Author's Note: My my, it's been a while on this one.

I hope you enjoy and review this update!

Chapter 29

Original word count: 3,150

Revised word count: 5,089

The Golden Tooth was a large, formidable castle, built over the hill road leading into the eastern Westerlands. By built over, he truly meant built over; the road ran directly through the middle of the castle, and the keep's roots ran deep within the rock rising high to either side. One would have to travel all the way to the Sunset Sea to the north or to Hornvale to the south to subvert it and it's tall towers.

In truth, the Golden Tooth was two castles, one on either side of the road. Two great gatehouses connected them, their portcullis' heavy and strong with three hundred feet of road between. In a stroke of wisdom from some ancient Lefford, each gatehouse could only be accessed from one side of the castle. If a force were to take the northern portion of the Tooth, they would only be able to raise the eastern portcullis, with the western one still stubbornly barring the pass. Were they to take the southern portion, they could raise the western, but not the eastern. An army would need to take both to pass through the Tooth, a feat easier said than done; the walls stood tall and thick in all directions, including where the northern portion faced the southern between the gatehouses, crenellations staring at one another across the gap.

A subterranean tunnel, built beneath the road and the walls of either castle and sloping gradually down towards the middle than up towards the other side, allowed servants, supplies and soldiers to cross from one side to the other in times of both peace and war. The entrance on either side had heavy gates of their own, each with fifteen thick iron bars kept ready to pull into place if the other half of the Tooth were to fall.

While foot traffic had been allowed free passage through the portcullis' since time immemorial, the Leffords charged a fluctuating rate per wagon. That, combined with the mines branching deep into the mountains on either side, had filled the coffers of House Lefford for centuries. All told, the Golden Tooth was a highly defensible, highly lucrative seat.

It also had a breathtaking view.

Lord Lefford had given Aelor quarters in the easternmost tower, overlooking the foothills they had climbed the night before and again this morning. The chambers were simple but comfortable, which suited Aelor just fine—he'd grown used to a cot over the past year and was as content sleeping in a tent as he was a keep, but he would not deny the feel of a featherbed was a welcome pleasure. So too was the balcony where he sat now, tankard of wine in one hand, staring out at a moonlit vista so wonderful no artist in Westeros could do it justice.

The old him was thankful he hadn't had to burn it.

The new him was less so.

It was that darkest time of night when nothing moved save the insects, the song of crickets a pleasant accompaniment to unpleasant thoughts. True to Lord Leo's word, the Leffords had thrown a grand feast, or at least as grand of one as they could on such short notice. Food and wine had flowed freely, and by midnight even the most cynical of Aelor's lords and knights had stopped expecting treachery, but the impromptu festivities had ended well over an hour ago. The highest born among them had retired to chambers within the castle, the rest to an encampment along the road. By now his men were sleeping off their drink or bedding kitchen maids.

Not the Dragon of Duskendale, however. Aelor Targaryen sat on a simple stool on the balcony, a chalice of wine in his hand. Throughout the war, no matter who he killed that day or which of his friends died, he had never struggled to rest at night. When he cut down that pig looking outlaw of the Kingswood Brotherhood, the first man he'd ever killed, he had slept fine that night, only bothered by the lingering smell of his breakfast on his boots. Aelor had killed dozens since then, more than he could count, but sleep had never been far from reach after any of them. Not even the horrors of the Trident and the great losses he had suffered there had kept the prince from his rest.

But after Elia, the night had become no friend of Aelor Targaryen's.

He was no dreamer, not like Rhaegar had been—Aelor's dreams were of the wholly human sort, not ambiguous visions of things to come—but he could not so much as blink too long these days without being assaulted by visions. Elia was in them, but they were not bittersweet remembrances of the women he had loved. Instead, she watched him as he murdered men one by one.

The background changed, sometimes being the chaos of the Trident, others the blood-soaked streets of King's Landing after the Sack or the blood-filled ditches of the Parchments. But Elia remained, always out of reach, her face unreadable as she watched him cut through droves of men and women in Lannister red. His victims screamed as he laid about them with sword and fist and even tooth and nail. He screamed back, soaking himself in their blood.

He never reached Elia's side. She never looked away.

Objectively, Aelor knew he was on the brink of madness, if not already firmly in its clutches. The man he once had been, the one still deep inside, was horrified at the dreams, and even more dismayed by how much Aelor enjoyed them. He wasn't him though, not now. The Aelor Targaryen of old did not have the strength to do what needed done. This new one most certainly did.

The old one had been an Aemon the Dragonknight. The new one was an Aerion Brightflame.

Barristan had realized it. The knight, the truest father the prince had ever known, had seen Aelor had that in him. It was why he had forewarned the Lannister leaders to flee, and why Aelor left him in King's Landing. Barristan loved Aelor like a son and would have tried to contain the bloodshed, and the Dragon of Duskendale couldn't risk the chance that he'd succeed.

I'm not in the Westerlands for peace. I am a Targaryen, and I am here for fire and for blood. Father was a madman. Rhaegar was too, in his own way. It is no surprise that I am one as well. Targaryen's had wiped out many families in their time; the Gardeners, the Harroways, the Hoars and Darklyns and Hollards. One more family would be no more than a ripple in that ocean of blood. The Lannisters were going to die, even if it caused Aelor every shred of sanity he had.

The tolling of a bell roused him from…wherever he had been. Thrice it rung, and with a sigh the Dragon of Duskendale stood, downing the remaining wine in a few gulps. The full moon and its thousands of stars made for a beautiful sight, but most beautiful things only reminded him of Elia, further empowering the dark abyss that overtook his mind. With one last glance at the hundreds of campfires dotting the hills around the Golden Tooth, the dragonlord turned to reenter his chamber, intent on trying to salvage a few slivers of sleep from amidst the endless tossing and turning to come despite knowing already it would be useless.

He entered the chamber, eyes making the slight adjustment from the moonlight to the darker shadows of his chamber, and was several steps inside before he saw the figure. Aelor's hand darted to the dagger on his belt—his sword was in the corner of the room, too far away—as his heartbeat quickened, body bracing for an unseen blade.

But it was no assassin, clutching a poisoned dagger and dressed in dark robes. It was a woman, clutching a wine glass and dressed in…nothing.

Aelor froze, mind gone blank in surprise. An assassin in the shadows he could handle, he expected, but a young woman laying across his bed in the dim candlelight? That threw him off kelter with a fierceness. While not the first woman he'd found like this in his life—he was a Prince of the Iron Throne, after all, and had been a handsome one to boot—no part of him had expected to find another while on campaign.

Especially not one as pretty as this girl was, her legs crossed at the ankle while she sipped from a wineglass and watched him. For a heartbeat Aelor wondered if his mind had slipped even farther than he realized, but after a second of staring he decided it had not. His mind may be losing touch with reality, but the rest of him most assuredly wasn't.

He recognized her about the same time he realized he didn't have to fight an assassin, chiefly by the thick dark hair cascading around her shoulders. He'd feasted two chairs over from her only a few hours passed, though he had been too distracted by the reports of his army's movements to the Tooth to pay her much mind. He was certainly paying attention now. Alysanne Lefford, the only child of Lord Leo and heir to the very castle Aelor had thought to burn. Seven and ten, her skin was tan from hours riding in the sun, figure slender and undeniably attractive. He could see the playful smile on her full lips dancing with shadows in the flickering candlelight.

A year ago, Aelor wouldn't have needed any more invitation than that. Renfred had been the true philanderer in their youth, Aelor more in control of himself than his best friend tended to be, but he was a Targaryen. His blood ran hot, and his control being better than Renfred's did not mean it was good. Now though, even as his body started to react as it always did, Elia Martell entered his mind. The wave of lust that washed through him was purged from his bloodstream almost as soon as it arrived, replaced by a fierce melancholic longing. The woman on the bed, fair and willing as she might be, was not the one he longed for. While the practical, logical part of his brain argued that the one he longed for was dead and gone and reminded him that it had been over a year since he'd felt a woman's touch, any spark of passion the sultry figure on his pillow would normally bring forth was extinguished.

Elia was gone, and this woman wasn't her.

Aelor grunted and stood up straight. The worst of his madness retreated, and he'd shoved his lust aside, but anger at this woman had taken their place. It was irrational, but Aelor was too worn down to care at the moment. He did give the woman another appraisal, as she was very pleasant to look upon, but when he spoke his tone was cold. "Let me guess; you're here to soothe the battle worn prince amidst this brutal war, working your way into his good graces and bed, hoping that he'll be tempted by your feminine charms and marry you in a tizzy of passion."

Alysanne Lefford did not wilt beneath the scornful words as others might have. Her smile didn't even falter, and her voice was clear and confident and not the least bit ashamed as she shrugged. "Sure, if that is what suits your fancy."

Aelor raised an eyebrow, impressed by her boldness. "What suits yours?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of skipping all the horeshit and taking you straight to bed, but I suppose the whole 'soothe and seduce' thing will work if it must."

Despite himself Aelor laughed, the anger melting away as abruptly as it had come. "You're not a bit shy, are you."

Alysanne tilted her head to the side, playful smile never leaving. "Should I be?"

The prince shook his head, unable to stop himself from looking her over once again. "No, I suppose you shouldn't." For a moment he almost gave in, but then Elia was there again, and he subtly shook his head to clear it. "But I'm afraid you're looking in the wrong chambers, my lady."

The heir to the Golden Tooth looked over one shoulder, then the other, then back at him. "Am I really? Do these chambers not belong to Prince Aelor Targaryen, Hand of the King?"

He shook his head. I hold nothing against her for being willing to take what she wants, but I'm in no mood for jests. "Funny, but I'm not interested, girl." A sudden thought occurred to him, and he looked to the door. "How did you even get in here? There are guards at my door, and I heard no query from them."

Alysanne shrugged again. "I'm no expert, but I imagine they didn't see a world where you'd turn me down." Though her smile didn't falter, Aelor saw her swallow, and her voice sounded a touch different to his ears. "Were they wrong, though?"

The prince nodded. "They were."

She held his gaze—her eyes were dark, darker even than her hair—before she suddenly released a great sigh of relief. "Thank the Seven for that."

Aelor had never been more confused in his life.

Alysanne Lefford slid off of the bed, careful not to spill the wine in her right hand. She stood on the other side, and in place of a brazen seductress there now stood an uncomfortable looking girl using her arms and free hand to try and preserve her modesty.

Aelor supposed he looked like an idiot, standing there with his mouth agape. "What the hell?"

She didn't meet his eyes as she placed the wine glass on a table, her golden skin now flushed red. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, my prince."

It was the trembling in the hand that reached the glass out that tipped Aelor off. "Wait, my lady."

She did look up to meet his gaze, and he could see the anger in her features though she kept it from her voice. "All due respect, Prince Aelor, but if your answer is no, I'd like to end this humiliation quickly."

Aelor cocked his head as he looked at her, confidence in his suspicions growing. He made sure to keep his focus on her eyes, now that he had the lay of things. "This was Lord Leo's idea, wasn't it."

It wasn't a question, which was all well and good as Alysanne didn't truly answer it. She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice this time, her tone biting. "His idea, mine, your' s, whoever's, I'd certainly like to end this as soon as possible. May I leave, or are you enjoying making me uncomfortable? My prince." She added the last bit pointedly.

Aelor felt his own annoyance return, even as he took a step back at the venom in her tone. Maybe she is an assassin after all. "You did not need my permission to enter, it seems. Why would you need it to go?" He shook his head. "You should guard your tongue, girl. I understand being miffed at my rejection, but it gives you no leave to forget your manners."

Despite the vulnerable position Alysanne Lefford was in, she laughed in his face. "Oh don't flatter yourself. You are handsome enough, Prince Aelor, but this was not how I wanted to spend my night, whatever your decision. May I go?"

Aelor glared. "Then why did you even come?"

"Oh for the sake of the Seven." She jumped into motion, and for a second Aelor thought she meant to dart out the door and was both annoyed and glad for it. Instead, she made for the bed, pulling off the blanket she'd been laying on moments ago and wrapping it around herself. "It's not like I had much say."

Aelor's glare did not lessen, but she met it evenly. His anger at her biting words and indignation at her scorn—he was humble for a Targaryen, but humility only went so far—urged him to berate her. The implications of her last statement, however, held that at bay as a sick feeling crept into his gut. "Why wouldn't you?"

Alysanne Lefford stared at him, then shook his head. "You're a bit naïve for a prince, aren't you."

The Dragon of Duskendale stood to his full height. She was at best of average height for a woman, and her build was slender; the prince all but dwarfed her. "I'm certainly merciful for one. Mind your tongue moving forward, and I will forget all the times you did not these past few minutes." He lowered his head to pointedly meet her eyes. "Answer me. Why wouldn't you have a say?"

A blush was heavy in her cheeks now, though the blanket hid everything expertly. "I apologize, Prince Aelor. I spoke too rashly."

He nodded. "You did. You also aren't answering my question."

"I'd rather do that clothed, Your Grace, if it's all the same. A blanket does not suffice."

Well, that was a fair enough point. Aelor glanced at the floor, seeing nothing. "What did you wear in here, past the guards?" Her deepening blush answered that, and Aelor moved to his chest of personal belongings at once. Edmure had seen it placed here, though the lad had been awarded chambers of his own as a Tully. Thank the Seven for it, because only they knew what the lad would have done if he'd been here when Alysanne Lefford came in looking like that.

He pulled out one of his nightshirts and tossed it on the bed beside her. It would dwarf Alysanne, but it would do the job. "Don't worry about their wagging tongues. I'll handle that now, as you get dressed." He laughed as he made for the door. "You're lucky it wasn't Ser Manfred on duty tonight, my lady. He'd have cut you in two, naked or not."

The prince knew both guardsmen at his door, as he knew all those in his household guard. Bernarr and his brother Bertrand, both good lads recruited from the streets of Duskendale. They were both young, though young was relative; Aelor was himself only two and twenty, though he felt decades older. The taller brother, Bernarr, gave a small smile as they snapped to attention, which told Aelor all he needed to know.

"You're both dismissed."

Bertrand, older of the two, blanched at the ice in Aelor's tone, and Bernarr's smiled disappeared. "My prince, you will be—"

Aelor cut him off. "We will discuss this more tomorrow, Bertrand. For now, you are both dismissed. You will not say a word to anyone about what has transpired tonight, am I clear? Not of the lady's name, or her state of dress, or that she was even here at all."

"Of course, Prince Aelor." Both men bowed, then turned and all but fled.

He'd have to come down on them harshly, for letting anyone into the chamber without his permission was a stunningly stupid thing to do. Not too harshly, for they were young men likely thinking they were helping their liege lord, but not all killers were men in the shadows, or men at all. A learning moment for them, and for me as well. I don't know if any among my guard would have stopped a beautiful maiden from entering, save Manfred. I'll have to strengthen that resolve among my men, and among Aegon's as well. Oversights and mistakes must be a thing of my past.

When Aelor Targaryen reentered his chamber a moment later, he found Alysanne dressed in the shirt and seated at the table, hands crossed in her lap. One thumb stroked the back of the other, a nervous gesture she likely didn't realize she was making. "Will you harm them, my prince?"

Aelor shook his head. "They'll be punished, but not too severely."

She nodded, watching him as he took a seat across the table from him. "I am glad. They were kinder than they could have been."

Aelor cocked a brow. "You've done this before?"

Alysanne blushed heavily again—odd, considering how confident she'd been earlier—and shook her head venomously. "Of course not. But men are men, and women talk."

The prince nodded. "Aye, that they do. They also avoid questions." He peered down at her. "Why did you have no say in the matter, Alysanne? Inform this naïve prince."

Alysanne Lefford twisted her brow in confusion. "Why do you care, Your Grace?"

He shrugged, slapping his own glass next to hers and taking the pitcher left abandoned on the table, speaking as he filled both. "I normally wouldn't, but as you might have noticed, I'm not exactly sleeping this night." He pondered how long she'd waited on the bed while he sat on the balcony falling into madness, but didn't know how to ask and therefore forged ahead. "You clearly don't lack for wit or temper. Why did you feel you could not avoid this?" Alysanne eyed him nervously, and Aelor softened his tone. "Your father is expecting you to be here for the night, my lady, that much is clear. While I'm not interested in what he had in mind for us to be doing with that time, I'd hate for you to suffer his wraith for 'failing' in that regard." He hesitated, mind going back to the fantasies of fire he'd been dwelling on. "Besides, I probably need the company…even if that company is clothed."

It took a few more minutes of prompting and nudging and assurance, but before too long Aelor Targaryen had a candle lit and a glass of wine in his hand, and Alysanne Lefford was talking.

At first it was stilted, hesitant. She continued to fiddle with her hands, and to blush, and to avoid his eyes. But the more he prompted, the more she opened up. Yes, Lord Leo had encouraged her to seduce the prince. No, he hadn't truly forced her to do so—the choice had been hers, but because she felt it was her duty to her father to do as he wished. Aelor told her that was beyond ridiculous. She had told him he was beyond foolish if he didn't realize just how daughters were used as assets in the game of thrones.

And on they talked.

She was certainly her father's daughter, blunt in speech and—back in keeping with the character she had first shown—ultimately uncaring for what offences might be taken. A high-spirited woman, she complained bitterly of how her father hadn't allowed her to train with sword and shield, how she detested the fact that a woman was seen as inferior to a man, and most of all about how much she hated needlework.

And she truly hated needlework. Alysanne Lefford could give Manfred Darke a few pointers on how to properly express revulsion.

She did most of the talking, especially after she grew comfortable with him. Aelor found he preferred that; for whatever reason, her constant narrative kept the demons that had plagued him since Elia's death at bay. Her conversation helped keep the dreams of fire back, helped him feel like his old self for a few blessed moments. He focused on her words, not allowing his mind to wander to the unsavory thoughts they always found, and realized it made him feel almost in control of himself again.

She was telling him a story from her youth, though how they got there he couldn't recall, when the door to his chamber burst open, slamming against the interior wall so hard it cracked. Aelor was on his feet at once, dagger in hand and Alysanne behind him.

Ser Manfred Darke stood in the doorway, blade drawn, with both his normal scowl and a confused twist to his lips.

The prince stood up straight at once, looking towards the door to the balcony. The first signs of dawn were in the sky, light visible on the horizon. The army will be stirring. It is nearly time to march.

Manfred looked his prince over for injuries, then settled angry eyes on him. "Your guards were missing, Prince Aelor."

He grinned sheepishly. "I ordered them away. It's not what you think, or what they think for that matter."

Manfred's face was stone, his words blunt. "That was buggering stupid."

Aelor laughed, Manfred one of the few he'd ever let speak like that to the blood of the dragon. That few apparently includes Alysanne Lefford, now. How interesting. "Maybe so, but what's done is done."

Manfred narrowed his eyes. "Those idiots let the girl in on their own."

It hadn't been a question, and the murder in Manfred's voice was not feigned. The Dragon of Duskendale raised a placating palm towards the short man in white. "I'll speak with them, Manfred. No need to behead them just yet, just to educate." He looked back to Alysanne, who had been peering around his side shyly, then back to his Kingsguard knight. "Give us a moment, please."

Manfred clearly was not happy about that, but he turned and stepped out without protest, shutting the door behind him. Aelor turned to Alysanne, then took a step back when he realized how close he'd gotten. "I'll have Ser Manfred escort you back to your chambers. He'll make sure to scare anyone else out of the halls before they can see you. We wouldn't want your honor to be questioned, even if your father is seemingly uncaring for it." He smirked. "You can keep the shirt. A memento of our sinful liaison."

The small woman nodded, rising from her seated position and smiling back teasingly. "What of your honor, Prince Aelor?"

Aelor scoffed. "You need not worry, Lady Lefford. Unfair as you pointed it out to be, no one will think twice about me if word got out of a dalliance. Even if they did, I'm a Targaryen, and as such I'm expected to take what I want, honor be damned." Thinking back on the murder he'd been planning—and feeling that other him start to force itself back to the forefront—he added under his breath. "How well they know me."

Alysanne had been making a jest, Aelor knew, but she leaned back on her heel and regarded him at the bitterness of his response. The girl had shown a sharp wit and sharper tongue, but also a disturbing ability to discern what the prince thought, not just what he told her. "I don't think they know you at all, Prince Aelor. You have shown me nothing but honor when I came here expecting to be shown none."

Aelor tried to wave her off, mind back in the fire as he again turned towards the open door to the balcony. "Perhaps, if you want to view it that way. But trust me, my lady, I've done too much to be a man of honor anymore."

She stepped in front of him, drawing his eyes back down to hers. "Like what?"

Aelor shook his head with another snort. It took him a moment to realize she was serious. "I appreciate your conversation, more than you likely realize, but let's not get into this. I have an army to move and lions to slay."

"Yes, I do want to get into it. Your terrifying knight outside already clearly hates me; he can wait a few moments more, and your army follows you, not you them." She didn't look away, hands resting on hips, intent on an explanation.

The prince was taken aback by the stubbornness of the small figure in an oversized shirt, though he supposed he shouldn't be. It had shown through clear as crystal throughout the night. "Alright," Aelor said slowly, violet eyes daring her to hold them as he spoke. She did. "I've killed more men than you've likely even met, both hale and wounded. I wanted a handmaiden of my brother's wife, so I took her—willing, I had thought, but your own words make me question that now. Eventually I wanted the wife as well, and were it not for Tywin Lannister I would have taken her too."

His anger returned, and his voice rose with it. "I wanted Robert Baratheon's life. I took it. And now I want Tywin Lannister's and those of all his kin, be they innocent or not, and all the knights of Westeros won't stop me from taking those too." Aelor turned from her, gesturing towards the door. "I have enjoyed our conversation, Lady Lefford, but don't think for a moment I am the honorable prince I'm sure your father talked me up to be."

The heir to the Golden Tooth said nothing as she slowly moved towards the door, Aelor striding out in front to open it. Ser Manfred stood there, hand on sword, scowling. He spoke almost at once, clearly knowing what Aelor was going to ask. "The halls are clear, Your Grace."

Alysanne turned in the midst of the doorway, looking up into the prince's intensely. "One more thing, Prince Aelor. You said you weren't a man of honor, going on about all the things you wanted that you took. You forgot the one thing you didn't want, the one thing that proves you are not as bad a man as you think yourself to be." She prodded him in the chest, none too gently. "You didn't want the crown. You didn't take it, even when you so easily could have. How many men, Targaryen or not, can say that?"

She turned and marched out the door, leaving a confused Kingsguard to follow and a confused prince to watch her go.

When she'd rounded the corner out of sight, Manfred behind, Aelor let a soft chuckle free. Elia would have liked her.

Lord Leo rode with the Dragon of Duskendale later that morning, at the head of a train of horsemen and wagons. "You have a lovely daughter," Aelor said to him, looking over at the only bannerman to defy Tywin Lannister.

Leo smiled smugly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Aelor nodded, then looked back forward and spoke in a tone so calm it might have been commenting on the passing countryside. "If you ever ask her to do something like that again, I will kill you with my own hands."

The rest of the morning ride passed in silence.

A/N: Did I spend 349 words describing a castle that we will only see once? You bet your life I did.