The Dragon of Starfall

by Primarch Amaranth

The words of House Dayne are simple: "We Bring the Dawn". A long-lost son returns home, the beginning of the storm to come. Hell comes to Westeros, and it's up to the scattered Forces of Order to stand against the darkness once more. Will they stand alone? Will the Archenemy? Corruption spreads, and light dwindles. But rejoice, for we the Knights of Bretonnia, shall be your shield.

8. A Father's Duty

A portal opens to the dark realms of the warp, roaring gunfire echoing inside of it, distorted by the warp energies it's made of. A second later to figures exit the portal, firing nonstop inside of it, before one of them, the Writer, throws a grenade inside.

At the other side, a screeching sound and a soul-shattering moan pursue them as the portal crashed and closes.

Writer: Beloved Jesus, I hate Slanneshi demons.

The other man, with thin-framed glasses nods. His crimson eyes shine bright with three marks in them.

Stranger: Indeed. It will appear we have reached the summit for you message to our viewers.

Writer: Sharp as always, Tachi. Hello folks! Sorry for the delay with this chapter, but it's a big one! Almost 20.000 words.

Stranger: There are shorter books than this chapter, Primarch.

Writer: I know, I know. Anyway folks, I apologize again. You know consistency in uploading schedule is NOT my thing….

Stranger: An apt euphemism…

Writer: Shut it, puffy eyes. But this chapter is good! Or so I… hope, at least. We have heart-felt meetings, battles, some good character moments and we finally see THE MANNIS in action. So, I hope you all enjoy! Good news are, the next one already has some 3.000 words ready. I had to cut this one short a bit.

Stranger: It would seem we have a comment to answer.

Writer: Oh, yes from… doesthiscountasausername! Well, my good fellow, you are in luck. You will get your short boys… sooner than think! Hope you can hold on until then!

Stranger: Primarch, the question.

Writer: Oh, yes of course! Thanks Tachi. So, guys, quick question, you want me to answer your comments but private message, or at the star of the following chapter? Tell me when you write it and I will be glad to comply! So with that done, remember, any suggestion, comment or critique is more than welcomed! Enjoy the Chapter!

Stranger: Primarch…the portal.

Writer: (Reloading boltgun with malicious intent) I know… I know. Well, time for round four, you demonic fuckfaces!

Both men jump back in the portal, as the story continues on.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

An hour before the Miracle of the Crying Moon.

Stannis Baratheon was not a patient man. He was not pleasant, not polite, and not placating. And today, what little patience his time as a husband and father had ingrained in him with hammer and chisel, was being swiftly eroded by the three lunatics at the table with him. He was fairly certain Ser Barristan was ready to restrain him after the first hour of discussion.

"I couldn't care less for the mad ravings of a lunatic woman bent on burning true faith to ashes!" Lord Tytos Blackwood bellowed from his seat, where he had been chosen by his fellows to represent the followers of the Old Gods. A thin and tall man, He sported a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, a hook nose, and long hair dark hair, that made Stannis think of raven´s feathers. Appropriate, seeing as his seat was Raventree Hall.

"Spoken by a man that worships those demonic trees of yours." Melissandre, the Red Priestess of Essos, was a dangerous and proud woman who had recently found her words were not rejected by his own wife. She still made Stannis uncomfortable. There was a fire in her eyes that threatened to burn anything and anyone around. "Ice and blood are all you bring, for the night it's dark and…."

"Full of terrors, yes, yes, you accursed woman, we already heard you the first bloody time you said it!" Tytos slammed his fist on the table. The Red Priestess had used that phrase at least a dozen times in the last hours. It was eroding his sanity.

"You bicker like children who do not know the light of truth!" From the last seat, rose High Septon Belzeborn. Fatter than any man Stannis had ever met, his graying hair did not hide the lack of intelligence the man sported, even if in the last hours, he seemed to have found his religious flame. Still, he had been an almost non-consequential part of the debate, as every time he spoke. One of the other two would silence him effortlessly. "The Seven…!"

"Oh, shut it you fat cunt!" Lord Tytos didn't even look at him, his eyes focused on the defying look of the Red Priestess "Your bloody seven figurines have nothing to do with this. Your people can barely find common ground on how to depict your gods, much less pick a champion!"

"You dare, heathen dog?!" Bellowed the fat man, managing to actually sound a tiny sliver intimidating.

"At last something the tree-hugger and I can agree." Melissandre´s eyes scorched the High Septon. "Stay out of the conversation, High Septon. It's obvious that the young lord brings fire with him, pure, blessed fire." Lord Blackwood let an annoyed sigh as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"He is blessed by the arm of the Father and the strength of the Warrior!" Exclaimed the High Septon, his crystal crown almost falling from his head at the perceived indignity. "He is the Stranger's veritable hand!"

"Your gods must be thirsty harlots, for all of them to grovel for one man, then." The Lord of Raventree Hall, drawled as he sipped from his cup.

Slowly, surely, Stannis leveled a terrible gaze towards Lord Tytos Blackwood, as if daring him to continue the line of wording against his son. The lord of Raventree Hall wisely did not continue that line of thought.

"You are a simpleton if you believe the Champion of the Lord of Light….!"

"Do not attribute titles to my son, Lady Melissandre." Stannis´s iron stare turned towards the Red Priestess. "Nor the responsibilities you may wish to impose upon him. His duties are his, and you will not add to them. None of you will." He eyed each one of them in turn, daring them to defy his authority. He once more cursed Robert internally. He did not want to be here.

He shouldn't be here.

'But it is my duty…' He thought to himself. 'And yet when duties clash with one another, which one should stand above? Lord? Or husband and father?'

"My lord Stannis, your family, and that of your wife´s, have both kept to the light of the Seven for generations, you cannot simpl-!"

"My faith in the Seven died the day the ship carrying my parents broke against Shipbreaker Bay." Stannis felt the grip on his chair tightened until his knuckles hurt. "My wife´s faith died with what little of her family she had left after the Rebellion and losing our son. You prayed for his safe return day and night, did you not?" That let the High Septon agape like a drowning fish. Melissandre had the lack of decency to smile at that, while Lord Tytos simply eyed the ground, demure. He had been at Pyke.

"Well, of course, my lord! We tolled the bells and let our mightiest hymns…!" The High Septon was trying to make a defense for his seven gods, but Stannis felt no inclination to give him an inch.

"And yet, when I stormed the walls of Pyke, my son was gone into the sea to be fed to the crabs. It is not the Seven who brought him home."

"You do not know that, my lord!" Exclaimed the man, much more meekly this time, some of his fire spent. "That Lady he speaks of might be the Mother, or the Maiden, guiding him home!"

"That´s reaching, even for you, High Septon." Snorted Lord Tytos. "The Lady of the Lake sounds much more to an Old God than…"

"Lord Blackwood, I expected from you the patience and courtesy of waiting for my son to wake up so he might explain himself before declaring any allegiances he might or might not hold." The Lord of Raventree Hall had the decency of looking mildly ashamed, but spoke back, respectfully.

"I apologize for my brashness my lord Stannis, but you must understand, the people are scared. What your son fought. What he defeated… It was a miracle. And all, common born and noble alike, want a piece of that victory."

And whichever faith could claim the authorship of said miracle, would tip the balance of the silent religious war in Westeros to their side for generations to come in the Crownlands and beyond. Stannis was not blind to that fact, or that the Faith of the Seven was the most invested in if not winning, making sure the Old Faith did not. And the Old Faith preferred to give the miracle to the Seven before the God of Light, seeing them as heretic upstarts. So, the stalemate the Lord of Dragonstone had in front of him was quite puzzling.

On one hand, he could dismiss these talks until his son awoke, but panic would reign over the city and blood would probably flow as the most fanatical elements of each faith devolved into open warfare and crusading. But he couldn´t give any one of them the high ground here, for fear of retaliation of either part.

In other words, Stannis was stuck trying to keep the peace until his son woke up or the situation calmed down. And he dearly hoped it was the first the one to happen first. He needed something to distract himself, something to distract the assembled fools.

"Might I suggest, your eminences, that until the young Lord awakes, all of us band together to bring spiritual peace to the city?" Ser Davos spoke up, eying the assembled authorities with an honest smile the smuggler had once upon a time, practiced to perfection. He received blank and offended stares as a response. He leaned back in his chair, mumbling under his breath. "No, of course not. Why do I even bloody bother suggesting that?"

Stannis´s frown deepened. The suggestion from his Onion Knight was sound and possibly the best he had heart during the entire meeting, to wait for declarations. But every person besides Stannis himself and Ser Davos wanted to take advantage over the rest, to spring for the victory they searched for.

"This cannot wait, Ser Smuggler." Davos didn't seem offended at being called that. "The people require an answer, now, so they might take mercy on the Lord of…."

"The people?" Cut her off Stannis. "Or the institutions you represent?"

"My lord, how could you suggest…?!" The High Septon quaked out, almost indignant.

"My Lord Stannis, I promise you…." Began the Lord of Raventree Hall.

"Enough." He cut them all off with a gesture. "You believe I do not see your hidden agendas? You all wish to further the power of your institution. May it be the power of the Faith, the Weridwoods, or the Red Temples. You disgrace your stations by exploiting such moment of fear and worry, and my own personal suffering to…"

"The moon." Said Ser Barristan, looking out of the window. "The moon is bleeding." A shiver went up Stannis´s back, not at the words spoken, but the tone, and the man uttering them. From any other man, he would have scoffed. Not from Ser Barristan.

The interior of the room began to tinge with a crimson light that made some recoil in fear. Lady Melissandre´s normally red clothes made her almost blend into the room like a specter in bloodied waters.

"By the Old Gods." Whispered Lord Tytos, grasping his sword. "What is that?"

"The Seven are displeased with us! This is divine punishment for our transgressions and our heresy!" Screeched the fat Septon, going to his knew in prayer, his entire mass trembling in fear. His chair flew back and broke against the wall as he tried to prostrate himself, incapable of doing so with his girth. Stannis felt a new wave of contempt for the man.

"No, Fat Septon. There is ash in the air, and blood stains the soil we tread upon." The Red Priestess said, slowly turning towards him. Her smile was almost bittersweet. "I told you the night was dark and full of terrors."

But Stannis was already upon the sitar and descended towards the main door, followed by his men and a hurrying Ser Davos. He almost kicked the door outside. They exited the Guildhall of the Alchemist, where the reunion had been held, to use neutral ground, to a blood-tinged sky and the howling of unnatural things. Crimson light that defied logic bathed the city like a funerary shroud. Stannis drew his sword, as his men rushed towards him. Dark shadows, too fast and too big to be anything Stannis would have found comfortable to think about, moved over the rooftops. On the streets, the screaming began, and fur-covered figures rushed the plaza toward them, screaming and laughing like madmen.

"Ser Barristan." Stannis said slowly. The Lord Commander turned.

"My Lord?"

"It will appear I will require your services after all."

"I will do my best, Master of Ships." The Commander of the Kingsguard, steeped forth, blade at the ready, helmet on. "But I am afraid I don't know if that will be enough."

"I feel like there is not much of a choice there, my lords." Lord Tytos, accompanied by some of his men, exited next, terror in their eyes, but hands firm on their weapons. "It seems the Others have come to swallow us back to their black abyss. Took the bastards long enough."

People screamed around the streets, and the plaza was chaos as many rushed away from the fighting and the bloodletting. Somewhere, a fire began somewhere. Then another and another, until several plumes of black smoke began to choke the nearby sky, tinged like deadly specters in the crimson light. The blood-tinged air made everything seem like a nightmare. But that was fine to Stannis. He had always had nightmares, one of the few traits of his daughter had inherited from him. Nightmares could be bested. They could be vanquished.

Perhaps, he could vanquish this too.

"I promised Ashara I would keep this city whole for our son to wake up. I will honor my word to my lady wife." Stannis declared, drawing his own sword.

"Would be a lot easier if we had a few extra hundred men behind us." Murmured Ser Davos. "But I suppose we are in a time of pulling off miracles against impossible odds. Pity I never was a man of much faith. A prayer or two might help a bit." Stannis snorted at that.

"Miracles are for the gods, Ser Davos. Men did this, and men shall undo it." The old smuggler nodded.

"Men like you perhaps, my lord."

"Men like me have need of men like you, Ser Davos. Always have." He turned to look at the pooling Baratheon and Blackwood soldiers behind him. "My brother ordered me to keep the city together, and I will do so. Men of Dragonstone. Shield wall forward. Advance on me!"

And the Lord of the Dragonstone joined the fray.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

The Song.

That bloody Song.

It echoed in his ears as he stopped the flurry of blows the Bretonnian knight was sending his way, hammering at his mid and making him commit mistakes. That was why that southern runt was winning. The Song his blade was making was what made his step too short, too distracted, too slow. There was no way a scrawny, half-dead Bretonnian whoreson could beat him in a fair fight like that.

Except, of course, the Dragon´s Choler.

His blade was a lightning bolt of silver that had been close to taking his head half a dozen times now. It moved and danced fast over the air, like forgotten dreams at the wake of dawn, each blow forcing him to parry with all his might. It had not been a true fight until the knight had had his blade returned to him. His weapons, demonic and enhanced by the hellish smiths of the Chaos Wastes, would have made him untouchable to common steel.

And now, it wasn't a fair fight still. Except now it was his skull the one in danger of being taken.

Amaranth was fire, never giving him a clear vector of attack, throwing barrages that lasted more than any other man should be able to endure, and moving out of the way of his own volleys. He didn't try to match strength to strength, and yet, when forced to, he did not yield, not without that thrice-cursed blade on his hands drawing more of his blood. He was fire, and he was water. Untouchable, slipping through every crack and rend, hungering without pause.

Bloodfeast was losing. It wasn't a one-sided fight, mind you; the Jarl was still a very powerful opponent, a veteran warrior and monster hunter that had ranged far and wide through the Old World. He had the weapons and blessings to fight any champion that might step into his way. He was taking a beating, but he kept licking back. But, there were hundreds like him among the legions of chaos.

And there was only one Dragon´s Choler for a reason.

Sirius Amaranth has been recently brought back to the living from the brink of Morr´s Realm, tired and bleeding. His leg was starting to fail from blood loss and he was obviously suffering from exhaustion from channeling the Winds. He was half-dead. The Jarl was fresh.

But what chances had a fresh man to win against a half-dead dragon? Much less so against a half-dead dragon wielding a sword like that?

Sirius danced out of the strike, and danced into the offense, moving like a leaf on the dancing winds. The axes ate after him but found him gone and his blade at the ready. Arondight´s Song entered a crescendo as it unleashed its raw light from its gleaming edge of death. The overhead blow was parried to the side, but Sirius spun into a back-cutting strike that the Jarl barely stepped away from, as the knight contorted like a hungering flame.

Sirius put some space between the massive norscan and himself. He was winning, but he couldn´t hold on for much longer like this. His leg was starting to go numb, and that meant he had lost way too much blood. Arondight might balance the scales, but it would not win him the fight yet.

Thankfully, he didn't need to win the battle alone.

Around him, the westerosi had rallied to the brutal counteroffensive.

Sandor was a frontal carnage, greatsword cleaving like ripe sardines men that for once were all of his own size. Ser Jaime Lannister was having the time of his life, killing brutes left and right, having his strength and speed matched at every corner, and relying on superb skill and superior training. Ser Brandon Moore watched his sworn brother´s back with quick and economic strikes that killed and injured whenever it was required of him, never doing more than what was absolutely required to kill.

His mother was another matter entirely. Even after four births, Ashara Dayne was not slowed in the slightest, her own blade a mirror of silvery steel to her second eldest son. Arthur, was much less dramatic. There were no quick maneuvers and deft alchemical swordsmanship in the younger son, but fury and anger behind determined and aimed hammer strikes that shattered bone and organs. He had lost Gilrin in the onslaught, and between volleys of blows, he could see a shadowy figure dance over the rest of the clumsy, armored killers, like a shark in a bank of whales, killing with dark enjoyment in her dark eyes.

Norscans rushed him to aid their Jarl, noticing now that he could not beat the Dragon of Bretonnia by himself. Men charged at him, and men died to a trinity of longsword, morningstar, and bastard blade. Rolland Storm, Andrew Estermont, and Balon Swann formed a ring of steel around their old childhood friend that the norscans were finding hard to break. The three westerosi knights had trained relentlessly together and fought like a single, indomitable unit. So, with his back covered, and the battle turning to his side, Sirius could work on killing the Warlord and ending this once and for all.

That is when the howling of demons came.

It was coming from somewhere ahead of him. It sounded like a night wind shrieking down the stack of an old chimney. The Blood Wolf burst through the tall bushes. Sirius growled at the sight of the thing as he turned and saw it, yet did not see it. He knew it was coming, something that wailed like an old flue, something that bubbled reality around itself, like a cloak of un-being, relaying in drilled instinct in a hundred encounters with things just as foul, if not worse. Men gaged. He felt bile rise in his throat. He moved his guard, hands trembling. He had forgotten how demons felt to mortal men. And he had forgotten the sensation of overwhelming fear they brought.

The Blood Wolf entered the battle at the far end of the garden where the shamans had been around, and though it was essentially invisible, its passage down the courtyard towards him was vividly narrated by the carnage it wrought. The trees splintered in an explosive blizzard of pulp and fragments. The flowers scorched and shriveled. Westerosi warriors, ranged along the path, began to die, as if some murderous wave was sweeping through them. Bodies were suddenly severed and collapsed in fountains of blood, as if snipped in two or three or even four by giant, invisible shears. Others burst like blood blisters, or were smashed aside into the walls and floor by unseen, demented hands. The tide of destruction bore down on him. Sirius raised his blade, and Arondight answered at the challenging howling by shining even brighter, its silver flames rising in defiance. Droplets of blood from the demon's killing spree had filled the air like raindrops, and now hesitated in their descent like the snowflakes on Avalon´s chilly winters.

The impact was brutal.

Sirius felt it coming, skill and the might of his blade joining with his proficiency with magic to spin out of the way as the claws came at him. He could not see the attack, but he could feel it, and thus, could predict it. So he did just that. He dove farther into the humble Winds of Magic of Westeros, such a minute thing compared to how they were back home, but even a light breeze was enough for a bird to fly. He pushed claws that were not claws out of the way, and Arondight connected with the midsection of the beast, silver flames eating at the un-flesh that writhed behind. Then, his vision was un-blurred and he could see. A human shape was making frenzied animal motions inside the blue of warp-wash, something flayed and bloody that screamed and thrashed its limbs with inhuman violence. Sirius saw the white enamel of bared teeth against the bloody mass of the whole. He saw reality blotching and distorting around its clotted, skinned form, and it made him want to vomit.

Then, a blade, flaming and bright, pierced the chest of the Blood Wolf and its host. The creature howled, as its body bent in a way that defied any type of anatomy. The blade pushed deeper, its shining flames orange and simple, yet beautiful in their honest shine. The wolf howled once more before the blade turned, and cut upward, bisecting wolf and host in almost half.

Behind the charred and boiling remains of the summoned demon, stood the first prophet of the Lady in Westeros. Sir Thoros of Myr was sweating, and he was sure he had pissed himself, but his blade had slain it. He eyed the sword, now alight, much like your Baratheon´s own blade, although devoid of that otherworldly shine and craftsmanship. He had played a similar trick a hundred times before, with valyrian fire, to play into the faith of his former god, a mere pauper trick to scare his foes on the duels and matches he had happily partaken on.

Now? He had just wanted to help, to slay the beast, and Her strength had surged on from him, and given form into the flames, amber and bright, that ate the body in the ground, and lapped gently to his hands on the edge of his sword, not burning but simply warming his skin. Thoros noted, that for the first time in forever, the metal on his sword was clean, and not charred black from the alchemical trick. He nodded towards Sirius, who nodded back in greeting.

"Brethren." Echoed Sirius with a small smile. Thoros wasn´t sure how to respond, so he did the same.

"Brethren… " He took a deep breath. "What in Her holy name was that fucking thing?"

"Blood Wolf." Sirius said with a shrug, then a smile. "Rejoice, my friend. You are the first Demon Slayer of Westeros. Good to not bear the title alone."

"Such a promising first day in a new faith. Anything else I should expect? A god shitting lighting on us? Maybe some siren conjuring a rain of ale and blood? I wouldn't mind some ale right now." The priest wanted to kick the dead abomination but decided he did not even want to touch it.

"Careful, the day may sour still. More demons."

It was true. From the place where the shamans had played their horrid magic, more warp predators came to reality. Most were drawn and pitiful things that were thrown to the press of bodies to stab at ankles and gnaw at exposed wrists, their poisons and toxins the real danger. But among the pitiful undivided creatures, were the true hunters of the Lord of Blood.

A massive Bloodhound jumped over the press of bodies, killing as it went, headed directly to Sirius and Thoros, as another jumped to the Jarl to butcher the men-at-arms trying to kill him. Sirius placed himself side by side with the priest, blades flaming at the ready for the two warriors of the Lady to give battle against a new abomination.

The wall behind them exploded.

A deep, high-shrill, piercing cry echoed over the battle, like the sound of a great hunting bird, forcing those close to cover their ears, and the closest to their knees. The norscans scattered, recognizing the dreadful sound, and the beast that made such a sound. The warlord took a step back in shock. The abomination tried to turn to meet the new happening.

Arthur saw his brother smile a wide, predatory grin.

Something moved through the dust and smoke. It was fast, it was big, it was strong. It burst from the debris with its harrowing war cry. Several hundred kilos of mythical beast smashed into the norscans, beak drawing blood, claws tearing men apart, direct towards the abomination that threatened his brother and the former Red Priest. But what took him even more by surprise, was the two figures on its back. One, was easy to guess that it was a Kingsguard, barely holding on to the feathers and fur of the massive creature as its horns gored men to death. But what gave the identity of the Kingsguard, was the small figure barely holding them both to the back of the creature

"Sirius!" Cried Myrcella towards Arthur´s brother, as the horned four-legged bird impaled the throat of the abomination on its shining horns, before tearing its belly open with claws sharp as valyrian steel, and standing triumphant on the carcass, screeched to the heavens in victory. Knights tried to close on the creature, trying to get to the princess, but one roar from the creature stopped them dead in their tracks, as he eyes wrathfully anyone that dared to get near it. It was an apex predator in stripped fur and blood-stained feathers, covered in guts and blood, and yet not losing a single bit of its majestic beauty. The Kingslayer, at the sight, began to sprint towards his niece.

The creature eyed Myrcella, who nodded, and grabbing his Kingsguard, jumped from its back, midstride. Her uncle caught them both, as Ser Jaime was brought to the floor by the combined weight of her niece and his sworn brother. Myrcella held to his uncle´s neck as Jaime and Ser Brandon helped Aerys, who seemingly could barely stand. The man was bloodied and only half-conscious, and yet held one hand to the princess, and the other to his word, refusing to let go of either.

Then, she was pulled from the Kingslayer´s arm into thicker, stronger ones, and she wept in her father´s arms, as he held her with one arm, his eyes wrathful at the blood that covered her that wasn't her own. The King bellowed a war cry, and smashed one of the rushing norscan to his knees, before splitting his skull to pieces. Around him, his remaining Kingsguard formed a defensive circle that slayed barbarians with their liege lord, as he gave her daughter to his younger brother. Myrcella, not wanting to abandon her father and uncle, tried to fight back, but she was too tired to do much against her uncle Renly´s attempt to get her in a ring of Reachmen steel. But the norscans would not be denied their price. They threw themselves at the defensive line, that almost buckled before the raging berserkers. It took Ser Loras and Ser Garlan to steady the line, but even then, the brutal northerners were tearing men apart.

Myrcella recoiled into her Uncle´s arms as one of the madmen broke the line of shields, a sword on its leg, and broken lances on its gut. Then, Arthur was by her side, holding her with one arm, as he swung his hammer, shattering the top of the barbarian´s skull. It went on, swinging his axe, but Arthur, parried and shattered one knee, making the norscan fall to his knees. It swung again, the other axe. Arthur blocked with the haft of his hammer, before bringing it two-handed on the already broken skull, shattering it like a rotten egg.

The princess tried to pry herself from him, but could only look as her father and uncle threw themselves at the melee, rage in their eyes at her suffering and fear, cutting the attack on her guardians. Arthur was barking orders for men to form ranks and lines, the shock of the slaughter overcome now to aid his cousin. His uncle Robert was the tempest now, and he could see why they had called him the Demon on the Trident. Even as he was, fatten of body and soul by fine food and cheap drinks, he killed those huge bastards with one blow of his hammer, and he shattered bones like porcelain with the backswings.

Then, a whistling sound echoed over them. Arthur tracked the sound, fearing another abomination, maybe some serpentine-like chimera. He wasn´t expecting his brother to be whistling at the beast. Instantly, the creature jumped forth, to stand next to his brother. Arthur felt a pang of horror and fear as it towered over Sirius.

'Is he taunting the beast to slay it himself?! That thing will murder him and a score of knights before we can even slow it down!'

Then, Sirius extended his hand to the best, and just as Arthur thought the creature would tear it from him, it snuggled its beak on the open hand.

"Hello, old friend." He breathed, putting his forehead to the beast´s beak. It purred like a lion, content with finding his pride back again. "You followed me home once more, eh? Good boy, Bellicose. Good boy. I have missed you too."

The beast pulled back, his head lowering to examine Sirius's bleeding leg. It licked at the wound, before letting his long and thin tail lash forward to lift the ruined remains of his brother's pants to examine the wound. There was a frightening intelligence on those shining, stilted eyes of a predator. It looked up at the Duke and let out a questioning shrill.

"It's all right old fiend. Worst have we both endured, eh? I´ll be fine." He scratched the creature on its powerful neck, patting its torso with a smile. "Have you smelled Art?"

The creature shook its head. Sirius seemed very disappointed at that. He hummed to himself.

"And Gal?" Another shook of head and another sad hum from his brother. Then, the creature quaked happily, and Sirius smiled back. "I know about Ig too."

"We will find them, my friend. I swear it. But first, Her duties call. Shall we answer together once more?" The creature bellowed a mighty cry that didn't make his brother even flinch. There was a terrible smile on his face as the creature kneeled and offered its back, tail waggling eagerly.

"Wrath and Ruin, till the day is done, my friend." With a swift jump, he mounted the amalgamation of tiger, bird of prey, and horned killer. Sirius's face took to a shine of its own as if he had been in eternal pain that only now subsided, on the back of a war beast, blade in hand. It wasn't saddled, but for Arthur's brother, it seemed to not matter at all. He lowered himself to whisper something in the beast´s ear, and for some unfathomable reason, he knew his words. "Let's go end it."

The beast´s face changed into something that resembled a hungry smile, before unleashing its fearsome war cry once more. And it charged towards the shamans and their summoning creatures. The barbarian tried to get on the way, to stop his brother. Every knight of Bretonnia was a trained fighter, an excellent warrior with lance and hammer and spear, honed by training, battle, and piety. But it was an incomplete painting, a half-wrought thing. For what is a knight without his steed? And what is a steed without a knight?

If his brother had been deadly on foot, mounted he was the Stranger's veritable hand. The creature sprinted forth, jumping up and down the gardens, killing with unbound savagery. On his back, the Dragon of Bretonnia joined his blade to the talons of his companion, knight and beast a brutal duo of death as they cut through the Norscan towards the Shamans. The barbarians sought to flank the creature, but where they managed to evade the talons, horns, and beak of the creature, his brother´s blade was there, and when they tried to pull his brother off the saddle, the creature took exception to that. By spreading their innards through the whole garden.

The creature, Bellicose his brother had named it, vaulted over broken ground and dead plants, bowling half-made shield walls to the ground, as its rider cut left and right. The beast impaled a norscan armed with a lance upon its horns and kept them lowered to force the others to dodge out of the way, but the impaled marauder still tried to plunge its spear on the creature's neck, unit Sirius removed his head.

Arondight was a flash of mythical death, falling again and again; carving men like a butcher cleaves fresh meat. Sirius lowered and led every strike with his full body, twisting out of the path of blades, axes, and sloppy spears. He took the head of a minor savage chief before dicing his men, as Bellicose tore a man´s head from its shoulders, before ripping every single limb from another norscan warrior. Sirius pulled a lance that would have impaled Bellicose to the side, cutting both the spear and the holder´s hand in one blow. His steed shot its back leg, impaling the aggressor on its back paw. It was still alive and screaming, but Sirius had more foes, more strikes to deliver, and more enemies to fall.

Goddess, he had missed this.

He pulled an axe down and cut the arm, let Bellicose drag them both aside of a rushing madman with a two-handed hammer, before the steed tore his throat out. On the landing from its pounce, Sirius dogged an axe and parried a spear to the side that had wanted to impale him at the throat. Sloppy work on that one. He cut the spear in half, grabbing the upper half in the same motion he opened the top of the head of the axe wielder like a man carving an aquitaine sand crab. As Bellicose clobbered a trio of shield-wielding marauders to the ground, grabbing nothing more than bloodied splinters, he finished the former spear wielder with its own weapon, and pivoted with Bellicose to maintain their stride toward the shaman and gore mages.

Then, it was over their lines, wreaking havoc upon the blood-crazed bastards. Of the eight brought, three died before they realized there was a Questing Beast among them. Two followed until they saw it had a rider. From the remaining three, two tried to run, and were killed by the last one, their leader, who with a a gesture from his hand, ripped out their souls and blood as payment for their cowardice, sundering flesh and blood from the inside of their corporeal coils, letting only shattered bones and desiccated skin. Their souls were distilled and fed with their blood to the summoned never-born, and the gore mage, whispering dark words of power, stepped forth to annihilate the knight and his steed with a spell of blood and demonic fire that shot forth like a flaming, bleeding skull.

Sirius threw Arondight at the flaming projectile of gore that sailed towards him. The sword spun head over end, cutting the mad skull in twain with the sound of breaking obsidian, its blessed steel brushing aside the attack and sending the baleful fire scattering harmlessly to the ground. The blade continued its flight, changing course midair, as if commanded by the will of the winds itself, taking the leader shaman´s arm at the elbow. He took a step back in pain and shock, more the latter than the former, and raised his other hand to attempt to kill Sirius once more. But the blade flew back to the hand of the Duke of Bretonnia, and Bellicose closed the gap in the time the gore shaman took to recover. Arondight fell, cutting him from shoulder to hip, and before its two halves hit the ground, Bellicose ripped him to pieces.

Triumphant, Bellicose crushed the head of the gore mage on its beak and bellowed his victory to the now-cleansed heavens, its massive form marked by the moonlight. Sirius raised his blade, which reflected the light of the now cleansed astral body, and seemed as if the Duke wielded a shard of pure light to battle, a fragment of the stars themselves. Grinning exultant at the sensation of fighting on the back of his steed once more, he joined the victory cry of Bellicose.

"Dawn´s Wrath! Morningstar's Fury upon them!" He roared, a cry that rallied the Westerosi knights even if they did not understand it fully. But they understood enough.

"To the Lady!" Screamed now Thoros, heart beating at the victory, at the boy he had known and the man he had seemingly become, riding on a breathing and killing legend, at the flame of his blade, and the fire on his heart. He roared, for honor, forth oaths to be spoken and vows to be taken. For the first time in his life, he roared for devotion, and for true, pure faith.

Thoros of Myr had been brave enough to abandon all he was. And now, the miracles he had witnessed, the purity of the fight in him, of the purpose to eradicate evil itself, gave the man years back of his life wasted. He had dared to believe, and that belief had answered in kind.

What was more powerful to a supposed man of faith, than discovering he was, in fact, a man of faith? Well, having that faith corresponded in ample supply.

The westerosi nobles threw themselves into the fray with renewed strength. Their foe was shocked, their strength a tatter, and the advantage theirs to exploit. Norscan marauders were encircled and killed one by one, lines of spars and shields holding for sword, hammer and axe to cut down the hulking men. Knights fought like devils, the Kingslayer carrying the highest tally of dead, followed closely by the Hound and Dondarrion. The three Stormlanders that had fought side by side, Estermont, Storm, and Sawn, bellowed their war cries and charged, eager to join the fray, followed by the rest of the lords of the Stormlands.

The rest of Westeros followed in their wake. Ser Yohn Royce, in rune-inscribed bronze armor, led the contingent of Valemen, his advanced age meaning little with the furor of a younger man in his heart, and with valyrian steel to his side, Lady Forlorn, on the hands of an eager Ser Lynn Corbray, glinting deadly on the shining night. The Northerners would not be undone, with Greatjon at the head cutting men like lumberjack deals with useless trees. And where the men of the North went, those of the Riverlands followed suit, led by a more than eager Blackfish.

The Dornishmen, seeing a Dayne on the field and leading the charge, felt their courage surge, and they threw themselves fully into the fight, led, not on purpose, mind you, by Darkstar himself, eager for a fight, and desire to be the most famous Dayne on that day.

Bloodfeast took one look at the beast and its knight, at the redoubling counterattack and the dammed priest with the falling sword, and mounting on his demonic hound, he fled for the city, jumping down the walls, and using the demon hound´s dexterity to descend quickly towards his perceived safety and the rest of his band.

Bellicose would not be outdone. It bounded over the lower gardens, right into the Red Keep´s walls, and with impossible dexterity, descended the wall´s external face right toward the multitude of streets and roof of King´s landing, hot on the trail of its prey.

For all who lived on Bretonnia, and those who knew anything about that particular creature, understood that from a Grail Knight, even a former one, mounted on a Questing Beast of the Lady, there was no possible escape.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

Ig felt cold.

She was not used to that, for as cold as home had been, Camelot had been built upon natural hot springs that heated the castle, making it the seldom warm point of the entire southern coast of Albion.

But the city around her was cold. Colder than it should have been, Even as the last trail of the Bloodmoon´s light fell around them burning and sizzling out of existence, the cold remained. It made her wonder if the city was cold, or if it was she the one that was devoid of warmth.

'Ada would know. He always knows.' She thought to herself, as the Lady Morningstar's sailors began to throw thick ropes towards the wooden wharves, hooking them and pulling the ship's side towards it. They moved quickly and effectively, all veteran sailors, all terrified of her now. She could not blame them, nor the men-at-arms and archers that surrounded her and kept their distance in a mix of respectful fear and trembling superstition.

She could not blame them. She had, after all, just split the sky in half. It was something they expected of the Mage of Flowers, what they had grown accustomed to from her Lady Mother. But she was neither.

The power still swelled inside of her, making her skin shine, like glass under the moonlight. Her eyes felt sharper, her steps surer. The power still resided in her, granting her a determination and certainty she was unused to. It also terrified her. To have been the utensil of such power, of such divine intervention, was something that burnt in her mind like a falling star. The men and women around her weren't the only ones afraid. She was afraid of herself now, of what she could do.

She missed her Ada. She was never afraid when he was close. But he was fighting his own battle. He would win. He always did. He was a great knight blessed by the Mother of All, and he had nothing to fear.

On the other hand, the people of this city had more fears than she had lived days in the world. And they needed protection. So, they would have to do it while Ada finished his fight.

"Sir Gaheris" She spoke, letting some of the power ebb into her words. All the men around her, flinched. Well, not all. The knights simply stood to attention, in their dozens of heraldries and colors, their distinct stances and weapons. And among them, her Ada´s Lord Executioner stepped forth, kneeling not out of devotion, but simply to look her in the eyes and listen to her words.

"My lady?" His voice betrayed not a hint of the accent of a man who had been enslaved by the ogres, far from his homeland. It did betray the Avalonian accent he had picked up in his years of duty to her Ada… and herself.

"The Duke fights." She said, eyeing the calm waters, which now ebbed a peculiarly familiar mist. "So should we, should we not?" Gaheris did not smile, but to Ig, if was as if he did.

"Indeed my lady." The young girl looked over the starboard guns to see the seemingly never-ending houses and buildings. Still, over some roofs, prowled monsters and barbarians. She clenched her fists. She knew what she had to do, but to command… to direct to war these men… It felt too much. She wanted to run to her Ada and hide. To wait for Naneth to arrive.

But they weren't there. She was. Inside a city filled with souls and in a direct path to a bloodbath.

Ig dived into the Great Ocean and looked on. Thousands of bright sparks of life echoed around the city, like discarded grains of flaming incense, like the ones Naneth used to place next to her bed.

They were afraid. So afraid. And they didn't have anyone to calm them, to soothe them like she had had. There were awful things on their streets, and they didn't even have their faith to protect them.

She looked up, towards the castle, and there he was, her Ada, fighting like a storm, holding the line, light shining so bright she could almost see him without her Gifts. But he was only bright flames surrounded by dark shadows. He was alone.

Her hands clenched for a moment, before letting go.

'Power. Strength. Might. Those are not gifts.' Her father had told him.

"They are duties." She whispered to herself, looking down at her arms as light danced under her skin. She closed her eyes for a moment and whispering a prayer, took off her hood and looked back at the men gathered behind Sir Gaheris. When she spoke, she almost jumped at how similar her voice was to Naneth.

"The city. The neveborn might have been weakened, but they remain, and so do the raiders. Cleanse the streets, as you see fit." They bowed and turning around, Gaheris began to bark orders.

"You heard her ladyship!" He thundered. "Gets us ashore! We have mongrel northmen to kill!" A bellowing of bretonnian mariners echoed upon the deck as men worked to get their ship to the bay and anchored it well. Now, the Sons of Bretonnia joined the battle.

"My Lady!" Called the look-out. "Skaeling Longships, entering the Bay!"

Ig could see them, with black sails taut by the wind and baying like hungry dogs. Several ships plowed forth, not formation, no discipline, no order but that of might and carnage.

"Those bastards had it all planned, eh?" Captain Mondragon spoke, his wide-wing hat almost dancing on the wind. "Orders, my little lady? They seem to want to land those blood-crazed buffoons on the city." Ig could see the hundreds of dark souls, raging for things that made her shiver with fear. Her voice, though, was steel.

"Then give them fire and steel, captain." The man smiled with his golden teeth, and gently nudging his hat into the correct position, began to bark his own commands.

"Bring us about, main battery, at the ready!" Men began to scamper. "Come on, you lollygagging band of equestrian manure connoisseurs! It's for the Navy to be first to get Her favor today. Double rations of wine for the crew with the First Blood!"

With a hollering and a few whistles, the men got to work. The ship began to turn. Ig walked towards the edge of the ship. It was time for the Sons of Bretonnia to do their duty. And it was time she tried to do hers.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

The marauder chieftain was running. Not for his life, someone like that would never do such a thing, but he ran still, which meant he either had a plan, or more wits than most of the worshipers of the blood god Sirius had fought.

Bellicose gave chase over the roofs of kings landing like a frenzied predator, jumping from building to building head lowered and on the hunt. Questing Beasts were the Lady´s most deadly hunters, the apex predators of her Gardens. And Bellicose had centuries of experience accumulated to be undone by some half-mongrel demon mutt.

Around them, the city had awoken to fear, horror, and monsters on their streets. But the cleansed moon now shone high, like the Grail itself holstered in the heavens. The monsters had either died or fled wounded, and only nightmares of actual flesh and blood remained. They could be killed. But King´s Landing was famous for its secrets, its stench, its whores and the many kings dead inside its walls. It had many impressive elements.

Its Citywatch, was not among them.

The gold cloaks were getting slaughtered, their many years of being bribed and only hunting petty criminals, meant they were not prepared for the tide of madmen that descended upon them. It wasn´t really a tide, just a trickle, really.

'A trickle they can't stop. These golden-cloaked imbeciles are useless if it's not to extort prostitutes and fat merchants.' Bellicose vaulted over the roofs, and Sirius caught a glimpse of golden cloaks on the run. 'If Agravain and Galatea got a hold of them, they would have every officer executed for gross incompetence, and most men whipped bloody for the same.'

But he could not stop and save every woman, man, and child. He had to kill Bloodfeast. With the warchief dead, he might be able to give all the souls here a chance. If he survived, there was no one else that could face a monster like that and survive, maybe Gilrin or Ser Barrsitan, but their weapons wouldn´t serve them against demon-inscribed skin.

They were upon the docks when he spotted a sail lolling on the winds and something echoed on his ears. The next jump from Bellicose got them clear of the streets and into the wharf itself. He stared in shock at the shattered Norscan longships. Something had killed those ships, and the survivors were trying to turn around to either flee or fight. How those vessels had gotten into the bay, he did not know, but it mattered little compared to their killer.

The Bretonnian Corsair fired its broadside once more, having executed a perfect jibe to turn its starboard guns to the half-dead norscan raiding fleet, fifty Bretonnian 24-pounder long guns, the only accepted use of Bretonnian gunpowder, unleashed a brutal barrage on the remaining longships, as they were torn apart by cannon fire. Trails tore through the night air, slamming into the longships, wood and men alike flying away like a shattered stone from the impact of a chisel. Arrows sailed from the upper deck and bartizans along the length of the ship, a shower of white feathered ammunition that killed any still swimming norscan.

A smile, the size of the sun, lit Sirius's face. He didn't need to see the name of the ship, he had endured three different quarrels with his wife to but those 36-pounder guns on its upper decks that remained silent. The cannons might have been imperial, a necessity that had made the Duke swallow his pride, barely, but the ship itself was Bretonnian, and Avalonian to be precise because it was his flagship. The Lady Morningstar sailed the wharf, putting its guns to good use.

Its three masts stood like proud banners, the golden lion on a blue field shining mightily as it turned towards the entry to the docks. So that had been the Norscan´s plan. An infiltration force to sow chaos inside the city while most of his forces entered by sea. They would have succeeded and torn the city asunder.

Now, they faced the might of the Bretonnian Navy, and were rendered to broken splinters under cannon volleys.

"I can sometimes understand those Imperial." Sirius mused to Bellicose. "It's an awe-inspiring sight, those broadsides." The Questing Beast warbled an assent, turning a corner, hot on the rail of the marauder chief. He wasn't hard to find.

Bloodfeast stood, wide-eyed, on the edge of the docks, looking stunned at his dying fleet and broken plans. His ships, men and dreams of power were broken wood and spilled blood upon the excrement-stained waters of Blackwater Bay. It was not knightly to sneer, but Sirius was too dammed tired to care.

"Guns, sail, heart." Sirius called to the warlord with the motto of the Bretonnian Navy. The brute´s face went from shock to endless hatred, eyes burning with warp fire. "No one tends to expect the Bretonnian Navy, or the Estalian Inquisition, for that matter."

"He promised me a victory." Drawled the norscan, his face turning thoughtful for a second, then even mournful. "A world to conquer!"

"And you probably weren´t the only one." Sirius didn't feel any pity for the norscan murderer, but he disliked such trickery. "You think the First Betrayer would keep his word, legionary?"

"No." He laughed, an ugly, jarring sound "I just hoped to get the advantage quickly enough to force him to."

"An intrepid plan." The Duke acquiesced "Well prepared too. You would have taken the city with that, that I promise you." Sirius pointed to the destroyed longships. They would have been quite the problem for the Royal Navy and the Citywatch, so many norscan marauders set loose on their docks.

Now, only the fish had anything at stake to see which could get the best bite from the drowning corpses.

"Yes." The marauder looked at his dead kinsmen. "I took every possibility into consideration. Every possibility, but you, Dragon of the Morningstar."

"Do not fret. I have a reputation for unpredictability." Sirius rolled back his shoulders, as Bellicose lowered itself for a charge, predicting his rider´s desires. "And I made you a promise, did I not? You will be vanquished, here and now."

For a second, the Norscan marauder, looked close to almost… peaceful, as if it had been waiting for this moment. For a moment, the things bound under his skin were gone, leaving only the man who had made the choices. To Sirius, he looked almost kind without the fire on its eyes.

Then, that fire roared back to life, and the killer of cities surged forth to grasp its axes with killing intent, edging his demonic mount to bloodlust. He slammed one demonic axe against his breastplate, a sound of breaking obsidian resounding over the wharf. Bellicose let out an offended growl at the sound.

"Come one then, bretonnian horse-fucker!" Bellowed the Chieftain, who threw himself fully into the tide of battle and the bloodletting. "I still have enough blood in me to break your last promise! Come one! BLOOD! WAR! DEATH! FOR KHORNE! FOR THE SKAELINGS! FOR THE SHADOW LEGION!" The Marauder edged its beast forth, charging with murderous abandon forwards. Sirius kissed the quillons of Arondight, and let Bellicose lead him forth into the charge.

"For Bretonnia and the Lady! Dawn´s Wrath, Morningstar's Fury!" He answered, controlled fury given way to zealous wrath. Both mounts charged, eating meters with powerful strides, before slamming into one another in a mess of fur, scales and claws. Both riders were thrown from the saddle, tumbling through the ground, quickly getting up to slam into one another, steel thirsting for blood.

Arondight and the demonic axes meet each other under the watchful gaze of the moon. Sirius moved through maneuvers and stances of several fighting styles, always on the offensive. The axes came at him low, and he barely managed that parry. His leg was failing him. With another blow, he had to roll out of the way and his foot refused to hold more weigh. His chances seemed spent, and the barbarian leaped at him. Bellicose was too busy dealing with the demon hound, horns held down and beak tearing at the scaly abomination.

Then, golden light.

The Norscan warlord was sent sprawling into the ground, rolling to one knee. Sirius tracked where the light had come from, only to see three blurs of fur speed past him. It took him a second to realize, to his surprise, they were Bretonnian wolfhounds.

And he knew the three hounds.

The first one, Cavall, was a husky brown creature, of short hair, while its two litter companions were leaner, smaller, and yet more agile. Bran and Sceólang, the two smaller ones, went for the legs, while Cavall went for the throat. They joined the assault on the demonic hound, biting and scratching, and aiding Bellicose, who screeched triumphant as the three wolfhounds helped him gain the upper hand. Sirius wanted to help his steed, but the Norscan broke into a sprint, going for…. A child?

A raven-haired child of mismatched eyes who whispered incantations under her breath, the Lady´s veritable light pooling under her eyes. One, green like an emerald. But the other… purple like an amethyst in the deepest dwarven mines.

He knew those eyes.

He knew the norscan was rushing to kill her.

Something inside of him gave away at that thought.

His eyes, stilted into dark lines like those of his namesake.

And so, awoke the Dragon.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

Stannis Baratheon was an efficient fighter. Not even as remotely skilled as his long-dead brother-in-law, but he had seen battle enough times to be able to hold his own effectively. He took the head of one of the marauders as Ser Barristan dispatched others with grace and ease worthy of his skill. His men were holding the line, trained veterans ready for this kind of conflict, even taken by surprise.

He barked orders right and left, getting what he could of the Citywatch under his command, but the cravens were barely holding the line, much less fighting back.

'I should have had Janos Slynt executed the day I arrived at King´s Landing. Damn you Robert for trying to keep Cersei placated.'

His forces advanced at a steady and costly pace down the Muddy Way, to the docks, attempting to corner the barbarians. Their ferocity was inhuman and their madness apparent, yet they did not just jump on their lances to die. They hit and pull back, herding them down the road. Stannis could see a bluff when one presented itself. The enemy wanted to make it look like an obvious trap. But there was no reason for them to be pulled from the Red Keep. Any invasion of King´s Landing required either one of the gates or the docks and seeing as the raids had targeted the gates, one would be excused to believe those to be the actual objectives until Stannis had been informed of the number of attackers. Too low for it to be effective, nothing more than sacrificial forces to pull them from the real objective. The Red Keep would not fall with so many knights, nobles, and their retinues hosted inside.

So one needed to take the docks. That was where Stannis, followed by Ser Davos and Ser Barristan went. As his Wardens, men in heavy plate armor and wielding brutal hammers and steel shields, carved a path down the street, Stannis took overall command, dispatching runners left and right to hold, surround and kill the raiders wherever they concentrated. He delegated to Ser Davos, who gave the runners commands on where to go and how to get there, and directed the citizens of the city out of the way, the former smuggler using all his knowledge of the city to obtain any advantage he could.

Ser Barristan, to his shame, was enjoying himself. Every group of barbarians seemed to be headed by a leader who was more than eager to fight a duel of champions. Four times had a challenger rose, and four times had Ser Barristan advanced from with the steel ranks of the Baratheon Wardens to slay them. He was in his element, and he felt something stir within him almost like… an old song, heard from behind a wall. He drew the song in as he advanced, righteous indignation filling him at the sight of the innocent dead.

They breached into the docks through the Mud Gate, into the Blackwater Rush, under the strange roaring that was making even the veteran Baratheon soldiers hesitate. On the bay, a great vessel, on bright sails, was cruising over the broken remains of many strange ships Stannis whose sails Stannis did not recognize, even if they were similar to what the ironborn used. But he could see under the moonlight the bodies floating on the bay and the rush. Most of them, the same furs and dark iron from the marauders he had been killing the last hour.

And it was there they watched the duel unfolding on the edge of the dock.

Se Barristan decapitated the last barbarian, to then watch the young Dayne leap through the air, the roar of something much bigger and greater coming out of him, his shinning silver blade clashing with the marauder's weapons in a brutal shock.

Ser Arthur´s nephew was wrath unchained.

Where Sirius´s strikes had held a martial control before, now it was all unquenchable wrath spilled forth. Two-handed blows, meant to rend armor and shear limbs off fell towards the barbarian. Where the battle had been speed and skill on strength and brutality, now all there was, was brutality and strength.

And he was not losing an inch.

Blow after blow slammed into one another, and the barbarian reeled back, taken by surprise by the sudden brutal ferocity of the Bretonnian. It was like enduring a meteor shower, every blow capable of cleaving him in half. He felt as if he was fighting a Bloodthirster of Khorne, not a pauper knight of Bretonnia. Those amber eyes were wild with anger, and his face was a snarl of righteous rage.

Stannis watched his son fight with a fury that matched Sandor´s worst moments. His eyes tracked the three hounds that waited, growling, beside a child of black hair. He would have approached, but the flow of terrified citizens trying to get away from the remaining invaders, and the duel his son was having, stopped him.

That, and the towering creature of feathers and stripped fur, covered in blood and entrails, which seemed to be watching over the girl while picking at something scaly and dead that had been gored to death.

A brutal overhead slash almost drove him to the barbarian lord knees, something that would have taken a minotaur´s undivided attention to accomplish before. The next blow would have bisected him in two had he not rolled. But the knight, no, the devil, was on him again.

The Duke came again, half-swording, trying to sink the quillons of his blade into the side of the norscan, spinning away from the counter-blow, to slam his sword two-handed on the other side. Up, up, up, three blows trying to split the helm of the marauder in half, to then change forms to another battle stance.

The norscan came to take his ribs, axes grinding against the silverine, but failing to find purchase in cloth or flesh. Sirius was not so sloppy. His sword danced, cutting armor like cloth, and licking the scapula of the warlord. The Norscan pulled back, surprised by the speed, to then charge head-on. Sirius waited for the last second before side-steeping, eyes glimmering with murder and anticipation.

The axes fell. A cross-cut that would cut him in half. But he moved forward, closing the range, slamming the pommel of his reverse-gripped sword into the jaw of the barbarian, sending him back stumbling. He still managed to throw two wild cuts that nicked Sirius on the arm and check. He came stumbling back.

The norscan pounced on the chance.

Sirius, smiled.

The axe came for the head and the other for an arm. Sirius used his feigned imbalance to pivot out of the way, spearing his blade where the side of the Skaeling would have been, to impale him with the length of his blade. Piercing Currents, was the maneuver called, used to kill bigger and slower monsters. But the barbarian had enough experience to have seen the bait at the last second and pulled back, the sword barely missing his chest.

The barbarian prepared to exploit the overextended blow, but Sirius´s eyes snapped after him, tracking him effortlessly. It was at that moment, that Bloodfeast realized that the eyes of the knight didn't look human anymore. The Duke´s elbow rose, hitting the chieftain in the throat with a crunch as his head snapped back, nose a bloody mess.

"GET!" The roar was accompanied by an inversion of the grip, and a hooking of the blade´s quillons on Bloodfeast´s arm, before the knight flipped him over his shoulder into the floor of the port. Gravity, inertia, and bestial strength took hold of the Champion of the Shadow Legion, and he barely managed to roll once more out of the way of the enraged Bretonnian who slammed his blade point first into the stone deck. The ground itself burned under the touch of the blade he held, the flames lashing out as if to snare him.

'By the Four, where does this rage come from? Is this the true Dragon´s Choler?' He had of course heard tales of what the Dragon of the Morningstar could do. But he had suspected the stories oversold, the legend embellished by drunkards and faithful of the Lake Wench.

And now, he found himself against the unaltered truth, that rained silver death on him, shining stilted eyes, like those of a wild dragon on the hunt. Oh, he was not what the legends painted. They spoke of miracles performed, or armies roused with a single gesture, of demons slayed in the thousands. They spoke of a mythical thing. The man in front of him was just a man. There was not the sickening golden shine of those Grail warriors he so sought to fight. His fury was not a Goddess's.

This, was Sirius Amaranth unleashed. No control, no pacing, nothing but the rage of two hundred years of service released, without the blessing that had helped him control that fury. Against a craftier opponent, against a schemer and strategist, that would have been his downfall.

Against a warrior of the Blood God, it was his gift.

Sirius parried away a counterstrike, pivoted away from the follow-up with the other axe, and with exceptional balance and speed, he raised his leg as he turned over and slammed his foot with full force into the side of the Norscan warrior.

Something cracked inside Bloodfeast´s chest, and he was thrown back a few trembling steps. The warrior did not fall to a knee, but he had to catch his breath. Bringing the cross guard of his sword to his lips, the Dragon of Bretonnia met Bloodfeast's red-glazed eyes through the quillons with his furious own.

"AWAY!" Then, his blade roared in flames, a buildup of heat and power, infinitesimal compared to the one that had split the sky in half, but still hauntingly similar to the Norscan marauder's perspective. He knew what came next, anyone who knew the Dragon of Bretonnia knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Silver fire roared from Arondight´s edge, coming alive with inner light and life, as the flames traveled up Sirius's arms, reaching his heart, where they met. His rage was tempered, his fury, given purpose.

And so, he called forth the soul of his blade. Arondight answered. Light of the Lake, the people of Bretonnia called it, Light of Wrath. The Song in his heart reached a crescendo, roaring like a storm begging for release.

Sirius took one step forth, fire spilling to the floor, raising his blade high with both hands and struck with three terrible things.

"FROM!

The fury of a kind man.

"MY!"

The rage of a faithful man.

"DAUGHTER!"

And the vengeance of a father.

The blade fell, as Sirius felt reality give resistance. He carved through it, and the power burst forth. Arondight's light reached dawn, and flames of white and silver ate the air in front of him. The wave of light and fire cut the space between him and the marauder champion in the flap of a mockingbird's wing.

The norscan raised his axes, calling to the flames of his dark gods to shield him, to stave the cleansing fire away. The symbols in his armor and skin shone brightly in crimson light that hurt the eyes just to gaze.

The Bold watched as his best friend´s nephew unleashed a torrent of flames not of this world that spilled forth like a great wave, an avalanche of silver-white fire, that met the brute´s own building black fire in a moment of silence as all sound seemed to fade like it did a second before ships crashed it each other. For a brief instant, both flames were evenly matched.

Then, white ate black and devoured the marauder.

The wake of fire traveled over the wharf like the breath of one of the extinct Targaryen dragons. The entire port shone under the light, coloring the waters pale and silver, and the sails of the ship almost transparent.

Then, the light died, and where the invader had stood, there was nothing but a singed and half melt, grinning skull.

Sirius fell to one knee, utterly exhausted. To unleash the Light of the Lake was no small feat, and now, having just recovered, it had drained him deeply. Breath didn't seem to reach his lungs, and vision swan. Everything to him felt as if he was seeing from the bottom of a deep lake.

Sounds came muffled and strange, mutated by exhaustion. Swords clashing. Screams. Burning air, lapping waves.

A voice.

"Ada?"

Sirius´s heart stopped dead in its tracks, and it took a few breaths for him to feel it once more. The voice… He was so tired, and everything danced in his eyes. But that voice. There were things a man could pick up anywhere.

Slowly, the Duke turned towards the voice. She was wearing a dirty dress, and her hair was a mess that would have sent half his wife´s handmaidens into a panic. But two eyes, one green like an emerald, the other bright purple like freshly cut amethysts, shone back at him. It took a dreadful moment for the knight to realize that they were shining because their owner was crying.

Strength that no god nor deity could give a man surged forth at the sight of the tears, and he smiled a smile he did know now he had the energy to summon, which was answered by a wavering one so similar to his, and yet so distant in their age and the scars that marred them.

"Hello, little fairy." He managed to say, using Arondight to hold him straight.

She ran. It was a desperate thing, the necessity of a child who thought she had lost everything again, only to find out that she had in fact not, and needed to touch it and grab it to realize just how true it was.

She slammed into his legs, desperately grabbing for him. Gently, he pulled her from the embrace, kneeled and wrapped his trembling arms around her, somehow managing to lift her from the ground. Two tiny arms reached to surround his neck, and soft skin besmirched by fresh tears pushed again the crook of his neck, as if to fuse to it, to never let go so no one and nothing could separate them.

Sirius tried to laugh, to sound like he always did. But he himself had tears choking his eyes. His hug around her tightened to the point he was afraid he might be hurting her. Her response was to burrow further into him. Sirius smiled, feeling safe for the first time since he had woken up, as the light of the burning moon shone high above them.

He planted a soft kiss on the top of her head.

"What did I tell you, eh?" He whispered to her softly. "No matter what, I am coming back for you." She nodded, her face still hidden on his neck, as if not daring to look and break some mystical illusion.

"Thought I was going to break my promise?" He asked her gently. Her response was muffled, afraid, wavering.

"I thought… we thought…" She was crying on his shoulder, fighting through the tears. "I felt you leave."

"Leave you?" Mused the knight. "Have the Gods of the Archenemy manifested upon this very soil with their infinite armies in tow? Have hordes of unending orks taken over the world and the Skaven plague every sewer and pothole in the realms? "

"No." She said, taking her face from his shoulder, and looking straight into his eyes. They were beautiful stones of different colors that seemed to complement each other so well.

"That is good." Mused the Dragon of Bretonnia. "Not that was going to stop me from coming back for you, my little fairy."

"I missed you Ada."

"Of course you did, my little girl." He smiled at her, putting his forehead to hers "And I missed you too, terribly so."

"Is Naneth with you?" She asked, fear rising again in her voice. Sirius felt that same terrible fear in his own gut, but if he wanted his daughter to believe his words, needed to believe them. So the Duke discarded all possibility of his wife having fallen. She was alive, well, somewhere in this world, probably searching for them. He would do the same thing.

"No, little fairy. I honestly expected her to be with you." He gifted her with a smile. "But you know her. She will be fine. We just need to wait until she arrives." His daughter nodded and actually managed a bright smile. It was still stained by sadness and the hurt of the last days she had endured, but he would clean that pain and leave his daughter as bright as she always was, as she deserved to be.

"Sire." He knew the voice, and spun back to find himself looking at the unbelieving faces of some forty knights.

His knights.

Each one was draped in the colors of their house. Only those Risen through the ranks by honors wore the black and orange of his house but with variations of symbols whose meaning was obvious only to one well-versed in Bretonnian iconography. Most of them were Knights Errant, with a few Knights of the Realm, older and more veteran. He recognized sigils and even a few faces. A small smile of pride rose to see the young sons of Bretonnia standing tall in all of this madness.

And in front of them, kneeled Sir Gaheris, his Lord Executioner, named Deathbringer, Blessed of the Enchantress, Guardian of the Fay.

The men behind his Lord Executioner kneeled then, faces contorted by awe and religious shock. They had been for days certain of the fall of their beloved Duke. To see him standing, in front of them, was almost rapturous, for the Lady protects Her knights.

"My Lord Executioner, my kinsmen, rise." Sirius intoned, a bit upset with their devotion. It was not his to receive. "You have no reason to kneel to me."

"My liege, we… We thought you had fallen. We apologize for our lack of faith. It shames us." Gaheris might kneel, but he was looking at Sirius in the eyes. The former slave was resolute and truly believed himself at fault, his dark eyes reflecting the guilt he felt for, in his opinion, failing to meet the standards of faith the Dragonhearted placed on them. He believed in them, and they had stopped believing in him.

"Your faith should be for the Lady alone and her works, my knights." Spoke the Duke, his tone harder, upset at his knights for believing they had failed him. But Bretonnian honor was a complex thing, so he relented. "But if your honor compels you to seek forgiveness, then you may earn it yet, my kinsmen."

"Ser Barristan." Sirius smiled as he recognized the elder knight. He bowed his head in greeting and acknowledgment of the great knight. Some of his warriors eyed the Lord Commander with a lot more pause after such recognition from their Duke. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Lord Baratheon." He spoke back, bowing as well. "It is good to see a Dayne standing tall in this madness."

"The madness is at its end, Lord Commander," Sirius said, resolute light filling his eyes, before putting his hand on top of his daughter´s head, who was staring in wonder at the Lord Commander seeing in him beyond the Mortal Plane. "Thanks in no small measure to this little one."

"You shine so bright, sir knight." She said, her eyes bright with childish amazement, before looking back to her father. Ser Barristan found himself standing a bit prouder at the sheer amazement in the child's eyes. "Almost like you Ada." Sirius laughed at that.

"Well, if there was anyone here that would, it would be Ser Barristan the Bold." Sirius mused. "For Westeros has known seldom few that might surpass him." The Lord Commander bowed his head in gratitude and humility.

"A title your uncle deserved much more than I did."

"Mayhap, but he is not here today, Ser Barristan. You are. And in this madness, you stand." He pointed at the blood on the man´s white armor and cape. Sirius´s gaze turned towards the city, where one could still hear the sound of metal against metal and dying men. "Battle still rages on it seems."

"Indeed." Ser Barristan nodded as he put his helmet back on. Sirius began to walk towards the Mud Gate, followed by his men. It was then Ser Gaheris moved in front of his lord to stop him.

"Sire, you are in no shape for a fight."

"Sir Gaheris is right, Ada." Added Igraine with a note of fear in her tone, clinging to her father´s leg. Sirius smiled at her.

"He is. And I am injured." He mused, patting her head gently. "But I have a reputation for leading from the front. And you are the only thing I get to spoil. Plus, it's just some Norscan rabble. I can handle that much."

'I hope.' He thought, but he didn't speak that out loud.

"No." An iron tone rose from behind them all. And to his shame, Sirius froze on the spot. He had recognized the voice. It was hard not to, so different it was from his… his King, and yet it held a similar quality to it. Behind him, the most hotheaded of his warriors began to draw steel in anger at the denial of their lord´s desires. Hammer his shields in retort. Men began to square up against each other. Ser Barristan moved forward to stop the armored soldiers behind him, while Gaheris barked orders and commands for the knights to remain under their oaths and the manners expected from them.

And Sirius remained frozen. He wasn't certain why. He had faced death so many times it should have been impossible to have him freeze up…. But he still could not force his legs to move, his arms to remain steady or his stomach from forming a pit inside of him.

It wasn´t his duty, his valor, his ferocity, or wisdom that which broke the seeming spell upon him. It was the hand of his daughter gently taking his. Her beautiful eyes looking at her with worry…. And encouragement?

It was at that moment he realized her eyes shone with a timeless light that had not been there before. She hadn´t just used magic. She had channeled Her might… directly, in a way that only Lady Morgiana could hope to do. Sirius blinked. His daughter… was a direct vessel for Her might.

He cupped her cheek with a small, and sad smile. She simply hugged him close and whispered to him. "What´s a father´s duty?"

Sirius almost laughed.

It was the same question he had asked her the first time she had been afraid of a sea storm getting too close to Camelot. She had run into his room, terrified of the storm, but also afraid of asking for his help. He had kneeled down to her as his wife held her in her arms and asked her what a father´s duty was. She hadn't known. So he had told her.

'A father´s duty is to be the mountain under where his children can hide. The sun under where they can grow, the forest in which lose themselves, their sword and shield. And to be the place where they must fear nothing.'

Sirius chuckled, and caressing his daughter´s head, he turned around.

Stannis Baratheon stared into his son's shining eyes of orange, like bonfires. The scars were now painfully obvious and he had fresh cuts and blood on him. He was limping, and his left hand hanged, as if broken. But his son looked alive, smiling and there was a light in his eyes he had not expected to see ever again.

Sirus looked at the man that had sired him and fought the conflicting feelings storming his heart. In one part, the images of his childhood, hidden from him under the trauma and his new life, came to the light, showing sweet and stern memories of a man who did not know how to express his love, not how to receive it himself. Of a duty-driven lord determined to teach his children better than he himself had known. He saw in that stony face flickers of a hundred emotions he mirrored himself.

And yet… there was that gnawing shame, the memory of another man, fairer, gentler, and mightier. He could see the face of his King and father smiling down at him the first time he managed to ride without help, the first time he drew a sword, and the first time he unseated an opponent in a tourney. What would he think of him now, that he was willing to call another man father? What was this dishonor? Should he refuse to call him father now? A man who had lost his son and had fought tooth and nail to get him back? Did he deserve his rejection? Did his King deserve his truth betrayed? To call another man that hadn't seen him in two centuries, when the Lionhearted had been there for him no matter war or tempest?

What was the right choice? The knightly one?

He didn't know. But his King, and father for the last decades, had known during his wedding.

'Most souls do not get a chance like this, to have the family that they had lost restored to them. Your wife didn't have a father before, just a monster. He has me now. It's a pity she didn't get both of the fathers she deserved… But life takes from many and gives to few. We make do with what we can, my son.'

His wife had lost her father to madness and lust for power. Sirius had lost him to war and the machinations of petty men. Now he had him right in front of him… and he hesitated. Because he didn't know what the right choice was.

And then, an old memory of shining blonde hair and green, energetic eyes came to his mind, and he almost vomited from shame. He knew what his… sire had lost, what he had gone through. If… if she could be brought back to him, even if he had called another man "father" if the world gave him that chance, he would have taken it without thinking. Just to have her back to him.

So, how could he deny the man in front of him such a chance? How could he be so monstrous? The world had returned him to his family with interests. It wouldn't be knightly to squander such a gift. It wouldn´t be right. And it would have saddened… her, deeply. So he took a step forth, and carrying on his shoulders the weight of a thousand sins, he spoke one word.

"Father."

Stannis was now the man frozen as the word escaped the lips of the man with glints of his son´s face. Was this really his boy? Could he dare hope, dare wish…? He didn't know what to do or say. He had never expected to have to say anything to his son after his disastrous attempt at parting words during his Sun Burial at Dorne.

What kind of greeting gives a father to the son he failed to save? Failed to keep home? To uphold his duties towards?

Then, Ser Davos simply pushed his way through and almost tackled Sirius to the ground with a deep hug. The knights moved forth to stop him, but Sirius moved forth to meet the hug mid-charge. Ser Davos´s voice was choked with emotion as he laughed before taking a step back and holding Sirius by the shoulder, looked at him.

"Dammit lad, you got a lot taller. I need to get you a new fishing rod." Sirius blinked and laughed.

"Ser Davos." The words came out with a tone of relief and disbelief that touched strings inside of the old smuggler´s heart. He had seen this boy born and had been there for everything in his young life, the kind man standing behind the lad´s father. He was closer to him than any of his uncles, more trustworthy than most of his family had been, and a better teacher than all but one maester. "You still smell of vegetables, dear onion knight."

Davos laughed, patting the young man in the shoulder and giving him another deep hug. He managed, somehow, to push back the tear forming in the ex-smuggler´s eyes.

"Marya still insists on controlling everything that happens in the kitchens. I would have brought some of her onion soup… but well, the Seven Hells decided to shit themselves right on our doorstep." He eyed the bodies on the floor. "Good to see you cleaned most of the mess."

Stannis began to walk forward. Ser Davos took a step back to let his lord have his moment, knowing he had just needed time to take the news. Sirius did not move this time. Just stared at the Lord of Dragonstone in the eyes, unflinching, expectation plain in his eyes. For what, Stannis was not sure.

And so, father and son stared into one another without saying a word, because neither knew what words should be uttered, what to say or expect to hear. So they did nothing for a few seconds. Until the Lord of Dragonstone managed to croak some words out.

"You are late." Said the lord of Dragonstone. Davos´s complete hand smacked his face in slight exasperation at his Lord´s lack of tact, and Ser Barristan flinched a bit, eyeing the Master of Ships with stern eyes. Stannis's Wardens eyed one another and their lord in surprise and shock. Sirius blinked once, then twice, a tempest brewing in his gut at the words. But for some reason, he could not help but smile.

What else could he have expected?

"Apologies Father, all the horses were all taken." Everyone but Igraine and Ser Davos held their collective breath. Stannis glared at his blood, before dismissing it all with a wave.

"I will allow it… this ti-" There was more there to be said, but then Stannis Baratheon was fighting to not fall onto his back when his eldest son slammed into him with a brutal hug, taken back by the fact his son was as tall as he was and wider. The middle Baratheon managed to regain his balance, and stood there for a moment, before letting his left arm wrap itself around his son´s shoulder. It wasn´t a conscious thought, but a reflex he hadn't know he had in him.

Sirius wanted to break there and then, so much on his back, so much on his soul begged him to. But not yet, so he took what comfort he could from that moment.

"You have gotten faster." Spoke his father, his tone not breaking its usual cadence but for a very slight tremble almost none picked up. "And heavier." That made Sirius actually laugh.

"I am also glad to see you again, father."

"I am not." Sirius became stiff for a moment as his father pulled him from the hug, and grasping his shoulders, eyed him up and down. "I should have never lost you to begin."

Sirius felt his smile grow, as he put his good hand on his father´s shoulder. Suddenly, the discomfort at calling him that, calling him father, had vanished as if it had never been heavier than a breeze.

"Sometimes, there are things that escape our power, father, and fate can be a cruel thing," Sirius said slowly, thinking of so many things at once. "But sometimes, fate takes care to correct itself."

"Fate didn't bring you back to me." Almost scowled the man. "You did. Because you are my son." There was vehemence on those words that sparked a flame in the Duke´s heart, of words he hadn´t heard in a while, and not by this man, but that gave strength to tired limbs and fire to an exhausted soul.

"Well, it sure as the Wastes didn't make the job easy."

"We are Baratheon. As your mother loves to say, men like us don't like easy things." There was a flicker of indecision on his face. "You mother….? The Red Keep?"

"Still ours when I left it, and Mother was… more than fine, to be honest." Sirius tilted his head to the side a bit. "I think she has needed this fight for a long time now." Stannis nodded slowly, grinding his teeth at that. He had begun to lose that custom after his son had been lost. The man took it as a sign. From what, he did not know, but it didn't really matter.

"Indeed she has. After we lost you, she sank a lot of her time into swordsmanship. She has even more adept."

"Enough to teach you a thing or two?" Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Enough to beat me." Growled the man, the hints of a small smile on his face hidden from almost all. Before Sirius could retort with a witty comment, the cannons on the Lady Morningstar roared again. The westerosi were startled at the brutal sound, and Ser Davos was staring amazed at the beast of a ship that protected their harbor. Sirius let out a sigh.

"It seems we still have work to do, and greetings to postpone." Sirius smiled a sad smile at his father, who nodded stiffly, taking another glance at the magnificent vessel reaping havoc on the harbor.

"It is our duty to protect the people of this city." He told his son, who nodded as well.

"I know." There was something in his eyes that made Stannis pause, a shine of a man that has heard those same words a thousand times, and yet not even now, tired as he is and exhausted as he surely feels, even thinks of giving up. A strange warmth spread in his chest. Stannis recognized it as a rare, but welcome sensation. Pride. Pride in his children. Pride as his son turned to his men and gestured at them. "And we shall do so, for what are we, the sons of Bretonnia?!"

"We are the shield!" The bellow back, knights and peasants alike, a chorus of enthusiastic men. Sirius smiled at them before turning back to his sire, blade dancing in his hands.

"So, father, what is our strategy?" Stannis's eyes harden even more. Greetings could wait. They always could. It was farewells that which men always wished to postpone, but never got to. Greetings could be delayed. Questions asked later. Now, father and son realized that even separated for as many years as they had been, both men had been molded by one core ideal.

Duty.

And thus, it was duty that which had reunited them. So, it would rebuild the broken bridges they had yet to fix. Some could wait, others, would be restored there and then, in the anvil of war, in the fires of battle.

"We need to retake the very streets. There were packs of those barbarians rooming around, pillaging and raping as they wish." Stannis asserted. "They will face justice, by our own hand."

"A three-pronged attack, to clean them up and swat them towards Rheany´s Hill." Sirius suggested, looking over the city. How he wished he had a map, or a few Pegasi to get a better look at the mess unfolding. It was bedlam in the city. And bedlam swallowed armies and plans alike.

"Why there?" Questioned his father, but listened intently.

"The Dragonpit. It's a good place for them to rally, and northernes have always been fascinated by great beasts. They will hold us there, but it's also a death trap. They won't be able to leave it. Three advances. One for us, father, through the Muddy Way." He regarded his Lord Executioner. "Gaheris, up the Street of Steel and to the hill of Visenya. I need a man to lead the third group. Who is our best blade?"

The knight pointed his axe towards one of the men, young man with jet-black hair and dark eyes. Sirius felt he recognized some of his features. He was tall, of his height, but wider and filled with more muscle.

"Ser Jacques Douglas, my lord." He presented himself, kneeling. Sirius smiled at the surname, recognizing him now.

"You are Loui´s boy, are you not? The House of Douglas, the Wardens of Lowlands and Counts of Angus." Other knights nodded at the titles. House Douglas has been one of the first to revolt against Darkhammer and side with the Duchess during the Dragonfall.

"Yes, my liege." He nodded.

"Your father serves me with utmost distinction." Sirius mused, quickly gesturing him to rise. IT always had irked him when people kneeled to him. "He is a good man, a good knight." The young knight's face morphed into something that made Sirius stop dead in his tracks for a moment.

"He was, my lord." There was venom in his eyes, and his features, already sorrowful features, taken from his father and only enhanced by his mother´s stern, yet kind eyes, made him look haunting.

"Was?" he already could guess what that meant, but he wanted… he needed to hear it.

"He fell but a few days ago, sire. The norscan bastards brought down the section of the wall he was holding with those infernal craven siege weapons. I saw him fall, sire." Hellcannons and other chaos-dwarven weaponry had been used in great amounts to breach the wards of Camelot and the Dragon´s Den. Duke and Duchess had sallied forth to kill those guns many times, but the corrupted dawi had brought more and more. Sirius felt a kick in his stomach. Loui Douglas had been a good friend and a better man. He deserved to live a long life. Most knights did. But the life they chose, because they were good men, tended to end shorter than they deserved.

"My condolences, Jacques. Your father was a good and honest man, a good lance." Sirius took a second to remember the bombing voice of the warrior, and his gilded armor, that absurd green salamander made of jade he had had incrusted on the chest of the plate and on top of his head, so his foes knew who they fought. He remembered the time he and Sir Eworick had gotten so drunk they had ended up sleeping on the Menageries, and had to sneak out from inside Ungraudan´s lair dressed as the day they were born, or the many times he had tried to court his wife, and failed in the most bombastic and hilarious ways, like that little eel incident. Sirius laughed, startling many around him, but Jacques. "But Beloved Lady he was awful at singing."

That made the younger man smile and nod along.

"My mother used to throw pitchers at him when he started to do it back home." Both took a second of silence to mourn the good knight and the gentle lady. "I miss him, Lord, but at least they are together again." Sirius nodded, fighting to keep his smile whole. So many dead friends, so many great men plucked before their time. He felt something brush against him, only to see Ig step forth, and without a word, she hugged the young knight, who returned the hug with a small smile of gratitude. She didn't say a thing, words had never been his daughter´s forte, she just stepped back behind her father.

"They are at Her Gardens now." Sirius mused, forcing himself to return to the moment, to the battle, to the lives to be saved, not the ones he could do nothing about. He had given the boy the respect deserved, but he needed him now, and it was time to see the steel of the next Lord Douglas. "Do you intend on following them, Sir Jacques Douglas?"

The men looked up, and Sirius saw him pull all that grief he hadn´t been given time to process, all that bottled pain, and pull it to his heart like fuel to a flame. He wouldn´t be drowning in it, today at least. That was good. He could count on the boy. He needed him to….

'Not a boy. None of them. Men. Good, faithful men.' He chastised himself. They had been boys, till the day they picked up weapons to defend the burning remains of their home. He owed them that at least, to recognize the sacrifice of their innocent at the altar of duty.

The young Douglas´s mettle seemed tested. And he found it unbroken.

"Not yet, my liege." Said the man, drawing his blade to his face and saluting with a bow.

"Good, because I need a trusted blade with me now, and two centuries have proved to me that a loyal Douglas fights with the fury of a hundred men. Take another dozen, go around the western streets, and crush whatever resistance you encounter. Sweep them upwards, towards the lower quarters…" Another voice cut him.

"It will be my pleasure to show your kinsmen the way." A man stepped forth, with a face he did not recognize and a sigil that was taking him some time to place. He felt bad when the man bowed to him in respect. "A pleasure to see you walking among the living as well, Lord Baratheon."

"I know you sigil, my lord. House Blackwood." Sirius said, finally locating the image in his memories. The Blackwood laughed at that, seemingly surprised he remembered the sigil of his house.

"Lord Tytos Blackwood, at your service, my young knight. Let the lad and I sweep them up Eel Alley. We will box them into Rhaeny´s hill like sardines for the killing."

"Excellent, my lord." Sirius nodded and bowed his head in thanks, sending a glance at Douglas. "Follow Lord Tytos, young Douglas. I deliver unto you the duty of representing our people and their values while fighting. I trust you. Go."

"Never behind, my liege." The young knight said the words of his house with a grim nod, before saluting Lord Tytos. The older man chuckled and patted him on the shoulder.

"Think you can keep up, lad?" Jacques let a small smile slip. He might be a good lad, but he was still among the ranks of the hot-headed Knights Errant.

"I normally don't slow my pace for anyone but my Duke, my lord. But I will grant you an exception." The older man laughed at the boast, patting him more eagerly on the back this time.

"Ah, youngsters. I have missed the bravado and all the piss and vinegar." As the two knights went to father the men assigned to them, Sirius turned toward the lord Commander with a smile. It was good to see that Louis´s boy had kept some of his fire.

"I might be in one of my worst moments, yet I am still more than capable of handling this lot. But if you desire, Ser Barristan, I will not impugn your honor by denying you your duties." Sirius kept his respect for the Lord Commander evident. He did not wish to offend the man. "And you would be more than welcome to join your blade to ours."

"It would be my pleasure to fight beside another Dayne once more." Sirius nodded and went to gather the knight he had left, only for his father to stop him.

"You are…" Began the Lord of Drgonstone, backed up by a worried Ser Davos.

"Injured, tired, and wanting nothing else but to sleep for a few days…" Sirius admitted, keeping to himself the full extent of the injuries Abhorash had inflicted on him and whose pain still remained. "But since when do our wishes matter when faced with our responsibilities? Plus, this little one can keep me whole." Sirius patted Ig gently on the head, electing a smile from the girl. Stannis eyed the child with inquisitive eyes. There was something about her…

"Who are you child?" he asked, examining her and her differently colored eyes. One, he did recognize. But the other was so familiar, that it bugged him.

"Oh, that´s right," Sirius said, looking apprehensive for a moment, remembering how tense had been the first time he had presented his Father-king with…. With her. He hesitated, biting his lip, before forcing himself back to the moment and bringing Ig in front of him, smiling at his father and gently squeezing his daughter´s shoulder to reassure her. Surprisingly, she seemed devoid of fear now. A clear contrast to the first time she had met the Lionhearted. "Father, meet Igraine Amaranth Pendragon. You granddaughter."

For a moment, Stannis´s face did not change an inch.

"What?" He finally managed.

"Later, we can discuss all of this," Sirius said, scratching the back of his head, before gently encouraging his daughter forward. "Ig, say hello to your grandfather, Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Ships of the Iron Throne." The girl complied shyly at first.

"Greetings, I Adar en Adar." If the news had left Stannis baffled, the use of eltharin was even worse, and Sirius made a mental note to tell his daughter to not use it in front of their family. He couldn´t blame her, though. His…. King-father had been well versed in the tongue of the Asur, and had loved to speak with his granddaughter in that language when she visited him. They would all need to adapt to this world. Although languages no one but they knew were an advantage he would not pass by.

If Stannis´s reaction was one of shock, Ser Davos´s was one of amazement and pride.

"I'll be dammed and hanged from the western gate." He mused, eying the child first, then the young lord. He had always been shy around girls. Seemed like he had grown out of it quite well. "You… She… Well, sh-" Before he could finish that word, Sirius glared at him, cutting him off.

"Oh, right, apologies." He went on one knee and waved at the girl, who waved back, smiling as well. "Hello, little one. My name is Davos. I am a… loyal man to your grandfather, and a friend to your father."

"Hello, Sir Davos." Igraine said, before peering into eh ex-smuggler. "You have a very kind light."

"Thank you, little lady." Davos said, feeling a bit mystified by the comment, but smiling to himself nonetheless. Having a kind light could not be bad, right? He had to tell Myra that one. Stannis then stepped forward, and took a knee in front of the girl, examining her still. Sirius felt apprehension, ready to jump, although he didn't know why. His father had no reason to do anything, but still, this was his little fairy. He would drown the continent in death before he let anyone touch her. Finally, the Lord of Dragonstone spoke up.

"You have your grandmother's eyes." He said slowly, jaw set in a grimace neither son nor granddaughter knew how to interpret. While Sirius was completely taken by surprise, his daughter simply smiled.

"Father has the same stare as you." The mentioned chuckled nervously at that, which earned him a look from both his daughter and father, but he ignored it.

"He does." He nodded before rising, as if he had been searching for something in the girl and had found it. His eyes rested on his oldest son. "A child…" He began. Sirius gave him a half-grin, placing a hand on top of his daughter´s head.

"That can use power beyond all of us, has no place in a battlefield, yes. But if I were to tell her to stay on the ship, she would sneak out. Plus all that…" Igraine began to redden at the comment, as her father tussled her already unkempt hair. She smiled guiltily, also scratching the back of her head, just as Bellicose landed beside both of them. The great beast began to snuggle his beak against her little chest, and she began to scratch him behind the ears. Sirius shook his head, patting the Questing Beast´s powerful neck. "She is quite better guarded than any of us." As if he had understood they were talking about him, Bellicose grabbed Igraine with his long tail and placed her gently on his powerful back. He eyed the girl, whose face lit up in recognition, and quickly put her tiny hands over her ears. The Questing beast then unleashed his brutal war-call, which made man recoil in shock, pain, and fear. Sirius only smiled. Stannis on his part, barely moved, frowning deeply, before relenting.

"We will have a conversation about this later." He promised his son, seeing his reasoning, or some of it at least. "For now, these are your forces, I won't tell you how to best handle them. Let's end this." He began to walk towards the Muddy Way, surrounded by his veteran Wardens. Sirius chuckled, before turning to his daughter.

"Out of the frontline. Healing and support." He warned her. "And never too far from me… Actually, scratch that, I will be in the thick of it, never far from Bellicose. No, scratch that too, he will be in the worst of it. Never too far from Ser Davos, understood?"

"Yes, Ada. Only healing. I promise." She nodded, and before him, the confidence in her eyes wavered like molten glass. "Be careful? Please?" Sirius kissed her daughter's brow.

"I cannot promise carefulness, my little fairy. But I can swear ferocity like they have never seen." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, hesitating once more, before bringing her hand to her heart.

"Dawn´s Wrath, Ada." She said, an air of solemn wisdom falling on her for a moment that made Sirius almost shiver. But it was gone, and he smiled at her, not out of confidence, but because what else could a father do for his child than to smile at them when the storm came roaring around them?

"Morningstar's fury, my child." He said. He eyed Bellicose, who nodded sagely and sped forward, towards where Ser Davos was gathering the Citywatch and the few volunteers of the city that had come to fight for it. He took then a deep breath, and with a resolute look, stepped in front of the gathering small army, and raising Arondight high over his head like a flaming banner, rallied them to him.

"Let's get this over with then. Knights of Realm! For the Lady! For the Lionhearted. FOR BRETONNIA!"

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

The norscans had been so content with slaughtering the people and guards of the city. To them, this was but sport, nothing more, a culling of the weak and miserable for their blood god, as they killed and raped through the unprepared gold cloaks, the harmless civilians, the poor beggars who had no place to hide.

They made the city relieve the atrocities of the Sacking by the Lannisters. The brutality and fear of the reign of the Mad King. And the abominations that walked their streets, hurt and with their very essence shattered and almost broken, made them dread worse things still.

Until the cries of 'For the Dragonhearted!', 'To the Dragon of Bretonnia!' and 'Dawn´s Wrath, Morningstar's fury!' echoed in the streets, and the brave few children of Bretonnia Westeros had been gifted, or cursed with, joined the fight. Accustomed to the marauding barbarians, a three-prong strike of knights led the onslaught, backed up by dozens of men-at-arms and sailors hungerinf for blood and retribution. These men had been days on a ship, thinking their home and everyone they had known was dead. Now, they brought that terrible vengeance with them to kill men they blamed personally for all of it.

Bretonnian mariners, adept at close quarters, took back street after street, as the younger knights let their more senior companions lead them. Trained in leadership and tactics, tempered by Errantry Wars and battle under the banner of the Dawning Dragon, they rallied the bewildered defenders to counterattack and push the chaos-worshipping filth out of the city.

Up the Street of Steel, came Sir Gaheris with his speartip, to lead the counterattack. It was been a messy affair, till the people of the city actually got some heart back in them, and as a young smith of blue eyes began to distribute weapons to any man able and willing, they joined the fight, surrounding the marauders by every side. The Lord Executioner let the foray forward, pushing the few remaining skaelings all the way to Visenya´s Hill, where he routed them twice.

To Lord Tytos, accompanied by Sir Douglas, fell the duty to push up the Hook and Eel Alley, all the way to Fleebottom, hounding the retreating norscans. The young Jacques led his fellow knights like a possessed madman, screaming his house´s name to the heavens, as he killed any marauder that dared turn and face him. The people cheered the man, as the growing wave began to push the barbarians back. In the streets of Fleabottom, they ground themselves between the blades of the Bretonnian and Westerosi knights, and the knives, hatchets, and desperate fury of the people who lived there and remembered all too well what had happened when the Lannisters had taken the city.

Up the Muddy Way and then onwards towards the Gate of the Gods, came the Dragon of the Morningstar and the Lord of Dragonstone, blades drawn, and well escorted by the Bold and some veteran Avalonian knights. And yet, it was not his blade and bright eyes, not the mighty presence of Ser Barristan Selmy, not the battalion of Baratheon Wardens in full plate around their Lord and his son that broke the enemy, that made everyone looked in awe. It was the small child, with mismatched eyes, whose very form seemed to shine bright, and her words healed wounds and hurts. Her mere passage calmed the souls and her light brought a determination and certainty many craved.

That, and the strange and wondrous beast that tore invaders to tatters, and yet when it found innocents, he brought them back to the main street for the child to treat them with her miraculous light.

The remaining Skaelings had no chance of taking King´s Landing, their reinforcements crushed and their lord slain, some simply surrendered themselves to the carnage of battle, to kill and spill blood. Some tried to flee the city. Others, decided to be somewhat tactical, and mixed logic with their religious beliefs. Hounded and with enemies in pursuit, they rushed to the Dragonpit, a defensible position where the enemy would spend thousands to get to them, a choke point where number mattered little and where their blood would be mixed with that of the dragons that had lived and died there. One last offering. One last slaughter

They were right. It was a good position.

Or they would have been, hadn't Lord Stannis ordered some of his veterans to flank the marauders by the lower access point of the Dragonpit. With their back threatened and exposed, when the Duke of Avalon rode into their center line, mounted on the back of a Questing beast, blade at the ready, surrounded by a tight shield of trained warriors and a sea of eager people, wished to free their home, the battle raged.

Father and son fought back to back then, leading the forces into the final confrontation, killing and protecting each other, letting that trust, that bond, grow once more. Arondight was a gleaming signal of the divine, bright upon the frontline, as it culled the chaos-worshipping brutes with the efficiency of a ma wanting to end the fight so he could fall to the ground in peace for a few hours. Among the line of soldiers, Bellicose reaped a brutal toll, as the beast lashed out in furious contempt at the Skaeling lines, followed by the three Bretonnian wolfhounds, eager for blood.

As the Avalonians and Bretonnians fought with brutal determinations, they found themselves matching the Baratheon line troopers with heavy armor and shield walls, creating a bond between eh forces of the father and the warriors of the son. Young Sir Douglas was injured, and yet he refused to quit the field until Lord Tytos, who had received a blow to the side of the head and was stunned almost senseless, was pulled from the field first. Even then, the Blackwood men-at-arms fought on, inspired by the young warriors who had helped save their Lord, and the bellowing commands of Lord Tytos, who even as he was carried out of the battle, commanded them to fight and help obtain victory. His men were happy to comply, and happier still when both lords were returned to the frontline after being healed by young Igraine.

Barely an hour after the battle had reached its highest point, it was over. The Skaelings had been thrown out of the city, the fires they had started had been quenched and the bodies of the things they had summoned, burned. With the bright moon high in the sky, Duke Sirius Amaranth planted the Banner of the Dawning Dragon upon the Dragonpit's blood-soaked and corpse-ridden sands where the last battle had been fought, crowning Rheanys's Hill with his sigil and bellowed out.

"Victory, in the name of Bretonnia, the Lionhearted, and the Lady of the Lake! Ours is the Fury, ours is the Dawn!"

Not too far from that same place, atop one of the many towers and minarets of the Red Keep, two figures looked over the almost fallen city, smiles on their face.

"It seems the first battle of Order against Chaos for Westeros, is quite over, my boy." Spoke the first, shrouded man, his features and endless, ever-changing void where features of a thousand different souls would come and go, all of them marked by fear, anguish, horror, and rage. His companion nodded, hands behind his back, the cruel eyes of his mother shining bright over the smoke and the tinge of blood in the air. He was beyond excited.

"Perhaps. But the war, though, has just begun."

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

He, he, he! Hope you guys enjoyed! Anyone want to guess who our special Stranger guest at the start was?

Well folks, as always, happy to receive all your comments! Write away! And have a good week, and mat the Lady watch over you!