A/N: A small snippet of what's going on in the Iron Islands behind the scenes.
Thanks to filipinosberman and Ascalon for beta-ing.
Chapter LV: Broken Fates, Part I
28 AC
Sixth Moon
Iron Islands
Life went on as it always did for the Ironborn, eking out a harsh living on the isles where little agriculture was practised and most food came from fishing and plundering.
Like the rest of Westeros, the Iron Islands was fed whatever information came out of the mouths of town criers on the ongoing Triarchy-Westeros War, and they often smiled and cheered at the news of Ironborn Reavers making short work of the mercenary privateers of the Triarchy fleets. The exploits of non-Ironborn fleets? Not so much.
After all, what need have they to listen to the words of feeble, milk-drinking greenlanders who know nothing of the harsh life of the Ironborn, where the seas reign supreme and its warriors hardened by generations of reaving and raiding? And unlike their fat Septons dressed in extravagant robes and feasting on succulent sherbet and fruity wines, the Drowned Priests had no need for such luxury, content with their plain robes and ritual daggers.
Fate, however, had other plans.
As one of the Drowned Priests left the Temple after officiating a wedding ceremony for two Ironborn, he proceeded back towards his humble abode with a spring in his step, the refreshing sea winds biting his face.
"It will be nice to enjoy some salmon stew tonight," He muttered to himself.
After minutes of walking, the village's ambience grew dim until it vanished from sight, and soon he returned to his humble abode: A ramshackle wooden hut by the beach, not far from the sea.
Entering, he piled firewood and dried leaves into his hearth and struck some flints together, igniting a fire that warms the home, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he prepared a pot of water. To the pot he added salmon jerky and a variety of pickled vegetables, patiently waiting for it to cook to the desired doneness.
As a familiar aroma wafted into his nostrils, he took a bowl and a ladle, scooping out his dinner. He slowly ate, relishing the simple diet.
"My thanks to the Drowned God for this meal," He whispered with a smile of gratitude.
As he slowly ate his meal and sipped water, he remained oblivious to the small shadow slinking about in the rafters of his house.
When he finished his meal, he cleaned the pot and extinguished the fire before resting in his cot for the night, and that was when the shadow struck, implanting itself into the man's head through his ear canal.
It was quick and painless, the Drowned Priest feeling not a thing.
He did not even notice when his mind was completely subverted.
IIOII
Disputed Lands
Elaegelle Targaryen
"Tegio forward! Archers, focus fire and do not relent!"
"Hooah!"
"Cavalry, hit the Black Robes!"
At Elaegelle's commands, her battalion marched into battle against an unrelenting tide of mutated flesh and bone, fearless and disciplined in their movements. With swords and pikes the Tegio held firm, and their progress was slow but inexorable. The Black Robes cast magic against their formation, but a shimmering barrier held in place and deflected all their spells, ensuring they could not simply wipe them out with casual ease.
Some of the Black Robes began to inch closer, drawing wicked blades while the rest continued to provide suppressive fire. It did not stop the Tegio's movement, but was enough to slow them down.
"Ma'am, we've got incoming Black Robes!"
"Take them down!" She shouted.
Drawing her bow, she loosed three arrows and found her marks, the Black Robes collapsing with arrows through their skulls.
"Pull back slightly!" She ordered.
At her command, the Tegio slowly retreated, and while somewhat bewildered by this the Black Robes wasted no time intensifying their assault, daring to give chase to the battalion - like fish taking the bait.
And just as the Black Robes began to close in, cavalry surged forth and crushed the Black Robes from behind, running them down and giving them no time to react, horse archer and cataphract working hand-in-hand to inflict maximum damage.
"Forward, men! Show them the might of the Bhreynar!"
Jamaqhor, Captain of the cavalry company supporting Ser Jaehaerys Calderon's knights, led his cataphracts in a merciless counterattack as his cataphracts ran down all enemies in their path, the massive steeds and heavy armour forming living battering rams. Bodies flew in the air, and blood flowed from crushed pulpy messes of flesh. The trailing horse archers picked off Black Robes and riddled mutants with arrows, their powerful composite bows and arrows making short work of hardened flesh and bone.
Relentless in their pursuit, merciless in their charge, professional in their conduct, these were the new face of the civilised Dothraki, comrades-in-arms of the Dornian Duchy.
Bereft of their commanders, the mutants aimlessly charge and blunt their own momentum, losing their earlier bloodlust and becoming little more than mindless wanderers.
Elaegelle wastes no time awakening the slumbering dragon.
"Forward! Cut them down!"
As one the Tegio charges forward, methodically exterminating the mutants and granting them the peace they deserve. Pikes and swords hold off the tide of flesh while archers pick them off from range. Cavalry sorties mop up stragglers and strays who wander too far from the horde, so that the villages do not suffer their interference later on.
Elaegelle charges forth on her own steed, whom she named Daeron, and slicing her own palm to draw blood, she channelled the mana within her blood and forced it out of her wound in a great gout of green fire, fire so strong and hot it could melt stone.
"Grr…"
She felt the heat coursing through her hand, hot enough to scald it if not careful. After a brief casting, she willed the flames to cease, satisfied at her handiwork as several charred, lifeless corpses fell to the ground motionless.
Before long, the battle is won, and any Black Robes and mutants that remained were slain to the last. No more came to harass them.
"Men of the Sand Dragon Battalion [1], we are victorious!"
And they cheered as one, the euphoria of triumph buoying their hearts.
"You fought well, Your Highness," Said Ser Jaehaerys as he trotted on his horse, his armour and sword caked in blood, "This victory shall serve as a stepping stone for your further growth as a general."
"You too, Ser Jaehaerys," Elaegelle nodded, though her eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of the countless corpses, friend and foe alike, "It does not feel as if we're winning, though."
"No, it doesn't," Jaehaerys nodded grimly, "I had hoped we would make a dent in their numbers, but they seem limitless, as if they are breeding like insects in a hive."
"Has there been any further news, Jaehaerys?" Asked Elaegelle, "I doubt we can continue fighting like this."
Jaehaerys shook his head, "Only that our relief troops will be arriving soon, and we can withdraw to safety once they come. Other than that, nothing."
Elaegelle sighed heavily, "I suppose our enemy is the restless kind - troublesome unless we keep them occupied."
"I myself wish they weren't so determined or so… wrong," Jaehaerys admitted, "If not for them, this pointless war would be over with and our King safe."
Elaegelle bit her lip thinking of her father; though her father was no longer in mortal danger, his wounds were too severe for him to ever ride into combat again, and he remained bedridden with on-the-clock physicians constantly monitoring his condition, applying salves and changing bandages as needed.
She had no time to visit him, being busy on the frontlines with all her responsibilities as colonel of the Sand Dragon Battalion.
"I would love to visit my father once we're on leave," Elaegelle mentioned.
"As I would love to visit my family, Your Highness," Jaehaerys smiled in understanding.
As thoughts of war faded, thoughts of family kept their spirits afloat, an ardent wish made in their hearts to see them again.
"Ma'am."
Captain Jamaqhor dismounted from his horse, happily saluting his colonel with professionalism and respect.
"Jamaqhor," Elaegelle greeted back, "Your company performed well."
"Thank you, Ma'am, though to be honest the mutants aren't much of a threat by themselves," Jamaqhor said, his cheeky smile never fading, "It's almost disappointing, I feel."
"Don't underestimate their numbers, Jamaqhor," Elaegelle pointed out.
"Of course, Ma'am," Jamaqhor nodded, "When shall we fight the next battle, might I ask? My men remain eager to attain more glory for Dornia."
"All in due time, Captain," Elaegelle reassured, "First, we need to rest and wait for the relief troops to take over, and then we return for resupply and retraining before we go back to the fighting."
"Pity, but I suppose this serves as a good warmup," Jamaqhor shrugged, "Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the red-light district during our stay at Aryslonye (Sunspear)?"
"Shut up, Jamaqhor," Elaegelle said, though not harshly.
"Shutting up, Ma'am," Jamaqhor maintained his flirtatious smile.
IIOII
Seventh Moon
Dragonstone
Aegon Targaryen
Within a month, the Sand Dragon Battalion was pulled from the frontlines and given a season to rest and replenish their numbers. They fought hard over countless skirmishes, and as Elaegelle grew accustomed to commanding her battalion, her tactics gradually evolved with alarming speed, such that she began to outshine many of her fellow colonels in battle.
As such, the break period was as much a rest period as it was an opportunity to allow the gloryhounds to have their share of battle and perhaps lessen their complaints.
Many lords were quick to accost her with their usual brown-nosing [2] antics, hoping to curry favour with the rising star of House Targaryen where they only gave her scornful looks in the past. She deftly ignored and bypassed them, paying heed only to the knight who brought her to Aegon's bedchambers.
They soon reached a set of heavy doors, and the knight nodded to the guards who parted and opened the doors for them.
As they entered, Elaegelle's breath caught in her throat at the sight of her father.
He was in the middle of having his bandages changed, allowing Elaegelle full view of her father's horrid injuries; fully half his face was disfigured, white teeth visible with nothing to cover like a half-rotten human skull; his burnt skin was pinkish-red in colour, his hair abruptly tarnished in one half, his left arm a stump at the elbow.
"...our…ness?"
Her mind raced with terror, shock and disbelief, her eyes wide as saucers, her breathing halted to the point she wondered if she still breathed. Her vision became hazy, her ears ringing with white noise and her mouth agape.
"Your Highness!"
She gasped in surprise, turning to face the knight who called to her.
"Are you alright, Your Highness? You were spacing out for a moment," The knight said with concern, "And you look pale."
"I-I am fine," Elaegelle waved off, "You may leave."
"Your Highness," The knight bowed as he took his leave.
As the knight left, the physician was putting the final touches, reapplying ointments and bandages before washing his hands. Finished with his work, he stood up, bowed to both Aegon and Elaegelle and then promptly left the bedchambers.
Now it was only father and daughter alone in the room, with all the time in the world.
She quickly rushed to her father's side, falling to a knee and taking his hand in hers.
"Father, I'm here," Elaegelle called to him, tears spilling from her eyes like a released floodgate, her voice trembling with raw emotion, "I'm here…"
"Ah, Elaegelle, I'm glad to see you are alright," Aegon smiled back, his voice weak and soft, "Ha, look at you, such a dignified warrior, I can see you almost resembling your mother already."
Elaegelle merely smiled through her tears, though her smile was wretched and forced.
"I heard tales of your exploits, of how you commanded your company against those mutants and Black Robes, how you rose to prominence through your valiant defence of a village against terrifying odds. If memory serves me right, you hold the title of colonel, do you not?" Aegon recounted like a wistful storyteller.
"Yes, I am," Elaegelle answered, "My unit is known as the Sand Dragon Battalion."
"Ah, the Sand Dragon Battalion," Aegon smiled, "Quite a fitting name for your army. I hear tales of the swiftness of their cavalry under Ser Jaehaerys, and that you have Bhreynar in your ranks."
"I simply received command of two more companies due to circumstances," Elaegelle waved off, as if it did not sound significant, "It was their captains who helped us to achieve victory."
"...You've become very modest," Aegon noted, "I remember how bratty and obnoxious you used to be; always making so much noise and trouble for us. Visenya was always scolding you until you started crying. Heh, I liked it when you were energetic."
"I must have been quite the troublemaker," Elaegelle mused.
"Yes, and those were good times, before your siblings…"
Aegon trailed off, his face crestfallen.
"I saw how depressed and sorrowful you became, and despite our efforts… despite our efforts-agh!"
Aegon clenched his fists, wincing heavily as pain shot through his body. Elaegelle quickly patted him down, offering a reassuring hand of comfort.
"Are you alright?" She asked.
"I-I'm fine, dear daughter," Aegon assured, "I just…"
"It's alright, father. No need to say it," Elaegelle said, "And I have been blessed with many friends and comrades since my stay in Dornia."
Aegon smiled with relief, "That is good to hear."
A tepid pause ensued as the two remained silent, each racking their heads and trying to come up with the appropriate words to break the silence. Suffice to say, neither succeed for several minutes.
Eventually, Aegon was the first to break the silence.
"Oh yes, I heard that the war effort goes well?" He said.
"Well, technically it is, it's just stagnating," Elaegelle corrected, "Our progress is exceedingly slow despite constant sorties and determined cullings of the mutants. For some reason, when it looks as if we've culled enough mutants, more seem to sprout out of nowhere, as if they were breeding like insects - limitless and omnipresent. Killing the Black Robes does help to lessen the number of mutants, though not even the dragons of House Targaryen are able to completely smoke them out."
"I heard the news," Aegon nodded, "And this is troubling, to say the least. Perhaps the only consolation we have is that they have no dragons of their own."
"They've also wisened to our tactics and have taken to dispersing and hiding themselves in the Essosi countryside," Elaegelle added, "Much like how the old Westerlander resistance made a nuisance of themselves during your conquest."
"I feared as much," Aegon sighed, hard regret in his eyes, "Elaegelle, you should know… regarding your siblings, Maegor and the others have had to be restrained hard by your mother so they do not run off foolishly, but a few have sustained injuries due to recklessness. Others underestimated the danger these Black Robes posed."
"But none died?" Asked Elaegelle.
"No, thankfully," Said Aegon.
Elaegelle, on the other hand, did not truly share her father's sentiment, though she would never voice it aloud.
"I suppose that's why Maegor and the… worst of my siblings have been incapacitated as have their dragons," Elaegelle mused.
"I know you've not had good memories with them, but might I ask you to show forgiveness to them?" Asked Aegon, "Please, for your father."
"...I can't promise anything," Elaegelle admitted reluctantly, "Not from me, and certainly not with Maegor's temper."
"All I ask is for you to give them the benefit of doubt," Aegon reiterated, a gentle pleading in his eyes.
Elaegelle sighed, "I will try. For your sake, I will try."
"Thank you, my dear daughter," Aegon smiled, shedding a tear, "Take care of yourself, and know I will always pray to the Fourteen for your safety, always."
And Elaegelle rested her head on the back of Aegon's uninjured hand, basking in its warmth for as long as she could.
[1] Sand Dragon Battalion - Formed primarily out of the descendants of Dornian-Valyrian immigrants from Paletillia, their military customs have a distinctly Dornian flavour which include the inclusion of female fighters in their ranks.
[2] In most courts, brown-nosing sycophants were a distressingly common sight, and often were a highly poisonous influence on unsuspecting noble scions. In Arin's court, there is high expectation of success placed on government officials, and due to draconian standards of evaluation, few if any ever dare to engage in such atrocious behaviour under risk of severe punishment.
One time, a pathological brown-noser from the court of Eyaben (Skyreach) tried very hard to curry favour with the ruling Duke Garen to hide his misdeeds in tax evasion and smuggling. He was jailed without trial and only released after being forced to make a public apology to a wide audience. It was said that he was so badly humiliated, he hanged himself in his own home.