- Dorne -
Baelon lounged in his chambers, a gift from his wife that he'd repurposed into a command center. Spread out before him was a vast map of Westeros, marked by red, green, and black stones representing the various armies and their positions. With an intense gaze, he scrutinized the map, contemplating his dwindling number of allies and the scant intelligence trickling in from north of the Kingswood.
Reports had come in: Borros and his vassals were amassing forces at Storm's End, and the Reach remained divided between houses loyal to him and those sworn to his siblings. The Riverlands, the North, and the Vale had thrown their lot in with Rhaenyra, and despite the weeks that had passed, no messages had arrived from Winterfell, Riverrun, or the Eyrie.
Meanwhile, the Westerlands seemed to mirror the Stormlands' actions, rallying troops to head toward Harrenhal, where news had spread of a Black faction's host gathering. Baelon commanded between six to eight thousand men in the Reach. Lady Tyrell and her son had been safely escorted to the Arbor.
His fleets patrolled the Narrow Sea and maintained a blockade around Oldtown, seeing more combat than any other. Daeron and Tessarion were becoming significant obstacles, as were Rhaenys on Meleys.
A knock interrupted his thoughts and planning for his future conquests, Jon entering with a brighter mood than before, "Your Grace, news from the North." The commander approached with a raven scroll in hand, visibly shaken by the tidings.
It seemed Aegon and Aemond were methodically scouring the Crownlands, setting Duskendale ablaze and preparing a siege on House Staunton's seat at Rook's Rest.
"Who sent this?" Baelon inquired, and Jon pointed to the wax seal. Baelon flipped it over, revealing the Hand of the King's sigil. "Well... that's interesting," he mused.
The news was favorable to him; let his sister and brother exhaust their dragons against each other while he maneuvered to pick the bones. "Friend, I want to send an envoy to Tyrosh. I would ask the Archon to bolster our fleet on the Narrow Sea."
"Are you certain that's prudent, Your Grace? We only recently subdued the Triarchy; they might not even have ships."
"No, but they possess wealth, and with wealth, we could transport a substantial force of mercenaries here." He pointed to the Rainwood. "Borros Baratheon will march north to the Riverlands, leaving the Stormlands vulnerable, and the Rainwood should fall with little resistance."
"So, when do the Dornish commence their advance?" Jon queried, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
"We will divide our forces. I will lead men through the Prince's Pass to strike the Reach, while Aliandra's brother assists in taking the Stormlands." Baelon's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "All of this will unfold once the greens and blacks have bled each other dry."
"I'll see to it, Your Grace." Jon bowed and left him to muse on his strategies before he heard a roar, Archonei wanted to fly, to burn and burn they shall.
- Oldtown -
The oldest city in Westeros was starving. Thousands of weary souls huddled behind its ancient walls, desperate as the blockade by House Redwyne tightened its grip.
A piercing shriek sliced through the air, jolting a soldier atop the mast of a Redwyne ship. He barely had time to react before a massive shadow engulfed him. A torrent of dragon fire erupted, turning the ship and its hapless crew into a blazing inferno.
Descending from the sky was a majestic blue she-dragon, her wings dark cobalt, her claws, crest, and belly scales gleaming like bright beaten copper. Astride her was Prince Daeron Targaryen, his green cloak billowing in the wind. With steely determination, he directed his mount to unleash more blue flame, reducing several ships to smoldering wrecks and causing water to flood their damaged hulls.
"Dracarys!" he roared, sending another ship up in flames. Amidst the chaos, a small corsair laden with food slipped quietly into the bay, a beacon of hope for the starving city.
Suddenly, a scorpion bolt shot through the air, aimed at Daeron's dragon. Tessarion evaded the deadly projectile with graceful ease, then turned back towards the Hightower, the seat of House Hightower.
With a powerful flap of her wings, Tessarion landed in the yard before the gate leading into the tower. Daeron dismounted, patting the she-dragon affectionately before dusting his cloak free of water and smoke.
"You were almost killed, nephew," came a stern voice. His uncle, Ormund, Lord of Oldtown, approached with a look of disapproval. "Risking your life to sink a handful of ships for feed—it's reckless."
Daeron chuckled, unfazed by his uncle's admonition. "I was in no danger, my Lord. Not with Tessarion at my side," he replied confidently.
Ormund sighed, his brow furrowing with concern. "The Reach is in chaos. We shouldn't have to resort to such measures, but the supply chain must be safeguarded, at least these won't fall into the hands of House Tyrell or Beesbury." unlike the supplies they would receive on the Kingsroad.
Daeron nodded, his expression turning serious. "We will persevere, Uncle. The people depend on us. We must remain vigilant."
The dance of the dragons, as some were calling it was nothing more than a senseless conflict over the throne, a petty squabble that had plunged Westeros into chaos and tore apart his family.
Daeron shook his head in frustration.
If only his older siblings could set aside their differences and bring an end to this madness with some semblance of dignity. Sighing, he turned his attention to Tessarion, his loyal she-dragon. Gently, he stroked her cobalt scales and scratched her chin before making his way inside the tower.
Nightfall brought no peace. His dreams were not of fierce battles, but of soaring freely with his brothers above the Blackwater. In those moments, the sky belonged to them, a fleeting escape from the turmoil below.
Restlessness gnawed at him, and he found himself compelled to write letters. He had penned words to Baelon, seeking counsel, and even one to Rhaenyra, despite his disdain for her and her sons. Loyalty was a complicated web, but his heart held a special place for Baelon, his older brother. Destroying Baelon's allies in favor of Aegon, who was his full blood and king, tore at Daeron's conscience.
He desperately longed for unity, for an end to the bloodshed.
- Rook's Rest -
Criston Cole stood at the edge of the encampment, his eyes fixed on the imposing silhouette of Rook's Rest against the darkening sky. This was the stage where his meticulously crafted plan would come to fruition—provided everything fell into place. The castle, with its sturdy walls and strategic position, was both a formidable obstacle and the key to his ambitions. The weight of command settled heavily on his shoulders, but Criston was resolute.
He turned to Ser Gwayne Hightower, who stood at his side, ready for orders. "Begin preparations, Ser Gwayne. Start building trenches and have the trebuchets ready by dawn."
Gwayne's brow furrowed in concern. "We should wait until nightfall, Commander. If we strike under the cover of darkness, we can catch them unawares, and Dragonstone won't see the smoke from the siege."
Criston's gaze hardened, his eyes like steel. "I am the commander of the royal army, and you will obey my orders."
Gwayne hesitated, worry etched into his features. "If we do it now, Rhaenyra will surely come with all her dragonriders."
A sly grin spread across Criston's face as he thought, That's precisely what I'm counting on. Aloud, he said simply, "Do as you are ordered."
Reluctantly, Gwayne moved to carry out the commands, his steps heavy with trepidation. Criston watched him go before turning and walking back to his tent. The night would be long, and much depended on the precision and timing of their actions. Rook's Rest would be the site of a decisive blow in this bitter struggle for the throne, and with any luck, it would draw Rhaenyra and her dragons into the open, where they could be dealt with once and for all.
As the first light of dawn tinged the sky with a blood-red hue, Lord Staunton awoke and walked the battlements. His heart sank at the sight of the green army at his walls. Moments later, the first round of trebuchet fire launched burning pitch and stone toward the castle.
His son leaped to push him out of the way just as a massive boulder crashed into the battlements, striking the brave heir. Lord Staunton's heart ached, but there was no time to mourn. "To the walls! Defend the walls!" he shouted, rallying his men.
Staunton archers scurried to their positions, arrows nocked and ready. Below, servants and smallfolk frantically tried to extinguish the fires that had ignited, only to be met by another devastating round of trebuchet artillery. Chaos reigned as flames licked at the stone walls and the cries of the wounded filled the air.
The castle maester hurriedly released several ravens, each carrying a desperate plea for aid to Dragonstone. The birds took flight, their dark silhouettes disappearing into the morning sky.
A shriek echoed from the woods, and a lookout from the top of the tower shouted, "Dragon! It's a dragon!"
Lord Staunton peered out from a wall and his heart sank further as he recognized the golden dragon taking flight, its fiery breath scorching the fields, crops, and the small village that nestled near the castle gates. Innocent villagers, trying to flee the battle, were caught in the deadly conflagration, burned alive by the dragon's fury.
Atop the fearsome beast was none other than the pretender, Aegon Targaryen, Her Grace's sworn enemy. His arrival was a grim reminder of the stakes at play and the ruthless nature of their adversaries. The battle for Rook's Rest had begun in earnest, and Criston Cole's gambit was about to unfold in the crucible of fire and blood.
- Dragonstone -
The ravens flew fast and hard, their wings beating frantically against the wind. By the time they reached Dragonstone's rookery, they were exhausted. Grand Maester Gerardys wasted no time, immediately sprinting to the council chamber where Her Grace, Rhaenyra Targaryen, was deep in discussion with her advisors.
"My Queen! Rook's Rest is under attack!" Gerardys' voice was filled with urgency.
Rhaenyra and her council were taken aback. Shock rippled through the room, but Rhaenyra quickly regained her composure. She turned to Rhaenys, her voice steady. "I will go and see to it, My Queen."
Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, rose from her seat. Already dressed for battle, she gave Rhaenyra a curt bow and hurried out of the room to prepare Meleys for flight.
Rhaenyra's mind raced. If a dragon of the greens took flight, it would likely be Sunfyre or Dreamfyre. Vhagar wouldn't leave King's Landing unprotected. Confidence mingled with anxiety in her thoughts, but she forced herself to focus.
Suddenly, Jacaerys sprang to his feet. "I will fly with grandmother and defend our stronghold."
Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat. "No, you will not!" she commanded, her voice edged with fear. "Rhaenys and Meleys will handle things. You must patrol the Gullet in her absence with Baela."
Jace's eyes blazed with defiance. "No, Mother! I will not sit idly by while our allies are under attack!"
Rhaenyra's voice rose, a mixture of desperation and authority. "As your Queen, I command it!"
The room fell silent, tension crackling in the air as mother and son locked eyes. "You cannot order me around like a child! I am a prince, and I have a duty to our family!" Jacaerys shouted, his fists clenched.
Rhaenyra's own fears reared up, her voice trembling with emotion. "You are my son, my heir! I will not risk your life in this madness. Rhaenys and Meleys can handle this. Your duty is to patrol the Gullet and protect our ships!"
"No, you don't understand! This is our fight, our war! I will not stand by while our people suffer!" Jace's voice was raw with emotion, his determination unwavering.
Rhaenyra bit her cheek, trying to maintain control. "Jace, please. You must listen to reason. If something were to happen to you..."
"As your Queen, I command it," her voice cracked, and the command felt like a desperate plea.
Jacaerys glared at her, his anger and frustration boiling over. "I will not abandon our allies! I will not stand down!"
With that, he stormed out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. Ser Harrold moved to follow, but Rhaenyra stopped him, her voice hoarse. "Baela, go and calm him. Set out on the Gullet within the hour and defend our ships."
Barely half an hour after Rhaenys left, Rhaena rushed into Rhaenyra's chambers, sweat and worry etched into her face. Rhaenyra's stomach tightened with dread as she saw her good daughter's panic.
"Jace and Baela flew to Rook's Rest—they're going to battle!" Rhaena's voice trembled, barely able to contain her anxiety.
Desperation gripped Rhaenyra. She wanted to follow, believing that four dragons were better than none. But her councilors, her young sons, and Rhaena all pleaded with her to stay, fearing for her safety.
"What about the safety of my son and heir?" Rhaenyra cried, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes.
In the dragonpit beneath Dragonmont, Rhaenyra fell to her knees. Her resolve crumbled as she sobbed, her cries echoing off the stone walls. "Return to me, my son," she whispered, her heart shattered by the weight of her fears and the uncertainty of the battle that raged on without her.
- Rook's Rest -
The Battle of Rook's Rest was an epic clash of dragon and man, where fire and blood rained down in a tempest of fury. As the green army, led by King Aegon atop his golden dragon Sunfyre, stormed the walls of Rook's Rest, flames engulfed the stone fortifications, creating an inferno that painted the sky with a hellish glow. The green army's confidence surged as they began to scale the walls and batter the gates with a mighty ram. Victory seemed all but certain.
But as the sun reached its zenith, a new terror descended from the heavens. The Red Queen, Meleys, with her rider Princess Rhaenys, swooped into the fray, her scales glinting like blood-soaked rubies. The clash between Meleys and Sunfyre was a symphony of roars and fire, a deadly dance of titans that shook the very earth. The defenders of Rook's Rest, heartened by the sight of their dragon allies, found renewed strength. Baela on Moondancer, and Jacaerys on Vermax, joined the battle, their dragons' flames igniting the green ranks below.
Lord Staunton, the castle's lord, rallied his men with a fierce cry, urging them to hold the line. High above, Ser Criston Cole, observing the chaos, signaled a flare into the sky. Miles away, Aemond Targaryen, with a wicked grin, roused the ancient Vhagar from her slumber. The colossal dragon, a living weapon of mass destruction, took to the skies, disappearing into the clouds.
Back at the battle, the fight between Sunfyre and Meleys intensified. Despite his youth and vigor, Sunfyre began to falter under the relentless onslaught of the older and more experienced Meleys. Just as it seemed Meleys might triumph, a shadow blotted out the sun, and Vhagar descended like a cataclysm. The clash of the three dragons was cataclysmic, their combined fire creating a second sun above Rook's Rest.
Jacaerys, disobeying his mother's orders to stay away, joined the fray to aid his grandmother and seek vengeance against Aemond for nearly killing his brother Lucerys at Storm's End. Baela, seeing the peril, screamed for him to stop and turned Moondancer towards the maelstrom of dragon combat.
As the battle raged, Sunfyre began to suffer grievous wounds. Aegon, scorched by dragon fire, clung desperately to his mount. Meleys, seizing an opportunity, tore a massive chunk from Sunfyre's wing, sending the king plummeting. In that moment of desperation, Aemond commanded Vhagar to seize Meleys by the neck. The Red Queen's shriek echoed like a death knell.
Just as all seemed lost for Rhaenys, the smaller Vermax, with Jacaerys clinging to his back, smashed into Vhagar, scratching and tearing at the older dragon's face. In a stunning display of courage and ferocity, Vermax's talon found its mark, gouging out one of Vhagar's eyes.
The sky above Rook's Rest burned with the fire of dragons.
As Meleys broke free from Vhagar's grasp and managed to fly a safe distance away, the battle continued to rage with relentless ferocity.
Vermax, however, wasn't as fortunate. Just as Jacaerys urged his dragon to retreat, Aemond ordered Vhagar to ascend and seize the smaller dragon in her immense claws. The mighty Vhagar crushed Vermax in her grip and swooped down, hurling the hapless dragon and his rider into the burning walls of Rook's Rest. The impact was catastrophic, causing the walls to crumble and creating a breach that allowed Ser Criston Cole and the green army to charge in, slaying the Staunton defenders.
Baela, stricken with grief, longed to return to the fray and avenge her cousin. Yet, with her dragon Moondancer still young and Meleys heavily injured, the odds were insurmountable. Vhagar, with blood streaming from her torn eye, descended to the battlefield beside the equally wounded Sunfyre.
The green army's victory was sealed, and with it, the tragic loss of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne. His sacrifice was a devastating blow to Rhaenyra's cause.
Back at Dragonstone, the news of Jacaerys' death shattered Rhaenyra's heart. Inconsolable, she mourned the loss of her beloved son. The island was shrouded in grief as the queen swore a terrible oath of vengeance. The fires of war burned ever brighter, promising retribution that would leave none unscathed.
The news wouldn't be the worse of it, the citizens of King's Landing were stunned and awed, seeing the body of Vermax being paraded through the street, Prince Jacaerys mangled corpse with a green flag nailed on his body and headless.
More so it showed the realm these powerful beasts are just that, beasts... And they can be killed.