Well… here we are. The epilogue. What everyone has been waiting for. I think everyone will get a kick out of this.
There's so much people haven't expected. Other things, you have expected. Some things you knew you wanted, and others you really didn't. In any case… without any further ado whatsoever, here's the final part of The Reign of Dragons.
Ulfric
Ten Towers stood as a monolithic sentinel against the encroaching dawn during the Hour of the Ghost. The castle was a labyrinth of stone and iron, each of its ten towers reaching skyward with a grim defiance; rain fell heavily in a relentless deluge that merged with the sea spray, wrapping the fortress in a cloak of water and mist. The wind howled through the narrow windows and cracks in the stonework, carrying with it the scent of salt and decay, and the distant roar of the ocean.
The castle walls were thick. Unyielding. Their surfaces slickened by age and rain. There were no gargoyles or grotesques adorning the eaves, no stone faces that twisted into eternal grimaces, as if to share in the perpetual misery that seemed to permeate the castle. The walls were now lined with heads. The heads of ironborn raiders that had reaved against Ten Towers, the heads of thralls that had tried to escape. Four-score of them were found at the gates, with bloated tongues and rotting skin. Blue lips and eyeballs dangling out of sockets – meals for the carrion.
The rainwater pooled in the courtyards and ran in rivulets down the steps, creating a symphony of drips and splashes that filled the air with an eerie, constant patter.
Inside, the corridors were dimly lit by sputtering torches, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The air was damp and cold, seeping through the thick stone walls and chilling anyone who walked through the drafty halls.
The tallest of the ten towers loomed above the rest, a grey silhouette against the stormy sky. Its pinnacle was shrouded in darkness, save for the occasional flicker of lightning that illuminated its stark outline. The winding staircase within was narrow and steep, the floors were uneven, treacherous when wet.
At the top of the tower, a single chamber awaited, with closed windows that the rain pattered against. It was sparsely furnished, dominated by a large brazier that burned furiously, its flames flickering glows that were at odds with the cold, damp air outside. The firelight danced across the stone walls, casting long, eerie shadows that twisted and turned with life. The room was filled with the scent of burning wood and something darker, something that hinted at rituals and ancient powers.
Ulfric Harlaw was a short man. Not imposing to look at, but anyone who knew his name knew his story. They knew of the corpses he had made. The men he'd made scream by peeling skin from muscle. All who knew of Ulfric Harlaw also knew of the name, 'Deathwalker.' His thick gambeson of black wool was stitched with a white scythe, and his black cloak hung from the thick black bear-fur mantle at his shoulders, still wet and glistening in the firelight. His shaggy curls dripped from his statuesque form, as if he were carved from the same stone as the castle itself. The light from the brazier reflected off his bright green eyes.
He could feel it – a palpable tension. A sense of something ancient and powerful lurking just out of view. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and the sound of the rain outside, the constant patter against the glass and stone.
In the corner, where the shadows were deepest, a woman emerged, standing on the other side of the brazier. She wandered around the flickering flames as a vision of otherworldly beauty. She was what Ulfric imagined a goddess to look like. Beautiful and terrifying.
Siryna the Wanderer wore a long, scarlet gown of Lyseni silk that clung to her form, like dancing flame. Her face was framed by cascading waves of fiery red hair, flowing down her shoulders in a mesmerizing dance of crimson. The locks caught the light of the flames, and all darkness was banished from her body.
Her eyes were deep pools of shadow, large and almond-shaped, intense and burning with an unholy fire. The dark lashes that framed them drew Ulfric's own with a magnetic pull. She moved with a grace almost supernatural, as though she were gliding across the floor like smoke upon the water. She was a creature of fire and shadow.
When she spoke, those lips parted to reveal a voice of velvet, soothing yet commanding, capable of incanting the most potent of spells. She spoke in a liquid language Ulfric did not know.
She was a beauty unmatched. Her complexion fair, with the faintest hint of warmth, like alabaster touched by the gentle kiss of dawn. High cheekbones, casting subtle shadows from time to time that sculpted her features. Her chin was delicate yet firm, and the neckline of her gown plunged daringly, embroidered with crimson Tyroshi lace, reminiscent of the flames licking between them.
The sorceress made her way to the brazier, her movements fluid and unhurried. She stopped beside Ulfric, her gaze shifting to the flames. Outside of the tower, where all men saw a faint light in the raging storm and howling wind, with rain lashing against stone walls, Ulfric saw a beautiful woman with currant-red hair and garnets for eyes. He would rather face the Storm God outside, and stand against the sea that crashed upon the cliffs, stand beneath the castle itself that seemed to creak and groan under the weight of such a relentless assault, then remain with the woman that carried no sword nor sæx.
Within the chamber, air thickened with the scent of burning wood, the brazier's flames continued to burn brightly, The shadows danced and flickered. Siryna craned her neck and leant forwards, peering into the fire intently, her eyes narrowed and fixed upon a single point. The flames of the brazier danced higher, casting long shadows that twisted and turned, their shapes almost resembling figures in a macabre dance.
"A great battle is to come," she said, her voice loud and lilting.
"Between who?"
"Between all," Siryna frowned. "Many battles… wars. And from this death comes the azantys: a warrior, who will unite this realm of broken men."
The storm outside showed no signs of abating, the rain continuing to fall in a relentless torrent, the sound of the wind and the sea. The darkness was a cloak that concealed, a blanket that wrapped around the castle and its denizens.
"It is you, Deathwalker. You are the man who will unite these lands."
Ulfric knew he was touched by gods. He had, for years, believed it was the Storm God. He'd known it. Not the Drowned God, whose strength had waned for years since, but to his ancient enemy, who had named Ulfric as his champion. And now, this wandering sorceress had confirmed him: his hand was guided by destiny.
"You are sure?"
"The flames have spoken." The woman turned to face him, a coy smile on her lips as she walked towards him, her hips swaying gently as she stared down at him. "But there is a price to be paid.
"What price?" Ulfric scoffed. The woman was surely a charlatan, who would think she could take coin or ships in place of giving Ulfric some secret to secure control over the Iron Islands.
"Ānogar." Siryna looked back into the flames for a moment, before turning back to face Ulfric. "Blood."
"Whose?"
She shook her head and looked back into the fire.
"R'hllor, the Lord of Light has saved you before, Ulfric Deathwalker. It was not your demon of the Storm, but the God of Flame and Shadow that survived you. You are chosen by him, and you shall unite the realm in flame."
"I shall be King?"
"You shall." Siryna nodded. "But only if you do not lapse into praising your false idols. You must swear yourself to the Heart of Fire."
Ulfric stared into the flames. He could remember the cold embrace of the water – as though ice stabbed through his skin. The bindings around his ankles constricted as his lungs began to swell. And then, he saw fire.
Had it been this God, R'hllor the Red? He had always thought it the Storm God, but… this woman, this sorceress claimed her power from the fire god. And if she did, so too could he.
"I swear it," Ulfric told her. Her smile grew. She turned back to the flames and raised her arms.
"Lead Ulfric Harlaw from the darkness, O my Lord!" She called, her eyes glinting in the firelight as the brazier's flames began to rise. "Fill his heart with fire, so he may walk your shining path! R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins! Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the night!"
The fires rose, a battle and a dance of flames, crackling and spitting out embers, a greater inferno than any Ulfric had seen before. The fire that brought him such warmth on a night of such a storm. The rain thundered, and Ulfric knew the Storm God was angry for losing his champion. But the flames did respond to Siryna. Her sorcery was before his very eyes.
"For the night is dark, and full of terrors," Siryna said, lowering her arms.
In the churning flames that rose even higher, Ulfric could see it: the shadows in the flames that took form to show him what would come. A great army, a great battle. And he would sit the Salt Throne.
"For the night is dark and full of terrors."
Arrec
It was the Hour of the Eel, and the sun had reached its peak over the tallest towers in Storm's End when Arrec had climbed the steps to the Lord's Chamber, and pressed on the oaken door with crowned stag emblazoned in black iron.
Arrec stood at his father's sickbed, watching the giant of a man, the veteran of two wars and champion of both, cough and splutter. He never wanted to see his father like this – the two had never talked much. No, Arlan had always preferred riding and hunting and revelry, and never seemed quite as interested in what Arrec had read as he was in who Ardan had sparred with.
Durran had been the Lord, groomed to rule. The Knight of a Baker's Dozen, who had fended off thirteen knights in the tourney at Highgarden. Although he was natural-born, Ardan had been the most similar to their father, with his love of ale and skill with a sword. And Oraella had been their mother's favourite from the day she drew breath. Small and long-limbed, with dark curly hair. Perhaps because she was the only girl, but she had been doted on more than any other by their mother.
Arrec had tried to settle his heart with these facts. He had done so, and contented himself with the fact that he might own a keep like Castle Seaface. He could have Ardan serve him as his sworn shield, and the two of them would not have to worry for seeing his mother and brother again.
Those plans were scarpered now: scuttled like one of the many ships in Shipbreaker Bay. Ardan was gone to Blackhaven, safe yet bored, and Arrec was Hand of the King and married to a Princess. A churlish, arrogant princess, but… well, she was the daughter of King Aeric.
Arrec drummed his fingers against the oaken footboard, staring at his father. Long waves of thick, black hair that fell below his shoulders. The thick black beard greying around his chin, slick with grease. He'd never seen his father so thin, or so pale. As a child, he thought his father was the biggest, strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms – perhaps he had been. But the man lying in the bed was not the one who had raised him.
His eyelids flickered, his cerulean eyes looking up at Arrec.
"Is that you, son?"
Arrec stiffened and straightened up.
"'Tis I, my Lord Father."
His father smiled, reaching out a hand to wave Arrec closer. Arrec did not particularly wish to come closer to the man, but… well, it was his father. He leant on his cane and hobbled around the bed, pulling his gold cloak from behind his back as he sat beside his father.
"A cloak, indoors?" Arlan asked. "Not winter yet, is it?"
"No, Father, I…" Arrec breathed deeply. How much did his father know? "I'm riding today. To King's Landing. I'm to serve as Hand of the King."
A flicker of a smile played on his father's face. Arrec felt warmed by this, but immediately recoiled at the feeling – he didn't want his father's approval. Or, he did, but he didn't want to want it.
"Seven Hells… if anyone has the mind for it, lad…" Arlan raised one of his fingers to point at Arrec. Arrec glanced down to the floor for a moment. He wanted to hear his father react once again to him: to Arrec.
"I've wed the Princess Rhaenerys."
Arlan gave a slight cough, followed by a throaty chuckle that made Arrec smile again. "Others take me… few Baratheon's have married a princess or served as Hand, and my son, at ten-and-six, has done both. What is she like? This princess of yours?"
Arrec did not even like Rhaenerys, and he likely never would. The woman seemed to loathe him and his family. In the days since their wedding, she had refused to talk to him in the bedchamber, as they lay there, facing away from each other and pretending to sleep.
Arrec had to think about the grim task: to have a child with her. He would not hurt the woman: one of his earliest memories, from when he was old enough to remember, was of his father striking his mother. Arrec had never learned why as he'd never asked either, but he'd seen the way his mother looked at his father. Utter contempt and hatred that only grew more sour over the years. Arrec did not wish to have a marriage like that.
Though, the truth was, Rhae was as cold and spiteful as his mother was. And what had Arrec done to deserve such scorn? She had openly boasted of laying with the man that had crippled Arrec. He'd sooner have the world know she had lain with another and have the High Septon dissolve the marriage. But that would be shameful for her. And regardless of how she awful she acted, he would not stoop to such things. Because he would not let her actions change his own.
"She's… difficult," Arrec admitted. "She seems little concerned with anything beyond herself and her dragon…"
"Women can be like that."
"Not all women," Arrec replied. He'd always been fond of Briony, despite knowing nothing could come of it. Although, Ser Andrew Connington had married a common-born girl. Though, he was the seventh-born son whom no-one expected to be Lord. Arrec would not enjoy such freedom.
It didn't matter anyway: Briony had always been nice to him, but he'd noticed how she talked more to Ardan. How she'd touch his shoulder, blush around him. Since they'd frequented Durran's Town from the ages of thirteen, Arrec had noticed the girls smile more at Ardan. He'd never been quite as good as talking to them, though – that had been Arrec's strength.
"Ella," Arlan grunted, "she is still missing?"
Arrec's heart plummeted. He always felt guilty for not thinking about her, but his sister, ten-and-two, had been missing for over three weeks. He did not want to hope, that seemed foolish. He did not wish to imagine her alive, only to break apart when finding her body. Or worse, if she went the way of Uncle Erich, and would never be found at all.
Still, none of this stopped Arrec praying to the Maiden and the Mother every morning and night.
"Nothing, yet."
Arlan clenched his jaw and let out a soft grunt. "I should be out there," he murmured. He did not need say any more. Arrec understood completely – even sat down, he could feel the twinge in his knee.
"She'll come back to us," Arrec said quietly. Although he did not dare to hope, his father likely did not have long left. Better he had some hope in the last of his days. He deserved some mercy, at least.
Arlan nodded and reached out to clasp Arrec's hand. His hands were clammy and pale and bony. For a fleeting moment, he felt the fate of his father was too cruel. For his strength to slowly fade.
"When I'm gone," Arlan croaked, "you're to take care of your mother. She's… she has love in her heart."
"My Lady Mother has love for Oraella."
"When you were born, you were small. Too small. Maester Rickard said you would not survive the night, and suggested we end your suffering quickly. But your mother kept you at her breast, and stayed awake with you throughout the night. And then the next, and then the next. I do not know if it was her, or the Mother Above, but you lived. And you grew."
A tear had slid down Arrec's cheek. He sniffed and looked away out of the window that showed the Narrow Sea to the east.
"Just because you cannot see the sun, that does not mean it is not still shining."
Arrec took a breath and looked back to his father. "I'm to take a household guard of forty men-at-arms and ten knights. There'll be more than enough to protect you and Durran here."
"Protect us from who?"
Arrec frowned. "Dornish assassins. They tried to kill Durran. And Lady Jeyne Tully was murdered by Arthor Hightower only nights ago…"
Arlan waved a hand and groaned. "Do not trust your eyes: I'll still give a cutthroat trouble…"
The man was foolhardy, but brave and warm. And stubborn. He reminded Arrec of Ardan, in some ways.
"I'm going to miss you," Arrec said. He was surprised by how much truth there was in his words.
The door opened and Maester Rickard Corbray returned with his tincture. Arrec knew what milk of the poppy did to a man's mind, and did not wish to see his father drooling like an imbecile. He stood up, leant on his cane and bowed his head to his father.
"Seven save you."
Arlan smiled and waved a hand as Maester Rickard approached with the small vial. Arrec made sure he closed the door behind him before his father drank. He made his way down the spiral staircase and, passing his brother's chambers, found the doors open with his new sister-by-law, Glennys Tully Baratheon.
Sixteen, the same age as Arrec, a woman of grace and gentleness. She struck Arrec as being delicate and dainty, with a cascade of auburn waves glinting like copper in the sunlight, woven into an intricate crown of braids, as was the way with some of the more modest young Ladies from the Riverlands.
Her brown eyes, large and expressive, wide and clear, found Arrec and she gave a small bow of her head and curtsied to him. She wore a gown of fine silks in golds, adorned with intricate embroidery that flowed around her slender frame.
"Lord Arrec."
"My Lady," Arrec bowed his head to her and her handmaids: Ladies Whent, Piper, and Fell. None of them, save the Fell girl, looked like Stormlanders.
Glennys' skin was fair and smooth, untouched by the harsh sun or bitter winds. Her cheeks bore a natural blush, like the first bloom of a rose. Her nose was slender and straight, perfectly proportioned to her delicate features. Below it, her lips, soft and pink, were often set in a gentle, almost shy smile that spoke of kindness and a tender heart. Yet, she had not smiled in quite some days. Not since her mother's murder.
"I've been remiss, my Lady," Arrec cleared his throat, "I've yet to offer my condolences. Lady Jeyne was a… a formidable woman."
"Thank you, my Lord." Glennys nodded. Her eyes were not reddened by crying, however. She began walking alongside Arrec, hands clasped together below her breast while her handmaids trailed behind them.
Arrec took a long breath. "How have you settled into Storm's End, my Lady? Does it agree with you?"
"It… rains a fair bit here," Glennys admitted.
"We'd hardly call it rain…" Arrec responded. "You'll see, every autumn the storms come more frequently. Over the Stepstones, across the Narrow Sea… I trust your Lord Husband has already told you as such."
Glennys winced as she shyly admitted, "We do not… really talk. I understand that his duties as regent are vast, and his own Lord Father is…" Glennys trailed off as they began to descend the main staircase towards the Round Hall.
"Durran has always been serious. Since we were boys, he was stern. Older than he should be. He's…" Arrec held his breath as he tried to find the right words.
"Families are hard," Glennys said, placing a hand on his. With her touch, he found some comfort – as if she knew the words he was trying to say. Maybe if Arrec had married her instead of Rhaenerys, he would not be quite so troubled. "I'm sure he loves his family, in his own way."
Not all of us, Arrec thought. He'd never seen Ardan as a brother. He'd chosen to see him as a whore's son. But Arrec saw him as a Lord's son. It still ached to think about him – Arrec had watched Prince Jaeghar swan about in his red-and-black gambeson, as if he were a common footman marching off to war, and presented a Northerner to the Princess as a handmaid. The first thing he wished to do was find Ardan and conspire to pour salt in the Forrester girl's wine, or soak her combs and brushes in honey. Of course, he was then slapped with the realisation: his brother had left. They likely wouldn't meet again for some time. Years, possibly.
"Durran just needs time. We're worried about our sister, and…" he looked over to doorway, where his brother stood, dressed in a black leather jerkin over a gold doublet that fell to his knees. His beard had grown thicker, and his hair had been cropped short to his scalp.
"It's rather a mess, isn't it? All these marriages…" He glanced to Glennys. "Durran always thought he was to wed Alyssa Tyrell. Then he was to wed Princess Rhaenerys. Now you've wed him, and I'm husband to Princess Rhaenerys."
"I always hoped I would join a motherhouse," Glennys replied. "The Seven's will is hard to know."
"Unless their will is to toy with us," Arrec murmured. He regretted it – the Tully girl would think him blasphemous. Yet, to his surprise, she smiled.
"Seven save you, my Lord."
"And you as well, my Lady."
Arrec bowed his head and made his way to Durran, who was stood at the door watching the Baratheon retinue ready to return to King's Landing. King Aeric had already mounted his dragon and flew in circles around Storm's End. Aegorax, the long, serpentine beast with milk-white scales, hissed as the Princess Rhaenerys held the beast's head, speaking quietly to it. The beast's golden eyes closed slowly as she spoke, her hands rubbing the creature's jaw.
Prince Vaegon was half-asleep, and would have already fallen off his midnight-blue dragon that perched on the castle walls, if he had not chained himself to the saddle.
Princess Daelaena's dragon, Riñaxes, was the smallest and gentlest, eagerly extending its neck, giving soft purrs. It would try circle the princess and try to use its talons and legs to climb up her, but the woman would laugh and turn: it seemed the beast was a dog that thought it was still a pup. Arrec was unsure the creature would grow to the same size as Nightfyre and Aegorax, let alone a beast the size of King Aeric's, Bloodfyre.
Prince Jaeghar was mounted on his grey-dappled mare, Prancer, accompanied by the Kingsguard knights: Ser Osric Royce, the prettiest with ashen hair, and runes engraved upon his breastplate and helm, Ser Harwin Mooton - Prince Jaeghar's sworn shield – the youngest of the brotherhood, and Ser Lucan of Lannisport – the low-born, the _, the most terrifying. Yet even he steered his black destrier away from the dragons.
"I suppose I ought to get used to this quickly," Arrec muttered as he came closer to Durran.
"If you can," Durran replied, gruffly. He looked to the Baratheon wheelhouse Arrec would ride in, currently occupied by their lady mother. Her handmaids would have matches made by Durran for their service.
"You ought to start talking to your lady wife," Arrec stated. "She's just lost her mother."
"Thank you for your wise words, my Lord Hand," Durran replied curtly. Arrec had never been close with Durran – not that either of them had particularly tried hard. Durran's way was one of stone: hard and best wielded with strength. Arrec had preferred a way of clay: malleable, able to shift and change and sculpt.
Arrec knew what he had to say to Durran, but the words stuck in his mouth. It felt wrong to say it, what with everything that had happened. But good deeds require recognition.
"Thank you," Arrec forced out the words. "For sending Ardan to Blackhaven."
"I thought you were fond of the Bastard."
"Don't call him that."
"What, a bastard?" Durran scoffed. "Is he not?"
"Not to me," Arrec replied firmly.
"Well, if those Dornish cutthroats are lucky enough to slay me, you may hand him Storm's End," Durran crossed his arms.
"I'm trying to thank you, Durran," Arrec snapped. "He's safer at Blackhaven than he would be at Nightsong. And I know you did not do this for his sake."
Durran licked his lips and looked back to the wheelhouses and horses. He clearly did not know how to respond to being thanked. And the Baratheon's were not a family to speak openly of love for one another.
"Seven save you, Brother," Durran said in his deep voice.
"And you as well," Arrec replied as he hobbled towards the wheelhouse his mother sat in. She looked thinner, and she had bags under her eyes: she had spent more time in the sept than in her own bed or at the dining table for the last three weeks. Her red hair still shone brightly, however, and her gown of green and gold looked as fine as ever. She always looked the part of the Lady.
"Lady Mother," Arrec greeted her as he climbed into the wheelhouse.
"Arrec," Cassandra watched him enter. "Your wife ought to be here with us."
"What would you have me do?" Arrec asked, glancing through the lattice shutter at Princess Rhaenerys climbing up Aegorax's wing to his saddle. "Grab her by the hair, pull her from her dragon, order the beast to stand down?"
Cassandra frowned, but did not speak. If the princess wished to fly her dragon, Arrec would not speak against it. He did not wish to order the princess about, and even if he did, he doubted she would listen to him. Arrec knew why his mother said what she did: a woman's place was at her husband's side, to serve and obey him. If Princess Rhaenerys never did this, Arrec would be seen as weak: scarcely a husband or a man.
Princess Rhaenerys would do as she wished. Arrec would sooner spend less time with her: she seemed unkind and cruel, and Arrec would rather have no children than have any with a woman like that. He had, after all, grown up with one.
Aerion
The cold rush of air tugged at Aerion's black woollen cloak as he tightened his grip on the reins, feeling the rough, ancient leather bite into his hands. Ahead of him was the thick scaled neck of his dragon, Gaelithox, cutting through the white clouds and descending upon the vast expanse of King's Landing that unfurled beneath.
The sun beat upon the humongous creature's bronze scales, gleaming like molten metal. He groaned and bellowed as he beat his immense wings, the membrane stretched taut, the scratches and holes fluttering as they cast a shadow over the city like a living, breathing eclipse.
The air rushed past Aerion, like cold nails scratching on his scalp: a roaring torrent that tugged at his silver hair. His heart pounded a wild rhythm in his chest as they neared the sprawling labyrinth of stone and wood, the Red Keep standing proud and imposing atop Aegon's High Hill. The Blackwater Rush glinted in the early light, winding its way through the city like a serpent.
Riding Gaelithox was like riding a storm, the sheer energy of the beast thrumming beneath him, ready to erupt at any moment. Aerion's arms were strained once more: steering Gaelithox was no easy feat; it required every ounce of his strength. The wind whistled past Aerion's ears, a high-pitched keening that mingled with the deep, rhythmic beat of Gaelithox's wings. The wind tugged at his silver hair, whipping it around his face.
Aerion urged his mount lower, bringing them closer to the rooftops. The dragon's wingspan was enormous, each flap sending ripples through the air that rattled the tiles on the buildings below. The shadow of the dragon glided over the rooftops, a dark stain that moved with predatory grace. He could see the people now, their faces upturned in astonishment and terror, eyes wide and mouths agape. They pointed and shouted, their cries lost in the wind that whipped around him. Aerion leant back in his saddle, until the chain that fastened him to his mount stretched taut, and Aerion smiled at the sounds of awe and terror. To ride a dragon was to command the skies, to wield the might of a thousand armies in a single breath of fire. It was power and freedom, the ultimate expression of Targaryen supremacy. He was not merely a man on a beast; he was a dragonlord, a master of the ancient and deadly art that had forged the Seven Kingdoms.
The dragonpit loomed ahead, a vast edifice that had once housed the mightiest of dragons. Its great dome crowned Rhaenys' Hill, and the large, wide, bronze doors shone in the rising sun.
"Naejot, Gaelithox, vaozaldrījudirys!" Aerion commanded over the wind. Gaelithox let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through Aerion's entire body, but he did not turn towards the dragonpit, instead, he arced higher.
"Naejot, Gaelithox!" Aerion repeated himself. "Vaozaldrījudirys!"
Gaelithox snarl and snapped his jaws together as he began to move his head from side to side, watching the townsfolk beneath. Aerion unfolded his legs and planted them against the handles of his saddle, and pulled back on the reins as hard as he could, until his chain was taught and he was almost standing up in his saddle, feeling Gaelithox resist beneath him.
"Dohaeris, Gaelithox!" Aerion shouted, "Nyke jevi āeksio, Gaelithox, dohaeris!"
With a mighty roar that echoed across the skies, the dragon folded his wings and began his descent. The wind howled around them, a cacophony of sound that drowned out all else. Aerion tightened his grip, his knuckles white beneath his gloves against the reins. The ground rushed up to meet them, the dragonpit growing larger and larger until it filled his vision.
As they neared, Aerion guided Gaelithox into a wide circle, the dragon's massive wings slicing through the air with a sound like thunder. The dragonpit's great doors yawned open, and Gaelithox angled his wings, beginning a controlled descent. The wind rushed up to meet them, a powerful force that made Aerion's cloak billow and his hair whip around his face.
They landed with a bone-jarring, thunderous impact that resonated through Aerion's body. Gaelithox's massive claws dug into the ground that trembled beneath his weight, dust and debris swirling in the air. The jolt of the landing resonated through Aerion's body. He took a moment to steady himself, his blood still thundering, and chest rising and falling rapidly.
Gaelithox's golden eyes glowed with an inner fire as it surveyed its surroundings. The dragonkeepers had gathered at the entrance to the pit, the bronze and iron doors of the main gate still being opened. They stood at the doors, watching in absolute fear as Gaelithox approached, leaning down his head to stare at them, his maw slowly gaping as he let out a low rattling breath, eyeing each of them with hunger as they backed into the building, several of the younger dragonkeepers with hands on their arming swords.
Aerion urged his dragon into the pit, the creature's claws clicking against the stone. The shadows seemed to grow longer, the torchlight dimming as they moved further inside. Aerion had to duck when Gaelithox slinked inside, folding his wings in and hooking its talon on the castle walls. His eyes glowed like twin suns in the eerie light that danced across the walls.
They entered the central chamber. Years ago, the dragonpit had been destroyed by a mob of unruly, discontented smallfolk. If it had not been for the clutch of eggs and the small dragonling, Urraxes, who would lay the eggs the other dragons would hatch from: Aegorax, Aevorax, Calyrion, Nightfyre, and Riñaxes. And under the kingship of Aerion's grandsire and father, the dragonpit had been rebuilt, just as before.
It was a vast space, able to house over eighty thousand of the smallfolk. Long, brick-lined tunnels led into the depths of the of the hillside, leading to the lairs of the dragons that resided within.
Gaelithox reared his head as he approached the tunnel to his lair, and let out a long, rumble before snapping his jaws shut, with black clouds of smoke leaving his jaws. Out of the tunnel came a dragon that looked more like a kitten before Gaelithox: a green beast with silver eyes and streaks of black, Calyrion, who immediately left the tunnel to Gaelithox's lair. He raised his head and parted his jaws to bite at one of Gaelithox's horns, but the older beast gave a deafening roar, snapping at Calyrion and tearing a hole in his wing. Calyrion let out a whine and panicked, leaping back and screeching at Gaelithox. Gaelithox bellowed, and Calyrion fled down one of the other tunnels.
Aerion patted Gaelithox's neck, looking out over the dozen dragonkeepers that stood sentinel in black plate, with helms crested with dragon scales. He noticed another man, who was no dragonkeeper, but a dragonrider like Aerion. He was older than Aerion remembered, his hair longer, his face thinner. He still wore a fine Valyrian doublet of black silk, just like Aerion did. But his hair had grown longer.
Aerion slid from the dragon's back, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. He glanced over at his Uncle Maelor before turning back to face his mount, reaching out to place a hand on his neck. The bronze burnished scales were warm and smooth, a stark contrast to the rough stone beneath his feet. feeling the steady thrum of its heartbeat. He was a dragonlord, a master of fire and blood.
Aerion took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of smoke and dragon. The air was thick with the tang of sulphur. He could feel the heat radiating from the creature, a living furnace that could unleash devastation with a single exhalation.
"Quite the mount," Maelor said as he approached, his boots clicking against the stone floor as he walked, a hand resting on the hilt of the slender blade sheathed at his side, Dark Sister. It was the sword Aerion had spied from a young age: unlike Blackfyre, which passed from king to king, Dark Sister was always wielded by a true Targaryen warrior. Visenya, Maegor, Jaehaerys, Baelon, Daemon… and Maelor.
"You've grown, also," Maelor did not even stop to look at Aerion. Instead, he continued walking until he stood between Aerion and his dragon, immediately rubbing a hand over the tough, scarred scales around Gaelithox's nostrils. The titan breathed deeply and gave a low rumble as Maelor began speaking in hushed Valyrian.
"How did you claim the Gold Prince?" Maelor asked, looking over the beast that gave soft, deep purr and shook its neck at his touch. There was a small flicker of satisfaction in watching Uncle Maelor stare up at the largest creature in the whole of the world with awe. But it did little to dislodge Aerion's displeasure.
"Gilded Prince," Aerion corrected him as he tugged at his black leather gloves. Aerion gave a
"There is no word in Valyrian," Maelor stated as he looked over the beast. "Lykiri, Gaelithox. Lykiri, ñuhadārilaros," Maelor whispered, "sȳndroso lykāpa, iēdrosa gīdāpa." These were words Aerion did not just understand, but remembered from his childhood. 'Calm, my prince, As quiet as a shadow,' Maelor would tell him, 'as calm as still water.'
Aerion's hand clenched into a fist. He was sure he knew the word for 'gilded' in Valyrian. But… he could not think of the word for gold. And the way Maelor stood there, soothing his dragon, his dragon who seemed to calm and yield to him… it filled Aerion with white-hot rage.
"Is this why you summoned me?" Aerion asked, reaching into his belt and tossing the ravenscroll onto the stone floor. "To review my Valyrian?"
"No, but perhaps I should, mittys," Maelor chuckled. Aerion had always hated the name: Aerion was not a fool, and he had never been one. He was the blood of Old Valyria, a dragonlord, who rode the largest creature in the entire world: his dragon rested in the same cavernous lair as the Black Dread had!
But at the same time, Aerion enjoyed hearing the name. Or, rather, he enjoyed hearing his uncle call him it once again. He watched his uncle turn back, his hand still on Gaelithox's head.
"I wanted to see you."
Aerion didn't dare smile. He knew Maelor would mock him for it, and even if he wouldn't, it did nothing to explain his departure. Eight years, Maelor had been away, without a visit, a messenger, or a raven. And since he had returned, he'd said nothing to Aerion. Not a single word. Aerion, who was more like him than any of his brothers, Aerion who had been at his side and heeded his words, Aerion who had always loved Maelor and wanted to make him proud.
"I'm not a damned dog you can beckon with a whistle," Aerion snapped, his voice biting. "If you wish to talk to me – after eight years of fucking silence – you can come to me!"
Maelor frowned, his brow furrowing as he glanced back over to Aerion, somewhat puzzled. "Yet here you are, beckoned here by me. And I doubt you flew all this way to bark like an angry pup."
"You left," Aerion snarled as he walked forwards to his uncle, his voice cracking as both hands curled into tight fists, his knuckles white as he summoned every ounce of strength to keep his voice steady, but to little avail. "Without a word, a goodbye, you left our… you left me…"
Maelor gave a long, amused laugh, his head thrown back as his entire body shook. He turned to Aerion with a wide, toothy grin.
"'You left me,' you still snivel like a child," Maelor sniggered. "A man doesn't need anyone, only himself. I'd hoped you'd have learned that by now, but…" He looked Aerion up and down and gave a small tut before slapping Gaelithox's humongous belly and watching the beast descend into its tunnel with long, thudding footsteps.
"I…" Aerion caught himself and bolstered his resolve. He thought about Rhae, her soft face, the way her shining eyes looked into his. She had needed him: it had made him be more than who he was. And she spoke to him as if he were Aegon the Conqueror reborn. But Aerion had to be a man, like Maelor said.
"I don't need anyone."
Maelor turned around.
"We'll see. Come," He turned and began to walk, a hand on the pommel of Dark Sister. Aerion stood there: it's not what he had expected, but… he had at least hoped Maelor would have been happy to see him again. "I'm not asking you, mittys."
The name sent a jolt of fire through Aerion's veins. He clenched the pommel of his own sword and began to walk up to Maelor.
"I heard you crippled a Baratheon," Maelor said as the two princes walked together.
Aerion remembered the day: his horse, Caragon, had whinnied and chomped as Aerion held him back, kicking his feet into the beasts belly from atop his saddle to have the stallion riled. Ahead of him was Erich Baratheon, the half-brother of the bastard that had unhorsed Jaeghar. Jaeghar the valonqar, who had complained he felt out of sorts, but could not bolster himself and find some mettle like a man – like a Targaryen. In public, Jaeghar was unhorsed by a bloody bastard – baseborn, at that. Aerion would die before he let House Baratheon sneer – he had charged ahead, kicking at his horse as his eyes narrowed. He had planned on hitting the boys head, knocking it clean off his Andal shoulders. In the last moment, Aerion had lowered his lance, leant over the lists and buried it through the boy's mare.
He didn't really know why he did it. There had been a moment of delight in hearing the Baratheon wife's cries of anguish. But soon after, the feeling of glee and joy had washed away, and Aerion was left only with confusion. He had done what was right, protected his family, and let all the realm know that Targaryen's are not dangerous solely because of their dragons. But a year later, Aerion did not feel quite as satisfied by it.
"His bastard brother embarrassed our family," Aerion replied.
"And is this bastard still alive?"
Aerion could hear the disapproval in his uncle's voice.
"For now."
"Good. And this crippled Andal, Baratheon, he's taken your sister to wife."
Aerion stopped as he walked, looking up at his uncle. "He's what?"
"They wed three days ago."
Aerion wanted to ripe someone in two with his bare fucking hands. He wanted to burn the entire Stormlands to ashes – rip down their fucking castles, salt their fields and lay waste until the Sea of Dorne swept over the charred remains. Deep from within his cavern, Gaelithox rumbled.
Maelor walked back to Aerion and clamped his sword-hand around Aerion's neck, glaring down at him with his violet eyes burning hot and bright.
"We don't need them," Maelor promised his nephew. "But, by all means, cry if you will-"
Aerion went to slap Maelor's arm off his shoulder, but his uncle was quicker: he caught Aerion's wrist and stared at him. No anger, no scorn, but a slight smirk.
"Good," Maelor nodded. That one word made Aerion stand taller. "We'll find you a bride, if that is your worry."
"Sooner or later, Daelaena will carry an Andal's seed, and I won't raise a bastard-"
"I'm not talking about your sister," Maelor scoffed as they approached the bronze-and-iron doors of the dragonpit. "I've two girls, you can have either one. Have both, if you will."
Aerion frowned, looking up at Maelor. "You've two daughters?"
"Bastards, but soon to be legitimized upon my dolt brother's return," Maelor explained. "Both have bled and will soon claim dragons."
Something clicked in Aerion's mind: Maelor rarely did things without a purpose. He always had an end to which his actions contributed. And legitimizing two bastards, making them dragonriders, wedding Aerion to at least one of them… it was not for a lark.
"Why?" Aerion asked. Maelor paused at the doors, leaning back slightly as he looked over Aerion in thought. He let out a long sigh and walked back to his nephew, placing his hands on Aerion's shoulders, staring down at him fondly.
"Aenor Goldflame," Maelor spoke softly, "what do you know of him?"
"He hatched Gaelithox," Aerion recited the lessons that Maelor himself had taught him as a child, "He tried to return to Old Valyria, and returned blind and babbling. He was confined to a chamber in Dragonstone and…" Aerion shrugged.
"He was not babbling," Maelor told him. "I've been to Valyria. I've seen the Smoking Sea, the mist that kills sailors. I've watched the seas bubble and the waves spew foul gases. And yet, I also found a circlet, a ring, a necklace… and an egg."
"Quite the trove of trinkets," Aerion responded.
"You have forgotten much, mittys," Maelor said, "Everything I found, was just as Aenor Goldflame predicted. 'Steel sentinels of the last beast.'"
"You think Aenor Goldflame hid these trinkets?" Aerion frowned.
Maelor rolled his eyes. "I think those trinkets are what Aenor went looking for. He described those 'trinkets' as you call them at the age of six."
Aerion frowned. Aenor would not journey to Valyria until he was a man grown. The truth dawned on him.
"Aenor was a dreamer?"
"And he recorded his dreams on Dragonstone," Maelor nodded. "In his seclusion, he carved every dream upon the walls, upon the floor, in the caves of dragonglass beneath. And it seems they will all come true. Aegon's Conquest, the Dance of the Dragons."
"This is why you have returned?"
"Yes, Aerion. For Aenor's Last Dream."
Elinda
Mill Rock was a small town nestled in a clearing of dense woods, lying under the quiet rule of House Morrigen. The town was cradled by the low mountains that formed the natural boundary between the lands of House Morrigen and those of House Grandison.
The approach to Mill Rock was a journey through the wood that covered the borders of the lands of Houses Connington, Trant, and Grandison. The trees stood tall and close, the forest floor a carpet of moss and fallen leaves, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The path had been narrow and winding, often obscured by the undergrowth, with shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy in golden beams.
A faint rain had begun to fall, a gentle patter. The rain droplets tapped against the leaves, the call of a bird would punctuate the air. As Elinda walked closer to Mill Rock, the trees began to thin and the path widened slightly. The forest opened up to reveal a small clearing, where the town was nestled. Mill Rock was a humble, modest town, its buildings constructed from the stone and timber that were abundant in the surrounding forest and mountains.
The town itself was built around a central square, where a large mill stood. The mill, which gave the town its name, was powered by a swift-flowing stream that tumbled down from the mountains. The sound of the water rushing over rocks and turning the mill wheel was a constant presence, a background murmur that could be heard as Ella walked through the town. The stream, clear and cold, flowed through the centre of the square before winding its way into the forest.
Surrounding the mill were various buildings: a smithy, where the ring of hammer upon anvil hurt Elinda's ears; a tannery, from which the faint, acrid smell of treated hides occasionally wafted; and several workshops that catered to the townsfolk. There was also an inn.
The rain had now settled into a steady drizzle, a fine mist that clung to everything it touched. The rooftops of the buildings glistened with moisture, and the muddy streets were slick and dark. The rain created small puddles in the uneven surfaces of the ground, and the sound of raindrops hitting the mud was more gentle than the storms Elinda was used to.
Children played in the rain near the square, their laughter a bright and joyous. They splashed through puddles and chased each other around the mill. It made Elinda miss her own friends – those she would play come-into-my-castle and hopfrog with. She looked out across the square to the other children, and could only feel a pang of sadness. She desperately wanted to be with her friends again.
She pulled her woollen black cloak closer around her little body as the girl moved south through the town, where the land began to fall, the low mountains falling into the valleys and forests of House Morrigen's lands. The low mountains to the west formed a natural barrier that separated Mill Rock from the lands of House Grandison. The slopes were dotted with boulders and rocky outcroppings, and the paths that wound their way up the mountains were narrow and treacherous.
In the distance, the sound of a waterfall could be heard in a low, constant roar. The water cascaded down the mountainside, its mist creating rainbows in the sunlight.
"Oi, move it girl," a man called to her as he walked a wheelbarrow over towards the inn. Another man, some ten years or so older than her, carried a barrel over one gargantuan shoulder. She looked back to the where they had come from: the wagon pulled by a tall reddish-brown dray.
Elinda waited until the men came back.
"Are you headed south?"
"What's it to you, girl?"
"I need to go south."
The older man picked up the empty barrel and hoisted it into the back of his wagon. "And why's that? Ain't nothing but trouble down south."
Elinda did not respond. The rain fell, and the curls of dark hair that escaped the woollen hood of her cloak begin to turn wet and straight.
"I can pay you."
"I'm sure you can, girl, but I'm headed back to Appleton, girl, ain't no business going to Red Watch or Cape Wrath."
"Nothing but rain down there," the younger man nodded, taking a full barrel from the wagon and tucking it under one arm.
"Then how do I get there?" Elinda asked,
The man grunted and dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow, slapping his arms together as he leant down to talk to her.
"Where's your mother, girl? Or your father?"
It took Elinda a moment to respond. "Dead."
The man's face fell. He bit his lip and looked around. "Ain't no-one here to look after you? No uncles, aunts, brothers?"
"My brother's south. He'll look after me, I just need to get to him."
The man paused and licked his lips. His pale eyes settled on the girl for a moment before he mumbled something.
"Mudge!" He shouted to the younger man carrying the barrels to the inn. "I'll be quick!"
"Oh, don't have me carry it all again, for fuck's sake, Lem…"
"I said I'll be quick!"
The man, Lem, led Elinda across the muddied street and towards one of the houses built with rock and limestone, with a roof made of wooden tiles. Lem banged on the door several times and crossed arms (he uncrossed them for a moment to push Elinda a little closer to the door). He was a little rough, and he smelled tangy – like cheese.
The door opened and a man, a little older than Lem, with a few small curved scars on his pockmarked cheeks opened the door. His ashen hair had turned bone-white.
"Lem," the man nodded gruffly, looking down at Elinda. "Her?"
"Heading south. You can help?"
"No passengers."
"The girl's an orphan. Has a brother down south, she says."
"So you take her," the man shrugged.
Lem licked his lips and cleared his throat.
"You in there too, Lily?"
"Lem?" A woman's voice called from inside. The man scowled and, a moment later, footsteps were followed by a woman with thick dark hair, falling in waves below her shoulders, and murky green eyes. She was far younger than the man she lived with, and Elinda thought at first she may be his daughter. Then again, it was not uncommon for a man to want to marry young, was it?
"I thought I heard you, come you in, have a seat, the stew's almost done…"
"I can't stay, Mudge will have my hide…" Lem placed a hand on Elinda. "This one came up to me. Orphan girl, says she needs to find her brother down south."
"Down south- down south where?" Lily asked. "Oh, come you in, child, you'll catch your death…" Lily ushered Elinda inside, and turned back to ask once more if Lem would join them.
Elinda pulled her hood down and examined the house: the wind and rain was kept out, but it was sparse: all entirely one room. A small fire in the corner, with a pot hanging over it. Seven help her, Elinda couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. She walked towards the pot of stew and stared down: it was a pale shade of orange with lumps of white meat and torn leaves. Her stomach growled and lurched. All she had been surviving on where apples and torn bits of bread.
The door closed and Elinda watched Lily walk towards her, pulling her away from the fire and sitting her down at the table.
"Here, dearie, let me take your cloak…" she untied the knot at Elinda's neck, but before she could take the cloak, Elinda folded it over her lap. "It's wet, love. You'll catch a chill." Elinda did not yield: she kept the cloak around her waist.
"Giving away hot meals and beds now, are we?" The man grunted as he tottered over to the table.
"I can pay you," Elinda said quickly.
"You shan't – we aren't so godless to leave a girl starving out in the cold, are we?"
"Not wise enough to, no…"
The woman slapped on the old man's arm. "Don't mind Roy: he's always been a misery. Only allowed his son to take me to wife to cook his fish. Isn't that so, Roy?"
He grunted in response.
"What's your name, lass?"
"Elinda," Elinda spoke firmly, "I'm from Durran's Town."
"Pretty name."
"Speak nice, too…" Roy murmured, his eyes lingering upon her, but Lily paid him no mind.
"Where are you trying to get to, love?"
"Blackhaven."
Roy chuckled loudly. "Only fools go to Blackhaven."
"That's not true!" Something stirred within Elinda.
"We're headed to Lockport on the morrow. Do you know where Lockport is?" Lily said, ignoring Roy's grumbles. Elinda nodded. "Well, the other side of Stonehelm it's a single road, and I'd wager a caravan will come along sooner or later."
"Serving up more cattle for the butcher's," Roy muttered darkly. Elinda didn't know why they didn't have cattle at Blackhaven already.
"Roy…"
"I'll tell you, it's that Durran. Never had war under the Strongarm…"
"What about Erich's War?" Lily asked.
"That was different, that were Durran Marshblade."
"Well, then, the Rebellion?"
"Didn't wage war on our doorstep!" Roy replied, jabbing his finger down onto the tabletop. "Never had no Dornish to worry about…"
"How long does it take to get to Lockport?" Elinda asked.
Lily blew out her cheeks and looked up at the wooden beams in the ceiling for a moment.
"Well… it's a day down to Bloody Pool, then off to Road House for a day or two. A week west to Doorlan… Slayne's Break… Slayne Town – where we'll meet with Triston the Thatcher…"
"Fucking penny-pincher…" Roy muttered.
"Roy," Lily hissed.
"He is!"
"I know, but not in front of guests!" Lily turned back to Elinda with a wide smile. "Then we go to Twinflight, and then Lockport."
"That'll take weeks," Elinda frowned. He brow creased as she looked from Lily to Roy.
"Close to two months, depending on how quick the Thatcher shows up…" Roy nodded.
"And there are no caravans from Grandison?" Elinda asked as Lily stood up and wrapped her rolls of cloth around the thin handles of her pot and hoisted it up, hobbling over to the table.
"There will be – once Grandison and Fell raise their men to march south…"
"Who knows when that'll be?" Lily asked. "And the road's no place for a child!"
"You think the Slayne is?"
"As long as we stay out of them woods, we'll be fine," Lily said, taking the wooden bowls from a nearby shelf and spooning in stew with the iron ladel. "And we shan't take coin, Roy, you hear me?"
"Oh, woman-"
"Don't make me tell you twice. What would your Poppy say?"
Roy grimaced for a long, long moment before relenting. He looked down into his bowl of stew and ate in silent surrender.
"You'll stay here tonight, Elinda. We'll dry that lovely, nice gown of yours, give you a warm bed, and make you a nice big bowl of frumenty before we set off. And in two moons time, you'll use that coin of yours to join a caravan west from Stonehelm to your brother."
Elinda smiled, but Roy still made her nervous. She was unsure if she trusted him to sail her all the way south down the Slayne, but Lily had filled her with confidence. And it seemed this would, at the very least, get her closer to Blackhaven. Stonehelm would not be quite as far, and all Elinda would have to do is follow the road west.
Beneath her folded cloak, Elinda's hand closed around the black hilt of the dagger her brother had given her. It helped give her courage. She found her mettle, and reaffirmed her decision. She pushed out all fear. Her mother and brothers wanted to sell her.
Ardan had told her she could visit him whenever she wanted. And he wouldn't betray her: he loved her. And Elinda could stay at Blackhaven and help him – no-one had to know who she was.
Elinda would make sure that no-one would find Oraella Baratheon.
246 days is how long this story's been going for. That's insane, right? Over 250K words. I don't really know what to say, this has been a massive project in itself, let alone thinking about the rest of the series.
I feel very proud of this story, and I'm very glad lots of people are enjoying it too. There's a Discord server for people that want to get in on all the inside jokes, some speculation and so on. It's like a but you… don't have to pay, you just get extra content.
If you guys can't understand the Valyrian from context, lemme know, and I can always throw up some translations at the bottom of the chapter. Or, just like… read the chapter again and see if you can decipher it.
But, yeah, it's back to Cyberpunk next, so, keep an eye out and… yeah, reviews are awesome and keep me motivated – I think one of the biggest reasons for me getting this chapter out so quickly is the influx of reviews over the past couple of days (Ya see? It has an impact!) so, well done all of you!
I won't drag this out. I've done a Q&A on the Discord, so, I'll post that here as well, in case you guys wanna have a lil' hear about my thoughts, as erratic as they are.
Without any further ado, that's the end of The Reign of Dragons.
R.