Author's Note: Hello again. Thanks for the continued support. I am very excited about where this one is starting to go and hope you are too.
Although it will take us a while to get there. My chapter-by-chapter outline currently has the final chapter being chapter 80. The more you guys review the more I want to write, and the quicker we'll all get there.
In any case, I hope you enjoy!
Silence amongst the thousands.
Damon Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, stood atop the world, staring down at those come to end it.
The line was so long it stretched out of eyesight to both Damon's left and right. Thousands upon thousands of them, the front of their ranks a few steps in front of the treeline while they extended who knew how far into the dark woods behind. In rotting furs and leather and rusting steel they stood stock still, their pale, dead blue eyes all fixed on the living men looking down at them.
Nobody, living or dead, made a sound.
Damon let his eyes roam over them. Men, women, children, all were present. There were at least three giants and over a dozen wolves and bears. A few months ago that would have shocked him to his core, but his own experience north of the Wall—and the revelation atop it—had hardened Damon past the point of surprise. It was all just grim reality to him now, another fact to battle.
"How long have they been like that?" Damon spoke quietly, as if the sound of his voice would jolt the undead army into action. It did not, though his voice carried in the unsettling hush.
"Since the horn blew," Mance Rayder replied, eyes fixed on the mass of bodies below. "From what my people says, it was all clear until it weren't. They just stepped out of the trees and froze."
"No warning from any patrols, then?"
Mance snorted. "They're dead, we both know that." The greying King-Beyond-the-Wall still didn't care much for Damon, even Damon himself realized that. But their fight in the North and subsequent flight—and, bluntly, the fact that Damon had even gone—meant the wildling leader at least held some respect for him. That thought was buoyed by his next words, grim as they were. "I hope that swordarm of yours is as good now as it was the last time I saw you use it."
Damon's hand reflexively gripped the hilt of Widow's Wail, hanging in its sheath on his left hip. He'd ordered Emmon Peake to stay with Elinor and help the Tyrell handmaiden to pack the queen's belongings. The boy had not liked it in the slightest, saying more over the next minute than he had in all the other time he'd been the king's squire combined, but Damon had held firm. The boy was too young for what was about to come.
There are hundreds of wildling children in the camps behind. You didn't send them away. You left them to be slaughtered, just as they were—by you—at Last Lake.
But those were not his people, and ultimately not his call. He'd spoken of that with Mance and Robb Stark briefly, but both men had been adamantly opposed, if for different reasons. Damon could have theoretically forced Robb's hand, but there was not much he could do with the wildling host unless he wanted to start another war.
I have plenty enough of those as it is.
"Your people are ready I take it. The rest of mine will be here shortly." He could hear the sound of the lift as it rose and fell repeatedly, bearing fresh archers to the top of the Wall. Their shuffling of feet and the lift's rattling were the only thing cutting through the silence; no birds sang, no horses snorted, no men cursed or laughed or cried. Even those moving were silent, Damon glancing at them as they hurried past. Men and women from both sides of the Wall lined her now, bows in hand. The king saw an old man in Crakehall brown, then a young woman in wildling furs, then a Leygood man missing an eye. More followed of both genders and nationalities, from the old to the young. Each of their faces were grim and determined, some from the south shocked and disgusted, but all stood firm, ready for the war for all humanity.
Except that war wasn't happening. The silent stalemate drug on.
They'd been preparing for months. There were thousands of arrows and barrels of pitch stockpiled, made and transported over the previous months by an army of idle hands. Torches and braziers lined the top of the Wall as well, with stacks of kindling and firewood to feed their flames. But now, once the enemy was on hand, they simply stood beyond bow range and stared.
Damon and his army stared back.
It was some tense amount of time later that the king heard the creak of wheels. Damon didn't need to look to see Bran Stark push in beside him, Jon Snow gripping its handles. "You shouldn't be here, Lord Bran."
"This is exactly where I should be, King Damon." Bran's face was impassive, as blank as a sheet of parchment. "The Night's King is near."
Damon looked again, much as he had been since arriving atop the Wall, but still couldn't see a figure of ice like the one they'd slew in the north. "Where, exactly?" When Bran didn't answer, Damon glanced at him to find the Stark's eyes were palw white. He glanced up at Jon Snow, but the baseborn Watchman was staring intently into the dark trees below.
He'd seen Bran do it before. It never stopped disturbing him, but he had grown hardened to it. Still, it took effort not to flinch when, some minutes later, a murder of crows swooped overhead. Many of his soldiers did flinch, the harsh cawing of the birds as loud as the booms of a bell as they swooped down towards the army of dead.
They flew as one, swooping over the army of dead, who paid them no mind, and over the trees behind. He heard muffled curses and prayers from the southrons around him—Tyrek, ever at his back, was among them despite having seen the same things Damon had—but the king ignored it, waiting in anticipation for just what the Starkling might see.
When Bran's eyes flashed back Tully blue, the crows immediately rose higher into the air, gaining speed as if they wished to escape this part of the world entirely. By the Seven, I almost wish I could do the same.
"Get ready, King Damon." Bran's eyes never left the dead. "He comes soon."
"What are they waiting for?"
Bran glanced down at the sleeve of his right arm, then back to the dead. "Night."
"This would be simpler if you had just—"
"One more word against my wife, Lord Connington, and I'll feed you your own teeth."
It was an unkingly thing to say, but by the Seven had he had enough of being lectured. Aegon could take reprimands and questions better than many young kings could, but that didn't mean he was completely unbothered by them.
Particularly when they are partially justified.
He had married Arianna Martell for political reasons, not for love. The Dornish had committed almost all their men to the cause, with thousands of spears having joined the Golden Company and other mercenaries at King's Landing. Thousands of others had raised the Targaryen banner and began burning the Reach and Marches, wreaking havoc on lands sworn to Damon Baratheon. Their aggressions, paired with those of the Ironborn, had occupied the remaining strength of the Reach and Westerlands, Damon's two greatest allies.
She was also young, beautiful and from a family with both Targaryen blood and well-known fertility. It was a sound match, and one Aegon had made in complete control of his senses; Arianna had seduced him, surely enough, but Aegon had known her goal for weeks before he allowed her to succeed. It wasn't even a true seduction he supposed, not when Aegon fully intended to be caught.
Or so he would have said a moon ago. In hindsight, the king could admit there had been some wisdom in the idea of Aegon wedding Daenerys. The benefits of Arianne had seemed more tangible when his aunt was just a name and an idea and the Dornishwoman was at his side as the living, breathing embodiment of desire. Now though, with what he had seen a fortnight ago over the Narrow Sea, part of him wondered if he might actually have acted as rashly as Connington claimed. Maybe I was seduced.
The king shook his head. No point doubting myself now. What's done is done, and we can only move forward. Sails on the horizon sharpened his attention. And it would not do to appear weak in front of her. Let us see how this goes, shall we?
The messenger had appeared in at the gates of the Red Keep the same night that Aegon had seen the dragon and the woman riding it, though both figures had turned northwards and disappeared into the night's sky. The non-descript man with a nowhere accent had worn no emblem, his clothing dull brown, but the letter he carried had born a familiar seal; Aegon's seal, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The contents it shielded had been a brief and direct request to meet, written in a flowing, feminine hand. He had been addressed simply as "Aegon Targaryen", with no mention of his title or their kinship, and had been signed "Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name". It left no room for doubt about his aunt's stance on which Targaryen should rule.
Jon Connington, a good man but one almost too temperamental for the office Aegon had entrusted him, had taken immediate and deep offense. Aegon himself, wide awake and still rattled from seeing one of the great beasts from his family's past, had spoken over him to accept the meeting, then negotiated the details.
It had come as a surprise to all when Duskendale was insisted upon, for it and its surrounding lands were firmly under Aegon's own banner. Lord Rykker had capitulated the port city a moon earlier after a brief siege, and his young daughter Marei now served Arianne as handmaiden and hostage. Aegon had led that campaign, taking a force of three thousand of the Golden Company, bolstered by an equal number of Dornish spears, to subdue the rest of the Crownlands. Antlers had fallen without a fight, Byrch Hall after a brief one. It was there that Aegon had crossed blades in earnest for the first time, slaying two men on the modest walls. He slew another half dozen while capturing the remaining towerhouses and keeps between there and Duskendale, though all had been manned by skeleton forces of old men and young boys, most surrendering without bloodshed. Even Duskendale itself, heavily walled and populated, had only held out a few days before Lord Rykker bent the knee.
Though he did so only because he had had no word from Damon Baratheon in half a year, and admitted that readily. Still, he joined what remained of his forces with ours and seems to genuinely care for his daughter. I do not consider him false. Varys had confirmed as much, and when told of it, Lord Renfred had seemed as surprised by the location of the supposed meeting as Aegon was.
The King had brought five thousand men, all symbolically Dornish, to bolster the walls, while another five thousand—a conglomeration of those lords sworn to him—waited as a wary reserve two miles down the Rosby Road.
The wooden maze of piers and rope and moorings was normally alive with fishing vessels and traders and crews loading and unloading, but this morning it bore only seven men. Aegon himself, Oberyn Martell, Jon Connington, and Haldon Halfmaester—his quill and parchment ever ready—were the front rank. The other three wore the white of the Kingsguard. Ser Rolly Duckfield, the first man Aegon had appointed to his seven, stood behind Aegon's right shoulder, ever his shadow. Tall, hulking Ser Duncan Strong, immensely muscled despite his youth, stood to Haldon's right, idly twisting a heavy flanged mace in his ham-like hands. Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace, stood near Oberyn Martell, whom he had squired for and been knighted by. Aegon had heard the rumors of Daemon and Oberyn—and of Daemon and Arianne, for that matter—but none could deny he was one of the finest fighters Dorne had to offer.
The fourth Kingsuard appointed by Aegon and the last one for the moment, Ser Garibald Shells—stern and serious and, yes, Dornish—remained in King's Landing with queen Arianne. I find it a particularly bad idea to have her here, for obvious reasons. Some would call it cowardly. I call it common sense.
Despite the thousands and thousands of souls behind those stones and the hundreds of archers whose eyes Aegon could feel watching him, it was quiet. Not even the gulls, frequent visitors to the Duskendale docks as evidenced by the sign they left behind, were conspicuously absent. The only sounds were the waves and the breeze.
That single ship, spotted when it was just a speck upon the horizon, drew steadily closer. When its dark sails came into view Aegon was only moderately surprised by the golden kraken displayed there, for Varys had long ago reported that Victarion Greyjoy—younger brother to Balon and Euron—had led a fleet of ships towards Essos.
Still, his stomach felt hollow. He wasn't sure what their presence here, presumably in support of his aunt, meant. "What do you make that to mean?"
Jon Connington, blood red hair billowing, glared at the approaching ship as if the weight of his displeasure would sink her beneath the waves. "Trouble, Your Grace."
"Euron is still in the west," Oberyn said. "All reports from our own campaigns claim he is raiding and reaving from Old Oak to Flint's Finger, but not east of them. There has been no conflict between His Grace and any Ironborn."
Aegon nodded his head at the approaching ship, a huge longship with an iron and oak ram protruding menacingly from the bow. "No conflict yet may be closer to the truth, uncle."
"I don't know Euron Greyjoy, but I know what they say of him. He doesn't strike me as the sort to bend the knee."
Connington grunted in agreement. "Especially not to a woman, dragons or no."
"An alliance then?" Aegon asked. "Perhaps one of marriage?"
Connington glowered at him for a second, then looked back to the rapidly approaching vessel. "Perhaps. I find it more likely that Victarion Greyjoy is backing Daenerys in hopes she'll help him kill his older brother."
Oberyn Martell nodded. "And then give Victarion the islands in his place." It was rare the two men agreed on anything, much less two things in a single conversation, and Aegon found that alone drove him to almost take the theories as facts. We'll find out soon enough, I suppose.
They spoke no more, for the longship loomed. Sailors scurried about the deck and rigging beneath the great sail, though it was the dozens of oars obeying the muffled shouts of the coxswain that brought the longship smoothly into a berth near Aegon and his party. The Ironborn, despite the evil their very culture embraced, were undeniably excellent sailors, and experienced hands had the longship secured and a thick wooden gangway in place mere moments after the ship touched dock.
Though a woman was among figures who disembarked, it was immediately evident she was not Daenerys Targaryen. This woman had dark olive skin and dark hair, her eyes a molten gold that left Aegon unsure of her origins. Younger than he, she was a beauty but not a queen.
He didn't ponder her long, for two others immediately demanded his attention. One was quite clearly Victarion Greyjoy, tall and huge and as heavily muscled as Ser Duncan, though near twice his age. The Ironborn wore heavy grey chainmail over boiled black leather, with a cloak of golden cloth. In his right hand he carried a great axe of blackened steel, his left a helm forged to look like a great kraken. The other was the physical opposite of Victarion, a short man of slight build. His features were sharp, accented by the small, pointed beard on his chin, his hair a grey-streaked brown. He carried no weapon, not even a dagger that Aegon could see, and the sigil on his chest—a field of silver birds on green—was no heraldry the king recognized.
Oberyn Martell did, though, and Aegon saw his uncle visibly tense out of the corner of his eye. "So that's why Lysa Arryn has closed her borders. Her strings are being pulled by a little finger."
The man smiled, a charming one that did not reach his eyes. "Hello, Prince Oberyn. Much has happened since we last spoke in King's Landing, has it not?"
Aegon managed to keep the dread in his gut from showing on his face, but barely.
If the Vale has sworn for Daenerys…
No one, it seemed, had any true idea what had been going on in the Vale since before the wars had started. While a handful of knights and lords had sworn to this king or that one in the conflicts that began shortly after Jon Arryn's death, the vast majority had followed the precedent of neutrality set by Lady Lysa, ruling in place of her son Robert. All pleas for aide, even those by her brother and sister to support Robb Stark, had been rebuffed. The Vale had taken no part in the wars, and in the latter months had gone so far as to close her borders, the lords of those lands using their unbloodied forces to patrol the roadways and keep others out.
While stragglers certainly slipped through the cracks, the lands of House Arryn had for all intents and purposes become a kingdom into herself. In the moons since Aegon had landed he had sent envoys and ravens by the score, requesting first her allegiance and then a simple meeting to discuss the possibility of it, but had never received a single response, not even one to tell him to go bugger himself. Even Varys had been unable to find out what exactly was happening in the Eyrie and the lands she controlled.
And now I see why.
Oberyn clearly had the same realizations and fears running through him as Aegon did, but he kept his voice calm and collected. "Do you speak for Lysa Arryn, then? A petty lord from the smallest of her holdings?"
Baelish did not seem offended. Aegon, despite never having met him before, already had the suspicion that the man never truly showed what he was feeling. "I do, though I'm a petty lord no longer."
Oberyn snorted in derision, his anger a clear response to this setback. "You aren't the Lord of the Riverlands any longer, not since the Baratheon boy gave it back to House Tully when he negotiated peace with the North. I suppose you mean Harrenhal, a great heap of melted stone and dashed pride."
The envoys of Daenerys came to a stop twenty feet in front of Aegon's own party. There were eight total, and Aegon knew he should be studying those others as well, but he was drawn into the words of Baelish and the problems they wrought. "I agree, Harrenhal is a ruin, and one I haven't stepped foot in since the days of my youth. I mean the Vale, Prince Oberyn. Lady Lysa and I were married some moons ago. I speak now as her husband, and regent of Lord Robin Arryn." His smile grew. "So yes, I speak for Lysa Arryn, and her son, and his lords and ladies."
Aegon felt whatever advantages he had held prior to this meeting melt away. In their long discussions in the fortnight leading up to this day, he and his council had decided their best bargaining point, aside from his shared blood with Daenerys, was the lords supporting him. Westerosi lords, families of high prestige and long history like the Martells and Yronwoods and Wyldes on the Cape of Wrath. While Aegon had been raised across the sea and the Golden Company and sellswords he commanded consisted of many men from many backgrounds, many were of Westerosi descent and followers of the Seven. If you included Dorne and the other lords who now fought for him, and if you ignored how he himself had invaded, he could be seen as a Westerosi king leading Westerosi houses. He would argue with Daenerys that he had been accepted by the people of the Seven Kingdoms, and it would be far easier to join her strength to his—as his beloved but subordinate family member—then to try and instill order with an army of foreign savages and former slaves.
And her army were savages and slaves, of that there was no doubt. Even in this small party there were two men who could only be Dothraki, and two others in the black spiked helm and dark armor of the infamous Unsullied. Even the support of the Ironborn would do little to harm his argument, for while the Isles were a part of Westeros, they were a mostly reviled, estranged part, one who did not follow the Seven or most decent morals for that matter.
It was a strong argument. It was also rendered entirely moot if what Lord Baelish claimed was true, and the Vale—Westerosi, ancient, very the Seven—supported his aunt.
Only a moment had passed since Baelish's comment, and Aegon knew he could not let the silence last. "And what of my aunt? Do you speak for her as well, Lord…Baelish, was it?"
The small man smiled. "The Queen speaks for herself, Ser."
Ser, not King. Aegon feigned surprise, making a show of looking through the party—the girl, Baelish, Victarion, the Dothraki and Unsullied, and one hooded figure at the end with a long white beard flowing from a shadowed face. "Does she? Then where, might I ask, is she?"
Later, Aegon would damn himself for giving Baelish the perfect opening.
This smile did reach the little man's eyes, making them sparkle. "Here, of course."
Shouts from behind them started, growing louder and louder, and Aegon realized belatedly that they had been happening in the distance for a while. Rolly, knowing Aegon wanted to turn, immediately stepped forward and interposed himself between his king and the diplomats, joined a moment later by Sers Daemon and Duncan. The white wall of armor now between him and any threat that might rise from Greyjoy or the others, he whirled back towards Duskendale.
The archers along the wall and gate were not attentively watching the meeting below as they should have been. Instead, their backs were to their king, each and every man staring towards the city of Duskendale and the wave of terrified shouts rippling through it. Jon Connington, enraged, shouted over the rising din. "What is it? Answer, damn you!"
They should have known, really. Aegon figured it out as the men along the walls started diving this way and that, some leaping from the walls themselves to crash screaming to the rocks and docks below.
He'd seen the dragon before, silhouetted against the moon over the Narrow Sea that night in King's Landing, but that brief glimpse in the dark had not done the beast justice. It was an otherworldly thing, immense, something his eyes saw but his mind refused to accept. With a flap of black scaled wings, red membranes glowing in the sun, it dropped from the sky to land atop the wall, great clawed feet gripping the stone there so fiercely Aegon swore he heard it crack. Teeth, black as dragonglass and each the size of a short sword, glistened as the great animal arched its snakelike neck forward and roared. The musky scent of meat and potent smell of brimstone accompanied the rush of air that washed over Aegon and his councilors.
Aegon knew there was a figure astride the dragon, but he couldn't spare her so much as a glance. He was enraptured by it, by every black scale and streak of crimson, by the sheer power that radiated from the mass of muscle. Colossal, it leapt from the walls to the ground below, one foot on stone, one on the dock, the impact reverberating up Aegon's legs and making the wood creak and groan and shutter. With a twist of its immense neck, it let loose a torrent of black and red flame onto the rocks at the base of the wall, the heat from it washing over Aegon even at this distance. Then, with a dart of the massive head, the dragon flipped something black and smoking up into the air. The king recognized it as the now-roasted corpse of one of the men who jumped from the walls, and watched in fascinated horror as it disappeared down the dragon's gullet.
He fell into a shocked stupor, as did those around him, broken only by the sound of feet. Ser Duncan, somehow having kept his mind on his duty despite the spectacle the dragon had made, shadowed three of Daenerys' party as they separated from the others, keeping himself between them and Aegon's own men as they skirted around the slack-jawed Haldon, who remained completely oblivious of them. One was the shadowed whitebeard, the other a tall Unsullied and taller Dorthaki. Completely unafraid, they hurried towards where the dragon was again roasting a corpse, the dock protesting each time the great beast moved.
Aegon had missed her dismount, so enraptured had he been by the dragon and then the potential threat of the three men, but he certainly saw her now. And by the Seven, the rumors did her no justice. She was the image of Valyrian beauty, every positive trait of the blood of the dragon wrapped into one young woman. Slender of frame, her eyes were violet, a shade lighter than Aegon's own. Long, silver-gold hair hung to the small of her back in a braid, as pale and intricate as the white coat she wore. She wore no crown, unlike Aegon's own ancestral circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies, but her bearing was erect and confident. Queenly.
The whitebeard and the two foreigners fell into step around her, older man at the front, his hood now down to reveal an older, weathered face and dark eyes that missed little. As the dragon roasted and ate behind them, dock shaking with each move, his rider approached, chin held high.
Aegon, realizing how pathetic he and his men looked, rose to his full height and arched a brow, battling through his own shock to speak. He was proud that his voice did not crack, though it was a note higher than usual. "Quite the theatrical entrance, dear aunt."
"I have found theatrics have their place." Her voice was as strong and confident as her posture as she responded, stopping in a spot that placed Aegon's party at an equal distance between her group and Baelish's. And her dragon scared off our men at the wall. A spike of adrenaline coursed through him as he realized this may all have been a ploy to kill him, and his hand nearly strayed to Blackfyre at his side.
But then his eyes landed on the feasting black dragon, and he realized that would be a very stupid stance to take. If she'd wanted us dead, she'd have dropped out of the sky and roasted us alive before we knew what was happening. We gave her the opportunity to kill us the second we agreed to come. Now we just have to live, and now know not to make that mistake again.
"You're right, they do," he said, forcing what he hoped was an easy smile. "And as far as good ones, that may be the best I have seen."
Her returning smile was noticeably chillier. "Thank you. Drogon is quite impressive, and his siblings are just as hard to ignore." She tilted her head at him. "That's what you were hoping to hear, yes, nephew?"
Aegon's smile grew despite the odd flash of irritation he felt at her tone each time she said 'nephew'. He could play the charming relative if he must, and could play it much better than she. "Indeed it was, aunt. I thank you for bringing back the greatest power this world has ever known, and for bringing it to the greatest house."
Jon Connington spoke then, his voice somewhat hoarse. Aegon did not know if that was due to the dragon or the girl. "Your brother was a great fan of words, my lady." He nodded towards the whitebeard. "Ser Barristan has likely informed you of that. King Aegon is also fond of them, but I find them tedious things, and like to keep them brief. Does my lady object?"
The woman in white regarded him. "And you are?"
"Jon Connington. I was once a close friend of Rhaegar, and now serve his son as Hand."
"I see. I also find words tedious, Jon Connington. I do not object." Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Daenerys cut him off. "Missandei, if you will."
Aegon fought the urge to turn back towards Baelish's party as another woman's voice began speaking from that direction. It was what Daenerys wanted he wagered, to set him off balance and have him twisting back and forth like an animal trying to escape a snare. I will not give her that. He kept his eyes solely on his aunt as the dark woman behind him spoke.
"Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, acknowledges the kinship with the son of her brother Rhaegar. Her Grace offers an alliance of armies, and to name Aegon her heir and offer him a place of high honor in her court, if he and the lords and men he commands swear fealty to her."
Aegon's heart had started to soar at the offer of alliance—it was why he was here, after all—but had collapsed just as quickly as the foreign woman continued speaking. Her heir. Her court. Fealty to her. It was as they had feared.
Connington, in classic Jon fashion, pointed out the obvious with some irritation. "A son's claim to the Iron Throne far outweighs a daughter's, much less a sister's. King Aegon is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. We are not opposed to alliance, but—"
Daenerys Targaryen, to Aegon's shock, turned towards her dragon, making it three steps before Jon's irritated voice cut back in. "Where are you going?"
She stopped, turning back towards them slightly but not fully. "I had decided I would talk as long as it took for someone to mention I was a woman, and therefore the weaker claimant. I must admit, Lord Connington, you took longer than I had thought you would. It will cost me, as I wagered Lord Baelish ten gold dragons that they would be the first words I heard." She turned away again, continuing towards the black beast that—having roasted and eaten every corpse in the vicinity in record time, the smell of burnt flesh thankfully kept at bay by the sea's cool breeze—now sat watching them with disturbing intelligence.
Jon, as red as his hair, tried to keep his tone calm. "There is precedent, my lady. The Dance of the Dragons shows what can happen when that order is ignored. We wish-"
She climbed atop her dragon deftly, using his wing as a ramp to where he bowed his mighty head and cutting off Aegon's Hand again. "Yes, I know all about the Dance, my lord. I also know it takes two of them to do so, and that right now only one dragon has a rider." She peered down at them from atop Drogon, a queen surveying her empire. "And that is how it will remain if you keep that point of view. This is a matter I will not budge on. Consider that before our next meeting."
The Dothraki and Unsullied suddenlymoved to one side, as did the whitebeard Connington had identified as Barristan the Bold.
And then the dragon charged.
Haldon Halfmaester dove into the ocean with a splash. Jon hit the wood of the dock flat, as did Oberyn. Ser Daemon, one hand on Aegon's arm, tried to pull him out of the way. But Aegon held his ground, more from fascination with the beast than from personal bravery. Drogon's great body sprinted forward several paces and then spread its wings, buffeting them all with a gale of wind as it rose into the air, clawed feet and whipping tail clearing the standing Aegon by mere feet.
Rolly Duckfield, proving why he had been Aegon's first choice as a Kingsguard, had interposed himself between them, white shield held up, as if to stop the charging dragon with a stiff shoulder. It was a ridiculous notion. Aegon appreciated it greatly.
There were no laughs or jibes as Barristan the Bold and his two companions edged around Aegon's party to join the others. Jon and Oberyn rose to their feet while Ser Daemon and Ser Duncan fished Haldon Halfmaester from where he clung to a pillar, half submerged in the Narrow Sea. Daenerys and Drogon soon became a dot in the sky, taken far and fast by his massive wings. Victarion Greyjoy, never having said a word, strode up the gangway to his ship, his opinion of the men clear by his dismissive final glance as he stepped onboard. The other woman, Missandei, soon followed, as did the Dothraki and Unsullied with Ser Barristan.
Only Baelish lingered, his eyes finding Aegon's. "We can negotiate a second meeting the usual way, if it pleases you. A raven will soon reach you from Gulltown."
Aegon, knowing he had been embarrassed in this show of force and not wishing to prolong it, nodded once. Baelish climbed the gangway, and moments later the longship rowed back to sea.
The seven men stood on the dock in silence for a long moment, water pouring from Haldon's robes. "Well," the king finally said, eyes still on the spot he had last seen Daenerys and her dragon disappear. "That could have gone better."
A/N: *tease* Battles, babies, badass women