Chapter 5
Present
"You're an easy man to find but an awfully difficult one to reach, Prince Maelys."
An unnatural stillness blanketed the room as the pair beheld each other in an unspoken standoff. Narrowed, amethyst eyes locked onto a deep green set bearing an expression of barely concealed delight.
The woman was the first to break the trance, letting her eyes roam over his body as though sizing up livestock for purchase. Something about her gaze carried an unnatural acuity as though she were staring through him. He felt bare. Exposed even.
Danger, a more primitive part of his brain whispered.
His instincts screamed at him to act. A similar sensation had overtaken him when he'd first witnessed the Cannibal all those years ago. Flee or fight. His dominant hand twitched, and his mind did the mental calculus on whether it would be faster to draw his dagger first or forgo a weapon and simply drag her down by the throat.
Willing his muscles to relax, the prince schooled his expression into one of mild amusement. With practiced ease, Maelys pulled out two glasses from a drawer in the desk and quickly decanted one of the better vintages coming out of Lord Butterwall's land. Closing the distance between them in a few steps, he handed her a drink.
Otto had taught him long ago not to remain on the backfoot.
"It depends on who's seeking an audience," he countered her original statement. He leaned in closer, bordering on impropriety. The proximity brought with it the scent of spices though for the life of him, he couldn't identify what they were.
After a pause, he took a calculated risk.
"What have I done to earn the attention of Alys Rivers?"
The woman's amused expression stretched into a wide smile, displaying bone white teeth in the pale moonlight filtering in through the window.
"To be known by a prince of realm," she mused. "An honor. Truly." A quick laugh escaped her lips, She relaxed back onto the bed, dropping all sense of decorum to lounge with a casual air. "Did you see me in the flames as well, Traveler?"
It took all of Maelys' poise to keep from physically reacting to her words.
She knows, he thought. Now what to do about it? He took a sip of wine to buy himself a few more moments.
"Not quite," he answered honestly. "I was aware of you long before I arrived."
She patted the spot next to her, and after a moment of deliberation, he settled down beside her. Her predatory smile felt oddly familiar though it had been quite a while since Maelys had been on the receiving end. She gave him an expected look as if to continue.
"I believe it's my turn to ask a question," Maelys countered. "T'would be odd to divulge all one's secrets without a knife to the throat," he said sardonically. Alys rolled her eyes but obviously found some pleasure in the game when she then gestured in acquiescence.
"What is your goal in all of this?" The prince asked point blank. "I doubt it's to simply rob a weary soul of some well-earned rest." The witch snorted at the comment and drew her glass to her lips. With one quick motion, she threw back the wine before having the audacity to reach out for Maelys' own glass.
Cheeky bitch.
"If you're aware of someone as inconspicuous as myself, I'd presume you know about the threat in the North?" Piercing eyes locked onto his own. "And I don't mean the petty squabbles of warring wolves."
A pause, and then Maelys nodded his head. Almost imperceptibly, the admission caused the slightest easing of the tension she carried in her shoulders as if now sharing such a heavy burden.
"Only one born of fire and light may subdue such darkness," she spoke with conviction. "And I do not plan to stand idly by waiting for said darkness to fester unbound. My Lord's champion will not be born of this world's mundane dregs; he requires fire in his blood. Dragon's blood."
Azor Ahai. He could feel the words forming in his mouth as if begging to spill forth. The thought brought a chill down his spine as if he'd spent his entire life with his back turned away from a threat.
But it's much too early, he thought. Centuries so. Though perhaps she doesn't know that. Or would such a child, if truly R'hllor's chosen, set things in motion that could not stopped, timelines be damned?
Could he even risk such a gamble? Did he even have a choice? Sure, R'hllor's followers were widespread, but Alys Rivers' existence was an anomaly in and of itself. Maelys had the feeling she'd been around Westeros for far longer than she'd been called that name. And, if his suspicions were correct, she'd take many more in the centuries to come.
And how do you even kill someone like that? The dagger at his belt suddenly felt much less reassuring than it had a few moments prior.
She'd taken Aemond in the original timeline. His brother would have been accessible, and, with his temperament, probably the most malleable when offered the boon of prophecy. And what of their original child? Did the prophetic spark simply extinguish into obscurity, or was it snuffed out before having a chance to flourish when Harrenhal was inevitably retaken?
He supposed it didn't matter regardless. It was now his turn to cast the die.
"This may come as a surprise, but I do love my lady wife," the prince countered, retrieving the bottle of wine to create some distance.
Twisted, possessive, and incestuous but still love all the same. When they were young, he was the balm for the poisonous words that followed the slightly overweight princess and her placid expressions. In turn, it was her insight that more than once saved him from Daemon's schemes whether those came as poisoned wines or assassins amongst the city's street. It hadn't been duty that drove him to beg his father to take Aegon's place in the original betrothal.
Their relationship had never wavered even as his hands bloodied over the years. He became the sword to protect their growing family, and she gave him the means to preempt and attack rather than react.
Turning to face the matter at hand, he found Alys with a raised brow and a slipping cloak showing a bit too much shoulder.
He idly wondered why George's spin on witches was to make them sexier.
"Can I not sway your mind?" She spoke. "If you truly know me, then you're aware I have much to offer a man at war."
"That counts as your question by the way," Maelys said before replying. "I won't betray Helaena," he responded, pushing ahead before she could interrupt. "That doesn't mean I can't get you what you want." He took a swig from the bottle rather than reclaim his glass.
"If you wish to bear the blood of the dragon, you'll get it." He offered. "But in return, I expect your full cooperation." Alys' sharp laugh filled the room again.
"And which brother do you plan to set me on?" She asked as if tickled by the very idea. "From what I've seen, Aegon would be the most willing, especially a few glasses in. Though," she pondered, "I have a feeling you have no plans to give my child a claim that could ever supersede your own," she wondered aloud. "Or will you be holding down your uncle while I have my way with him?"
As much as the idea gave him a twisted pleasure, leaving Daemon alive for even one extra moment was a nonstarter.
"I'd only ever hold Daemon down to strangle him," he replied, "And the child will have no claim," he confirmed. As it stood now, Maelys was still his brother's heir. Or at least he was until the Queen's impending birth proved to be a son. The greens had pretty strongly committed to the 'only males can inherit' viewpoint.
Truthfully, the prince couldn't wait to foist off the title Prince of Dragonstone onto a nephew. Having his brother's trust gave him more than enough influence, and the crown imposed more restraint than people often realized. Maelys was quite happy with the current status quo. More power, less risk. His children didn't deserve an even bigger target on their backs, and when the time came, Dragonstone offered very little to be divided amongst them.
"I'll take care of the details," the prince said without elaborating further. He sank back against the bedpost and took a long draw from the wine. "Welcome to the family," he snarked, holding up the bottle in mock cheers.
Alys chuckled, leaning back across from him and taking a sip from his-now-her glass. A beat of silence before he asked,
"How did you know about me?" She gave him an incredulous look.
"The flames showed you the moment you entered this world," she explained. "Your soul was bright, caustic even against the background of the world. Like a body reacting to disease." She took a sip. "Even amongst the others with dragon's blood, you were unique. Your existence is unnatural, and the world is burning for it."
The prince thought her words might have some effect on him. Perhaps some form of understanding, or at least peace at the idea of someone else recognizing his plight, but nothing stirred in him. Maelys hadn't even realized he'd stopped caring.
"You make me out to be some plague," he countered. "Why seek me out then?"
"That's two," the witch joked, but humored him all the same. "This world has lapsed into the same, rotten cycles long ago. To allow it to burn invites the opportunity of rebirth. A chance to start anew."
He hummed, not even trying to sort out the vague explanation. Maelys was set on his course. Did it truly matter if it was pre-ordained? Rather than allow them to settle into silence, Alys asked one more question.
"Were you a monster before crossing over?" she inquired, truly curious. It was the prince's turn to laugh.
"Not even a little," he chuckled. "I was a healer actually. Similar to a maester but not as…" he trailed off waving his hand as if to explain. "I certainly wasn't as well off as I am now, but my family lived comfortably." She quirked on eyebrow.
"So we," she gestured around the room, "made you like this?"
"No, it was the crossing over part," Maelys corrected. "As much as people would ponder or even joke about reincarnation, it's always the idea and never the reality." The prince stared off, drawn back to a different time.
"Tear a man away from a life he's built and throw him into one he considered a fantasy? Like a plaything of the gods?" The prince shook his silvered hair. "It took a while to grieve, even if it was mourning my own life," he continued.
"It warps you. The fear of death means less. When you realize nothing you do affects such an outcome, morals mean little more than rules taught to children."
The Valyrian prince locked gaze with the witch. Despite the dim moon-lit room, Alys could still see the barest trace of chaotic energy underlying his otherwise blank expression.
"I lost everything, and now I've built it back up. To hell with God's plan. Now, there's only mine."
Present, Driftmark
The crackling of a burning fire competed with the sound of crumpling paper for dominance. Bare knuckles turned white from the force used to crush the letter while the other hand threw back another goblet of wine.
The sharp pop of a shattering glass split the air as the remains of another empty container of Arbor Gold joined the growing heap in the far corner of the room.
He could hear the uneasy shuffling of guards outside the door, but no one dared disturb him. After running two cupbearers through with a sword, the household had unanimously decided to leave their lord alone unless addressed.
A moment of deliberation passed as the Sea Snake decided whether to release his rage upon another unfortunate adornment from his travels or simply allow the haze of alcohol to lull him into a restless slumber.
Splitting the difference, Corlys sank back into his driftwood chair and gazed upon the battle map covering the table of his solar.
A mess of colors divided the regions. Far too few shown an emerald hue. The north and the Eyrie, those regions they had hoped would follow through with their pledges to Jaecerys, showed bloody civil wars. A motley of colors dotted the coasts from the relentless assaults of ironmen, sistermen, and Skaggs. Westeros was in chaos. Deliberate, sanctioned chaos. Because of him.
Corlys' eyes locked onto the pale dragon which had taken a commanding position amongst the fires engulfing the Riverlands. He'd probably spent hours doing so over the last few weeks. The black rage which had overtaken the Lord of the Tides burned stronger within his chest as it had at every reminder of Maelys Targaryen.
The sound of paper hitting the floor broke the dark trance which oft overtook him. The letter which had incited this particular episode lay crumpled on the floor. He hadn't even realized he'd kept ahold of it.
It was a message he'd sent a moon or so earlier, now returned to him. Instructions for an assassination attempt. One of so many, they'd begun to blur together. It carried the promise of payment, a sum of which even the wealthiest lords would balk at.
They had all failed. The prince was well-protected and mobile with a paranoia to match. His family may as well have been Yi-Ti for how inaccessible they were. Corlys wondered if even a strike from a dragon would be successful, or would they simply vanish?
Even the Sea Snake would once have had reservations about targeting children. Despite the death of Lucerys, he held unspoken misgivings about targeting the royal family. Now, he cursed Daemon nightly for botching the only near-successful attempt.
At the very least, Corlys and Daemon could share in their visceral hatred. Despite his age, he had half a mind to scale the Dragonmont himself, or wherever else Seasmoke had secluded himself of late, so that he might have joined the Rogue Prince in his flight towards Riverrun.
Deft and calloused hands snatched up one of the larger black dragons. Piercing violet eyes locked onto the onyx statuette. The cool touch of polished stone contrasted sharply with the violent dragon rider it represented. With a quiet growl, the Sea Snake dumped the piece adjacent to the small Riverland castle.
The Tullys would be long dead by then as Maelys would not allow a Lord Paramount claimant to remain alive when bequeathing the title to another, but Corlys was uncaring. As long as the monster died either by Caraxes or one of his own assassins.
The latter appeared increasingly less likely at this point. All of Corlys' own agents had died at this point, hence the attempts to contract assassins. This particular offer had been sent back bloodstained. On the back, Corlys found the addition of his own lineage with his wife's, children's, and grandchildren's names struck out in Maelys neat scrawl. Corlys' own name was the only one yet untouched.
The threat merely stoked his seething rage. Snatching the paper from the pale stone, the incensed man cast it into the last remaining embers. The paper caught, and for a brief moment, the dark room was bathed into a harsh, yellow glow.
When the flames died out, the Lord of the Tides again found himself alone in the darkened solar, shoulders shaking whether from anger or grief he couldn't tell. His eyes never strayed from the newly formed ash.
The prince had the gall to leave out the Strong bastards' names, not that the Sea Snake truly cared. At least the boys from Hull weren't listed, and Corlys hoped Maelys remained none the wiser of their existence. Or, at least until their presence was inevitably revealed when their blasted queen ordered Alyn to fly off to war. The pair remained his last hope at continuing the legacy lest Vaemond's children inherit.
Not that Corlys held ill-will towards his kin. Vaemond's sharp tongue had brought about a swift end, but his progeny had become his right and left hands since his immediate family had been snuffed out and he had sunk into his dark grief. His continued support of Rhaenyra had torn open a rift between Corlys and his extended family, but perhaps mirrored mourning had finally allowed the bonds between Velaryons to mend. As the Lord of the Tides sank deeper into his obsession, Daemion and Daeron had begun directing more and more of the fleet's movement. Despite their barely concealed malice towards the black cause, the silent five obeyed without insubordination.
His two nephews likely believed themselves his true heirs, not that Corlys could blame them. It had been the Sea Snake, however, that had raised his house so high within a generation, and he would see his own blood continue the work bastardry be damned. Not that such a label would hang around much longer. Corlys had supplied Rhaenyra with the support of his fleet, his riches, and now a dragon rider. The black queen would doom her own war effort should she refuse his request at legitimization despite it meaning the loss of the title to her own bastard.
The thought of his sons – or grandsons – inheriting gave him a moment of reprieve, however brief it may be. Stepping over to the open window, Corlys felt the evening breeze wash over his features as if applying a cool balm to his kindling rage.
Far away, the small lights of Spicetown dotted the shoreline. The aged man could just imagine the small city flourishing under the tender care of the next Lord of the Tides. It would have to be a Velaryon. Rhaenyra's stock of westerosi filth lacked the ability to provide the direction and ambition needed to perpetuate Corlys' achievements.
Rhaenyra's half-breed son was wholly unfit to walk without assistance much less take command of Driftmark when he came of age. While Corlys had kept secret his reservations about Lucerys despite the recurring question of bastard's parentage, the Sea Snake drew the line at Joffrey. The Lord of the Tides would never allow a blind child to take his place.
The young Strong had been one of Maelys' first victims. The memory made Corlys grip the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. At the time, Corlys and the rest had been too caught up in the chaos at the time to notice any pattern of malevolence. Despite Rhaenyra's demand for execution, the monster's actions had been justified as defending his maimed, younger brother. The claims were all the more compelling when the young Maelys had shown his own wounds strewn across his forearms. In the end, one eye was given for two, and the matter was resolved.
And then, shortly thereafter, Laenor died.
The thought of his firstborn son brought a melancholy air and, with it, waves of exhaustion. Despite his original, complicated feelings towards his firstborn son, Corlys still felt the occasional pangs of loss, especially when seeing his former dragon gliding above the waves. It had been a fortnight since the pale dragon had shown his presence, and the Sea Snake realized he missed the wyrm's distant presence.
With his rage no longer able to keep the mounting exhaustion at bay, Corlys locked away the half-finished letters adorning his desk. Among them were hastily written please for Essos' most effective assassination guilds to reconsider their refusals. Maelys must have made some sort of arrangement with them beforehand as Corlys had never heard them refuse a contract before. It would be another task for the morrow.
Tired, shuffling feet led the Lord of the Tides to his driftwood-adorned bed. Corlys collapsed into the rich silk, head filled with thoughts of sons, inheritances, and war. The explorer had long ago lost faith in religion, but he still whispered a silent prayer for Adam. With any luck, his heir would manifest Laenor's charm and Laena's resolve. The boy would need all of the advantages at his disposal to survive in a world of Targaryen madness.
The following day, northeast of the Honeywine
The high-pitched screech of wind rang through the dragon rider's ears as his mount pulled up sharply from the steep dive. With one command, the Blue Queen unleashed a torrent of flame, breaking apart the group of fleeing knights. Farther behind, a group of pursuers broke ranks to chase down the remaining survivors.
Banking his companion towards the west, Prince Daeron scanned the grassy field pleased to see the last contingents of enemy soldiers surrendering in mass. Farther along, he could see ships begin to unload their cargo along the banks of the Honeywine now that the threat to their supply chain had been eliminated.
"Ninkiot," the silver-haired prince shouted, directing Tessarion towards the impromptu command hub near the rear of their army. Soldiers garbed in Hightower emerald gave a wide berth for their entrance. A few cheers of celebration reached his ears as Daeron quickly dismounted.
With a slight nod to the guards, the prince was waved into the large pavilion. A bustling hive of noblemen and scribes filled the space. At the epicenter stood Ormund Hightower, listening intently to a report.
"-led to believe Lord Tarly was killed in the battle though it may be a few hours until we can independently verify this." The field commander paused briefly as Daeron drew close before continuing. "Regardless, Heartsbane has been recovered."
If the death of his goodfather bothered Ormund at all, he hid it well. Noticing his cousin, the lord of Oldtown waved a hand, drawing Daeron into the fold. Around them, men from various houses offered greetings and congratulations to a battle well fought. Those with daughters of marrying age gave him particular attention.
The prince fought the urge to duck his head in embarrassment. While he was used to being a favorite subject of many sociopolitical functions given his status, the degree had only increased since he'd entered the war proper.
"Have the prisoners set to burying the dead and get me a final report on our losses by sundown," Lord Hightown ordered. "Salvage what equipment we can. Form a contingent to escort those of noble stock to Oldtown to await ransom." With a bow of acquiescence, the commander retreated. Ormund turned towards a scribe.
"Draft a message to the widow of Honeyholt," He commanded. "Her forces are destroyed as is all of her nearby allies. If she fails to yield the castle to my riders arrive, the Blue Queen will burn down the gates, and her family will have far more to fear than the loss of lands or titles."
Despite partaking in the slaughter of men within the same hour, Daeron's head still spun from the idea that he, or at least Tessarion, acted as the spear tip of their forces. The youth was well used to his name commanding respect but never instilling fear.
During the subsequent pause, a number of lords attempted to jump into the discussion, but Lord Peake's voice cut through them with relative ease.
"My lord," Unwin spoke. "Only a skeleton force protects Horn Hill. With the aid of our prince and his dragon, my remaining forces could storm the castle from the north without being drawn into a siege." The Lord of Starpike gave Daeron an encouraging smile which the Valyrian youth did his best to return without showing further emotion.
In truth, Unwin Peake made Daeron's skin crawl. When the prince's fostering at Oldtown had been announced, nearly all nearby lords had come up with excuses to visit the ancient city rarely without a daughter in tow. The Valyrian youth had crossed paths with Unwin a number of times and had been quite won over with his charms for awhile until Maelys' written warnings gave him pause.
In his eyes, you are nothing more than a fattened cow to feed his ambition. A means to draw near the throne. Do not invite rats into our home. Lord Peake's only use is to stand between you and a cavalry charge.
Blunt but informative. His older brother's letters were heavily biased but gave ample insight into Westeros' fluid sociopolitical landscape. They also conveyed a degree of warmth and concern for Daeron's well-being which would surprise Maelys' largest detractors.
When he'd first been separated from his family and sent to Oldtown, Maelys had been the only one to write to him. The content varied wildly but gave Daeron a semblance of staying connected to his siblings. His older brother claimed to be a horrible artist but had evidently found someone willing to make small sketches of the family over the years, so Daeron might have some visual context for the written tales.
As they grew older, messages from the remainder of his family became more frequent after Maelys' prodding most likely. His young niece and nephew and even Taelerys began reaching out. The latter always evoked mixed emotions, however, as Daeron's birth occurred but a few scant months prior to the bastard's.
Over the years, Daeron had learned that Maelys and Lord Ormund also shared regular correspondence though perhaps without the same degree of familial love. The youngest prince was certain Maelys had conveyed similar political concerns to their cousin given the latter's pre-emptive maneuvering. Despite their vastly different temperaments, Maelys and Ormund shared a mutual respect as well as a long fostered and well aligned military strategy.
The lords of Three Towers and the Uplands had barely finished raising black banners before they had been put down and their lands redistributed amongst the Hightower's more loyal vassals. Now, Honeyholt and Horn Hill were sharing a similar fate.
"Horn Hill will yield long before any force reaches the gates," Ormund replied to Unwin's question. "Any additional soldiers you have in your lands will add to our strength as we approach the Mander.
If Lord Peake was upset by the refusal, he hid it well with a bow of his head. Ormund seemed well aware that the Lord of Starpike would vigorously contest any future attempt to redistribute territory captured by Unwin's forces. Daeron for his part was relieved to avoid collaborating with the man if at all possible.
"Has there been any signs of change in Highgarden's neutrality?" Lord Roxton asked, redirecting the discussion.
Daeron spied a slight air of unease spread amongst the members at mention of the Reach's overlord. Despite Lord Tyrell's, or at least his mother's, stated neutrality, the Iron Throne was all but certain to give the Reach, and presumably the region's seat of power, to the Hightowers. The questions were now how and when the Tyrells would they contest such a move.
"Highgarden has yet to call its levies, and we have no other intelligence at this time to suspect a shift," Ormund said, shaking his head. "Our plans remain unchanged."
Even Daeron could see how uncomfortably his cousin sat with that decision. If Highgarden were to turn as they rendezvoused with other green forces in the northern Reach, they'd suddenly have a powerful enemy at their rear and within arm's reach of their supply train.
"Longtable then?" One of his vassals, Lord Cuy, asked. Lord Hightower nodded as the men collectively peered down at the grand map in front of them.
"I half-suspect Lady Merryweather to fold as news of this battle begins to spread," Roxton remarked, thumbing the pommel of Orphan-Maker. To the prince, the reachman looked almost disappointed. "I bet she wishes her husband would have bent the knee rather than occupy a spike outside the Red Keep."
"Aye, you may be correct," agreed Unwin, rejoining the conversation. "She'll be feeling rather vulnerable without allies to reinforce her. The question is rather will that dolt Borros will try to beat us there should he finish up at Bitterbridge in time."
Stag-shaped statuettes massed at the northern end of the reach, surrounding a lone black dragon sat atop Bitterbridge. Even without the support of dragonfire, it was only a matter of time until Lord Caswell succumbed to the onslaught of stormlander forces.
"By the time that addle-brained stag has figured out which direction he should march, the westerman will have already crushed Goldengrove. After Old Oak, Lord Lannister's already shown he isn't wasting any time," joked one of Lord Redwyne's younger sons. "Perhaps he's trying to impress his goodson."
The man blanched when he noticed Prince Daeron look his way with narrowed eye. "No offense meant, my prince."
"Regardless," Lord Ormund cut in, "we march north. Once matters are settled here, prepare your men to march." With that, the war council adjourned. Lord Peake gave the prince one final glance before exiting with the other Reacher lords.
As Daeron's cousin filed out of the tent, he waved the Valyrian youth to join him. The men locked step, waiting until they were outside earshot to speak. The camp was a flurry of activity to accommodate the men as they returned from battle. Low bows were given as soldiers and camp followers took note of Lord Hightower with the prince in tow.
Rather than wander towards Lord Ormund's personal tent, he surprised Daeron by directing them towards Tessarion's sprawling form. A lazy yawn escaped the dragon as it raised its head to take in the approaching figures before unceremoniously returning to its slumber.
Daeron could only detect the mildest discomfort from his cousin as they stopped next to the great beast. Truthfully, he was impressed; few people were willing to approach at all. Although the wide berth given to the wyrm was likely why his cousin felt at ease talking here without risk of being overheard.
Ormund regarded him with a critical eye. After a moment of silence, Lord Hightower began.
"You've done well, my boy," he began, and Daeron felt himself reflexively stand a little taller. "Without your support, this would have been a drawn-out battle, not a slaughter. Your older brother was right in recommending you come along." The prince shook his head.
"You and the rest of the family are risking your lives at the front. I couldn't just sit back at Oldtown and watch," he replied.
As much as the idea of confronting his older sister, or truly her husband, terrified the prince, the idea of leaving them to fight it out with his older brothers made his stomach turn. This, at the very least, made Daeron feel as though he was making a difference in the war. And, after today's ordeal, perhaps he truly was.
"The pair of you took quite a few lives today. How are holding up?" At that, Daron shrugged.
"It wasn't as if I was doing the slaughtering. I'll be fine." The prince chose not to reveal how he had lost the contents of his stomach when the stench of death first met his nostrils.
His cousin nodded and cast a glance towards the battlefield. Their vantage point offered a wide view of the carnage, and they watched as the prisoners began their shackled march towards boats dotting the shores of the Honeywine.
"Your efforts towards the war won't go unnoticed," Ormund assured him. "I'll let your family know what you helped accomplish today when I send word of the victory."
A light sensation settled in the young prince's chest. Satisfaction from a job well done, or a desire his efforts might be noted the same way his brothers' were, Daeron couldn't tell. He shook such thoughts away and focused back on Lord Hightower.
"I have another task for you, or perhaps two. The first is quite simple: fly over Honeyholt near midday tomorrow. As low a pass as you deem safe," he explained. "That should be all the persuading Lady Beesbury needs to bend the knee." Daeron nodded in agreement.
"Good. The next request requires quite a bit more effort, and perhaps some politicking as well. I need you to link up with Lord Baratheon and help him end the fighting at Bitterbridge." The prince raised his brows, but his cousin pushed forward. "We've made significant progress, but we cannot afford to get bogged down sieging every keep we come across. We simply haven't the time."
"Has something changed?" Daeron asked. The pace of victories in the reach were impressive if not exceptional, and the black contingent in the Reach was scattered and crumbling by the day. Aelora had already written that she and the rest of the westerman army would arrive at Goldengrove within a fortnight. Once Bitterbridge and Longtable folded, all that remained was Tumbleton, a town whose only true value was its proximity to the capital.
"Perceptive brat," Ormund chuckled, but then turned more serious. "Our position in this war is advantageous because we gathered earlier and struck first. Tarly, Blackwood, Darklyn, Oakheart, and so many others. Powerful houses all shattered because we didn't let them gather in force. We have your brother to thank for that."
The Voice of Oldtown gripped the prince's shoulder and peered intently into his lilac eyes.
"The moment our individual realms become threatened, our combined forces disperse to defend their homes. Now, the false queen doesn't have a sizable army to land, and any of her dragons would be countered by our own. To whom else are we exposed?"
"Ironborn," Daeron answered immediately. His cousin nodded.
"The Red Kraken has already begun probing the Westerlands and the Reach. We've spent years preparing for such, and have the Redwyne fleet to defend us, but the Ironborn will only glut themselves on impoverished rivermen and northerners for so long."
The gnashing of teeth preceded his next words. "We may also have another front in the south," Ormund spat out.
It took Daeron a moment of mental gymnastics before realizing his kin hadn't specified the threat would start in the Reach itself.
"Dorne," the young man breathed. With a grim expression, the Lord of the High Tower nodded.
"We don't have much in the way of spying on the Dornish, but we're certain they've begun to muster. Without a fleet, they could only attack in two places unless someone were to provide them with one."
Purple eyes widened.
"Rhaenyra?" Daeron tried to envision how such an arrangement might have come to be, but came up at a loss. "But they're independent, and they hate Targaryens. What could she have offered them?" His cousin shrugged.
"Land. Wealth. Perhaps a dragon egg if she's truly desperate. Frankly, it doesn't matter. A two front war never ends well for the one in the middle. We need to finish up the dregs here before we're forced on the defensive."
Forcing his shoulders to relax, Daeron exhaled and nodded. Dorne was the only country Aegon had failed to conquer. The only one which managed to kill a dragon. The thought of raking the front lines on Tessarion suddenly felt so much more exposed. His stomach flipped at the thought of Aelora doing the same.
The hand on his shoulder squeezed in reassurance.
"Don't let the other Lords know lest they get cold feet marching north," Ormund asked him though Daeron could sense the unspoken command behind the words.
"If another war did erupt before we finished this one, what happens?" The prince heard himself ask. Ormund gave a humorless laugh.
"Then things get messy, and we deal with it. Just hope your brothers have a plan before we get to that point because my uncle's diplomacy, gods bless him, has done very little for us after first blood was spilt."
Author's Note:
Hi all. Sorry for the lack of action in this chapter. Truthfully, chapter 5 was supposed to be much different. The scene with Alys was supposed to cap off chapter 4, but I got a little carried away with it, then decided to write a brief scene showing Corlys' reaction, and well it sort of snowballed into this behemoth of dialogue. Oh well I guess
I know there are a couple of errors like Amos Bracken's father still kicking around as the current Lord of Stonehedge, so I'll try to correct these as I go with future updates. Feel free to point them out (nicely) in the comments.
Best
- IMD