Chapter 4
Present Day
Hair soft as silk shifted ever so slightly under his ginger touch. His lips ghosted over his youngest's forehead, delicate enough to avoid rousing Naerys from her slumber.
With deep circles under his eyes, Maelys paused for a moment to watch over his sleeping daughter, committing every detail he could to memory.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he made his rounds through the apartment, saying one-sided goodbyes to each of his children.
With practiced ease, he placed Jaehaera's knit dragon under her arm and smoothed out the tangled mess she'd made of her blankets.
Maelor had -again- drooled over his dragon egg, so Maelys took a second to clean off the colorful treasure lest it be left to Helaena or the servants. Swirls of silver and green gleamed in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. The egg emanated heat in the prince's hands despite its inert state.
He gently nestled it back next to his son.
He saw movement in his periphery, but rather than address the shadow stalking his movements for the past few minutes, Maelys donned his riding gear and strapped an ornate dagger to his waist.
He glanced in the mirror and despite over two decades wearing this skin was still half-expecting to see a different face staring back at him. The stranger frowned, noticing a fleck of dried blood along his temple.
The gnawing, pleading sensation of guilt welled in the man's chest for but a moment, but Maelys choked the life out of it like he had every time before.
The silver-haired prince went over to stand by the doorway and turned.
"Māzīs," he spoke into the quiet room.
Without a word, Jaehaerys darted out from his hiding place behind a chair and latched onto his father's leg. Hooking two hands under his eldest's arms, Maelys brought him up to his chest, so they could talk at eye level.
Jaehaerys, of course, was having none of that. Two small arms wrapped around Maelys, and a face buried itself in the crook of his neck.
Within a few moments, his shoulder become damp.
Between the sobs and comforting words Maelys offered, he heard his son ask why he had to go. Rather than try to make him understand, the prince rubbed wide circles along his child's back.
Later, as he crested the clouds on Ghostfyre, Maelys wondered how many times his previous children had asked the same question.
A fortnight later
Hell had come to the Riverlands.
The shriek of splitting stone competed with the shrill cries of mercy. A jet of flame carved through the structure in front of them. There was a brief moment where the walls bent outward with an unearthly glow before the entire building exploded in a hail of death and debris.
Ghostfyre cut off the dragonfire to arch her neck backwards, narrowly avoiding a spear thrown by an oncoming and particularly courageous enemy knight. A quick flick of her tail knocked his horse prone with enough force to shatter bone before the vengeful wyrm stamped down on the rider for good measure.
Where the fuck did you learn that? The prince idly wondered before the impact of an arrow against his breastplate pulled him back to the matter at hand.
Maelys barked a command in High Valyrian, and his companion released another torrent of fire, sweeping the upper stories of houses lining the street.
Another second of screaming met his hears before the few dozen or so voices were snuffed out.
The prince waited a moment to check for a follow up attack but was left only with the roar of collapsing homes and the din of nearby fighting.
Ghostfyre quirked her head up, and then turned the pair towards an oncoming rider bearing the symbol of House Bracken. Maelys commanded his dragon to be calm lest she got overzealous.
Unfortunately, that didn't prevent the messenger from ending up on the ground when his horse felt they'd gotten a bit too close to the testy dragon. Maelys could hardly blame it. Ghostfyre was rather irritable at the best of times.
To the man's credit, he bore what was likely a few busted ribs with incredible poise.
"My grace! Ser Raylon reports a host of riders coming from the north. They wear the colors of House Roote."
Maelys nodded at the man and immediately set off to intercept them. His dragon wove between rising pillars of smoke, and the prince caught glimpses of Blackwood forces collapsing under the onslaught of advancing Bracken soldiers. Streaks of flame cut the village into sections, cutting off exits and preventing any contingent of enemy soldiers from reinforcing one another.
Indeed, a column of riders barreled down towards the green host, and the prince could just make out the green and brown banners signifying House Roote.
At least Maelys had an answer regarding their loyalty.
With a tug of her reins, Ghostfyre dipped and hurtled towards the grounds, circling in such a manner to approach the horde near-perpendicular.
"Drakarys"
Flame erupted from Ghostfyre's maw, tearing through man, horse, and earth near the front of the column. He strafed widely, so as to curtail any forward movement as even the most battle-trained war horses refused to cross dragonfire.
Without even needing a command, his mount twisted and turned, preparing for another pass like a well-oiled machine.
Ahead of him, Maelys could see the cavalry breaking apart. The horses nearest the flame dug in their hooves, refusing to advance and were subsequently impacted by the lines of riders behind them. Agonized yells rang out across the open field as men were burned or crushed beneath the growing mass.
Despite the evolving chaos, a number of soldiers still managed to draw ranged weaponry, and the second pass was met with a hail of arrows.
Maelys waited a beat, judging the distance before shouting a command to his companion. Immediately, his dragon adjusted her wings, and the pair dropped a good 30 meters.
While the maneuver didn't fully avoid the volley as evidenced by the ricochet of arrows off Ghostfyre's scales and, occasionally, his armor, it certainly helped them buffet the storm.
Another torrent of flame, and the host broke entirely with screaming riders dispersing in all directions.
The prince pursued the survivors meticulously, carving deep, flaming furrows into the ground in winding patterns to corral the horsemen into kill zones.
The smell of ash and charred flesh assaulted his nostrils.
The few survivors fled either as singles and pairs, and the prince directed his mount back towards Mudgrave when he deemed his impact would be greater there rather than hunting stragglers.
With surprising grace, his metric fuck-ton of a dragon made landfall near the village gates. Around them, horses bucked, and men cowered, unused to the proximity of a living force of nature.
Ghostfyre snorted, probably quite pleased with herself, Maelys imagined.
"My prince, the village is ours," an armored knight stated unhelpfully as the prince dismounted.
"For an hour perhaps," Maelys replied drily, glancing towards the maelstrom of fire quickly encompassing the remaining structures. "And the prisoners?"
"Ser Raylon ordered them to be corralled just south of here," the man supplied. "Shall I bring him here?"
Maelys nodded, grabbing a basin of water and pouring it over his shoulders. "And those prisoners of the highest rank," he called out after the retreating man. The knight may have replied something to the affirmative, but the prince honestly had no idea.
No one seemed to mention the horrible tinnitus caused from fighting on dragonback. He had a new and profound respect for air traffic controllers and the like.
"Ghostfyre, leave the attendants alone," he said absentmindedly without turning. A dragon-sized snort interrupted with prayers of relief filled the air.
The prince devoted the next few minutes in a vain attempt to dislodge the buildup of grime on his face and armor before Ser Raylon's greeting roused his attention.
"My prince," the Riverman's casual and heavily accented voice rang out. "I take it the cavalry is no longer a concern?" Maelys nodded, slicking back his water and sweat-soaked hair.
The bastard of Stone Hedge cut an imposing figure. A thick, muscular frame filled out the gore-coated armor. A burnt and blackened cloth depicting a flaming red stallion hung loosely from dented plate, indicating Raylon's preference to lead from the front.
Stupid, in Maelys' opinion, but certainly inspiring to the men.
"Any word from your brother?" The Valyrian asked and was promptly given a folded note that had been tucked within the Bracken's garb. Maelys chose not to focus on the moisture of fresh sweat permeating the parchment.
We're here – come burn these tree-worshipping fucks.
Succinct and to the point. Maelys murmured a quick prayer of thanks for Amos Bracken and wished he had ten more just like him.
"I'll be heading out shortly. Is there anything else you need here?" The prince asked. Raylon shook his head.
"This should be the last of them," the man replied, walking over towards a war map haphazardly set up nearby on a makeshift command table. Maelys stepped over, letting his eyes drift over the paper.
Thick and blotchy red X's flanked either side of the path Ser Amos's host had taken after crossing the Red Fork. The clean and crisp paper contrasted sharply with the carnage and devastation left behind at each village or stronghold that had been struck through.
While Humfrey Bracken had practically been foaming at the mouth to run unfettered towards his familial rival, Prince Maelys had been quite clear that the promise of Lord Paramountcy rested on his ability to follow commands. Thus, despite honeyed words of protest in letters, and likely much more colorful grumbling in private, his son, Amos, had sat with the combined hosts of Bracken, Vance, Strong, Mooton, and Butterwell while awaiting dragonfire support.
Support which turned what may have been a green defeat while crossing the Red Fork into a massacre of black troops. After all, the Riverlands offered little means of cover from dragonback, especially when employed against forces lined up to defend a riverbank.
With the stallion lord now free to march on Lord Samwell's seat of power, Maelys took the opportunity to help Ser Raylon. Together, their small force pursued the survivors from their opponent's shattered host as well as any town or stronghold offering their enemy shelter. Better to leave nothing to chance than allow them to regroup and attack Amos' rear.
"Sister-fucking tyrant," a venom-laced yell assaulted Maelys' poor ears. The offender was treated with a blow to the back of the head and fell to his knees. An unfortunate series of event as those he was shackled to were pulled down into the dirt with him.
And, cue the prisoners, he thought, letting his gaze lazily drift over the motley crew. Garb sporting the colors of a variety of regional colors filled his vision.
The prince laughed when he counted Lord Petyr Piper among them. Thankfully, George had placed all the humorously named characters on the opposite side of the war. Working alongside a 'Kermit' would have been a special kind of hell.
"You would be delusional to think this would make us bend," the lord of Pinkmaiden spat out. Maelys thought the defiant tone was a little less effective when spoken from the dirt, but to each their own.
Rather than reply, the Valyrian prince placed both hands behind him and allowed himself to lean back against the command table. A contented sigh escaped his lips when he offloaded some of his armor's weight. Dragon riding in full plate did a number on one's joints. He thoughts were pulled towards his wife, or rather, her hands. Helena's talent as a masseuse was a balm to the body and soul.
"Is this a joke to you," another prisoner growled, pulling Maelys back to the moment. Sweat was ejected from silver locks as he shook his head.
"You are quite right," the royal offered. "About not bending that is. You're much too proud to do so, and, after I slaughtered your men, I would never trust you even if you did," he clarified.
"Hostages then?" A younger voice asked. A Smallwood judging by the acorn sigil attached to the man's armor. Maelys shook his head and was met with furrowed brows. "The block then," another tried, again laced with that same defiant tone.
"Nope," Maelys offered unhelpfully. The prisoners exchanged confused glances. A few shuffled uncomfortably.
"Stop playing your games," Petyr barked out, joining the conversation once again. "We may be your enemy, but our houses have governed this region while your people were still fucking sheep in Essos. Address those of our lineage with the respect we deserve."
A small smile reached the prince's lips.
"Of course," he assented. "Woe of me to mistreat those of your stock. Noble blood carries a lot of history, and it would be a crime to waste." Maelys uncrossed his arms and gestured widely. "It is among the world's rarest vintages."
He could see the group's dark visages begin to fragment as confusion permeated their features. Confusion and fear.
Trembling, wide-eyed soldiers stepped back as the ground began to rumble. Maelys could see the men flinch with each and every one of the heavy footsteps. A sticky, moist sensation settled on his skin as acrid, humid panting filled the air.
Maelys' warm and unblinking gaze never left the prisoners as horror dawned on their faces.
"Why would I treat my companion with anything but the best?" The pale dragon rumbled as if echoing his words.
The Targaryen prince snapped his fingers.
The resulting screams and pleading were quickly drowned out by a melody of snapping and tearing. Well, that, and the retching of those watching nearby.
Later, as he adjusted his riding gloves atop Ghostfyre's bulk, he called down to Ser Raylon.
"I need you on the road by tomorrow," Maelys commanded. "No extra baggage to slow you down." Ser Raylon, nodded, taking the order for what it was.
"It will be done by nightfall," he confirmed, glancing towards the mass of prisoners located south of the ruined village. "No survivors."
"No survivors," Maelys echoed. And with that, he took off towards Raventree Hall.
48 hours later
For one blissful second, the sounds of dying men were drowned out by the earth-rattling crack of the stone tower. The uncontrolled destruction of the granite structure was almost beautiful in a morbid sort of way. The great slabs seemed to come apart in slow motion as the tower listed backwards. Those who would be victims of this fiery hell had time to realize their fate well before they were buried beneath a maelstrom of fire and molten rock.
Keeping his head down under the rain of arrows, Maelys barked out the command again. With a screech of fury, Ghostfyre whipped her head back before unleashing a torrent of flame against the adjacent watchtower's base.
The second structure befell a fate similar to its twin. Those archers unlucky enough to be manning the top were thrown indiscriminately as the ground below them bucked and crumbled. The few men able to keep their footing chose to throw themselves towards the outer moat in a courageous attempt at survival.
As if personally affronted, Ghostfyre's long, slender neck struck out like a silver viper. One unfortunate soul was snatched out of the sky by her great maw and was transformed into a red mist when promptly dashed against the outer walls.
"Naejot," Maelys commanded, and his mount surged forward. With a sound akin to colliding boulders, the wyrm's mass impacted the front gate now without the support of the adjacent square towers.
Those on the other side lucky enough to have survived the falling rock were either crushed under the massive iron frame, or suddenly confronted with a live dragon in their midst.
Without hesitation, Ghostfyre took away their choice of fight or flight by sweeping the area with dragonfire in a wide arc.
A cheer erupted from the greens behind them. The prince gave the command to take flight as Amos' army poured through the new opening created by the pair. After the draconic onslaught, Maelys saw few defending men retain any sort of formation and were quickly driven into the ground by the momentum of attacking soldiers.
While circling the castle from above, Maelys took great care in his next commands of attack as dragons weren't particularly skilled at precision strikes. Beneath him, the prince could feel a rumbling of annoyance welling deep inside the wyrm's chest.
With passable success though only just so, his companion released brief jets of flame. The tops of the remaining towers positioned at angles along the outer wall exploded in flame though none collapsed outright. The screams of those manning the tops, however, were quickly snuffed out.
The prince was surgical in his approach. After the vertical threat was neutralized, he turned his attention towards the groups of defenders positioned behind each of the remaining gates. While he chose not to make further openings for the horde surrounding Raventree Hall as Lord Humfrey had been promised a relatively intact keep, Maelys focused on groups of soldiers maintaining any form of cohesion.
Now for the psychological victory.
Banking Ghostfyre in a shallow dive, Maelys angled them towards the massive white weirwood occupying the godswood.
Before he could even give the order, his head whipped to the side from an impact against his helmeted temple. Instantaneously, a second, and then a third strike reverberated against his plate before the prince found his vision nearly obscured by a torrent of feathers.
An unkindness? For some reason, the term he'd probably picked up from bar trivia a lifetime ago, occupied the center of his racing thoughts.
The swarm of ravens engulfed the rider, and he had to release the reins with one hand to shield the slits of his helm. The sound of battle and raging wind was drowned out by hundreds of shrill cries and beating wings.
A stinging sensation erupted from his right shoulder. Razor sharp beaks interrogated very gap in his armor, and soon blood freely ran from the skin over his joints. A cry erupted from his lips as he swatted at the swirling darkness in vain.
Maelys body jolted from the sudden, writhing movements of his mount, and a shiver running down his spine indicated they'd begun to lose altitude.
In the briefest of moments when he could see through the black curtain in front of him, he noted Ghostfyre was similarly affected. His mounts head whipped chaotically in all directions, and he realized the creatures were trying to reach Ghostfyre's eyes.
Searing pain erupted from his own left brow as one raven nearly succeeded in penetrating the globe. Snapping them shut, Maelys fought to be heard over the chorus of birds.
"Ninkiot," he shouted. Though unable to see their surroundings, he felt his mount maneuver to obey. Gravity shifted around them from the rapid, nearly uncontrolled descent.
Without warning or the grace of a typical landing, Maelys felt the earth buckle underneath their impromptu landfall. Unfortunately, the black swam were undeterred, and, if anything, intensified as if in a crazed frenzy.
A growl emanating from the mount beneath him was the only warning he received before Ghostfyre flapped her wings in massive arcs. The turbulent wind this created offered a brief but welcome reprieve from the onslaught. Using the momentum she'd created, the wyrm jumped backwards. The prince was thrown forward against her, nearly impaling himself on a spike at the base of her neck.
Maelys' fresh wounds stung under the heat of nearby dragonflame, and the prince peeled his eyes open to see the swam they'd just escaped from get bathed in flame.
The black, swirling mass vaporized in front of them with the few survivors breaking away as if they'd never targeted the pair in the first place.
Ghostfyre lifted her head in a defiant screech, and Maelys had but a moment to see both of her eyes had survived the ordeal though blood oozed from gashes within her mouth. She didn't wait for a command before launching herself into the sky in a dark rage.
Maelys vision swam as the world summersaulted from the sudden takeoff, and he fought to regain purchase on the reins. He saw brief flashes of the battle, or perhaps slaughter, underneath him. The armed masses stormed into the outer buildings of the castle, and the dine of battle was nearly enough to drown out Ghostfyre's vengeful cries.
The prince's bones shook with the impact of another landing, and he was only allowed a moment of respite before his mount again surged forth towards her target.
Bone white and with gnarled roots, the massive monolith dominated the center of the sacred grove, offering shelter to a few castle servants cowering beneath its empty branches.
The pale wyrm bellowed one final challenge.
Unnatural flame bathed the landscape, and the once peaceful clearing developed an orange glow. The entire grove was quickly engulfed. Soon, what once stood as a place of worship for centuries became indistinguishable from the ruins of Valyria.
The Targaryen royal's knuckles turned white from the force he used to wrap around the scales of her neck. The sudden stillness of their environment was jarring, and both he and his mount were locked in place, panting heavily. A welcome numbness began to spread over his lacerated skin, and the prince leaned his weight against Ghostfyre in exhaustion. The low rumbling from deep in her chest helped calm his racing heart.
Sometime later, as Maelys stood amidst the destruction, he wondered if Jaehaerys would appreciate how the floating ash looked like falling snow.
Later, approaching dusk
Weaving his way amongst the torn decorations and broken furniture, Maelys walked to his chambers in the upper apartments. While the battle had ended hours earlier, the servants toiled relentlessly to remove the plethora of bodies and debris littering the halls. The smell of death and smoke hung heavy in the air.
Farther along, low grunts and heavy breathing punctuated the rhythmic sound of wood striking stone. A single pained moan broke through the din.
Close the door, you horse-fucking prick, Maelys mentally cursed as he passed the open doors of the master's chambers.
A mass of black, tangled hair spilled over the edge of a dark, wooden bedframe. The prince almost couldn't make out the bloodshot eyes nearly obscured by a canvas of swelling and bruises.
Blood oozed freely out of the broken nose and slack jaw of the woman Ser Amos ravaged in the Lord's chambers of Raventree Hall. The skin of her back was split open from a dozen lashes, and Maelys could see a broken bow cast aside near the door.
The Valyrian man tore his eyes away from the ruined and moaning figure of Alysanne Blackwood to stare down the keep's likely new ruler.
"We leave on the morrow," Maelys intoned. "I'm not in the habit of leaving claimants alive when I take a castle." For his part, Amos seemingly nodded in agreement as if he'd never planned for her to survive the ordeal.
Satisfied, Maelys stalked away.
Without further interruptions, the prince acknowledged the guards outside his chambers, and shut the door once inside. Armed with the dagger on his belt, he took a moment to check the room for hidden occupants or false walls before allowing himself to relax.
The newly sewn skin over his joints stung in protest as he stripped down to his nightwear. Stepping in front of the water basin he'd instructed to be left in his room, the prince meticulously cleaned his hands of grime and the blood of one Benjicot Blackwood.
With a gentle touch, Maelys removed the small, hand-crafted necklace his children had painstakingly crafted out of a black cord and one of Ghostfyre's pearly scales. He placed it next to the maps littering the chamber's desk.
He glanced over the detailed, overlapping charts of all the lands between Raventree Hall and the Golden Tooth. Scrawled notes jotted against the backdrop of rivers and flood plains indicated the path of Ser Raylon's host towards Riverrun. A red circle denoted the small keep where they were to pincer the region's seat of governance along with a token force of Westermen traveling up from the south.
Ser Raylon only commanded a small contingent of soldiers with Lord Reyne much the same. The bulk of Lord Lannister's forces were either guarding the coast or subduing their assigned third of the Reach.
While a massive army might normally be required to siege Riverrun from three sides despite its small size, the defensive advantage of the surrounding waterways quickly vanished when faced with a dragon.
The beasts had a way of negating most facets of medieval warfare.
With an exhausted sigh, the sore Targaryen sank into his seat, took a moment to collect himself, and then reached for the parchment containing a half-finished marriage proposal.
Of all the aspects of war Maelys would come to loathe, the toll of innumerable, hastily arranged weddings was easily in the top three. On the contrary, his twin found them to be uniquely refreshing. Or, at least, those which weren't the king's own.
An honest smile ghosted his features at the memory. Aegon was many things, but a bundle of nerves leading up to the ceremony was not one many expected. That, or the doting husband he'd become in the brief time before marching out. With the type of father Viserys had been to them, or lack thereof, it had taken many years for the late king's firstborn to realize the type of family that Aegon hoped to build.
The number of times the prince had dragged his older brother to play with little Daenys and then later Maelys' own children may have been a contributing factor. Despite his raucous behavior, Aegon had developed a soft spot for children.
Clearing his head of the reminiscence, Maelys continued the script where he'd left off.
- upon the cessation of hostilities, would find it mutually beneficial to once again unite our blo-
The glow of cool, pale moonlight enveloped the room when the lit candle upon his desk suddenly lapsed into darkness.
As though he'd stepped in from the rain, the moisture of the air seemed to linger just a bit too long on his skin, and Maelys couldn't help but feel the sensation of hearing one's name in a crowd.
With slow, deliberate movements, the Valyrian man placed down his utensil, neatly rolled, and then banded the unfinished letter. Only then did he rise from his chair and turn to face the dark figure leaning against the far post of his bedframe.
It was much too dark to make out the dark eyes hidden beneath the shadows of a hood. Dark ringlets trickled down either side of her pale face, but as his eyes fell lower, he couldn't see the hands she had tucked into her cloak.
The rich, lilting sound of laughter split the air as if she found his reaction to search for weapons utterly ridiculous. With a fluid yet casual grace, she stood fully, and removed her hood.
"You're an easy man to find but an awfully difficult one to reach, Prince Maelys."