"You know I have to go," he said softly, when her breathing had calmed.
"I know."
Sansa looked up at him, her lips parted, her eyes bright. When she pressed a hesitant kiss to his neck, Olyvar was lost. One hand went to her hair, the other to her jaw, tilting her chin up so he could kiss her. He kissed her until they both were breathless, until there was nothing in the world but them. The scent of lemon and sandalwood and sweat tangled together, the sound of their gasps and sighs, the feel of his skin pressed against hers as he set himself to the task of making her come undone, his fingers and tongue slick with the taste of her before at last he sank inside.
After, she burrowed against him, under his arm, her head pillowed against his chest. His finger idly twirled a lock of her hair, the draft from the open drapes welcome as it cooled the heat of their ardor.
"Hey," Sansa said, covering a yawn.
"Is for horses," Olyvar replied. When she snorted, he kissed the tip of her nose, and tried to think of another jape, even worse. "Ewe are too lovely to be a sheep, though your hair is soft enough."
That won him another snort, followed by lazy kisses dappled across his neck, soft as butterfly wings.
"Awful," his wife said drowsily, her eyelids drooping. "Should make you—" she yawned again "—wear motley."
Olyvar did not bother answering; she was already asleep. With tender care he shifted so Sansa lay upon the bed, not on his chest. Knowing she would not suffer the covers long, he closed the drapes behind him as he got up, shaking his head when he saw both Buttons and Holdfast quickly leap to take the warm spot he had left behind.
The bath was already cold when he climbed into the copper tub. Olyvar scrubbed and washed his hair briskly so as to finish more quickly. By the time Edric returned, Olyvar was dry, clad in shift and smallclothes. Edric helped him with the rest, all parti-colored deep blue and midnight black, first hose, then the heavy breeches, then the padded tunic.
Edric had just finished lacing the tunic up the back when the bells tolled six, the Hour of the Crone. As was his wont, Olyvar made for the small altar in the corner of the solar. Above it hung seven carved masks, one for each aspect of God, each face He showed to men so they might know him better. Their hair was gilded, their eyes jet and emerald and mother-of-pearl. All save the Stranger, who had no face, only a cowled hood over a shapeless oval.
Crone, guide my steps toward wisdom, Olyvar prayed. When he began a hymn in his rough baritone, Edric joined in, quiet so they would not wake the queen.
Then it was time to finish dressing. Edric held his mail trousers so Olyvar could step into them, the steel rings cool against hose and breeches. Next came the hauberk. It went over his head as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of chain, the bottom of the coat falling to his knees. A padded coif served to protect both his head and his waves of steel-grey hair; only once it was in place did he raise the steel coif which hung from the neck of the hauberk.
"I still think plate would be better, Your Grace," Edric ventured. The knight ran a nervous hand through his pale blond hair.
"Better protection," Olyvar agreed. "But not worth the weight."
Again he saw the waters of a vast lake at sunset as snow fell from a cloudy sky. If Olyvar fell from dragonback, he would not have the Old Man of the River or the Red Wolf to save him from drowning. And unlike heavy plate, he could slip out of his chainmail without assistance.
Over the suit of mail went a parti-colored silk surcoat, blazoned with his orange phoenix and his scarlet three-headed dragon above radiant golden flames. Last was a wide leather belt embossed with gold, from which hung his mail gloves. The Valyrian steel greatsword Ash was too long to ride at his hip; instead Edric helped him sling it over his back, the sapphire pommel sticking over his shoulder.
"Mrr?"
There was a gentle thump as the cat landed on the floor, having pushed his way through the drapes. Holdfast followed, whining quietly as he pushed his snout under Olyvar's hand. Olyvar stroked the hound's ears, scritched the cat's chin, and returned to bed to wake Sansa as he had promised. Though only after bidding Edric stand outside the door; King Aegon did not need half the kitchens gossiping about how desperately the king and queen clung to each other as they kissed farewell.
When he left their chambers, Olyvar had expected to find Ser Edric and Ser Daemon Sand standing guard with their men-at-arms, or, in Ser Daemon's case, leaning on a crutch. He had not expected a third visitor to be arguing with the knights as they tried to shoo him away.
"I won't- Olly!"
"That's King Aegon, or Your Grace," Ser Daemon said firmly, cuffing Trystane Martell lightly upside the head.
"Your Grace," Trystane said grudgingly. "I wanted to speak with you, coz, and they wouldn't let me in."
"Nor should they," Olyvar reminded him. "This is not Sunspear, nor the Water Gardens. I have much to do; if you wish to speak with me, you must keep up."
As Olyvar feared, when he turned to walk down the hallway, Trystane trotted after him, giving Ser Edric and the men-at-arms a wide berth. Gods, how could Trystane be seventeen? The olive skin and straight black hair were the same, but little else was. Trystane gangled, almost six feet tall, his feet and hands too big for his frame, a thin, half grown mustache on his upper lip. He certainly dressed far better than Olyvar recalled. As he walked, Trystane's yellow silk robes swished, his orange damask half-cape fluttering, pinned to his shoulder by a ruby sun pierced by a golden spear.
"I want to wed Lady Myrcella," Trystane said as they descended a flight of stairs. "You told me to think for a fortnight, and pray to the Seven, and I have. We're meant to be together, like Duncan and his Jenny. We could live in Dorne, in some tiny keep in the mountains, or in the red dunes. Or we could go into exile across the Narrow Sea, it doesn't matter, so long as we're together. You can't make her join the Faith, you can't."
"I can," Olyvar said with a pang. "And I must, for all the reasons I told you before. Kings cannot do whatever we wish. Some will say I have already gone too far, to suffer an abomination born of incest to live, let alone one who might seek to claim the throne. Her grandsire would have had Myrcella killed outright; the motherhouse is a kindness."
Trystane looked up at him, resentful. "Then I'll join the Faith too," he declared. "If I can't marry her, I don't want to marry anyone." He paused. "Can I at least visit Myrcella alone, so we can talk?"
"Absolutely not, not without Lady Mellario present."
"I won't despoil her!" Trystane said, indignant. "I swear by the Seven!"
Olyvar resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure you wouldn't," he agreed. "But I don't trust you not to get up to some other sort of mischief."
Seven knew, he would likely be up to something, if he were in Trystane's shoes. The two of them were far too clever for their own good. Lady Mellario had already caught them trying to pass secret messages by passing slips of paper to each other whilst playing cyvasse. Olyvar had not the heart to deny them their last few weeks of cyvasse before Myrcella was placed in a motherhouse, but henceforth, neither was permitted access to quill nor parchment.
"But—"
"No, Trys," Olyvar said. He halted mid stride, turning to take his cousin by the shoulder. "I am sorry, truly, I am, for both of you. But this is a wound only time will mend."
"Easy for you to say," Trystane grumbled under his breath. "May I have Your Grace's leave to go?" When Olyvar nodded, Trys made a sharp bow, turned on his heel, and left.
Olyvar turned the other way, down another flight of stairs, followed by Ser Edric and his guards. He could only pray Trystane's broken heart was the worst loss House Martell suffered in this war. How close had Sarella come to burning, when Euron Greyjoy descended upon Oldtown with death and dragonflame? And Sarella wished to stay there for the nonce, to help salvage what could be saved from the ashes of the Citadel.
The rest of his sisters were safe, Seven be praised. Meria and her new husband Willas were even now riding east for King's Landing, with Obella serving as one of Princess Rhaenys's ladies-in-waiting. Their sister Elia would soon reach King's Landing as well; she was with her namesake, his mother Princess Elia, who was riding north through the Stormlands with Prince Oberyn's host. Tyene and Nymeria were safe at Sunspear with Princess Arianne. As for his littlest sisters, Doree and Loree were returning to the Hellholt with their mother Ellaria, and Obara was serving as the captain of their guard.
They could be ladies-in-waiting, in a few years, Olyvar thought wistfully as he descended yet more stairs.
Sansa had already offered to take them, and he had always spoiled Doree and Loree. It would be sweet, to dote on them again. If they even want to come. Dorea's last letter had been full of rage at his absence, whilst Loree's was smudged with petulant tears. Four years were an eternity to girls their age; they were only thirteen and eleven. How many more years would he miss whilst he secured his realm?
Olyvar decended the steps faster, his thoughts churning each time he paused for a guard to open the many locked doors that stood betwixt him and the dragon's den deep below Dragonstone. His stomach rumbled, as if it already knew he planned to ready Viserion before he broke his fast. If only breaking the Others would prove as easy as taking Dragonstone...
They had reached Dragonstone on the second day of the new year, just three days before he turned twenty-three. A small fleet of dromonds guarded the isle, warships well suited to sink his many wallowing, heavily laden cogs and carracks. Less well suited, to deal with his dragon. A screech from Viserion had sent them all into a panic; half the ships had backed their oars and fled in terror.
Those that remained to fight were as foolhardy as they were brave. Arrows and scorpions loosed, falling far short of the dragon. Their catapults had done no better, though Olyvar was dismayed to see the green flare of wildfire.
Thankfully, the sailors must have had little training. The wildfire set their own ships alight, leaving only a few dromonds for Viserion to handle. Her pale flames made quick work of the ships, their sails catching fire as men screamed and died. The garrison watching from the battlements of Dragonstone had taken heed of that, to his grim satisfaction. Viserion had only been wheeling overhead for a short while when they raised a peace banner.
Ser Arys Oakheart might have been willing to fight to the last man and die valiantly, but his soldiers had more good sense than gallantry. The many dragons carved and sculpted into the walls of Dragonstone were one thing, a living dragon quite another. The garrison had trussed Ser Arys and a few of their bolder officers up like geese, unaware that Ser Daemon Sand and his men-at-arms had already locked Princess Myrcella in her chambers. The swan ships carrying Olyvar's queen and his retainers had docked without issue in the port beneath the curtain walls. Only once they entered the castle safely did Viserion finally descend at his command.
After all that, a good night's rest was all he wanted, but the Painted Table came first. It was a massive table, built in the shape of Westeros at the command of Aegon the Conqueror. Whilst his queen quietly stood by his side, their hands entwined, Olyvar stood and stared at the vastness of the realm, upon the rivers and lakes, mountains and deserts, forests and fields, cities and keeps. Three hundred years out of date, all of them. He would have to have Sansa see that it was freshly painted to show the realm as it was, not as it had been.
Impressive as it was, Olyvar could not abide working in the chamber. He had taken the lord's chambers for his own, and it was in that solar that he reviewed the many letters from Meria which had awaited him in Ser Daemon's keeping. The Stormlands and the Westerlands were in chaos, the Reach mostly secured.
There was only one letter from Winterfell, which had inspired both delight and consternation. That Princess Arya should join Ser Deziel Dalt on the journey south was wondrous news, as was her escort of near two thousand winter wolves. King Robb's expectation that his sister Sansa would be returned to him, on the other hand... Olyvar and his queen had taken great care in composing their replies to her brother. On the very day their raven departed, a new raven had come from Winterfell, one bearing far worse news.
The Wall is cracked.
Sansa had already dreamt it, and woken screaming. They had both prayed it was a shadow of the future which might be averted. Well, King Robb's letter smashed that hope to pieces. If the King in the North was marching for the Wall, there could be no doubt. Quickly they had penned further letters to Robb, sending one to Winterfell with a note bidding Maester Luwin to send a courier chasing after the king, another to Castle Black to await the king's coming.
That there was no word from Castle Black was even more ominous. Sansa had faith in her brother Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but she had not seen him in many long years. She knew Jon, a boy of fourteen, not Lord Commander Snow, the Dragonslayer.
How odd that was. Once Olyvar had hoped for just one brother of his own, and now he had seven goodbrothers. Sansa had four brothers, after all, and with Meria wed to Willas Tyrell, he and his two brothers were now Olyvar's too. Or did not all of them count? Garlan the Gallant and Loras the Knight of Flowers were not wed to his sister, after all, and Jon Snow was only a half brother, a bastard born to some unknown woman. They were not bonded by blood, not like Olyvar and the cousins who he had been raised to believe were his sisters.
When the guard opened the last door to the dragon's den, a gout of hot air washed over him. Olyvar stepped through the doorway alone, save for the sheep the guards had fetched him.
A great cavern opened before him. The walls were of dark stone, twisted and swirled and splattered where molten rock once flowed from beneath the earth, forming deep pits and high ledges as it cooled and hardened. Here and there glittered chunks of obsidian, green and black, red and purple. Elsewhere he'd set men to mining obsidian, as much of it as could be had. Frozen fire, Jon Snow had called it, the only substance which might slay an Other.
Pale golden fire blossomed as Viserion roused from her slumber. She had caught her rider's scent, and that of the sheep he dragged behind him on leashes. They baaed piteously when he let them go, their wool already shorn so as to not waste it, and to ease the dragon's feeding. Whilst Viserion chased her prey through the cavern one by one, Olyvar leaned against the wall where she had clawed a hollow for her bed, the light of his lantern shining down upon her clutch of eggs.
Seven of them there were, all gleaming like jewels. One shone emerald, soft as summer grass. Another was the faint blue of a winter sky, dappled by pale clouds. Another was black with bolts of gold, another honey over amber, another deep blue over burnt red, another white as bone, save for a crimson blot like a hand. Last and largest was the golden egg, whose scales rippled with all the colors of the rainbow.
Carefully Olyvar picked them up one by one, placing them in a heavy chest lined with velvet. When he and Viserion left, they must be locked away, safe, until they returned. As none of the guards fancied being mistaken for a sheep, Olyvar brought the chest to the doorway where they stood, handing it over to Ser Edric's keeping. In exchange, Ser Edric gave him the saddlebags, heavy with all he would need for his journey.
At last Viserion devoured the last sheep. Her golden eyes gleamed as she approached Olyvar, bowing her head to nuzzle at him with the tip of her snout. Thank the gods Viserion liked him; there would be no managing her otherwise.
Since Volantis her size had doubled. Viserion stood thirty feet tall, her wings stretching at least seventy feet across, and another sixty feet from snout to tail. A dark, angry scar slashed across the creamy scales of her throat, a reminder of a collar grown too small, of her imprisonment beneath the Great Pyramid. And the tip of her tail was flat and stubby; it had not grown back quite right after Rhaegal bit it off.
"We beat him once, and we can beat him again," Olyvar told the dragon as he checked her saddle. Viserion rumbled low in her throat; he could feel her thirst for vengeance, her eagerness to take flight. Good; this was a time for war, a time for ruthless action tempered by nothing save mercy.
There would be no mercy for Cersei Lannister and Randyll Tarly, nor for their cronies either. His victory over them must be swift and decisive, his spear cutting them down before they could fall to their knees. A victory by default was no victory at all. No doubt many of the worst bannermen to profit from Lannister misrule would be eager enough to acclaim him once they knew which way the wind blew. They would smile and flatter and sharpen their knives, and undermine his reign from within.
No, Olyvar must strike before such false friends had the chance to repent, to seek to blame the queen and her lord hand for all their crimes. As if Cersei Lannister had forced them to ignore the many, many times House Lannister had flagrantly broken the laws of gods and men, as if she had made them turn aside and do nothing whilst brave men fought and died to try and right such wrongs.
Dorne at least had the excuse of Prince Doran and Princess Elia's quiet plotting; they had not helped the realm throw off the Lannisters, but they had not lifted a finger to keep the Lannisters on the throne either. House Tyrell, on the other hand... well. Willas he could forgive, given his years of scheming with Meria. Lord Mace, however... if Mace Tyrell were still alive, Olyvar would have many things to say to him, and none of them would be blessings.
True, there were others, those unable to fight back, biding their time for the right moment to strike. Even Meria had no notion that they could expect the support of Lord Olyvar Rosby, formerly Olyvar Frey. Her letters mentioned that Lord Gyles Rosby had a ward, the son of his deceased aunt Bethany, who had been the sixth wife of Lord Walder Frey.
They did not mention that the ward in question had served as Robb Stark's squire until shortly before the Red Wedding, nor that he despised the Lannisters so much that Lord Gyles had kept him a virtual prisoner for years, nor that he had seized the castle with the help of a sellsword knight after Lord Gyles' death at the Masked Massacre. The new Lord Rosby was one of the first to respond to King Aegon's ravens, eager to pledge his support. He was less pleased when King Aegon bade him stay behind his walls, rather than sally forth to attack Lord Randyll Tarly's host when it marched up the Rosby Road.
When Aegon the Conqueror landed upon the shores of Westeros, he had chosen to establish his foothold at King's Landing. Olyvar might have done the same, if not for the ice choking Blackwater Bay. Duskendale was the next best thing, and it was upon Duskendale that Lord Tarly marched, determined to crush King Aegon before he could gather his strength.
Olyvar clenched his jaw as he finished with Viserion's saddle, having checked every strap and chain thrice over. Tarly set a brisk pace; he would reach Duskendale long before the Tyrell or Martell hosts reached King's Landing. If the battle should go ill... if Olyvar should fall...
I will not fail, Olyvar told himself. The Seven had seen him this far; they would not abandon him now. He must not let fear turn his blood to ice, his stomach to gall. King Aegon would defeat the enemies who stood in his path, and then he would march upon King's Landing, force the Queen Regent to strike her banners, and take the Iron Throne.
With grim determination Olyvar forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. There were a few dry spots in Viserion's scales which needed oiling, a few chunks of meat stuck in the she-dragon's teeth which were irritating her. With great care Olyvar removed them, keeping his mailed hands away from the razor sharp edges of teeth the size of daggers.
Only the rumbling of his own stomach reminded Olyvar to break his fast before taking flight. The porridge Ser Edric had fetched him was already cold, but none the worse for that. It was heavily thickened with cream and honey, and the fried fish were still crisp beneath his teeth. A tankard of ale to quench his thirst, and he was ready to depart.
The dawn was slowly creeping over the horizon when Viserion leapt into the sky with a glad shriek. They flew with the sun at their backs, due southwest. The black towers of Dragonstone faded behind them; below crashed the waves of the strait which lay between the isles of Dragonstone and Driftmark. On and on they flew, past the salt-stained walls of Castle Driftmark, past the charred walls of High Tide, past the old ruins of Spicetown, and out again into the cold waters of Blackwater Bay.
Hours passed. There was no sound but the wind in his ears, no task to distract his mind as they flew. Without aught else to do, Olyvar's mind wandered, his doubts rising from the mists of the sea a thousand feet below.
The ease with which he had taken Dragonstone unnerved him the longer he thought of it. The Seven might favor a righteous cause, but there was always a cost, a test, some terrible choice which must be made. Olyvar could only pray that when the moment came, he proved equal to it. Were the Seven smoothing his conquest so he might fight the Others? Or did some trap await him, some peril hanging above his head unseen?
Olyvar shivered, trying not to think of his dragon dream, of what awaited him at the end of his journey. That battle was not a test, it was a consequence of his earlier cowardice. Lady Irri's archers had done the work which should have been his alone. He should have pursued Rhaegal, rather than trusting a dab of manticore venom to finish both the dragon and his rider. How was he to know that Euron Greyjoy had not only the conscience of a roach, but the endurance of one?
No, there was no use dwelling on it. Alas, as soon as Olyvar banished that thought from his mind, another rose to take its place.
Where were his missing Dornishmen? It had not sat well with him, that Meria and Prince Oberyn should leave them behind in King's Landing, but it could not be avoided. Olyvar wished he might have waited for word before having Princess Elia's letters sent out from Sunspear, but time was of the essence. They should have escaped around the new year, yet there was still no word. Had they found an open port to take ship for the south, or were they making the long slow journey by road to a friendly keep?
Either way, Olyvar could not wait to properly introduce them to his lady wife. Especially Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck, who were almost kin. Ellaria was Lord Harmen's natural daughter, but after his sons died on the Trident he doted on her as if she were trueborn, and on the brood of children she mothered.
Lord Harmen would have had Ellaria legitimized long ago, if not for his refusal to ask such a favor of Robert Baratheon. Only kings could legitimize those of bastard birth. It would be King Aegon who would make his mother Ellaria an Uller, finally worthy to wed Prince Oberyn Martell and give her name to the daughters she had born him.
Olyvar clenched his jaw as the thought of another bastard girl assailed him. It was not Myrcella's fault that her mother was an adulteress, her sire a black-hearted knave who was both uncle and father.
It was almost a relief when the Kingslayer broke yet another oath. Soon after landing at Dragonstone, Jaime Lannister had burnt every last letter he wrote testifying to his and his sister's treason and to his children's bastardy. When King Aegon had the prisoner brought before him, the Kingslayer was proud of his betrayal, as if it was the death blow to Olyvar's plans, as if Olyvar had not suspected he might go back on his word.
"You can't execute me," the Kingslayer had drawled, a mocking smile on his lips. "You won't hurt Myrcella, we both know that. I'm the most valuable hostage you could hope to have, if you wish to make Cersei surrender rather than fight to the bitter end."
"And if she does?" Olyvar asked, thinking of the wretched city still clutched tight in Cersei's fist. "The Wall and the motherhouse were a mercy in exchange for your testimony. Without it, I see no reason that you should not stand trial for your crimes. Would you send yourself and your sister to the executioner's block?"
The Kingslayer spat. "Better death than a cage."
"That can be arranged," Olyvar said coolly. "Did you know, we had the Mountain's skull made into a cup for my lady mother? Perhaps Queen Sansa would like to have yours."
Jaime Lannister sneered, his green eyes flashing like wildfire. "As if the girl had the stomach for such a grisly token. Cersei is thrice the woman she is, or could ever be."
Olyvar stroked his beard thoughtfully; it would not be kingly to punch a shackled prisoner in the face, no matter how much he deserved it. "No, I suppose Her Grace would not appreciate such a token. Perhaps I should execute you before a heart tree. The septons would not approve of hanging your entrails from the branches, but the roots might drink the last of your life's blood. In the meantime, I wish you well explaining yourself to your daughter."
A gust of wind buffeted the dragon, wailing like a lost child.
Myrcella had not wailed when the guards escorted her to the Kingslayer's cell. No matter that Ser Daemon Sand stood guard; she had shouted and raged at Ser Jaime, demanding to know if the rumors of her birth were true. When he proudly admitted his crimes, Myrcella had seized a flagon of wine and flung it in his face. The heavy flagon would have shattered his skull, had the Kingslayer not dodged. Only red wine stained his white tunic, not brains and blood. Myrcella would have flung herself at him with her bare hands, had the guards not pulled her away, still weeping and screaming.
Ever since, Myrcella had sulked in her lavish, well guarded chambers. A pang of guilt roiled his stomach; Olyvar had not expected the Kingslayer to treat his own daughter so ill. He hoped Myrcella could find some peace in a motherhouse. Perhaps Tommen might do the same, if Olyvar sent him to the Faith, rather than the Wall. Ser Symon Wyl did not approve of either notion, favoring a quick beheading. At the very least, he advised Tommen should be gelded, lest he escape and sire sons who would seek to reclaim his ill-gotten throne.
The throne. Gods have mercy. Once the throne was his, there was so much else to be done. Olyvar had so many sheafs of paper covered in notes as to what should be done to mend the realm, to make it better than it was before.
But King Aegon must not make the same mistakes as his cousin Prince Aegor, who almost worked himself half to death trying to do everything himself. Nor could he be Empress Daenerys, always acting in the moment, only redressing grievances once they grew too large to be overlooked or ignored. No, Olyvar would need a strong small council to help him rule, filled with bold men of education and experience.
Ser Gulian Qorgyle would be a fine master of coin, but he would need other counselors, and they could not all be from Dorne. Meria had recommended several candidates in her letters, but he must take their measure himself, lest he make a poor choice due to haste. He hoped a Lydden might suit one of the offices; Lord Mordryd Lydden had more than earned such a reward.
By now he should have reached Casterly Rock with his motley host of lords and knights, freeriders and men at arms, not to mention the angry smallfolk. Casterly Rock had never fallen, save to the trickery of Lann the Clever, who turned the Casterlys against themselves, but it did not need to fall. That it should be besieged at all dealt a crippling blow to the Lannisters and their allies.
Nonetheless, Lord Mordryd was determined to try. Already Lord Farman's little fleet was blockading Lannisport, though his ships were spread thin. The castellan Ser Willem Lannister had retreated inside the Rock, as had his twin brother Ser Martyn, after being chased out of Lannisport by a mob.
The Lannisters did not have enough men to hold the city, not with so many slain during the War of Five Kings, and the rest summoned to King's Landing to defend the queen regent. Lord Crakehall's mighty host might keep Queen Cersei and her bastard boy from harm, but the castles of Crakehall and Silverhill were besieged by smallfolk furious about their rising rents and the brutal enforcement of the queen's notion of justice.
Elsewhere in the Westerlands, Lord Marbrand's host of queen's men had been defeated, if only barely, in a bloody battle on the gold road against Lords Sarsfield, Broom, and Estren, who had taken Lydden's side against the Lannisters. Lord Prester, another queen's man, had unfortunately fared better against the Kennings of Kayce. Lord Kenning was dead, his host scattered, and Lord Prester and his small host now camped beneath Casterly Rock to defend it.
Many other lords had not even tried to come to Casterly Rock's defense, instead holing up in their castles pleading illness or injury. Olyvar wondered if any would swear fealty to him, and which ones he could trust if they did. As of yet none of his ravens to the Westerlands had returned. Though he had received one raven from the Westerlands, much to his confusion.
Clegane Keep was too small to merit a Dragonstone bird, yet somehow Sandor Clegane had heard of King Aegon. The raven he sent carried a terse, smudged letter which did not offer to pledge fealty to King Aegon, but did offer his sword to Queen Sansa. It was an offer his lady wife declined, though she did not wish to speak of it. Perhaps someday she might tell him why the Hound should make such an offer, or perhaps not. Olyvar would never know all that befell her during her captivity, and he would not press her to speak of it.
When the midday sun shone down over Olyvar's head, he said prayers and sang a hymn to the Mother, his words vanishing upon the wind. He could just see Duskendale in the distance, drawing closer with every flap of Viserion's wings.
Duskendale had yielded without a fight, almost the moment the ships of the Golden Company sailed into the harbor. Lord Renfred Rykker and his uncles and nephews were all away, having taken their strength to King's Landing long ago. Lady Rykker had surrendered promptly, unable to gainsay the smallfolk who had already flung open the gates even before his three thousand men were ashore.
That was only a third of King Aegon's host. The rest of the Golden Company he had sent south, to help secure the war-torn Stormlands. Lord Jon Penrose of Parchments had declared for King Aegon. So had his brother Ser Byron Penrose, the castellan of Storm's End, and a dozen other houses large and small, including the Dondarrions of Blackhaven. They said Lord Morgan Dondarrion had taken unseemly relish in his victory in the ruins of Summerhall, where he defeated Lord Philip Foote of Nightsong, a Lannister lackey from the Westerlands.
Unfortunately, the Penroses were struggling to hold the Rainwood. House Wylde of the Rain House and House Mertyn of Mistwood were both powerful houses, and both had declared for Tommen. Lord Penrose had only barely kept them from marching north, at the cost of losing several hard fought battles before Ser Lester Tarth and Ser Alyn Estermont sailed to his aid, their houses having called their banners for King Aegon.
Thousands of banners flapped in the wind as Viserion wheeled over Duskendale, over the host camped outside its walls. Olyvar had her swoop low, low enough to hear the cheering and yelling of his men before the dragon passed them by. Soon enough he must return, but not yet. Ser Harry Strickland had the Golden Company well in hand, and Ser Symon Wyl watched over him, standing in place of the king until he returned.
Three thousand men had landed at Duskendale, and another three thousand had joined them already. The lords and knights who came from Crackclaw Point had insisted on bending the knee to King Aegon himself, their devotion to the Targaryen cause as fervent as it was unexpected. Meria had not bothered to court such petty lords who never came to court; they had marched of their own accord almost as soon as word arrived of the fall of Dragonstone.
A few days later, Ser Loras Tyrell had arrived from Maidenpool, at the head of some five hundred northern freeriders. Meria had already warned him of his coming, and King Aegon had accepted his oath of fealty gladly, though not without reservations. Ser Loras was as hot-headed as a kettle on the boil, raring to avenge his father. Olyvar hoped he did not meet Lord Tarly on the field of battle; from what Meria said, the Knight of Flowers was as reckless as he was brave.
But that was a worry for another day. Olyvar kept his eyes on the land, on the muddy fields half covered in snow. A raven might fly a straight line bewtixt keeps, but a dragonrider relied on landmarks, on watching for the rivers and castles and roads that would tell him where he was.
They reached the kingsroad around mid afternoon. Viserion landed briefly so Olyvar might pray and eat and relieve himself, and then they were off again. They followed the road north for a few hours, a southern wind speeding them on their way. When at last they turned west, it seemed no time at all before he glimpsed the dark waters of the God's Eye, the light of the setting sun glaring in his eyes.
The sight of the God's Eye was enough to take Olyvar's breath away. The lake was so vast, so immense, for a moment he thought he looked upon the sea. Warm breezes carried the scent of rich earth and sweet waters, of rotted leaves and growing things. Some instinct drew him north, even before he glimpsed the wooded isle that rose from the depths, or the shadow of massive black towers in the distance on the lake's northern shore.
Unable to resist, Olyvar flew closer, trusting the clouds would hide Viserion's pale shadow as she wheeled in wide circles. He must not be seen, must not cause a panic, but he had to look upon Harrenhal, upon the ruin another Aegon had once wrought from atop Balerion the Black Dread. Even from afar Olyvar could see the tops of the towers, the rock slagged and melted. Yet it was woodsmoke that rose from the chimneys, wafting the scent of baking bread, of animals in their stables.
That was enough; he must not be greedy. Olyvar turned the she-dragon back, back to the Isle of Faces. Viserion descended quickly, lest they be seen. He a glimpse of willow trees standing by the shore, still green despite winter's chill, but that was all before the ground rose up beneath him, a mossy clearing surrounded by a ring of weirwoods.
Olyvar slid down from Viserion's saddle, his mouth agape. The weirwoods were massive, as tall as a castle's towers with bark white as bone. Faces looked down from every trunk, some old and wrinkled, some young and fair, some with the large eyes and chubby cheeks of children. And all of them, all of them were looking at him.
Olyvar raised his hands slowly, as a man might do to soothe a savage horse, or to surrender to a victorious foe. The eyes of the weirwoods did not blink, but he felt a shift in the air, a whisper of some half forgotten scent. He dared not remove his chainmail, but he pushed down his coif, steel and padding both, and combed his fingers through his hair. A sign of respect, Olyvar hoped, to bare his head before the trees.
"I owe you thanks," Olyvar said when he could endure the stillness no longer. "On behalf of my lady wife, and of myself. You healed her, you shared your wisdom with her, and she saved my life in turn."
No reply came. The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky turning dark. He prayed silently to the Smith, unsure of what to do next. Viserion was still full from breakfast, but when she leaned her head down for a chin scratch, his own belly rumbled, hollow and empty.
"Remember," he told the dragon softly. "Eat nothing, and do no harm to the trees. If you must empty your bowels, do not do it here. We are guests; we cannot defile this holy place."
Viserion hissed softly. She did not like the feel of this place; it itched at her. Annoyed but compliant, she curled her length into a coil, breathing only steam, with never a spark of flame. By the time Olyvar finished gathering fallen wood for his fire, she was asleep, wearied from a long day of flying. There was a ring of smooth grey stones in the center of the clearing; it was there Olyvar built his fire, after making sure there was not a single weirwood twig amidst the kindling.
When the fire was crackling merrily, Olyvar took down his saddlebags, laying out bread and cheese and salted beef. The weirwoods were not the only eyes watching him now; he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, goosepimples racing up his arms.
"You are welcome to share food and fire," Olyvar called. "Though I doubt there is enough for all of you, I'm afraid."
A ghost of laughter was the only answer he received.
Unsettled, Olyvar looked at his meal, considering. When he rose to his feet, it was with the salted beef in his hands. Tempting as it smelled, he placed it all upon the roots of a weirwood with a maiden's face. They were not his gods, but one must show courtesy in another's hall. That done, he ate his bread and cheese, washing it down with a wineskin of watered Dornish red, and with water from a clear stream he heard burbling just beyond the clearing.
A waning sliver of a crescent moon shone over his head, sharp as a sickle. Perhaps that was why Olyvar struggled to go to sleep, despite the distant strains of sweet music hanging upon the air. Or perhaps it was the discomfort of sleeping in chainmail, even though he lay upon moss and humus and loam, soft as a featherbed. He tossed and turned, until at last he could bear it no longer.
"May I sleep safe here?"
The singing paused, as though the world held its breath.
"You may sleep." The voice was strange and lilting, neither young nor old, male nor female. "Whether you sleep safe depends upon that which you bring with you. You are not one of ours, sand child, sun child, dragon child."
I'm not a child, Olyvar thought but did not say. I am a man grown, with a man's burdens. He yawned, suddenly drowsy. So many burdens...
A thousand barbs of steel rose from a burning hall, forming a chair whose points dripped blood. Blizzards swept over the land, the wind howling and raging as snow buried the world, all life fled or frozen. Fire, so much fire, the whole sky burning green and gold and white—
Suddenly he was drowning. Water poured into his lungs as he struggled to free himself from his chains, from his saddle, he could not breathe—
The water was gone; he gulped fresh air only to scream in agony as a white-hot blade drove into his eye, into his skull—
"Seven, save me!" Olyvar screamed.
And then he was in his chambers again, kneeling before the altar, before the carved masks upon the wall. There were not seven faces, there were hundreds, thousands, all of their eyes cold and dull and empty, all of their mouths agape in silent screams. He saw Sansa and his sisters, his father and his mothers, and looked away before he retched. He saw Deziel's tight curls and Brienne's hair of flaxen straw, he saw Edric with his patchy beard and Trystane with his faint mustache. He saw Quentyn and Arianne and all the Dornishmen who followed him to Meereen and who remained in King's Landing. He saw the head of Drogon and of his mother Daenerys, only a little girl; he saw Jon Connington and Aegor weeping blood, he saw almost a score of children, brothers and sisters, all with dark hair and empty blue eyes. Last he saw a child of three, with dark curls upon her head and vicious wounds upon her golden skin, and a babe, no more than one, his head caved in, his pale hair clumped with blood—
"No!" Olyvar cried, shutting his eyes tight.
And then the faces were diving at him, pecking at him like birds. Wails of regret and sorrow pierced his ears, mingled with cries for help, for mercy, but the worst sounds were the wails of the little children, so small and scared, and he wanted to help them, he must help them, how could he help them—
The pecking stopped; all was silent. Frightened, Olyvar opened his eyes. The faces looked at him, all of him, down to his very soul. The world blurred; there were only seven faces now; it blurred again, there was only one, not a face at all but a blazing star with seven points that burned so hot and bright he fell to his knees. Beside him lay a circlet of Valyrian steel; he tried to pick it up, but it melted in his hand, cracks racing across the rubies until they shattered—
Olyvar awoke to the sound of birdsong. There were tears upon his cheeks; his heart ached, as if someone had tried to tear it out. For a moment he had the urge to check his saddlebags for a certain box hid within their depths. Instead he sat up with a groan, rubbing his eyes until his vision cleared.
He was surrounded again, but this time by people garbed in green, not the faces of the dead. Some looked almost like men and women, their skin varying shades of brown, pale fawn and chestnut, russet and bronze. Swirls of green paint itself streaked their skin, as though the forest lived upon their bodies. Others were shorter, slighter, their skin dappled like a deer, their clawed hands boasting only three fingers and a thumb. And their eyes were huge and wide, some golden as honey, some mossy green, some red as the sap of the weirwoods. The Children of the Forest.
"Well met," Olyvar said, unable to think of a better greeting. "My thanks for your hospitality."
A chorus of soft laughter rang out, only falling silent when a child of the forest stepped forward, his eyes mossy green.
"Well met," the child said. "Did you know your dragon is wounded?"
Olyvar blinked slowly, glancing over his shoulder at Viserion. She still slept, pale smoke rising from her nostrils. Had he pushed her too hard yesterday? She seemed well enough... he must have Sansa see to her, later; for now there were more pressing matters.
"I thank you for telling me," Olyvar replied. "I should like to seek your counsel, if I may?"
Another round of laughter. "You may," the child said.
All of it poured out in a torrent. The realm was broken, it would take a lifetime to knit it back together, why must the Others return now, of all times, after thousands of years? Why must he live in such an age; why must he fight a dragon not once but twice? And what if he failed? What would happen to the realm without him? He was only one piece of a greater whole, he knew that, Seven help him, but he was a keystone without which his followers might crumble. Meria was capable of taking his place, he did not doubt, but she had no dragon, she was no warrior, and what of Sansa—
"Much and more troubles you," the child said. None of them were laughing now; if anything, their eyes were sad and solemn. "But you did not come here for answers, not truly."
"No," Olyvar admitted. "I mean no disrespect, but I cannot ask you to choose my path for me."
"Nor should you," the child agreed. "What, then, do you ask of us?"
"Nothing, save that you permit me to rest here a while longer, to meditate in quiet."
The children and the green men exchanged glances, as if they somehow knew the chaos of command, of leading a conquest, of being so busy one could not think.
"You may," the child said.
And with that, the crowd melted away, back into the forest, leaving no trace of their presence.
It was long past the Hour of the Crone, but Olyvar prayed to her anyway before he broke his fast. His knees were stiff, the weight of the chainmail heavy on his shoulders as he knelt.
Long he thought, letting his thoughts wander as they would, pausing only the pray to Father and Mother when he judged their hour near. He thought of power, and how it was wielded. He thought of tempering compassion with wisdom, of reconciling bitter wrath with cool temperance, of perservering when despair seemed so much easier.
As a knight Olyvar had sworn oaths to be brave and just, steadfast and wise, to protect women, the young, and the innocent, and to always remember that he too must die. What was a king, if not a knight who wielded a sceptre in place of a spear? If he must be King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, let him be a king who did his duty, who kept a ledger of what he owed the people of his realm, and repaid their loyalty with justice.
It was midafternoon when Olyvar finally ceased his vigil, his heart and mind at last content. The singers and the green men had not returned, but a leather bag sat amongst the ashes of his fire. When he picked it up, he heard them singing, the tune almost familiar. Warmth sank deep into his skin, his flesh, his bones, as if he stood in the Water Gardens upon a hot summer day.
"I would ask one more thing, if I may," Olyvar called. "A great battle awaits me before the sun goes down. If I fail, this isle will burn and die, as will the castle whose shadow falls upon the lake. Twice have dragons danced above your shores. I would witness these battles, if I may, so as to better defend your home."
"Look up down," a voice called.
Olyvar obeyed, looking down upon the ring of stone where he had built his fire. The ashes were gone; in their place rippled water clear as glass.
A massive black dragon filled the pool, four times the size of the slim silver dragon who dared challenge him. Balerion and Quicksilver. Their riders were tiny upon their backs; Maegor the Cruel, huge and monstrous, and Aegon the Uncrowned, slim and lean, just a boy. Dark flames swallowed up pitiful balls of silver fire, and then Balerion dove, slamming into Quicksilver with a roar that shook the world. Aegon's head snapped back as the black dragon grabbed the silver by the throat and tore, then turned his teeth on his wing. She fell screaming and sank beneath the lake, her rider still chained to his saddle.
The water rippled. The bronze dragon was almost as big as Balerion, her scales streaked with flecks of green and blue. Vhagar. Slowly the dragon rose, wheeling in wide circles, Aemond One-Eye constantly turning his head, looking for Daemon the Rogue Prince and the red dragon he rode.
Caraxes dropped like a bolt of lightning. Like Balerion, he went straight for the throat, ripping and tearing with his teeth. But Vhagar was no Quicksilver, small and helpless. Her massive jaws snapped at Caraxes' wing, her claws scrabbling at his soft belly, his entrails steaming. The dragons were barely staying aloft, their wings flapping desperately, their bodies entwined. With a scream Daemon abandoned his saddle, leaping for Aemond with his sword held high. By some miracle, his aim was true. The blade pierced through eye and skull and out the other side even as the dragons plummeted, crushing their riders beneath them as they smashed into the lake.
And Olyvar knew what he must do.
It was hard, waiting. He ate again, relieved himself, drank water to moisten his dry lips, breathed deep to calm his racing heart. Then it was time to pack his saddlebags; win or lose, neither Olyvar nor King Aegon would be returning here. He put his coif back on, and over it donned the helm he had brought with him, a barbute, polished mirror bright. A greathelm was too heavy, quick to overheat and hard to breathe in, and the thin eyeslit made it hard to see.
A light snow was falling as Olyvar secured himself in the saddle. He adjusted the chains to ensure he could release them quickly if need be, though he hoped it would not come to that. Once that was done, all he could do was wait some more. Snowflakes fell, melting and steaming when they drew near Viserion's golden horns and crest and spines. Soon the moon would be out; the battle would not begin until then.
Olyvar had seen it all so clearly, in his dream. The thin sliver of a waning crescent moon, hidden behind the clouds as the snow fell more heavily. The clouds parting, just for a moment, as if to show him his enemy in the light of the setting sun. One could often see more clearly in dreams than in the waking world, where distance blurred men into ants.
It was not a pretty sight. Rhaegal struggled to fly, his wings marred by scars and holes and rips where the scorpion bolts loosed by Hightower men had torn through. Only the biggest holes were healed; the smaller ones were open, or covered in lattices of flesh thin as threads, some of them turning dark as they rotted. Each flap of his wings made jade scales shed from his body, his one bronze eye glazed and dull. His left eye was only an empty socket, thanks to Lady Irri.
The rider looked even worse than the dragon. Euron Greyjoy might wear Valyrian scale armor gleaming with runes, but he had lost his helm. His face was a ruin, pale skin studded with chunks of shattered horn. Half his brow and scalp were gone; the venom had gnawed at skin and flesh until only the skull remained. His eyes were pits, the left eye black and shining with malice, the right eye white and blind, pierced by a splinter of horn the size of a pinky finger.
Any moment now, they would appear. Viserion knew it; she shifted beneath him, eager for battle. Olyvar could feel the she-dragon's bloodlust, her desire to fight and win. She would have wheeled over the isle if she could, rather than preserve her strength by waiting in the clearing. Viserion had not liked it when he told her no; she did not care whether or not the sight of her sent the folk of Harrenhal into a panic, and she was too confident in her own strength to fear wasting it.
"Patience," Olyvar told her.
Thank the Seven the air was calm; even a dragon could not contend against violent gusts of wind. The snow was falling more thickly now, much to Viserion's annoyance, but that could not be helped. Snowflakes whirled and danced—
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE!
There, to the west, a pinprick drawing larger as it emerged from the setting sun. Quick as thought, Viserion took to the sky with a shriek of defiance. In the dream Greyjoy had made for the Isle of Faces, but Olyvar took Viserion out over the lake, hovering betwixt Harrenhal and the Isle, a shield to defend whichever the madman tried attack first.
Can he even fight? Olyvar wondered as the dragon flapped closer through the falling snow. Rhaegal seemed barely able to keep aloft, let alone climb or dive. The beast was half dead, held together only by some fell sorcery. Then a gout of green flame lit the water, so hot Olyvar could almost feel a furnace wind wash over him. Well, so much for that, he thought as Rhaegal hovered below him, just out of the reach of Viserion's flames.
"BEHOLD!" Greyjoy's voice echoed over the lake, carried by some wind or spell. "I am come!"
"And soon you'll be gone," Olyvar quipped, unable to help himself.
"Only a fool mocks what he does not understand," Greyjoy said. "I am Euron Crow's Eye, the Last Reaver, the Bringer of Doom, the First Storm, and the Last. Who else would dare to break the Wall, to wake the Others from their endless slumber? They are my bannermen, and I am the Night's King. If you defy me, you will die. If you would save your life, abandon your gods and serve me instead."
"I see no king, no god," Olyvar said. His voice was thick with contempt; he could feel the fury pulsing in his veins as fear gave way to the cold calm of battle. "I see nothing but a thief, drunk on slaughter and arrogance. You will defile no holy places this night, nor ever again. I swear it by the old gods and the new. May they show you mercy, for I have none to spare."
And with that, he attacked.
Air rushed past him, his stomach lurching as the Viserion dove toward Rhaegal's blind side, blasting flame. Only the green dragon's erratic movement saved him, taking his rider out of the path of the flames just in time. Viserion shrieked her fury as she swooped back up to climb again, the smaller jade dragon screeching with pain as he tried to follow.
Too slow. Viserion might be bigger and heavier, but she was also in far better health. Again she dived, again on to the left, where Rhaegal was blind. Alas, Greyjoy was not. He whipped the dragon viciously, turning him away so that the pale flames scorched his shredded wings, not his rider.
Rhaegal's own gout of green flame missed by a mile, Viserion already climbing again. And as Viserion climbed, Olyvar's thoughts raced. Rhaegal barely heeded his master; he was a slave, a rabid dog on a chain.
This time, when Viserion dived, Olyvar aimed her at Euron's blind side, not the dragon's. Closer and closer they plummeted, yet Rhaegal did not reel away—
And a gout of pale golden flame engulfed his rider, the stench of charred meat choking the air before Euron Greyjoy even had the chance to scream. For a man with no gods has no gods to save him. Viserion did not shriek her triumph; her jaws were clamped on the joint of Rhaegal's wing as she ripped it off with a gush of steaming blood.
The green dragon fell, shrieking, his remaining wing flapping desperately to no avail. Their fight had taken them closer to Harrenhal; he plummeted not into the lake, but onto the shore, with a thud so loud it sent birds into the air, squawking wildly.
It was there that Olyvar landed, near the smoking corpse of the dragon, though he had Viserion blow dragonflame at Greyjoy again, just to be sure. As the man's face resembled nothing so much as a hunk of charcoal, Olyvar was reasonably sure the man was finally dead. Good riddance.
Soon enough men began to emerge from Harrenhal. Some walked, some rode horses, but their leader sat astride a mule, a crown of gold and crystal glimmering on his head and a tall golden staff in his hand. For courtesy's sake, Olyvar dismounted, though he stood close to his dragon. He was not the High Septon's superior, nor his subject, but the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, come to defend his people.
His High Holiness was not quite what Olyvar expected. Paul the Pious might be a dwarf, with coarse features and a bulbous nose, but he wore vestments of cloth-of-gold, not the humble robes of a holy brother. And he had a massive tail, seven Most Devout and seven times as many lay brothers and sisters. Oddly, it was not a septon or septa of the Most Devout who stood closest to His High Holiness, but a sister of the Crone. Almost everyone else wore looks of fear or wonder, but her homely face was as impassive as if she stood before the altar of a sept, not before the only two dragons to grace Westeros in over a hundred years.
"Your High Holiness," Olyvar said, when he tore his eyes away from the peculiar woman who refused to meet his gaze. Not that anyone had noticed; they were all too busy goggling at the dragons, one living, one dead. All save the High Septon.
"Hmm," said His High Holiness. He leaned slightly on his staff, whose seven-sided crystal top gleamed in the light of the rushes held by each of his folk.
The dwarf frowned, narrowing his eyes as if to see better. Oh, right, Olyvar had forgotten to remove his barbute and coif. He made quick work of them, cradling the helm under one arm, resisting the urge to smooth out his waves of steel-grey hair.
Paul the Pious kept staring at him, brow furrowed. "We have met before, I think," he said slowly. "But I-" his eyes went wide. "Ser Olyvar Sand?"
"That was the name of my youth," Olyvar agreed, ignoring the gasps and murmurs of the crowd. "But it is not the only name I bear. That is why I have come to seek your blessing, for I am Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name."
The murmurs grew to a clamor, holy brothers and sisters all talking over one another. The sister of the Crone was silent, and glaring so hard he half expected the Crone herself to come down and help the Most Devout shush them.
"King Aegon? But—"
"— he rides a dragon—"
"Strongspear, Strongspear!"
"Well met," Paul the Pious replied. His voice cut through the clamor like a blade; suddenly there was no other voice to be heard. An aura of power swelled up around the holy man, one far beyond his size, far beyond that of the fallen foe chained to his dead dragon. "I believe we have much to talk of… Your Grace."
Wooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!! HELL yeah! Can't wait to hear what y'all think :D
Thanks very much to strat, who once again helped with dragon battle choreography.
NOTES
1) Olyvar and Sansa are very much in the honeymoon phase of constantly jumping each other's bones because sex is new and fun and amazing. Plus, god knows they need the stress relief, lol.
2) Ravens make for a cool aesthetic, and they are very clever, but they would probably be terrible messenger birds. So far as I could tell from my research, they do not have the homing instinct which made pigeons so popular. Also, unlike pigeons, who are relatively docile and trainable, ravens enjoy pulling pranks and making problems. Also, they've been found to remember faces and hold grudges against humans who offend them, sometimes for years.
Sansa: hello, would anyone like to Make Problems?
Raven 1: wtf, it can talk?
Raven 2: YES I WOULD
Raven 3: problems? Yes? Yes?!
3) During the nearly 1,000 years of the medieval era, there were many varieties of armor, and of helmets. Great helms are the most common in ASoiaF. I'm not sure any of the other many varieties of medieval helm are specifically named, save for kettle helms. There are also possibly hounskulls; their shape matches the description of the Hound's unusual helmet.
Great helm, sometimes called a bucket helm, 13th-16th century
Kettle helm, 11th century
Hounskull, 14th-15th century
Armet, 16th century
While great helms give full facial protection, they are rather heavy, and make it difficult to see and breathe. Not good when riding on a dragon! The same problem comes up with 15th century armets. For Olyvar, I chose a barbute. Mostly used in Italy in the 15th century, the open T or Y shape would allow more air flow, and the eye openings are often larger than those of other helms.
Barbute, 15th century
As for Olyvar choosing chainmail over plate armor, I really liked the visual image in my head, and then worked backward to justify it, lol. While chainmail provides effective defense, including against arrows, plate armor is superior. However, plate armor can be much heavier than mail, especially if you wore a suit of heavy plate on TOP of your chainmail.
Also, hilariously, a chainmail hauberk can be removed by doing a handstand, making it much easier to slip out of if you fall into a body of water.
Since Olyvar knew he was gonna be fighting over a giant lake, he planned accordingly. And then it turned out to not be necessary, but hey, better safe than drowned.
4) Yes, Olyvar is being a bit hypocritical about Dorne's complicity in the Lannister regime. From his perspective, it's excusable because Dorne was always planning to turn on them and restore justice, whereas other lords were a-okay with ignoring Lannister crimes for their own benefit or due to cowardice. Olyvar would very much agree with John Stuart Mill, who once said "Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing."
5) I calculated Dragonstone--Duskendale as around 225 miles. With Viserion flying 50-60 mph, it took her roughly four hours. Duskendale -- Harrenhal is around 300 miles, so another 5-6 hours, arriving just before sunset. Does anyone care about this level of detail besides me? Probably not, but it helps me keep everything together in my head.
Rhaegal, meanwhile, is basically the dragon equivalent of a clunker held together by blood magicduct tape, constantly having to stop/rest and flying very slowly. Gee, almost like Euron did a half assed job healing him because he doesn't give a fuck about Rhaegal's health so long as he flies.
The tension between the magic and mundane is central to this story, and Olyvar's dream is a perfect example. Did the singular deity often called the Seven-Who-Are-One send the dream, and then appear before Olyvar? Was the dream caused by the magic of the singers and the ring of weirwood trees? Was it a mere nightmare, woven from stress and his subconscious and influenced by his faith? I'll never tell ;) And, frankly, it doesn't necessarily matter, what matters is what *Olyvar* believes.
6) I could not resist the epic vibes of a third battle over the God's Eye, and I've been having fun hinting at it for ages :D Well, slightly epic; Olyvar was so fucking Done and Rhaegal was so trashed that it wasn't much of a fight, lol.
Edythe stared at the tree. It looked plenty angry to her. Did it know the old gods were no longer worshipped here? Was it to blame for the strange nightmares that plagued Septa Becca? She'd woken one night screaming about dragons dancing above the God's Eye, sending half the Widow's Tower into fits of hysterics before Septa Prunella assured them all that the skies were clear, the dragons were a hundred years dead, and nightmares were nought but indigestion caused by an excess of rich food.
Edythe wasn't so sure about that. Brother Cletus ate nought but bread and salted fish, yet she'd heard him at the well not long after, telling Brother Pate he'd dreamt of dragons fighting in a winter storm. Brother Pate thought it must have been Maegor the Cruel slaying his nephew Aegon the Uncrowned, or perhaps Aemond Kinslayer and Prince Daemon, who'd fought over the God's Eye during the dance of the dragons.
"What color were the beasts?" Brother Pate asked, stifling a yawn.
"I could not say; the snow fell too thickly." Brother Cletus frowned. "One dragon was paler and larger than the other; I could barely see the riders."
Part IV, Edythe II
From the day they left Mele Nernar, Olyvar had dreaded a second meeting with Euron Greyjoy and the dragon Rhaegal...
Part IV, Sansa VI
Perhaps, if the gods were good, the jade dragon would turn on his rider, and eat him before Euron Greyjoy had the chance to burn any other cities. Or, gods forbid, to fight Olyvar again. Viserion had not bested Rhaegal the last time, only lured him to waiting archers. If it came to open battle...
Part V: Prologue (Meria)
