(Author's Note)
So the site has been acting weird, updated and newly published works aren't showing up for folk so I had copy-posted all my works over to Archive of Our Own apart from The Three Heads of the Dragon though soon that's to make it over there too.
The name over there is the same, AuthorofQarth95.
Thank you for reading and please, do enjoy the chapter. It's shorter than the last but I've been a bit busy doing grown crap that I hadn't the time to really dig in, this is just a hobby.
- Nightsong -
The scouts returned breathless to Royce Caron with dire news: a massive host of Dornishmen was marching up the Prince's Pass. A raven had already brought word of the siege and fall of Blackhaven. Its defenders were either slain or captured, and old Beric had surrendered to Qyle Martell's custody.
Lord Borros had not called the banners of the marcher lords. Instead, he had fourteen hundred men prepared on the walls, arrows nocked and stones gathered to rain down on the enemy.
Royce narrowed his eyes as the vast army of fourteen thousand men advanced toward his lands. The banners of Dayne, Uller, and Qorgyle fluttered behind the Martell insignia and a reversed-colored Targaryen flag, a black dragon soaring on a red field.
He was confident in their victory. Nightsong had stood firm for nearly four centuries. "It will not fall today," he muttered to himself. But his words were cut short as a shadow fell across the sun, followed by a blinding flash of light. A blackened dragon unleashed a torrent of fire, obliterating one of the singing towers. The tower crumbled, crashing down on the men along the battlements and the stables below.
The black dragon circled the castle, and atop the beast rode Prince Baelon Targaryen, a harbinger of doom fell on Royce like a pit in his stomach.
"What will we do, Father?"
The stories of the battle of Rook's Rest haunted Royce Caron. Allied dragons were too far away to offer any real assistance, save perhaps Prince Daeron.
Royce felt a sting to his pride, but he turned to his heir and the lord commander of the guard with grim resolve. "Strike the banners, we surrender," he commanded. He wouldn't let Nightsong become a ruin like Rook's Rest or Harrenhal.
On the Dornish side, Baelon watched with a triumphant smile as his fortress advanced and captured Nightsong. Royce Caron and his son, Harold, were brought into the great hall in chains.
Baelon landed Archonei in the courtyard, sliding down from his saddle with a commanding presence. Caron men were being disarmed and led outside to be imprisoned, for now.
It appeared Borros hadn't called his banners in the Marches. Baelon considered the possibility of taking their men into his own ranks with a few bent knees.
As Baelon strode into the great hall, he removed his gloves with deliberate slowness, his hand resting on the ruby pommel of Blackfyre. His eyes, cold and unyielding, scanned the room before settling on the kneeling forms of Lord Caron, his heir Harold, and Harold's pregnant new wife, Oriana.
"Lovely castle, Lord Caron. It's a shame I had to destroy one of your beautiful towers," Baelon remarked, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He chuckled, then cleared his throat, the sound echoing ominously in the vast hall. "I intend to march east to the Reach, and I would appreciate your allegiance. Bend the knee to your King."
Royce's eyes blazed with defiance as he spat on the ground. "King? You're a craven, joining the fight only when your whore sister and King Aegon had exhausted each other. House Caron swore fealty to House Baratheon, and House Baratheon swore fealty to the late King, Aegon II Targaryen."
Baelon's expression hardened. "Aegon was my brother, manipulated by the Hightowers and my father's second wife to strip me of my birthright. I will ask you once more: will you bend the knee, Lord Royce? If not, I will denounce you as a traitor and take your head."
Royce pondered the choice, his jaw clenched tight. He spat on the ground once more. "Gods curse you, kinslayer. You should have died in your mother's belly."
Baelon's nod was almost imperceptible. Uller men stepped forward, seizing Royce and dragging him outside. The sound of the sword slicing through flesh and bone was swift and final. Harold Caron watched in horror as his father's head tumbled to the ground, his stepmother's anguished screams piercing the air.
Baelon turned his gaze to Harold and knelt down to his level, his eyes burning with intensity. "And what of you, Lord Harold?"
Honor ran deep in the Caron family. Harold's face twisted with fury as he spat at Baelon's boots. Without hesitation, Baelon nodded again, and two guards dragged Harold outside. The same sickening sound of beheading followed, Harold's lifeless body collapsing beside his father's.
Oriana, Lord Selmy's eldest daughter, kept her eyes shut tightly, her body trembling. Baelon approached her, lifting her chin with a gentle but firm hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't let today mark the end of House Caron, Lady Caron."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she choked them back, her voice trembling as she spoke. "As head of House Caron, I, Oriana Caron, hereby swear support and obeisance to you, King Baelon I Targaryen."
"Very good, My Lady. Please, rise. I only wanted your support. Thank you for this," Baelon said, his voice cold and authoritative. He then turned to his men. "Bring some of the higher-ranking men from below. Lady Caron will inform them of the news. After that, they may be rearmed, and Lady Caron will be given a personal guard back to Kingsgrave."
Oriana opened her mouth to protest, but Baelon ignored her. Her objections meant nothing to him.
Baelon straightened as he got up, his expression a mask of unreadable sternness. The hall fell into a tense silence, the only sounds drifting in from outside—the distant clamor of his men setting up camp for the night.
- Oldtown -
Daeron sat uneasily in the war chamber, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the faces of his uncle Ormund and the other green commanders gathered around the map-strewn table. The Reach, their stronghold, felt more like a cage with each passing day.
The mood was grim. Scouts of House Bulwer had reported the approach of a Northern host, led by the implacable Lord Thaddeus Rowan, marching down to the Honeywine.
The situation was deteriorating rapidly. From the Sunset Sea, Lord Redwyne's fleet tightened the noose, poised to raid the city if they dared to march out.
Their forces had dwindled to fewer than twenty thousand men. The strain was palpable. "The Beesburys remain a thorn in our side," Daeron muttered, recalling the savage skirmishes that had plagued them near Horn Hill. The battles had been fierce, the bloodshed relentless.
Every decision weighed heavily, every breath felt like a gamble. Daeron's eyes flicked to his uncle, searching for guidance, for hope. But even Ormund's seasoned gaze seemed clouded with doubt.
The war raged on in the northeast, where thousands of men loyal to House Tyrell and Baelon prowled like wolves, their every sinew taut with anticipation. They awaited, either for the blacks of Oldtown to make their move or for an opportune moment to strike themselves.
"Oldtown's fleet should be able to defend the city while we leave to rout the Blacks, then we can strike Highgarden and secure the Reach," Lord Alec Mullendore advised, his voice edged with determination.
Before Ormund could respond, the chamber doors creaked open, and a guard escorted a weary but familiar figure inside.
Daeron's eyes widened with surprise and joy. He shot up from his chair, abandoning decorum, and hurried towards the newcomer. "Grandfather?"
Otto Hightower's face broke into a tired but warm smile. He embraced his youngest grandson, patting his back with affection. "My, you have grown big and strong, Prince Daeron," he said, pride evident in his voice. "We must show your mother when we next visit the capital."
The moment of familial warmth was a fleeting respite from the war's grim reality, he hadn't seen them since the late hours after his brother was made the King.
"We are glad to see you, Nuncle, but how did you get here? The Reach has thus far been war-torn between us and the rebel factions," Ormund asked, his curiosity piqued. Otto sighed heavily, the weight of his journey evident in his lessened smile as he took a seat at the table.
"I know my ways in my homeland, nephew," replied the Hand of the King, his voice tinged with weariness but resolute. He turned to the other commanders, his gaze steady. "Leave me with my nephew and grandson; there is much to discuss."
The lords and knights bowed respectfully and exited the room, closing the door behind them. Silence settled over the chamber as Otto waited, gathering his thoughts before revealing the news he carried—both what he had heard and what had transpired. The air was thick with anticipation, every word soon to be spoken carrying the weight of their futures.
The air turned grim as Daeron heard his grandfather speak. "What have you heard from the capital in these last few weeks?"
"Just the events of Rook's Rest, uncle. By the way, how is the King doing?" Ormund inquired, his voice laced with concern.
"The King is dead," Otto's words struck Daeron like a sack of stones, leaving him momentarily breathless. "I was at Ashford Castle when a raven came with the news. He was murdered by shadows, daggers in the dark by Rhaenyra, though I am certain Daemon was the orchestrator."
The news of the King's death hit Daeron with the force of a hammer blow. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, the weight of the revelation threatened to crush him. He stared at Ormund, his mind struggling to process the enormity of what he had just heard. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls pressing tighter, the air growing heavy.
Pain and sorrow twisted his features, and his legs nearly gave way beneath him. He reached out to steady himself on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white from the grip. Memories of his father flooded his mind—the laughter, the lessons, the moments of quiet strength. To think that all of it had been snuffed out by shadows and daggers, orchestrated by the cruel hands of Rhaenyra and Daemon, was unbearable.
"How could this happen?" he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. The words felt hollow, insignificant in the face of such a monumental loss. His eyes, now glistening with unshed tears, turned to his grandfather Otto, searching for answers, for some semblance of hope.
Otto's expression mirrored his sorrow, but there was a steely resolve there as well. The Hand of the King took a deep breath, preparing to share the grim details of the treachery that had befallen them.
Daeron's mind reeled from the revelation. The weight of the crown had shifted, again so soon after King Viserys death and with it, the tides of war. Shadows and daggers, he thought, Aegon was a fool but he was his elder brother, the news shook him.
"Then we ought to go to the city. Vhagar and Dreamfyre alone cannot defeat all of Rhaenyra's dragons," Daeron stated with fervor, his blood running hot. Tessarion, though small, was as fierce as any dragon from Dragonstone.
But Otto, ever the strategist, cautioned against impulsive action. "A forced march to King's Landing will be arduous and risky... We must be smart. And that is not all the news I have heard."
"There is more? Has something happened to the King's children or has the city fallen?" Ormund's voice was laden with concern.
Otto shook his head, the gravity of his message pressing down upon him. "Lord Culper Ashford's brother, Victor Ashford, reported upon his return from the Stormlands that a mighty Dornish host has invaded the Marches. Baelon's dragon was seen flying over Nightsong."
Daeron's heart clenched. "How many in the host?" he inquired, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
"Close to thirty-thousand, split and heading up the Prince's Pass and the Boneway. Baelon is leading half to the Reach and will be at Horn Hill in a fortnight. I surmise he intends on heading here after joining the Tyrell host at Highgarden."
Daeron struggled to mask his fear, his eyes hardening to convey stoicism. He spoke aloud, almost to reassure himself, "Archonei is slightly bigger than Tessarion, even if they came from the same clutch from Dreamfyre." He turned his gaze to his grandfather, seeking wisdom. "What do you think we should do, Grandfather?"
The room fell silent as they awaited Otto's counsel, the weight of their next move pressing heavily upon them all. "The fate of our houses hangs in the balance, and after prior mistakes, I see an opening to correct and redeem our efforts... We will wait, and send a raven to parlay with Baelon once Horn Hill has fallen."