Author's Note: Me again. Some changes this round, expounded on a fight scene that I did like the original version of but wanted to flesh out more. It got away from me a bit but I like it, and I think it's a tad more believable, especially concerning what blades can and cannot cut through haha. Also added a bit more Warrior because he is my fave forever.

I hope you enjoy and review this update.

Chapter 9

Original Word Count: 2,452

Revision Word Count: 3,556

Targaryens had been many things in their long history, oftentimes in direct contrast to others of the name. Aegon the Unworthy had been a universally reviled man driven by lust and his own selfish desires, his vices laying the groundwork for the Blackfyre Rebellions that had so plagued the family. His son Daeron the Good, however, had been an even tempered, forthright man respected by all, managing to bring Dorne into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms through peace when his ancestors had failed through war. Another, older Daeron, Daeron the Young Dragon, had been a warrior, charismatic and confident, a conqueror felled only by treachery. His brother, Baelor the Blessed, had been pious and peaceful, felled by his own fasting—or his uncle, depending on who you wished to believe. Either way, within the blood of the dragon ran the capacity for many things, from great deeds to utter destruction.

Rhaegar was the brother of peace in this generation, calm and collected. Aelor was the brother of war, his temper as hot as the blood of the dragon in his veins. It sang at him now, demanding vengeance and blood that the Dragon of Duskendale fully intended to exact.

His stallion thundered underneath him, its huge lungs working like a billow as it raced towards the sound of slaughter ahead. Desmond had taken to calling him Warrior, a decidedly sinful name but one undeniably fitting. The beast seemed to love battle almost as much as Aelor did, having emerged from the Slaughter of the Straits with a muzzle stained red with Stormlander blood.

While it was particularly unwise of a knight to grow attached to his mount, as more horses would die underneath him than women would writhe, Aelor found himself liking the ill-tempered animal more than he did most men. The beast understood, to an eerie degree, the emotions of his master. As they galloped, Warrior seemed to feed off of the anger Aelor exuded, trumpeting terrifying bellows even as he ran at full tilt, and Aelor felt one of his own rip from deep within as he neared the walls.

The River Gate, called the Mud Gate by the smallfolk, led to the Roseroad and southern Kingsroad, connecting the wharfs along the Blackwater Rush with Fishmonger's Square inside the city. It has also been left mostly unguarded by the Westerlander forces. They clearly hadn't felt the need, as no one was supposed to know they were marching on King's Landing with the intent of sacking it—many thought they had mobilized to assist the Targaryen cause, not damn it. But Aelor Targaryen did know, thanks to the chitterings of a little bird that had appeared in his tent the night before he was to assault Robert Baratheon. He'd marched the men near to exhaustion in the days since, only held back by the cautious insistence of Barristan and Renfred. His forces still hadn't been able to reach the city of his birth in time to prevent the start of the Lannister's pillaging, but they were certainly in time to prematurely end it.

We're going to kill them. All of them.

The wharfs were burning, set ablaze by the Lannisters at the beginning of the sack. Thick black smoke billowed from the fires, masking the approach of his vanguard. He supposed he appeared like a demon to the few men left to guard the gate, black armor atop a black horse appearing from the black smoke. Aelor certainly fell upon them like one, driving his lance through the throat of the first man he came to, turning the guard's shout of warning into a gurgle of blood and death even as Aelor planted a boot in the face of another, cracking bone and teeth. Their companions fared no better, some turning and trying to flee through the gate only to be trampled by the mass of armored horses crashing through as the prince's vanguard joined the fray.

The city Aelor rode into looked nothing like the one he had been raised in. The streets of King's Landing were awry with soldiers and citizens both dead and alive, bodies and blood littering the street among overturned goods and possessions scattered in all directions. A few pockets of resistance remained, men in the red and gold of House Lannister battling with those in the gold of the City Watch or the red and black of House Targaryen. Others had given up the pretense of waging war and were openly looting, the city's wealth being stolen from brothels and Septs alike as the smallfolk attempted to escape.

Aelor left his lance buried in the belly of a man in Banefort grey, drawing his sword as Warrior galloped past. The city was dim, smoke so heavy it hampered the sunlight on what had been a cloudless day. There were no orders shouted, his men aware of their duties and trusted to carry them out. Aelor fell upon a pair of looters, hatred intensifying when he realized what had them so enraptured that they didn't realize the tide was turning. Like a wave he washed over them, leaving a shocked woman amidst the corpses of her rapists, one's head hanging on by mere inches of flesh and the others skull shattered beneath the heavy hooves of Warrior.

Some knight with a purple unicorn surcoat tried to knock Aelor off his destrier mere feet further on, the Dragon Prince driving his sword through the narrow slit of his visor in response. Screaming wordlessly, he withdrew his blade from his dead enemy's face only to plunge it into the back of the next man at arms he crossed. It wasn't honorable but Aelor didn't care, all notions of decency abandoned by both sides. He sliced one man's throat and removed another's hand, leaving the man in green and yellow lying in the filthy street, blood pumping from the wrist. Aelor didn't see him die beneath the hooves of one of Aelor's knights and wouldn't have cared either way. The Dragon of Duskendale fought on, carving a bloody path through the streets of his family's capital, driving up the road known as the Hook at a full canter. Warrior moved tirelessly, as driven as his rider, running more than one man down and turning them into a fleshly pulp underneath his hooves and weight.

Those who fought fell to wounds in their front; those who ran fell to wounds in their back. Men died by the score, and still the Targaryen Prince drove on.

Aelor couldn't say whether Desmond or Ser Barristan were still beside him. He didn't know whether Lord Randyll Tarly had successfully brought the infantry up to block off the city's gates, ensuring not a single Lannister would escape the purge of their own making. The Lord of Duskendale wasn't even sure if this euphoric slaughter was real or just the fevered dream of a man from a family known for its madness, dark and terrifying and beautiful.

Aelor didn't care. All that mattered was killing and the Red Keep.

They should be gone. They should be gone. They should be gone.

But he did not know for sure, and that uncertainty and fear had driven him near mad for days. Now, so close to knowing, it boiled inside him as hot as the anger that had always been his edge on the battlefield.

The Red Keep loomed ahead when Aelor came upon a man in a lion helm, his shoulder pads forged to look like the faces of the predator the Lannisters were so proud of. The knight, clearly noble born, sat atop a horse almost as big as Warrior, the long blond hair that flowed from underneath his helm waving to and fro as he tried to rally the forces around him. Whether he had seen the Royalist counterattack or whether it was for another reason was unclear and irrelevant. Despite his efforts only a handful of his men listened, the rest too intent on the loot they were pillaging and the women they were defiling to worry about something so trivial as a war.

Aelor ended his futile efforts. With a horrible bellow Warrior crashed into the Lannister's mount, nearly unhorsing the knight as the stallion beneath him staggered sideways. The second son of Aerys struck before the knight could recover, bringing his blade down hard at an angle. To his utmost surprise the Lannister knight parried it with his own, forcing Aelor's blade up and away and maintaining his seat as the Lion's horse regained its balance. Warrior, enraged that the other stallion in front of him hadn't gone down, slammed his armored body back into his rival's flank, sinking his teeth into the back of the beast's neck. Aelor used that momentum to strike again, his own fury growing as the Lannister parried once more, knocking Aelor's blade aside and going on the offensive even as his mount staggered again, screaming hauntingly at the pain Warrior was inflicting.

The Lion's blade crashed into Aelor's shield, the sword slashing a furrow into the warring white dragon's painted onto the heavy oak and banded steel. Aelor had almost forgotten the thing was strapped to his left arm; he hadn't needed it to this point. The Dragon swung the newly rediscovered defense out, knocking the blade of his opponent away, and once again struck, this time aiming the point of his sword at the slit in the man's visor, intending to skewer the Lion's brains as he had the purple unicorn's. Lannister managed to block this blow as well, not giving up a fraction of a second in transitioning from the defensive to the offensive, slashing his blade in at Aelor again, carving another groove into the Dragon's shield.

On an on the two danced, parry being met with parry. Thrice Aelor thought he had an opening, and thrice the Lannister knight managed to close it off before the Dragon of Duskendale could drive his blade home. Their deadly dance paid no heed to the carnage around them or the passage of time, blade meeting blade meeting shield meeting blade.

They may have stayed in that pattern until the end of time if not for their horses. Each man had had strikes rendered useless when their mounts spun or jerked or lunged amid them; though both were trained warhorses, the stallions had seemingly forgotten the heavy men atop them as they waged a war of their own. Warrior, panting heavily and furious that the red stallion refused to yield, abruptly reared and came crashing down on top of his opponent, sending both mounts crashing to the ground in a tangle of mail and horseflesh.

Aelor half jumped, half fell, crashing to the ground in a jarring roll down the inclined street. The strap of his helm broke with the fall, the hunk of blackened steel and its white flame crest nearly coming off as his body clanged against the bloody cobblestone. Dazed, his body screaming in the pain of a dozen bruises and his head throbbing from where his helm had slammed to the stone, Aelor dumbly pulled it the rest of the way off as he staggered to his feet. He only realized he had dropped his sword when he stared dumbly at the helm in his right hand.

His mind snapped back into focus in the nick of time. He'd seen his opponent jump clear, and as if summoned by the thought Lannister appeared, swinging a blade at his face from the right. Aelor reacted on instinct, raising the helm in his hand to deflect the blow. It worked, knocking the blade aside as Aelor backpedaled, catching the next blow on the shield still strapped to his left arm.

But the prince was at a disadvantage, and the golden-haired knight made him pay. A savage strike sent the helm flying from Aelor's hand, its black visage marred by the blade. Two handing the shield as he had no time to grab his dagger, Aelor blocked an overhead blow, retreating. Lannister swung low next, at his right knee, and the prince's training failed him. He tried to block that with a nonexistent blade, the sword swinging below his shield and colliding with his leg. The prince was armored there, the blade finding no purchase in the black greave, but the blow had enough force to buckle that leg momentarily. Aelor dropped to his knee with a grunt of pain, arms instinctually starting to splay out, then realized his mistake as the knight brought the blade in high again on the same unprotected side, aiming at the prince's neck at a downward angle.

Aelor shouted in pain as the blade bit into his face. He had thrown his unbalanced body back down the incline of the road, shying away even as the strike landed. He also threw his right arm up, trying to deflect the blade with his armored forearm. It saved Aelor's life, as the blade didn't bury into the side of his neck and cut down into his torso, as Lannister had intended. The move didn't, however, save him fully, the tip of the blade digging in at his hairline. His own arm knocking the blade did more damage, shoving the steel to the right as it dug a furrow through his brow and down into his cheekbone. Aelor screamed again, pain flooding him as blood began to pour, right eye gone dark as he fell to his back in the bloody streets.

The Dragon of Duskendale should have died there, Lannister stepping forward and raising his blade for the killing blow. But Aelor kicked out, left boot snapping the knight's knee back. The man, surprised, staggered and began to fall forward onto Aelor, even as the prince barreled upwards with a shout and slammed his shield like a hammer into the falling man's body. The blow knocked both blade and Lannister aside, Aelor clambering to straddle the dazed soldier. He slammed the rim of his shield down on the man's arm, trapping the blade, then drew his dagger and brought it in at the downed man's face. Dazed as he was, he still attempted to stop the blow with his free hand, gripping Aelor by the forearm. But the prince was driven by fear and pain and hate, and he had always been strong; the struggle was a short one, and soon the blade sank it into Lannister's eye and brain.

The Lion never cried out in pain, as silent and sullen in death as he had been in life. Tygett Lannister, as Aelor only now recognized his opponent to be, twitched twice, blood filling his helm and running out in torrents, crimson staining the gold of his hair as his body stiffened.

Aelor Targaryen didn't spare him another thought as he withdrew his dagger and gained his feet, trying to blink away his own blood blinding his right side. He didn't know if the eye itself was damaged or not—his whole face hurt—but he didn't take the time to investigate. The two men had been in their own world it seemed, rape and looting and death going on all around them as they battled. His men were only now catching up to him, all but a handful falling behind in his mad charge up the Hook. The prince heard his name shouted over the cries and clang of steel from those still fighting Lannister soldiers, but he did not stop or acknowledge any of it, quickly recovering his blade from the filthy street and running to Warrior.

He had heard the two stallions trying to kill one another, their roars and bellows filling the air as their masters did the same. Warrior had fared even better than Aelor did, his massive frame still stomping his hooves down on the neck and face of the clearly dead destrier Tygett had rode, trampling the other animal with determined fury as its blood poured down the street to mix with that of the man who had ridden him. Aelor splashed through it as he grabbed Warrior's reins, then pulled himself with great effort into the saddle. With a kick and a shout, the prince continued his charge up the Hook.

Though he had battled Tygett in the shadows of the Keep, a scarce three hundred yards from her outermost walls, the fighting hadn't quite reached those inside the fortress of his ancestors. Nervous men manned the crenellations as Aelor stormed towards them through the smoke. One man was so tense from waiting for an enemy that had yet to arrive that he had drawn his bow and loosed an arrow before he truly saw the figure nearing them. His heart nearly burst when he saw that figure was a Targaryen Prince, face, armor and stallion all so bloodied as to almost be unrecognizable. The archer fell to his knees in relief when his hastily shot arrow sailed well wide of his target, either unnoticed by the prince or ignored by him.

"It's Prince Aelor!" "Hold your arrows!" Each of those cries and more echoed through the line of men holding the walls as he neared. "Open that gate, let him through!" Cut through the mass of voices, and men rushed to obey.

The Dragon of Duskendale galloped through the rapidly raised portcullis, not slowing as men at arms in the courtyard had to leap out of the way of his charging animal. The Keep seemed untouched, the whirlwind of death Aelor and his men had unleashed on the Lannister rear having seemingly saved the inhabitants. The prince rode hard anyway, soldiers and servants alike oftentimes being forced to dive clear of his thundering mount.

Though the lack of fighting in the keep had been a relief, Aelor was far from appeased. Tywin Lannister was smart; he knew that the only thing that would keep many of the defenders fighting was the lives they protected. He was Hand for twenty years. If anyone knows a way in, it would be him. If he could slip a few men into the Keep and eliminate the Targaryens inside, most of the defenders would lose heart and surrender. It would end Tywin's brilliant sack of the city with the termination of most of the bloodline that had insulted him repeatedly over the years.

Aelor knew the murder of children like Aegon and Elia wasn't above the lion. The Rains of Castamere was testament to that.

Let them be gone. And if they are not, Seven let them be alive.

Aelor came to the dry moat defending Maegor's Holdfast, finding the drawbridge up and men, the last line of defense for the Targaryens inside, tense and ready. "Lower the bridge," the Dragon called, the blood flowing down his face to mix into the silver of his beard.

A knight Aelor didn't recognize with a leaping swordfish on his chest peered down from the walls nervously. "But Prince Aelor, the King demanded we open for no—"

"LOWER THE FUCKING BRIDGE," the prince bellowed, and within a second the sound of turning gears filled his ears. Aelor thundered across the drawbridge almost before it even settled into place, flying under the ingress and into the courtyard.

The Dragon of Duskendale sprang off of his stallion, barreling into the castle within a castle. It was then and only then that he realized three of his men had somehow kept up with him. One was Renfred, the ridged head of his hammer caked with flesh and bits of bone. Another he didn't recognize, a knight wearing no sigil Aelor could remember. The third was Desmond, covered in gore, breathing heavily with eyes wide. "Ren, check Rhaenys' room and then my mother's! Des, you, with him! Find my family!"

His companions gave no argument, Renfred—having been raised in the keep alongside Aelor—turning a corner with Des and the mystery knight close on his heels. Aelor himself ran like a madman, paying no heed to the sting of the cut down his eye or the plethora of bruises and scrapes he'd endured, breaths coming in ragged gasps though he refused to slow down. All that mattered was reaching the nursery and finding Elia and the children either alive or not at all, meaning his emergency contingency had been carried out.

His fear grew when he encountered no one on his mad dash, not one living soul, Aelor using the oddity of that to drive his aching legs onwards up flights of stairs and down stone hallways alight with candles in sconces. Already at the point of hysteria, that fear somehow grew when the prince reached the nursery to find the door was already open. He burst in, hoping beyond hope to see his favorite Dornishwoman and her children safe and sound.

Instead, he was greeted with the sight of a mountain with legs and armor. A massive surcoat bearing three black dogs on a yellow field stretched across the broadest chest Aelor had ever seen. Aelor followed the surcoat up and up and up until he was staring at the biggest man the Dragon of Duskendale had ever heard of existing.

There was also a blade, as long as Aelor was tall, that the moving mountain was swinging towards the prince's head.

A/N: Just a nostalgic side note most of you won't care about; Warrior is based on an animal I had growing up named Bucky. The resemblance isn't a physical one-Bucky was a small bay pony, not a massive black warhorse. But in temperment and spirit, he and Warrior are the same. Bucky was smarter than most people I have met, mean as sin when he wanted to be and as tempermental as a mama grizzly. He used to run with cattle, and if he thought you were any type of threat he'd run you out of his field-a cousin once came to the barn wearing a leopard print coat that set his warning bells off, and he nearly tore the place down trying to run her out before we realized and hid it.

He died well into his thirties, absolutely ancient by horse/pony standards, and I swear he made it that long on spite alone. To use the old phrase, it's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog. Miss ya ole boy.

Oh, and the scar stays. Gary Stu, Mary Sue, say whatever you want with the knowledge that I do not care.

Cheers!