King Harry Peverell, King of the Riverlands and the Trident, Warlock of Harrenhal, Protector of the Realm
Harry looked over the side of Hedwig, looking down on the Westerosi capital, as her shadow covered parts of the city. He could make out a few of the landmarks... Sept of Baelor, Ruins of the Dragonpit, and of course the Red Keep.
While Harry was much too high to see individual people moving around below, he smirked as he imagined Lord Stark looking up in fear at the sight of his dragon.
He tightened his grip on Hedwig's reins, feeling the powerful beat of her wings as they cut through the air. Below, the sprawling streets of King's Landing lay quiet, but he could sense the unease rippling through its inhabitants. From this height, the city looked almost peaceful, its winding alleys and crowded squares mere lines and dots on a tapestry. But Harry knew better. The silence was the calm before the storm, and he was the storm's harbinger.
"Let them look," Harry murmured to himself, his voice carried away by the wind. He imagined Lord Stark on the ramparts of the Red Keep, his normally stoic face turned pale with dread. The Old Wolf had believed his honor would shield him, that the walls of King's Landing would hold. But no walls could stand against dragonfire.
Hedwig let out a low growl, her golden eyes fixed on the city below. She could sense the tension in her rider, the anticipation building with every wingbeat. Harry patted her neck reassuringly.
"Patience, girl," he said softly. "They'll burn soon enough."
He guided her lower, circling the city's outer defenses. From this vantage, he could see soldiers scrambling along the walls, their tiny forms frantically preparing for the inevitable assault. Harry could almost taste their fear, and it filled him with a grim satisfaction. They were fools to resist.
He brought Hedwig closer to the Mud Gate, the first of the city's vulnerable points. The wooden structure stood tall, reinforced with iron, but to a dragon, it was no more imposing than a child's toy. The banners of 'King Baratheon' and their loyal Stormlanders fluttered in the wind above the gate, defiant and proud.
Harry smirked. "Let's see how long that pride lasts."
With a gentle tug on the reins, he signaled Hedwig to descend. The great dragon roared, her voice a deafening thunderclap that echoed across the city. Below, men looked up in terror, their preparations forgotten as they stared at the shadow descending upon them. Harry raised his hand, his wand gripped tightly between his fingers. A flick of the wrist, and the air around him shimmered with magic, a subtle shield against the volley of arrows and spears he knew would come.
"Hedwig," he whispered, his voice low and commanding. "Tine!"
The dragon unleashed her fire. It poured forth in a brilliant, searing torrent, engulfing the Mud Gate in an instant. The wooden beams ignited like kindling, the iron fittings melting into rivers of molten metal. Screams filled the air as soldiers and defenders were consumed, their bodies reduced to ash before they could even flee. The flames roared louder, climbing higher, until the gate was little more than a smoldering ruin.
Harry pulled Hedwig up, her wings churning the air as she ascended once more. The Mud Gate was gone, its defenders scattered or dead. Below, the armies of the Arryns and Crownlands began to surge forward, their war cries ringing out as they poured through the breach. Soon Harry would push Hedwig back towards the city, ready for another pass...
Lord Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone, Lord Paramount of the Narrow Sea
The streets of King's Landing were chaos. Fires raged in every direction, thick smoke choking the air and turning the sky a sickly gray. Jon Stark led his men through the narrow alleys, their shields raised against the debris raining down from above. His Valyrian steel sword, Ice's Shadow, was slick with blood, glinting faintly even in the smoky haze.
"Push forward!" Jon bellowed, his voice cutting through the din of battle. The Arryn and Crownlands forces surged behind him, the clang of steel on steel mingling with the cries of the dying. The city's defenders were fighting desperately, but their resistance was faltering. Hedwig's fire had broken their spirit, and now they were being driven back, inch by bloody inch.
Jon's heart was heavy, even as he fought. This was not how he had imagined taking King's Landing. He had dreamed of honor, of valor—but this was slaughter. He stepped over the charred remains of a Stormlands knight, his armor melted into his flesh, and tightened his grip on his sword.
"Dragonstone men! With me!" Jon called, leading his personal guard into a wider avenue. The fighting here was fierce, soldiers locked in brutal close quarters. His sword flashed, cutting down a Stormlands soldier who lunged at him with a spear. Another came at him from the side, but Jon ducked under the swing of the man's axe and drove Ice's Shadow through his chest.
Suddenly, Jon froze. Across the chaos of the street, he saw a figure that stopped him cold.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, his father.
Ned Stark stood at the head of a small company of Northern soldiers, his longsword Ice bared, his expression grim. He had taken up a defensive position near an old fountain, the Stark direwolf banner drooping from its standard, soot-stained and tattered. Despite the chaos around him, Ned seemed calm, as though he were surveying the battle with the same quiet judgment he had always shown at Winterfell.
Jon's breath caught. He had not seen his father since he had left for Dragonstone under Harry's banner. They had parted as allies, but now they were enemies. He could see the recognition in Ned's eyes, the flash of pain and something deeper—disappointment.
"Jon," Ned called, his voice carrying over the sounds of battle. "Stand down. There is no honor in this."
Jon hesitated, his grip tightening on Ice's Shadow. He could feel the eyes of his men on him, their expectation heavy in the air. He took a step forward, his voice low but firm.
"Father," he said, "this city must fall. The King has decreed it. Don't make me destroy you."
Ned's face hardened. "You call him king, yet he burns women and children. Is that the kind of ruler you follow now? The kind of man you've become?"
The words hit Jon like a blow, but he forced himself to stand tall. "And you? You stand with a pretender, a man who refuses to yield even when it costs thousands of lives. Don't lecture me on honor."
The soldiers around them shifted uneasily, the tension thick in the air. For a moment, it seemed as though father and son might find a way to avoid the clash. But then, one of Ned's guards lunged forward, forcing Jon's men to react. The tenuous peace shattered in an instant, and chaos reigned once more.
Jon moved instinctively, blocking a blow aimed at his head and countering with a quick slash that felled his attacker. He saw Ned wade into the fray, his blade cutting down one of Jon's men with brutal efficiency. Their eyes met across the melee, and Jon knew the moment had come.
With a roar, Jon surged forward, cutting through the chaos to reach his father. Their blades met with a resounding clash, the force of the impact jarring Jon's arms. Ned's strength was undiminished, his strikes precise and unrelenting. Jon parried desperately, each swing of his father's blade forcing him back a step.
"Stop this, Jon!" Ned shouted between blows. "You don't have to do this!"
"You left me no choice!" Jon retorted, his voice breaking with emotion. "You chose your side, and I chose mine!"
Their swords clashed again and again, the sound ringing out above the chaos of the battle. Around them, the fighting seemed to fade, the soldiers on both sides watching the duel with rapt attention. Father against son, Stark against Stark—the tragedy of it hung heavy in the air.
Jon knew he couldn't hold back. His father was a legend, a warrior whose skill was unmatched. He pressed the attack, his strikes growing more aggressive, more desperate.
Ned parried a high slash and countered with a thrust that Jon barely managed to deflect. "You've become a stranger to me," Ned said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Where is the boy I raised?"
Jon gritted his teeth, blinking away the sting of tears. "That boy died the day I left Winterfell."
Jon staggered back as his father's sword slammed into his guard again, the sheer force sending tremors up his arms. His breathing was ragged, his tunic damp with sweat beneath his armor. Blood trickled down his cheek from a shallow cut above his brow—Ned's blade had barely missed his eye. His father was relentless, his strikes calculated and punishing, as if he were fighting to teach his son one last lesson.
"Yield, Jon!" Ned bellowed, his sword swinging in a wide arc that Jon barely managed to parry. The impact jarred his arm painfully, and he stumbled, nearly losing his footing.
Jon grit his teeth and lunged forward, swinging Ice's Shadow in a desperate attempt to turn the tide. His father sidestepped with ease, bringing the pommel of his sword crashing into Jon's shoulder. The force sent him reeling, his left arm momentarily numb.
Another strike came, quick and precise, cutting a deep gash along Jon's thigh. He hissed in pain, dropping to one knee for an instant before forcing himself upright. The Northern soldiers watching the duel began to cheer for their lord, their cries mingling with the chaotic sounds of the battle still raging around them.
"You're not fighting to win, Jon," Ned said, his voice low and filled with sorrow. "You're fighting to survive. That's not enough."
Jon growled in frustration, throwing everything he had into a series of quick, aggressive strikes. But Ned deflected each one with an economy of movement that left Jon feeling like a boy again, sparring in Winterfell's courtyard. His father's blade was an extension of himself, and it became painfully clear that even with his years of training, Jon was still no match.
A faint roar in the distance caught Jon's ear—Hedwig. The sound sent a ripple of unease through the defenders of King's Landing, and even Ned's face flickered with concern. The dragon's presence loomed, her fire causing tremors that could be felt beneath their feet.
"Do you see it now, Father?" Jon said through gritted teeth, seizing the moment to press forward again. "Your walls, your honor—it all crumbles before the dragon."
Ned's response came not in words, but in a strike that nearly knocked Ice's Shadow from Jon's hands. Jon staggered back, his vision blurring as blood seeped into his eye from the gash on his brow. He was losing. He could feel it.
Then it happened. A deafening explosion rocked the street as Hedwig's fire ignited a stockpile of hidden wildfire not far from where they fought. The ground trembled violently, sending chunks of stone and burning debris hurtling through the air. Both Stark and Dragonstone soldiers were thrown to the ground, their cries of shock and terror echoing in the chaos.
Jon landed hard, his head spinning as he struggled to rise. Across from him, Ned had been thrown to the ground, momentarily disoriented. Before he could recover, a Dragonstone soldier, taking advantage of the confusion, darted forward with a spear.
"NO!" Jon shouted, his voice hoarse.
But it was too late. The spear pierced through the back of Ned's knee, the force of the blow driving him to the ground. His father let out a cry of pain, his sword clattering to the cobblestones as he fell to one side.
Jon scrambled to his feet, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his head pounding from the explosion's force. Smoke filled the air, and the acrid stench of wildfire burned his throat. Across the street, he saw his father struggling to rise, leaning heavily on Ice as blood seeped from the wound in his knee. Ned's breaths came in ragged gasps, and his once-pristine armor was scorched and dented.
Before Jon could act, an Arryn knight broke through the chaos, his blade gleaming in the eerie green light of the wildfire's flames. The man's face was a mask of fury as he closed the distance to Ned.
"No! Stop!" Jon bellowed, but his voice was lost in the cacophony of battle.
The knight ignored Jon's cry, raising his longsword high. Ned turned just in time to block the first strike with Ice, but the blow sent him crashing back to his knees, his strength waning. The knight pressed the attack, raining down strikes with ruthless efficiency. Ned parried as best he could, each clash of steel drawing gasps of pain from his lips.
Jon sprinted toward them, his boots sliding on blood-slick cobblestones. He shoved aside a fallen soldier, his sword already raised to intercept the Arryn knight. But before he could reach them, the knight's blade found its mark.
The longsword plunged into Ned's side, slipping between the plates of his armor. Ned let out a sharp cry, his body jerking as the blade was driven deep. The knight twisted the weapon cruelly before yanking it free, blood spilling onto the cobblestones in a crimson torrent.
"NO!" Jon roared, his voice breaking with anguish.
With a single, powerful swing, Jon brought Ice's Shadow down on the knight, the Valyrian steel cleaving through the man's shoulder and down into his chest. The knight crumpled to the ground, his lifeless body sprawled at Ned's feet.
Jon dropped to his knees beside his father, his hands trembling as he reached for the wound. Blood poured freely, soaking through the fabric of Ned's tunic and pooling around him. Jon pressed his hands against the injury, desperate to stem the flow.
"Father," Jon choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "Stay with me. Please, just—just stay with me."
Ned's face was pale, his features drawn tight with pain, but his eyes remained steady as they met Jon's. He reached up with a shaking hand, gripping Jon's wrist weakly. "Jon," he rasped, his voice barely audible above the din. "It's… too late."
"No!" Jon shook his head, his vision blurring with tears. "You're going to live. I'll get a healer. I'll—"
"Jon." Ned's voice was firm despite its weakness. "Listen to me."
Jon fell silent, his chest heaving as he struggled to contain his sobs. He leaned closer, clutching his father's hand as though he could anchor him to life.
"You've… chosen your path," Ned said, each word a struggle. "But remember… who you are. A Stark… of Winterfell." He coughed, blood flecking his lips. "Hold… to that, no matter… what."
Tears streamed down Jon's face as he nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He felt the strength fading from Ned's grip, the life slipping away even as he begged the gods to spare him.
"I'm sorry," Jon whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
A faint, fleeting smile crossed Ned's lips. "Lyanna would... she would... be proud of you." he murmured. "Proud... of her... son..."
Ned's words struck Jon like a thunderclap, his breath catching in his throat. Her son? The world seemed to tilt, the chaos of battle fading into a deafening silence as he stared down at his father's pale, bloodied face.
"What—what do you mean?" Jon stammered, his voice shaking. "Her son? I'm your son."
But there was no answer. Ned's eyes, once filled with warmth and quiet strength, were now vacant, fixed on some distant horizon Jon couldn't see. His chest no longer rose and fell, the last vestiges of life gone.
"No," Jon whispered, his voice breaking. "No, no, no!" He shook his father's lifeless body as though he could wake him, his bloodied hands trembling. "You can't leave me like this! You can't—"
The words died in his throat, swallowed by the crushing weight of grief. He clutched Ned to his chest, his tears falling freely now, soaking into the torn fabric of his father's tunic. Around him, the sounds of battle began to creep back in—shouts, clanging steel, the distant roar of Hedwig.
Her son.
The words echoed in Jon's mind, unraveling everything he thought he knew. He tried to make sense of them, but his grief clouded his thoughts. Lyanna. His mother? How could that be? Ned had always been his father, his anchor, the man who had shaped him. The revelation felt like betrayal, a cruel parting gift from a dying man.
"Lord Stark!" One of his guards approached, bloodied and panting, but Jon barely registered him. "We need to move. The dragon—she's coming back!"
Jon didn't respond. His world had narrowed to this single moment, to the stillness of his father's body in his arms. "Her son," he murmured again, as if saying it aloud would make it clearer. But it didn't. It only deepened the ache in his chest, the questions swirling like a storm in his mind.
"Jon!" The guard's voice was more urgent now, a hand gripping his shoulder. "The dragon will torch this whole district! We have to move!"
Reluctantly, Jon tore his gaze from Ned's lifeless face, his vision blurred by tears. He knew the soldier was right. The battle wasn't over, and staying here would mean his death and his men's.
With shaking hands, Jon gently laid Ned's body down, his fingers lingering on the hilt of the sword still clutched in his father's hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered one last time, his voice raw with anguish. "I'll make this right. I swear it."
As the soldier pulled him away, Jon cast one final look at his father's still form. The man who had been his guiding star, who had raised him with honor and strength, was gone. And in his place, he had left a secret that would change Jon's life forever.
Her son.
Lord Harrold Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale, Warden of the East
Lord Harrold Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale, Warden of the East, stood atop the ruins of the Dragonpit, his gloved hands gripping the reins of his horse too tightly. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, its once-proud walls now wreathed in fire and smoke. Hedwig, King Harry's dragon, wheeled overhead, her massive wings blotting out the sun as she unleashed another torrent of flame. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and flesh, and the screams of the dying carried faintly on the wind. Harrold swallowed hard, his stomach churning.
Ser Neville, the knight of Harrenhal, sat astride his own horse beside him, his expression as unyielding as the stone beneath their feet. His armor gleamed, untouched by the chaos around them, and his calm demeanor only made Harrold feel more out of place.
"It's… incredible, isn't it?" Harrold said, his voice wavering slightly as he gestured toward the dragon. "The way she moves, the power of it—it's almost beautiful."
Neville glanced at him, his gaze sharp. "There's no beauty in death, boy. Only necessity. You'll learn that soon enough."
Harrold flinched at the word boy but said nothing. He turned his attention back to the Red Keep, watching as Hedwig's fire tore through another section of the battlements. Stones crumbled like sand, and the defenders scattered, their tiny figures barely visible against the inferno.
"Harry's making his move," Neville said, his tone clipped. "We need to press the attack. The defenders won't hold much longer."
Harrold nodded, though his throat felt dry. He raised a hand to signal his commanders, his voice cracking slightly as he called out, "Form up! Prepare to advance!"
The Arryn banners—the moon and falcon—fluttered in the smoky breeze, and his soldiers, hardened men of the Vale, moved into position with practiced ease. Harrold tried to mimic their confidence, but his hands trembled as he adjusted his grip on the reins.
"Do you think they'll surrender?" he asked Neville, his voice quieter now.
Neville's jaw tightened. "They'll hold out as long as they can. Stark and his men won't bend easily—not even to fire and magic."
"And if they don't?" Harrold pressed, his stomach twisting at the thought.
Neville turned to him, his eyes cold. "Then we take the Red Keep by force. Harry didn't bring us here to negotiate."
Harrold nodded again, though his chest felt tight. He glanced at the battering rams being wheeled forward and the archers lining up for their volleys. "Should we—?"
"No need," Neville interrupted, his voice flat as Hedwig's fire obliterated the gatehouse. "The dragon's done the work for us."
Harrold stared at the smoldering ruins of the gate, his mouth going dry. "Then… we go in. Order the men to press forward. I want the Red Keep taken before sunset."
Neville gave a curt nod and signaled the advance. The knights of the Vale surged through the shattered gates, their war cries echoing in the vast courtyard of the Red Keep. Harrold followed, his horse picking its way carefully over the rubble. He dismounted as they entered the keep, his boots crunching on charred stone and broken glass.
The great hall was a ruin. The once-magnificent chamber was now a charred shell, its high ceilings scorched and its stained-glass windows shattered. The Iron Throne loomed in the center, untouched but surrounded by the blackened remains of those who had tried to defend it. A gaping hole in the far wall let in the gray light of the smoky sky, and the air was thick with the stench of death.
"Gods," Harrold whispered, his voice barely audible. "This was… this was the heart of the realm."
"And now it's nothing," Neville said, his tone devoid of emotion. "This is what Harry warned them would happen if they defied him."
A soldier approached, his armor dented and bloodied. He saluted sharply, his face grim. "Mi lords," he said, his voice hoarse. "The Red Keep is ours."
Harrold nodded, but the soldier hesitated, his eyes darting to the ground. "But… King Renly has escaped."
"What?" Harrold's voice rose, his shock giving way to frustration. "How?"
"We believe he fled through a hidden passage beneath the keep," the soldier explained. "There are tunnels leading to the river. The chaos gave him the chance to slip away."
Harrold cursed under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. "So the man who caused this war escapes to fight another day."
Neville's gaze was fixed on the Iron Throne, his expression unreadable. "Renly's clever. He'll regroup, but his forces are shattered. He won't be a threat for some time."
Harrold turned to Neville, his frustration bubbling over. "And when he does become a threat? How many more must die before the realm knows peace?"
Neville turned sharply, his eyes blazing with a fury that made Harrold take a step back.
"Peace?" Neville spat, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You speak of peace as if it's some prize waiting at the end of this war. As if it's something you can simply will into existence. You're a fool if you think that."
Harrold stiffened, his pride stinging. "I am no fool, Lord Hand. I—"
"You're a boy," Neville interrupted, stepping closer, his voice rising. "A boy who's read about war in books and heard songs of glory, but you've never lived it. Not truly. You've never watched a man bleed out in your arms, begging for a mercy you can't give. You've never stood in the ruins of your home, surrounded by the bodies of people you couldn't save."
Harrold's face flushed, but he couldn't find the words to defend himself. Neville's gaze bore into him, unrelenting.
"You've been lucky," Neville continued, his voice low and dangerous. "You've fought with the wind at your back, with Harry's dragon overhead, and with soldiers who believe in the dream of a better world. I've fought wars where there were no dragons, no gods, no hope. I've faced monsters who killed for sport and armies of the dead who knew neither fear nor mercy. And I've buried more friends than you've ever had."
The weight of Neville's words pressed down on Harrold, and he looked away, his fists clenched at his sides.
Neville took a step back, his anger fading into something colder. "You think Renly escaping is the worst thing that's happened today? Look around you, boy. Look at this city. Look at what we've done. This is war. There is no peace waiting at the end of it. Only choices. Hard ones."
Harrold swallowed, his throat dry. "I didn't mean—"
Neville cut him off with a sharp gesture. "And don't think for a second that being Lord of the Vale means you command the armies of King Peverell. You may be a lord, but I am not your soldier. You may lead your armies in your own land, but here, you follow my king's orders. You follow my orders."
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant crackle of flames. Harrold opened his mouth to speak, but Neville raised a hand, silencing him.
"Learn the difference, Lord Arryn. You're the Lord of the Vale, but in this war—when it comes to the men who fight in it—you're not the one with the experience, and you're certainly not the one with the final say. Remember that. Or it will be the last lesson you'll ever learn."
Neville watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before finally giving a short nod.
"Good. Now, let's finish this."
