The Riverlands — Near Harrenhal…
The relentless rain and fierce storms raged throughout the Riverlands, transforming the vibrant landscape into a desolate tableau of gray and tumultuous foreboding, heavy with clouds that seemed to churn and roil like a cauldron of despair. Close to Harrenhal, the winds howled mercilessly against Aeonar and Vaelor. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant rumble of thunder, a constant reminder of nature's fury. Despite his injuries, the Swiftrunner continued trying to shield his rider from the heavy rain that fell in relentless sheets but was largely ineffective against the sheer force of the elements in his current condition. The gusts roared like a hurricane sweeping through the region, a sound that drowned out all other noise as if the heavens were waging war against the earth below. As the rain continued to pour, the tiny droplets stung like sharp, tiny needles against Aeonar's skin, each impact a reminder of his vulnerability in the face of such overwhelming power. He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, chilling him to the core, and the plummeting temperatures only exacerbated his discomfort. Aeonar trembled and shook from the biting cold, his teeth chattering as he tried to provide whatever body heat he could to Vaelor to keep his dragon warm, but there was very little he could do.
But then, Aeonar heard distinct mumbling from several yards away.
"Find him! They're around here somewhere!"
"Search the area!"
"Find them!"
"Kill them! Kill the Deceiver!"
"And his dragon, too!"
Aeonar gradually shifted his gaze to the left, straining to pinpoint the source of the sound that had caught his attention. The noise was faint yet persistent, a rhythmic thumping that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. Although he could perceive it, the ringing in his ears rendered the noises indistinct and distant, like echoes of a forgotten melody. Each attempt to focus only deepened his confusion, as if the air around him were thick with fog, obscuring both sight and sound. Having endured a significant blow to his head when he was violently thrown from his saddle earlier, it was evident that he was grappling with the effects of a concussion. As he lay there, the world around him swam in a haze, colors bleeding into one another and shapes shifting and warping like reflections in a disturbed pond. He blinked several times to clear his vision, but the effort only intensified the throbbing pain in his temples. His sense of balance was compromised, leaving him feeling profoundly disoriented. Each pulse felt like a drumbeat; each attempt to rise was met with a wave of nausea that threatened to pull him back down. He could feel the ground beneath him, solid yet unsteady as if it were shifting like the tides.
Come on… get up. Get up. Get up! Get. UP!
Aeonar clenched his jaw, summoning every ounce of strength to stand tall. Each breath felt like an uphill struggle as if he were raising a mountain instead of just pushing himself off the ground. He wobbled unsteadily, his legs shaking beneath him, battling to hold his ground as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. Alongside the painful throbbing in his skull was a constant ringing in his ears. But finally, Aeonar managed to regain his footing. He forced himself to survey the area around the God's Eye; however, the fierce thunderstorm made it hard to see clearly, with heavy rain striking his skin like icy needles. Just when he felt he might lose balance, a sudden flash of lightning brightened the dark sky, casting eerie shadows that flitted across the landscape. He glimpsed several shadowy figures in the distance in that fleeting, blinding instant. They stood menacingly against the stormy backdrop, their shapes partially hidden by sheets of rain. Many wore leather lamellar armor, the small metal pieces glinting dully in the sporadic flashes like diamonds. He could discern the outline of swords and spears, their lethal tips shining as they swayed in the wind. Though he couldn't determine their exact numbers, a deep instinct warned him—these figures posed a serious threat to both him and Vaelor.
I can't tell how many of them there are, but whoever they are, I… I can't see any banners. No allegiance to any lord. Sellswords… perhaps? Or maybe… maybe fanatics? Aeonar shook his head vigorously, attempting to fend off another wave of nausea that threatened to engulf him. He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder to assess Vaelor's condition. The Swiftrunner appeared to be in a dire state, his body marked with numerous injuries, bloodied and battered. He struggled for breath, each inhalation a challenge, revealing the toll that the grueling battle with Vhagar had taken on him. Vaelor was so utterly exhausted that he could hardly move, let alone muster the strength to defend himself against any further threats that might arise. Vaelor… no, he still hasn't had the chance to recover from his fight with Vhagar. Aeonar turned back to glance at the unknown assailants.
"There they are!" a voice echoed across the land.
Aeonar swayed unsteadily, his gaze dropping to the ground where his Yi Tish bow lay alongside two quivers of arrows scattered at his feet. Memories flooded back to when he had unleashed a single, specialized arrow against Vhagar, leaving his bow behind in the heat of the moment, convinced it was unnecessary. However, with the familiar weapon so tantalizingly close, Aeonar leaned down, reaching for the bow and the arrows, a desperate attempt to steady himself as he fought against the encroaching blur of his vision. "Valor mōriotnyke mīstagon ñuha giez glaesot ao… (You've always protected me my whole life, Vaelor…)" he said as he gripped his Yi Tish bow and the quivers, ready for what seemed to be a last stand. "Sesīr… ñuha pālegonmīstan ao. (And now… it's my turn to protect you.)"
"Kill them!"
"Kill the dragon!"
"Kill the Deceiver!"
As the assailants gradually approached, their figures becoming clearer, Aeonar reached for an arrow from the first quiver and drew back the bowstring. I have to keep them away from Vaelor… whatever it takes. However, the weight of the Conqueror's helm had narrowed his sight; he needed to see far ahead. The Conqueror's armor felt cumbersome, unbalancing him. If Aeonar thought he was going to die, then the Young Dragon would ensure he dragged as many as he could along with him to hell. "From the embers of the Fourteen Flames, I shall rise again as the Freehold's chosen," he prayed. When Aeonar noticed an assailant who was close enough for him to see clearly, he let go of his bowstring, allowing the arrow to fly gracefully through the air. The attacker, caught off guard, barely had time to react. Aeonar's breath caught in his throat as the arrow found its mark, striking directly in the heart and sending the assailant reeling backward. "Tessarion, Goddess of the Hunt, guide my bow and let my aim be true," he kept praying, unleashing more arrows. "Balerion, God of Death, bring down your fire and burn your enemies asunder."
Despite Aeonar's furious barrage of arrows, only a few struck true, taking down enemies, while the rest veered off, lost in the tumult of battle. Regardless of their loyalties and driven by the instinct for survival, the soldiers became acutely aware of the Young Dragon's deadly accuracy. They started to move frantically—dodging and weaving—in a desperate attempt to escape his lethal gaze, knowing that being targeted by him meant certain death. Each time they thought they had found a moment of safety, another arrow would zip past, serving as a stark reminder of the ever-present danger lurking in the storm's shadow. Yet, the stormy sky above played a cruel joke. With every flash of lightning that revealed the dark sky, their positions briefly emerged like shadows flickering against a flame. In those quick moments, Aeonar targeted his adversaries, giving him a brief opportunity to strike. He took a deep breath, steadying his aim. However, the battlefield was unforgiving; his focus was limited to those closest—the ones who had foolishly approached—leaving others shrouded in darkness.
A flurry of arrows zipped past the men, the sharp twang of Aeonar's bowstring echoing like a battle cry. This urgent sound urged them to keep their distance, a deep-seated instinct to avoid becoming his next target. Yet, the battlefield remained unpredictable as Aeonar paused to nock another arrow; his enemies seized the moment to press their advance once more. Intertwined with the howling wind, their battle cries formed a cacophony of defiance that drove them forward. Aeonar stepped back to regain his balance. The ground, slick with mud and blood, threatened to unsteady him as he shifted his stance. With every heartbeat, he prepared himself for the next wave of attackers.
"Don't stop! Keep going!" one shouted.
"Press the attack!"
Ngh! They just keep coming!
"Overwhelm him with superior numbers!"
"Tsk!" Aeonar gritted his teeth in frustration, acutely aware of every strain his body endured. Cursed be this wretched weather as the relentless rain poured down in sheets, soaking him to the bone and turning the ground beneath his feet into a treacherous mire. Cursed be this concussion, a dull throb pulsed in his skull, a constant reminder of the blow he had taken earlier in the skirmish. And cursed be the continuous ringing in his ears, a high-pitched drone that drowned out the sounds of battle, making it difficult to gauge the movements of his enemies. Each of these afflictions was disrupting his equilibrium and impairing his accuracy, turning what should have been a straightforward fight into a grueling test of endurance. Regardless of how many foes he dispatched, the tally felt insignificant, a mere drop in the ocean. Another quickly replaced each enemy that fell to his arrows, their numbers seemingly endless, their resolve unyielding. Just as Aeonar prepared to nock another arrow, he sensed a sudden movement. An opposing arrow zipped through the air with a sharp woosh, hitting him squarely in the left shoulder with a sickening thud. "Gah!" he shouted in pain, a fiery jolt that sent shockwaves of agony radiating from the wound. He staggered back, the world tilting dangerously as he fought to maintain his balance.
"I got him, boys!" one of the ambushers announced.
"Flank him on all―" another barely managed to speak when a dagger, hurled with deadly precision, struck him in the throat, silencing him forever.
Aeonar's right arm was straightened, having hurled the dagger from the pouch secured to his thigh. Breathless and weary, the Young Dragon remained armed to the teeth—equipped with throwing stars, knives, and a few vials of potent alchemical concoctions strapped securely to his belt—proving that he could still defend himself despite the odds stacked against him. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, however, Aeonar felt the searing pain from the arrow embedded in his left shoulder that made his left arm feel heavy. It throbbed with each heartbeat, rendering his arm a cumbersome burden, and he could feel the warmth of blood seeping through his tunic beneath his armor. He could hear the footsteps of his pursuers drawing closer, but Aeonar wasn't backing down. Aeonar gripped the arrow embedded in his shoulder, wincing at the pain it brought him. With a swift motion, he snapped the arrow off, severing the tormenting shaft and momentarily freeing himself from its hold. "If this is the end for me…" he said quietly, picking up Blackfyre with his right hand and drawing the Valyrian steel dagger from its holster with his left, "then I'm taking you all with me!"
"Everyone attack at once! He's just one man!" a soldier exclaimed.
"Surround him! Surround him and attack!"
"Take him out!"
Aeonar shifted uncomfortably. The injury to his right knee caused pain when standing on that side without applying too much pressure. Consequently, his movements lacked the fluidity and grace they once had. As he shifted his weight, the pain flared again, sharper this time, and he clenched his jaw. As the assailants began rushing him, Aeonar instinctively lifted Blackfyre in one hand and the Conqueror's dagger in the other, carefully relieving the strain on his right knee before confronting them. He would ensure that none got past him. He would protect his dragon and be ready to fight to the last breath if the situation demanded it. When the assailants came into clearer view, their faces twisted with malice and greed, Aeonar awkwardly sprang into action. The pain in his knee flared, but adrenaline coursed through him, dulling the edge of his discomfort. He raised Blackfyre just in time to deflect an incoming blow, the clash of steel ringing in his ears like a battle cry. In a fluid motion, he swiftly drove his dagger upward, finding its mark in the assailant's jugular with a sickening squelch. The man's eyes widened in shock as he crumpled to the ground, blood spraying in a crimson arc that painted the earth beneath them and across the Young Dragon's face. Aeonar retracted the dagger with precision before readying himself for the next wave. Sensing the vibrations through his feet, the Young Dragon pivoted toward the next foe, his movements fueled by instinct rather than grace. He ducked low, narrowly avoiding a wild swing aimed at his head, and with a fierce determination, he swung Blackfyre in a deadly arc. The blade sliced through the air, eviscerating the next foe in line, the sharp edge of the sword meeting flesh with brutal efficiency. The enemy crumpled to the ground, a look of shock frozen on his face as life ebbed away.
Despite Aeonar's relentless efforts to fend off his adversaries, they continued to surge forward, unyielding in their assault. Wave after wave, they pressed on, a relentless tide of steel and fury that threatened to overwhelm him. Aeonar's pulse quickened as he took in the tumult surrounding him; every movement felt like a desperate dance for survival, a frantic choreography of dodges and parries that left him breathless. The air was thick with the acrid scent of sweat and blood, mingling with the metallic tang of iron as swords clashed and spears thrust forward. Arrows rained down upon him like a deadly storm, whistling through the air with lethal intent. Aeonar moved as quickly as he could, evading a few strikes. Yet, despite this, he could not escape unscathed; the sharp tip of a spear grazed his side, and the sting of a crossbow bolt found its mark in his shoulder, drawing a gasp of pain from his lips. Although Aegon the Conqueror's Valyrian steel armor provided formidable protection, it was not indestructible. It helped to minimize the force of the arrows, absorbing some of the impact and allowing him to continue fighting despite the pain. Nevertheless, his armor had its limits; each impact left its mark, and he could feel the strain of the metal against his body as the battle wore on. With every passing moment, Aeonar sensed the tide of battle shifting. His adversaries were relentless, their numbers seemingly endless, and he could feel the fatigue creeping into his limbs.
"Kill the Deceiver!" they shouted.
Aeonar chuckled bitterly at the irony of being called 'the Deceiver', wondering how the history books would remember him. The master of lies, deception, and spymaster who expanded on Tyanna of the Tower's already extensive spy network and made it his own was now fighting for his life. With every arc of Blackfyre and each twist aimed to pierce another with Aegon's Valyrian steel dagger, Aeonar found himself pierced in the ribs by a spear. "Gah!" he cried out, the pain radiating through his body like wildfire. With a fierce determination igniting within him, he snapped the wooden shaft of the spear, splintering it with a swift motion that sent shards flying. The pain in his side was a distant echo now, overshadowed by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Fueled with desperation, the Young Dragon lunged forward, plunging the dagger into his adversary's eye, the cold steel biting deep into flesh and bone. The shock that crossed the man's face was fleeting, quickly replaced by a grimace of pain as Aeonar twisted the blade, driving it deeper before withdrawing it with a sickening squelch. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, painting the ground beneath them as the man crumpled to the earth, lifeless. Amid this chaos, an adversary's weapon arced through the air, a glint of metal catching the light as it sliced deeply into Aeonar's right leg. The pain was immediate and searing, a fiery lance that shot through his body. "Ngh!" a sharp gasp escaped his lips. The sudden jolt of agony forced him to drop to one knee, his vision blurring at the edges as he fought to maintain his focus. Gritting his teeth, he desperately swung Blackfyre behind him, and with a sickening thud, it severed the hands of his assailant. The enemy's weapon clattered to the ground, and a look of shock and horror crossed their face as they stumbled back, blood spraying from the stumps where their hands had once been.
Yet, before he could catch his breath, Aeonar was met with the sting of a dagger piercing his right shoulder, the cold steel biting deep into flesh and muscle. The suddenness of the attack caught him off guard, and he felt a jolt of agony shoot through him, eliciting a pained cry. The world around him blurred for a moment as he fought to maintain his focus, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. With a surge of adrenaline, he twisted his body, trying to shake off the pain and regain control of the fight. Aeonar pushed himself up with his left leg, using the momentum to rise and bring Blackfyre up in a defensive stance. The man lunged again, but this time, Aeonar was ready. He sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the blade whistled past him, and countered with a swift arc of Blackfyre, aiming for the man's exposed flank.
However, a fresh surge of men rushed toward Aeonar, their faces twisted with aggression and intent. The air was tense as they closed in, a pack of wolves eager to bring down their prey. One of them, a burly figure with a wild mane of hair, lunged forward and delivered a powerful kick to Aeonar's chest. The impact was like a thunderclap, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground. The muddy soil splattered around him, clinging to his skin as he struggled to regain his breath. Before he could recover, another assailant, a lean man with a cruel smile, plunged a spear into his right leg. The sharp pain shot through him like fire, and Aeonar's vision blurred momentarily. Almost immediately, a dagger followed, plunging deep into his abdomen, the cold steel biting into flesh and drawing forth a gasp of pain from Aeonar's lips. Despite the overwhelming pain, Aeonar clenched his teeth, and summoning every ounce of strength he could muster, he pushed one of his attackers away with his left leg, sending the man stumbling back and momentarily thrown off balance, giving Aeonar a fleeting opportunity. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he grasped the Conqueror's Valyrian steel dagger and, in a swift, fluid motion, he stabbed the second man in the ankle, the blade sinking deep into flesh and eliciting a howl of pain. With a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, Aeonar forced himself to rise, his body protesting with every movement. He could feel the warmth of his own blood seeping through his armor and tunic. In a swift, fluid motion, Aeonar thrust Blackfyre deep into the gut of the man who had wounded him, the steel biting through flesh and sinew with sickening ease. The man gasped, his eyes widening in shock as Aeonar impaled him deeply, the force of the thrust causing his innards to spill forth, a gruesome testament to the brutality of their struggle.
There's… too many of them…
As the attackers regrouped, neither they nor Aeonar expected the deep rumbling cutting through the fierce thunderstorm.
"*Grrrrrrr!*"
Chapter End
Author's Note: Hey guys, sorry I've been away for almost a month. I've been very sick. Regardless, here's the next chapter where Aeonar is now in a fight for survival not just for himself but for Vaelor too. And here? He's not at his best. But who knows how many men are arrived to kill them.
MandoWalker: Badass aeonor the freehold reborn!
randomdude24: First, I hope you've recovered from whatever sickness you got, especially this time of the year.
Seems like Aeonar, despite his injuries, won't go down without a fight no matter what. He plans to defend Vaelor no matter the cost, I'm sort of hoping Cregan Stark will come to his rescue and save his life despite everything he's done.
Questions,
The dance is coming closer to the end. Who was right doesn't matter anymore, so many lives lost over a family argument. Will history show any sympathy towards Aeonar or Aegon?
—Neither, but rather a war started by greed and desire for power that ultimately fractured House Targaryen
House Peake sort of plunged the realm into war, will they face similar consequences like they did in the books? Stripped of their titles as lords of Whitegrove and Dustonbury, forever reduced to a knightly house
—I'll look into it
Kings Landing has to be getting restless over the war, with the riots to come. Will Jaehaerys or whomever rules until Aeonar returns, evacuate certain of the royal family somewhere safe?
—There will be attempts
Will history forever debate Aegon's claim to the throne? Or will he forever be marked as a bastard pretender who was unworthy in every possible way?
—Marked as a bastard pretender