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There were thousands of ways to have someone killed. Brazen methods, like a blade to the heart or an arrow from the tree line. Hidden methods, like a boat that mysteriously sank or an 'accidental' fire in the targets keep. Underhanded methods, like poisoned wine at a feast or a sudden attack under a flag of truce.
Many in the Seven Kingdoms had removed their rivals by these means and others, in years current and years past. It was an integral part of holding a kingdom together, and a great deal more important than most men would like to admit. And it is a part in winning one as well, it seems.
But by the Seven do I hate this plan.
"If this goes badly…"
His wife sighed patiently, as she had done many times over the last fortnight of discussion and details. She slipped a hand into his own, pulling herself in closer to his side on the carriage's cushioned seat, and placed an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "It will not go badly, Aegon."
"Things can always go badly."
Arianne Martell—fetching in a winter dress of Targaryen black with a scarlet fleece about her shoulders, though the woman made everything look good—nudged him none-too-gently with her elbow. "I have had enough of this brooding. It will work, my love."
His wife was more confident than he, but persuasion was Arianne's greatest gift. She could talk a Northman away from his snow, a Pentoshi out of his coin, an Ironborn from the sea. Aegon's council, stubborn and wise as they were, had been no match. Where Aegon would never have been able to convince them himself, they had fallen one by one to his wife's persistent championing. The only man among them who had even had a chance of withstanding her had been Jon Connington, but he had been the first to agree, and then had been a major driving force in shaping the plot. He'd taken an almost manic stance opposing Daenerys, insisting that a son of Rhaegar should inherit over a sister "and dragons be damned".
Contingencies were discussed and discarded and redrawn. Plans were laid. Precautions were taken. Yet Aegon could only look at his wife's middle and the child growing there, and worry. He did not like the plot for a thousand reasons. He had stated them, time and again, but the constant championing of his entire council and the woman he loved had finally convinced him to go against his instincts.
Though I could still stop it. I have the power here, and whatever their grumbling I can force another path upon us all. A path with less risk, if much less reward.
He wondered if Rhaegar would have given in under the same pressures, or if he would have stood his ground. Aegon suspected he knew the answer, and it sickened him.
"You know where to go when things start? And where to go in the worst of circumstances?"
She smiled at him, though her grip on his hand grew noticeably tighter. "I know, my love."
"I wish you hadn't come."
"It was one of her demands, remember?"
"Of course I do. I still wish I could have kept you far from her. To risk you and our child…"
"Our ancestor Nymeria risked herself and a great many children when she left the Rhoyne," Arianne said, pressing another kiss to his cheek. It was a nervous tic, the naturally affectionate Princess of Dorne becoming almost excessively so when she was trying to hide that she was afraid. "I am not she, but no Martell shies away from their duty. Now hush."
Aegon did.
It was an hour after dawn when he stepped out of the carriage. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, but the sun had made one of its increasingly rare appearances, shining through the naked trees.
It was a beautiful day for a surrender, though a decidedly unpleasant location.
The town of Saltpans stood where the mouth of the Trident met the Bay of Crabs—or used to, anyway. Saltpans was now nothing more than a burnt-out ruin, almost every structure in it either a collapsed heap of charred wood or a blackened husk. The only thing to escape the flames had been the seat of House Cox, the landed knights who ruled Saltpans and the surrounding lands. More holdfast than castle, it was a single tall square keep and a bailey, enclosed by a curtain wall. Though it had escaped the destruction of the rest of the town, it too had been abandoned. Only the tattered remnants of the Cox standard remained, a white rooster on black and green rooster on white, divided by a golden sword.
Rumors differed about who had carried out the destruction. Some said Gregor Clegane, others his brother Sandor. Still more claimed it was the sellsword company the Brave Companions, or a simple band of broken men. Aegon did not know, and if Daenerys did, she had not shared. Whoever was responsible, they had been long gone when the two Targaryens selected it as their meeting place. Saltpans was close to Maidenpool, firmly in Aegon's control, while also near the border of the Vale, which swore fealty to Daenerys. Though the town itself was theoretically for Damon, no one had seen any sign of his forces anywhere near for moons, leaving the two Targaryens to sort out their politics without threat of Baratheon attack.
Though why that is is a growing mystery. Aegon had opted to keep most of his forces in the Crownlands until Daenerys had been sorted, but he had not given up his war with Damon—or rather, with Tywin Lannister. While Aegon had pushed north personally, he'd sent five thousand men west under Ser Symon Santagar to find just where the old lion was hiding. Ser Symon had met much the same resistance as Aegon, meaning skeleton garrisons that usually surrendered without a fight. He'd taken the Rayonet and the Rush and scores of towerhouses and towns that way, drawing barely any blood in the process. His only true resistance had been at Castle Wode, which had fallen after half a moon's siege. But afterward, things had gotten…odd.
He'd stopped finding enemies.
Briarwhite, Lakehaven, and Crossed Elms, though occupied by smallfolk, had offered no resistance. The seats of their lords had been abandoned, stripped of all resources from steel to flour, the families who controlled them gone. Ser Symon had found squatters in the castles and the stables empty, the larders as bare as the Dornish desert. Even Harrenhal, once Tywin Lannister's seat of power, was empty. Though the smallfolk had been interrogated, they all could answer but one thing; their lords had left. Caravans of wagons and provisions had taken to the roads and fled west.
West. He's there, somewhere. Aegon had halted Ser Symon at Harrenhal, to guard from Tywin while the Targaryens sorted themselves out. It had made a definitive line of control, and still marked where Aegon's information ended. Even Varys could tell the king nothing of what or who waited west of Ser Symon's army, for ravens sent to keeps deeper in the Riverlands went unanswered, and scouts on horseback or on foot or even dressed as smallfolk did not return. His once great spy network, the one that had kept news of Aegon's attack on King's Landing from making it's way north, had suddenly withered and died halfway through the Riverlands.
It didn't take much effort to discern why. Tywin Lannister, of course.
He's a cunning old man, Aegon admitted, hating himself for it. He cut all talks with the houses and keeps nearest us, the ones he knew would fall first. Sacrificed them, and then withdrew those farther away to some unidentified stronghold while purging his army and nobles and even the smallfolk of those he thought might be spies. I'll have to march into the Riverlands blind to find him, where I'm sure he has ambushes and traps aplenty waiting for me. Or I turn south to deal with the Tyrells and their bannermen and open myself up for Tywin to sweep in behind.
Gods do I need to know what is happening.
Gods do I need a dragon.
That last thought brought him back to the present, and Aegon mentally chided himself for letting his mind wander so far when there was such a task before him. He exited the carriage, reaching a hand up to help Arianne do the same. Four of his Kingsguard—Sers Rolly, Duncan, Daemon and Garibald—took up positions on either side, a score of men-at-arms in Targaryen livery waiting to fall into position. A group of ladies—Marei Rykker, the Fowler twins, Ella Rosby, a handful of olive-skinned and black-haired Dornishwomen, and two septas clad in gray—approached and curtsied, falling into place around Arianne. A septon joined his fellow members of the cloth, all three with grey hoods to protect their faces against the biting wind.
Aegon did not look at them, could not look at them. He instead gave a nod to Jon Connington and Harry Strickland, Captain of the Golden Company, and the various lords and ladies present. Most will be as surprised as my aunt when the time comes. Hopefully they won't be as dead. No one here knew of the plot save those key members in carrying it out, for they could run no risk that word would reach Daenerys. To strike like this and miss would be catastrophic. Not only will my honor be in shambles, but we all might well end up dead.
Truth be told his honor would be in shambles either way, whether he succeeded or not. Aegon had not had a decent night's sleep since the day he first sat upon the Iron Throne, but the last fortnight had been one of the Seven Hells itself. He was not so foolish to think a king could rely on honorable actions to win and hold a kingdom, much less seven of them; it was the dirty doings behind closed doors that truly kept a realm together. Yet still, he had sworn vows as a knight when he was seven and ten, and had tried to conduct himself in a way that honored those vows every chance he could since. To so egregiously forsake those oaths now, in this underhanded manner, rankled deep within him. It made him ashamed.
We must succeed. Even if we survive a failure, I will never be trusted again. We must succeed, and be the ones left to tell the story of what happened here. Or a story of what happened here, at least. If I am victorious, my narrative will be what people both living and unborn will believe, whatever the whisperings of those who know otherwise.
Cursing himself for allowing his mind to stray again, Aegon stepped forward to the waiting line of men and women, his procession falling into place behind him. Arianne was on his arm, and Aegon could swear he could feel her heartbeat through the layers of furs and cloth, but her face gave nothing away. She was a living portrait of a perfect queen, face stoic and regal. He hoped his own was just a fraction as calm and controlled, though it felt like all the world would know his innermost thoughts just by looking at him.
Aegon Targaryen subtly took a long breath in and held it, then slowly let it out. Calm yourself. Panic is not in your nature. He stood a hair straighter, his stride going from stuttering and uneven to confident. He was a king from a long line of kings—he did not shirk away from duty, or bow to fear.
They were waiting in much the same arrangement as the last dozen times they had met, a line of unsullied in their spiked caps and rigid postures. Ser Barristan Selmy, back in Kingsguard white, stood with one hand on his sheathed sword. Several Dothraki, his aunt's bloodriders, watched with unreadable copper faces. Baelish stood near the center, weaselish face smiling one of those smiles that turned Aegon's stomach. Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied. Missandei, former slave and handmaiden/confidant to Daenerys.
But there were new faces as well as the familiar ones. Baelish was accompanied by a stout, red-haired woman and a dark-haired boy, most certainly Lysa Tully Arryn and her son, the Lord Robert. Other lords and ladies of the Vale were present, judging by the colors and sigils they wore. The black iron studs and runes of House Royce, the broken wheel of Waynwood, the silver bells of Belmore and half a dozen others. He knew the names of their lords and ladies though he hadn't known the faces, glancing through and placing one with the other. Bronze Yohn Royce and kin. Lady Anya Waynwood and her considerable brood. A Corbray, though it was likely Ser Lyn judging by the sword on his side and not his brother Lord Lyonel of Heart's Home. Various other names and familial lines leapt from the corners of his brain, learned during years of study before he even considered returning to Westeros.
And they have all come to see a surrender. There will be surprises aplenty this morning.
He took note of two other faces, on the fringes of the conglomeration. One man was as tall as a tree and as broad as a bull, though he bore no heraldry and a hood shadowed his face and eyes. He was accompanied by a young woman wearing breeches, slightly built and barely a quarter of his size, her brown hair pulled back from a long face with sharp angles. She was watching him with light eyes, though he could not tell at this distance quite what color, and like her companion wore no heraldry.
Aegon did not linger on the odd duo, looking over the rest quickly. One face was missing, but that was her norm. Each and every meeting she had attended, Daenerys Stormborn had ridden in on Drogon after Aegon had arrived, a very clear message made clearer when Viserion and Rhaegal began joining them. Their presence on the ground tended to illicit a cacophony of panicked whinnies and stomping hooves from the horses of both parties, an annoying backdrop to negotiations. Assuming the sight of dragons in the sky above was a clear enough threat—a promise of unmatchable violence if any treachery befell her—Daenerys had made it her custom to send the dragons back into the air, where they soared overhead throughout the negotiations in lazy circles. It bought silence for their talks.
It was also a mistake. A window of vulnerability, Barristan Selmy and the Unsullied aside.
Petyr Baelish spoke, having been the main mouthpiece of Daenerys' party from the start. He wore a cloak of yellow with dozens of small black mockingbirds, though a patch bearing the moon and falcon of Arryn was on clear display on the right breast. "Good morning, Prince Aegon, Princess Arianne. Her Grace is most pleased at your wisdom in accepting her terms."
Prince Aegon. It was one of the terms they'd "agreed" to; he was to be granted the Lordship of Dragonstone, which he already held, and the associated station it had once represented; heir to the throne. It was a pittance, especially considering all the held ground he would be trading in, but Daenerys had been insistent. She did not want Aegon to have any true power of his own beyond those he naturally held with the Golden Company and with Dorne, not until she felt he was firmly in her camp.
Intuitive of her, considering.
Aloud Aegon spoke calmly and confidently, even if he felt none of that. "I am pleased to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, Lord Baelish. There will be plenty enough left to spill after our agreement is met." He looked up through blackened tree branches, searching for three distinctive dots. "Her Grace is late today."
Baelish smiled, though Lysa Tully huffed somewhat pointedly. No love between her and Daenerys, then. "You know the Queen loves her entrances."
Aegon nodded, seeing the dots as they wheeled around the far distant Mountains of the Moon. "Indeed I do."
And indeed she did.
Daenerys landed with all the magnificence and grandeur she had shown at Duskendale, albeit without the roasting and devouring of corpses. Drogon, somehow even bigger than the last time Aegon had seen him, towered above all, even his siblings. Rhaegal, named for Aegon's father, was half his size, though even that was still massive. Viserion, named after Aegon's uncle, was the smallest of the lot, but even he loomed menacingly, three terrible, beautiful beasts of war.
The sigil of my house…and hopefully not the death of me.
Daenerys dismounted, in that coat of white and black fur that complimented her Valyrian features so well. She wore no crown as she walked towards the assembled parties, though that was part of the arrangement as well; her brow would soon bear the Valyrian steel and rubies that currently sat Aegon's own.
Viserion and Rhaegal, as expected, returned to the skies as Daenerys took her place beside Barristan Selmy, two dozen paces in front of Aegon and Arianne. With great buffeting flaps of their wings, they rose, twisting around one another as they did so in a beautiful green and white swirl through the sunlight.
Drogon, however, did not budge. His great eyes, golden and far smarter than any animal's should be, settled on Aegon and did not move.
Fuck.
Daenerys spoke as her nephew's mind reeled, unaware of how this deviation of her dragon staying on the ground had thrown everything into chaos. "I am glad to see you here, nephew. And it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Princess Arianne." The queen's face took on a suitably saddened tone. "I am sorry about your brother, Prince Quentyn. He was a good man."
What happens now? Why did the fucking dragon stay? If we strike while he is still on the ground, there will be no escape for any of us. If he's in the sky we at least have a chance. I fucking knew this was an awful plan. Am I surrendering truly then? That's the only way. Damn that Drogon, damn everything about this. Jon and the others—
Arianne, bless her beautiful visage, was quicker on her feet than her husband. "I understand he made a poor decision involving dragons, Your Grace." She slid closer to Aegon's side, as if shying into his protection. "Was it that one in particular?"
Daenerys turned, and the look of surprise that lingered on her face when she turned back told Aegon this was no intentional deviation from the norm on her part. "No. That was Rhaegal, in defense of his sibling."
Aegon leapt at the opportunity his wife had so cleverly given him. "If it please you, Your Grace, might you send him to join the others? My lady wife is understandably discomfited by Drogon being so near." Arianne did a wonderful job of looking at Drogon with terror, and even Aegon wasn't certain if it was faked or not.
Daenerys cocked her head, face hardening. "My dragons are my children, and you are married to one who is of their blood. While I regret Quentyn's death, a woman in your position will not be able to avoid them long."
I cannot let this opportunity escape. "Please, Your Grace, just for today. You know the pain of losing a brother; grant this one small mercy. Consider it a final request of our agreement."
Daenerys eyed him long and hard, violet eyes searching. Aegon met them, trying with all his might to look beseeching and not show how close to the edge he was.
Finally, Daenerys' face softened. "While I will not make this concession again, I will relent today, if only for the sake of lost brothers." She turned back to the black-scaled dragon, who had never taken his eyes from Aegon.
"Gūrogon tīkun, Drogon." Aegon startled for a minute, unused to hearing High Valyrian anywhere but in his lessons with Haldon, and his mind took a moment to switch from common. Take wing, Drogon.
Drogon did not budge.
Daenerys took a step towards him, then repeated the phrase. "Gūrogon tīkun, Drogon."
The great black beast stirredthis time, letting a deep reptilian growl escaping his jaws as he eyed Aegon. He knows something is amiss.
But Daenerys was trapped now. Her greatest claim to legitimacy over Aegon was the dragon she rode, and her lords and ladies from the Vale were present to see her control over the beast. She spoke again, even more insistently, gesturing with her arm.
Ser Barristan Selmy, brow furrowed, looked between the dragon and Aegon Targaryen and back again.
To Aegon's immense relief, Drogon took wing at last, the wind from his wings bathing them in fine crystals of snow. He rose into the sky to join his siblings, a black mass joining the swoops of green and gold, Aegon's heart finally slowed from racing to merely sprinting as he did so.
Daenerys turned back to them, face a careful mask. Aegon imagined she was hiding her unease at Drogon's disobedience, though he found his aunt a hard one to read. "Shall we begin?"
Aegon took another long breath in and out, then nodded.
He and Arianne took a few steps forward, closing the distance between the two Targaryens. Slowly, Aegon drew Blackfyre, rubied pommel in one hand and flat of the smoky Valyrian steel blade the other. Then, desperately trying to keep his face a blank mask, he knelt, offering the blade towards Daenerys.
And spoke already broken oaths.
"I, Aegon of House Targaryen, swear fealty to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, as does all my household. I swear it by earth and water, by iron and steel, by fire and blood."
It was a simple vow, to have such profound meaning. A simple oath, to make him an oathbreaker.
Daenerys replied. "I accept this oath, nephew, and welcome you in as kin and name you my heir. Please, keep Blackfyre, the sword of our house, and wield it in my name. Rise." This too had been agreed upon, a concession to all Aegon was forfeiting.
He stood as bid, then kept his head bowed as Arianne knelt to swear a similar vow. She too would be an oathbreaker after this day. The seven forgive us for this, and for what we do next.
Though how can they.
He helped his wife back to her feet, and with a calmness he envied, Arianne Martell gestured behind her. "While in King's Landing, Your Grace, Aegon has made many inroads with the High Septon, the one they call the High Sparrow. He has sent three of his number, including one of the Moust Devout, to witness these oaths." She gestured back, and the two septas and one septon moved forward, hands folded, heads bowed.
They drew even with Aegon and Arianne. His wife took a small, subconscious step back and behind the men and women of the cloth, as the septon—big, portly, with a voice like a thundering trumpet—began to speak. Aegon's blood froze when she did, but Daenerys did not seem to notice, and had she had any worries to voice, they would have been drowned out by the septon. "If it is acceptable to you, Queen Daenerys, I would like to lead this congregation in beseeching the Seven Who Are One in blessing this moment. While the High Septon wishes to meet you before blessing your reign, His Holiness has a fondness for and a good relationship with your nephew. He hopes and prays to have the same for and with you."
It was all planned and discussed. The fealty, the prayers. Daenerys Targaryen, unsuspecting, gave her assent, then bowed her head as the septon began speaking to the Seven in his booming voice. The lords and ladies of both sides did the same.
It was then that Nymeria Sand struck.
His cousin was smooth, so effortlessly precise. As the septon's voice boomed and the nobles bowed their heads, the daughter of Oberyn Martell drew a dagger from the sleeves of her gray septa robes. Aegon watched the strike as if it were in slow motion, the perfect twist of the hips and flick of the wrist, as practiced and accurate as if she had done this very thing a thousand times. While the world had slowed to Aegon, the strike itself was as quick as a viper's, living up to the Sand Snake name. The blade was out of Nymeria's hand and to Daenerys before anyone could react.
Anyone but Ser Barristan Selmy, it seemed.
Maybe Barristan had been forewarned by Drogon's reluctance to leave. Maybe he had noted Arianne's subconscious move to bring the septas and septon between herself and Daenerys. Maybe he was just a brave man with good instincts, honed by decades of service as a Kingsguard. Whatever the case, the knight in white reacted and dove for his queen in the same instant. He was either too slow or Nymeria too fast for Barristan to stop the dagger entirely, be it with his own blade or his own body, but he did throw a desperate hand out, shoving his queen's shoulder with all his might.
The blade still struck Daenerys Targaryen. It still sank deep. But instead of piercing her heart, the blade dug in high and right of the mark. She crashed to the ground, twisting from the impact of both dagger and Barristan, blood turning her white cloak and the snow beneath her crimson.
All Seven of the hells broke loose.
Nymeria leapt forward, another dagger in hand. She was joined by the other 'septa', her sister Obara drawing a blade of her own as she shouted vile curses from her robes. The septon joined them a moment later, his bellowing prayer turning into a bellowing war cry as he made for the downed queen.
But they were not the only ones to act. Despite their surprise her Dothraki were at her side at once, arakh's flashing in the winter sun. Grey Worm and his dozen Unsullied moved forward, and some of the nobles from the Vale did so as well. Behind him, amid the shouts of confusion and fear, he heard his Kingsguard rush forward, likely with some of the quicker acting men-at-arms and Jon Connington. Others from both sides scattered in all directions, panicked and flailing, like ants disturbed from their hill.
And, with roars of anger, the dragons descended.
We are undone.
Arianne was already fleeing, ushered away by Ser Garibald as Dothraki , Unsullied and various knights both Kingsguard and noble met in a bloody melee over the wounded Mother of Dragons. The various black-haired Dornishwomen among the others had dropped their cloaks to show dresses identical to the one worn by their Queen. With bravery worthy of the battlefield they dashed into the woods in various directions, some with companions and some all alone, trying to confuse any possible pursuit about which of them was actually Arianne Martell.
Aegon was supposed to flee as well. He should already be atop one of the carriage's mounts, cut free from its tack at the start by Harry Strickland, and galloping into the relative safety of the woods towards Maidenpool.
But Nymeria had missed. The dagger blow was dangerous, but it had not struck her heart, and Daenerys' companions had kept the Sand Snakes from finishing the job for certain. This had been their best and maybe only chance to kill Daenerys on the ground, and they had so far failed. If she lived, if she managed to escape, she and her dragons would hunt Aegon to the ends of the earth.
He had no armor, but he still had Blackfyre drawn.
Aegon Targaryen joined the melee as Obara Sand died, opened from hip to collarbone by an arakh. He avenged his cousin by removing the Dothraki's head with a vicious two-handed sweep, then deflected an Unsullied spear and slashed open his throat. He drove deeper into the mess, trying to reach where Ser Barristan Selmy crouched over his queen.
Dragonflame engulfed the field.
From what Aegon had read and studied, dragons didn't see the world in terms of friend and foe; they saw the world and everything in it as prey. A rider could direct their hunger and rage onto enemies, and the dragonkeepers of old managed to avoid death by keeping their charges sated with sheep and oxen and beef, but dragons themselves did not care what colors a man wore or who he aligned with politically. This was proven when Rhaegal's first wave of flame swallowed both Rolly Duckfield and an Unsullied, their dying screams brief but agonized.
Another blast burned someone in the colors of House Royce and another of the Dothraki, as well as two of Aegon's own men-at-arms. The cold of the morning was replaced by sheer overwhelming heat and the scent of burning flesh.
The Seven have already begun my punishment.
Drogon did not breath fire amidst the chaos. The great dragon instead landed, crushing the fake septon beneath a great clawed foot and knocking Nymeria Sand away with a swing of his giant head. Roaring, he tucked Barristan Selmy and Daenerys under a black wing and tore into those surrounding them with tooth and claw.
Again made one final, desperate dash towards his aunt while Drogon had his head turned, but a lashing tail caught Aegon full in the chest, and the king found himself tossed backwards like a discarded doll.
He must have lost consciousness for a moment, for the king suddenly found he was face down in soot and snow, his chest and head screaming in pain while the sounds of dying men and women and billowing fire echoed all around. In a daze he found his feet, crown gone but Blackfyre still in his hand.
Drogon was still in the center where Daenerys had been, an impenetrable wall of black scales that killed indiscriminately all around him. His siblings crossed through the air, burning members of both sides in the chaos. The beautiful morning was now filled with smoke and blood.
I have failed. I am an oathbreaker, an attempted kinslayer.
And dead, if I do not flee.
Part of him wished for nothing more than that death.
The other part used the cover of the madness all around to stagger to the where the Trident met the sea, sheath Blackfyre, and slip into the freezing waters.
A/N: *tease* The bloody bickering of grown children.
Side note, only one more chapter until we're back at the Wall!