- The Riverlands -
The great hall of Harrenhal was cavernous and cold, the ancient stone walls cracked with age and battle. Aemond stood at its center, his one violet eye a shard of ice as he gazed upon the kneeling remnants of House Strong. Their once-proud rainbow sigil on white now seemed pitiful, the embroidery frayed on the cloak of Lord Simon Strong, who trembled before him. Aemond could smell the stench of fear radiating from the man, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke and ash that clung to the air.
Vhagar's roar echoed in the distance, a low rumble that caused the very stones of the castle to shudder. Aemond relished the sound—it was a reminder of his power, a power his uncle Daemon had thus far eluded. The Blood Wyrm's absence gnawed at him, a bitter disappointment that curdled into rage. What use was conquest without a worthy foe to vanquish?
"You disappoint me, Lord Strong," Aemond said, his voice a silken blade. "I expected to find Harrenhal defended, its halls ringing with the clash of steel. Instead, I find you cowering like a whipped dog."
"My prince," Simon stammered, his head bowed so low that his thinning hair brushed the stone floor. "We... we had no choice. The forces you command—" His words faltered, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of his own defeat.
"No choice," Aemond repeated, his lips curling into a cruel smile. He drew his sword, the blade gleaming like a shard of winter sunlight. "You had a choice, Lord Strong. You could have died with honor. Now, you will die with none."
Criston Cole stood at Aemond's side, his dark eyes inscrutable. "What of the others, my prince?" he asked, gesturing to the frightened cluster of Strong retainers huddled behind their lord. Women, children, and old men stared up at Aemond with wide, pleading eyes.
Aemond's gaze swept over them, cold and unyielding. "Kill them all," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Let House Strong's extinction stand as a warning to those who would defy the true crown."
As Criston barked orders to the soldiers, Aemond turned and strode for the hall, his cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud. Outside, Vhagar rested, her massive form coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
Members of the house were being dragged and a guard was having trouble with a woman who clung to the hinges of a door, "Stop!" he commanded and approached but was stunned in silence.
The woman was pale, her hair dark as midnight and eyes as green as his surcoat. "Leave this one, go tend to another." he ordered and the man bowed and left him with the woman, "Who are you, my lady?"
"... Alys, Prince Regent, Alys Rivers." another bastard? He hummed as he liked to do and held out a hand to her, she took it gracefully and got back to her feet.
Aemond stood still for a moment, his sharp features unreadable as he regarded her. The clamor of the hall seemed to fade, the groans and cries of the vanquished drowning beneath the weight of his silence. Alys Rivers—her name was both an enigma and a challenge. There was no fear in her eyes as she looked back at him, only a quiet confidence that unsettled and intrigued him all at once.
"You are not what I expected to find here," he said finally, his tone clipped but curious. "Most would wail for mercy, yet you hold your ground. Do you think yourself untouchable, Lady Alys?"
Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. "Untouchable, no. But there are forces in this world, my prince, that even a dragon rider cannot control."
He tilted his head, intrigued by her audacity. "Are you a seer, then? Or simply a woman with ambition?"
She lowered her gaze briefly, as though weighing her words. "Perhaps both," she said, her voice a whisper. "Perhaps neither. What matters is what you make of me."
Aemond hummed again, a low, thoughtful sound that seemed to reverberate in his chest. He had seen ambition before—in lords and knights, even in his own family. It was a fire that consumed everything in its path. But this woman, with her pale skin and emerald eyes, was something different. Her words were calculated, her presence compelling. She was not cowed by him, nor overly eager to ingratiate herself.
He extended his hand once more, not out of duty but out of fascination. "Then I will make you mine, Lady Alys. You will find that I do not tolerate mediocrity."
As she placed her hand in his, her touch cool and steady, a shiver ran through him—not of fear, but of something deeper, something he could not yet name.
"Then let us see, Prince Aemond," she murmured, her voice like the rustle of leaves on a still night. "Let us see what the gods have in store."
The hall erupted into chaos once more as soldiers shouted and prisoners wept, but Aemond hardly noticed. For the first time in weeks, his thoughts were not on his uncle Daemon, nor on the war that raged across the realm. They were on Alys Rivers, and the strange, unyielding spark she had ignited within him.
Beneath the shadow of dusk, the crimson banners of the dragon snapped in the cold wind, their roar emblazoned upon every tower and parapet of the stronghold. Soldiers clad in steel lined the ramparts, their breath mingling with the frost. The battle was won—a foothold claimed in the Riverlands, and Ser Criston Cole, the Hand of the King, commanded a feast be laid for their triumph.
In the lord's chambers, a quieter victory unfolded. Aemond Targaryen kept Alys close, her touch a balm for his restless mind. Afterward, he drifted to sleep, the taste of wine and smoke lingering on his lips.
Half a moon later, the tide shifted. Night shrouded the castle in a quiet more ominous than comforting when Ser Criston roused Aemond from his chambers. The torches in the main hall flickered as Lord Borros Baratheon and the lords of the council stood grim-faced, their silence weightier than their words. When Aemond seated himself, the others followed.
"What ill news stirs the night?" Aemond demanded, his voice edged with imperiousness and unease. "Does my uncle rear his head?"
Criston inclined his head but softly shook it. "No, my prince. A rider has come from the Westerlands, bearing word of both triumph and ruin."
The firelight glinted off the pale scales of Aemond's face as he listened to the grim tidings. Lord Jason Lannister, bold as the lion on his sigil, led a victorious charge at the Green Fork, only to fall to an enemy's sword. Leadership passed to Adrian Tarbeck, who pressed on to Harrenhal but met ambush at Acorn Hall—another battlefield, another hollow victory stained with blood. Adrian too was cut down.
When Aemond learned of the Lannister host's devastating end upon the shores of the Gods Eye, his fury erupted like dragonflame. "Why was I not informed sooner?" His roar echoed through the hall, his pale hair a ghostly halo in the firelight.
Borros Baratheon dismissed Lord Butterwell's stammering report with a sneer. "It seems the slaughter took place as dawn crept over the horizon. Blackwoods, Tullys, Mallisters, Freys—even Stark men led by a Roderick Dustin descended like wolves in the mist."
Aemond's expression darkened further, his single eye as cold and bright as an ice-choked river. "Were there any survivors?"
"Only one, a knight who stumbled to our gates, more dead than alive," Criston said gravely.
Aemond leaned forward, his voice low and sharp as a blade. "And my uncle? Daemon? Was Caraxes seen among the carnage?"
Each lord exchanged uneasy glances, but the answer was the same—a shake of the head. Aemond's fist struck the armrest of his chair. "Where in all the hells are they?" he growled, his words dripping with venom and frustration.
The torches flickered, shadows playing across stone walls, as the lords sat in silent apprehension. Beyond the walls, the cold wind carried whispers of battles yet to come.
- Horn Hill -
The seat of House Tarly, with its proud banners of the striding huntsman, lay shrouded in the smoldering remnants of its own defiance. The dragon, Archonei, had claimed another victory, its shadow a herald of destruction.
Baelon Targaryen, first uniting with his forces and securing the Tyrell host, had wasted no time in marching upon Horn Hill, striking while Lord Donald Tarly was away with his strength scattered to the winds.
Astride Archonei, Baelon allowed himself a fleeting moment of reflection. Mercy had been offered; the Tarlys had spurned it. His offer of clemency met its answer in the grim visage of his messenger's severed head, returned to his camp as a warning. Baelon's lips curled into a humorless smile as he murmured, "Pride is sharper than steel, but deadlier still when wielded unwisely."
Mounted atop his dragon, his voice echoed cold and resolute. "The Tarlys swore themselves to Rhaenyra. Treachery deserves its due."
Archonei's wrath stretched through the long hours of the siege, her fire licking against the stone until the castle's ancient walls wept molten streams. The night skies glowed with the firestorm, and dawn only revealed the pale light of ruin. When the gates were thrown open, trembling survivors bent the knee in surrender.
No reprieve awaited them. The defenders were hewn down, their blood staining the fields as steel delivered the vengeance dragonfire had not.
In the end, two lives were spared—a boy of eight, Alan Tarly, with his sister Sansara, a child on the cusp of girlhood. Baelon's decree saw them sent to Dorne, their trembling forms a warning to all who might contemplate rebellion. Horn Hill's remnants stood blackened and broken, a grim sigil to mark the folly of opposing dragons.
When the fires cooled, the army claimed the seat, the castle itself still holding firm in its scars. Baelon sat at its heart, the lord's chair beneath him. Shadows danced on the ceiling above as his thoughts roamed. His reverie was broken by the heavy tread of boots on stone. Jon Braxton entered with a swift bow, the firelight catching the edge of his cloak.
"Speak," Baelon commanded, his voice sharp as the lingering smell of ash in the air.
The hall was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. Jon Braxton's voice broke through the stillness, heavy with quiet defiance. "I must ask, Your Grace, if burning holdfasts and castles, putting whole peoples to the sword, is the wisest course of action."
Baelon, seated in the lord's chair as though it were his throne, fixed Braxton with an icy stare. Yet he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as though the man's words deserved consideration. "My siblings have dragons," he began, his voice calm but laced with the undercurrent of fire beneath the surface. "And my armies are not without limit. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands—they all rally men for Rhaenyra. The Stormlands, Reach, and Westermen field numbers for my brothers and now my nephew. Every sword they raise weakens our cause." His single eye flicked to the flames, the memory of his brother Aegon's death lingering like the bitter taste of smoke. Aegon's fall angered him still, though with it came the death of Sunfyre, and that at least was a reprieve.
Braxton did not flinch beneath the king's gaze. "I'll tell you what I see, Your Grace. I see an ambitious king, marching north with a Dornish host, burning castles, razing loyal homes, and displacing good men and women."
The words hung heavy in the air, biting deep. Baelon frowned, the firelight painting shadows across his features. He had not thought of it in such a way—his mind had been consumed with strategy, power, and vengeance. Rising slowly from his seat, he let out a sigh that carried the weight of the crown he sought.
"Very well," he said at last, his tone weary but resolute. "I will burn no more castles. But mark me, the path ahead will not be softened by mercy. The battles and sieges to come will be all the more brutal for it." His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his gaze distant as if already envisioning the bloodshed to follow. "Archonei will not remain idle for long. When the time comes, she will gorge once more on the flesh of men."
Braxton inclined his head, his face unreadable as he withdrew, leaving Baelon alone with the dancing shadows and the silence of his own reflections. Baelon's resolve was firm, but the questions lingered—how many sacrifices would the crown demand before the war was won?
The dawn broke pale over the scarred walls of Horn Hill as Baelon's host stirred to life, the banners of dragon and sun rippling in the crisp morning wind. A thousand men were left to garrison the captured holdfast, their presence a grim reminder of the conquest. Meanwhile, the bulk of the force began its hard march southward, their sights set on Oldtown, the ancient seat of power and faith in the Reach.
Baelon rode at the vanguard, Archonei's shadow sweeping over the men below, a tangible reminder of the prince's strength. Yet his thoughts lingered on Jon Braxton's words, their weight pressing against his mind like a rider too heavy for his steed. The uneasy alliance between the Reachmen and Dornishmen was a fragile thing, born not of trust but of necessity.
Reports had reached his ears of brawls between the men of House Toland and Fossoway, of Wyls quarreling with the newly joined Caron men. Generations of blood feuds and mistrust were not easily set aside, even in the face of common enemies.
Baelon summoned Jon and tasked him with maintaining discipline. The instigators were to be flogged—a harsh, public punishment to quell dissent. Yet even as the command left his lips, Baelon knew that discipline alone would not bridge the chasm carved by centuries of bloodshed. Unity born of shared battle would take years, perhaps decades, to forge, and the war offered little time for patience.
Another conquest awaited, but the fractures within his own host gnawed at the edges of his confidence. He could rely on Archonei's fire, yes, but steel and loyalty would be tested far more deeply in the battles to come.
As the column advanced, the tension within the ranks simmered beneath the surface, an undercurrent as volatile as wildfire. Baelon pressed forward, his gaze fixed on the horizon, knowing that Oldtown's towering Hightower would soon come into view.
- The Red Keep/King's Landing -
The night was heavy with the weight of impending doom when Ser Rickard Thorne burst into the queen's chambers. "My Queen! Rise, we must leave!" he urged, his voice sharp with urgency.
Alicent Hightower stirred from sleep, confusion clouding her mind as she resisted his pull. "Why? What madness—" But her protests died as a low, resonant roar echoed through the air, a sound that seemed to chill her very bones. It was no mere wind—no, this was the roar of dragons. She ran, feet bare on the cold stone, to the balcony. Throwing open the doors, she froze in horror.
Above the city, under the pale light of a crescent moon, Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, and Moondancer circled like predators. Their forms cast long shadows over the towers and streets of King's Landing. The sky burned with the red-orange glow of their wrath as their fiery breath lit up the heavens. Rickard was at her side in moments, pulling at her arm. "My Queen, we must leave now!" he pleaded.
She turned to him, her voice trembling. "How did this happen? Daemon—he was in Harrenhal!" But there was no time for answers as the city shuddered under the assault. Outside, on the Blackwater Bay, the fleet of House Velaryon—its sails the color of the sea at dusk—led the charge. Among them, nearly a hundred war galleys bearing the sigil of House Grafton from the Vale drove forward to meet the meager royal fleet. The defenders were hopelessly outmatched, their ships splintering under the Velaryon onslaught.
Within hours, King's Landing was under attack. The four dragons tore through the walls, reducing scorpions to molten slag and breaching the Mud Gate in a torrent of fire, paving the way for the Black forces to pour into the city. Screams filled the air as chaos reigned.
Alicent's brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower, led the new gold cloaks and Stormlander forces in a desperate bid to stem the tide. They fought valiantly, but the dragon's shadows and roaring overhead broke their resolve. One by one, men fled, their courage consumed by the onslaught. The Red Keep stood isolated amidst the storm, its defenders cut off as Rhaenyra's forces took the high ground at Rhaenys' Hill and Visenya's Hill.
Trapped within, Alicent clung to Rickard's arm as they hurried through the halls. Gwayne was gone, either slain or taken captive, and the remaining guardsmen had turned their cloaks in surrender. Rickard tried to guide her, her daughter, and her grandchildren to one of Maegor's hidden tunnels. But their escape was short-lived. Black-cloaked figures appeared, swords gleaming in the torchlight, and the queen and her kin were seized.
Bound and brought forth, Alicent beheld her enemy. Rhaenyra descended gracefully on Syrax, her dragon's golden scales glinting ominously in the firelit night. Behind her, Arrax perched atop one of the Red Keep's towers, his eyes glowing like embers. Alicent's heart sank as she stood in silence, waiting for her fate to be sealed under the shadow of dragons.