Chapter 16: Auron Greyjoy III New View contentPersianPrince696911/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#34117 AC
The last morning of the melee dawned beneath banners blackened with dust. The King's Field, churned to grey mud and splinters, looked less like a tournament ground than a graveyard that had lost its bones.
By command of His Grace, the herald spoke once more before the assembled hosts:
"Ten companies remain! This day all shall enter the same field. Each man's foe is every other. When only twelve stand unfallen, the horns shall sound. Those twelve shall fight alone upon the morrow!"
The crowd's answering cry rolled like thunder over the Blackwater. The ten companies stepped forward – banners torn, armor battered, faces grim.
House Arryn stood first, tall and shining, the moon-and-falcon bright as if the mountain itself had armed them. House Lannister followed, gold like the sun. Then the Tyrells, green as spring, and the Tarlys, brown and proud beside them. From the North came the Starks, silent and iron-eyed; from the Vale the Royces, bronze-clad as the First Men of old. The Velaryons shone like waves breaking under light, their silvered armor reflecting the dawn. The Dondarrions crackled with storm-colored silk, lightning bolts dancing on their cloaks. The Mallisters, proud sea-lords of the west coast, came in violet and silver.
And last – the sworn-blades, dull in mail blackened with salt and blood, led by Auron Greyjoy, taller than any man there.
When the signal blew, the world collapsed into noise.
The first clash came between Lannister and Stark. Gold met grey, lions and direwolves locking shields like the old kingdoms reborn.
Auron saw the first exchange – spears shivering, a Lannister knight sprawling under a Stark hammer – before a Tyrell charge swept between them. The melee fractured into storms within storms.
Everywhere the air filled with dust and screams. The Tyrells fought in pairs, tight and measured, turning their flowered shields into walls of green iron. The Tarlys met them in a savage dance – blunt swords against maces, cousins striking cousins.
The Dondarrions fought like lightning, fast and reckless, darting through the chaos with blunted spears and long knives. Auron's Ironborn met them first, forming a half-circle, shields raised.
The first stormlander's blow rang off Auron's helm. He answered with a downward sweep that caught the man's chest and sent him sprawling. Two more came; one went down screaming as a salt axe smashed his collarbone.
"Push left!" Auron roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a warhorn.
They did – reavers in all but name. Despite them not being true Ironborns, after years under Auron they, like spawn of the Drowned God, knew no discipline, only instinct. Where the others fought in formations, Auron's men fought by feel – reading the tide, striking where the current weakened.
To their right, the Velaryons crashed into the Mallisters, sea fighting sea. The silver-haired Valyrian knights fought with elegance, but the river-born Mallisters gave no ground. A trident shattered a Velaryon knee; a blunted longsword took revenge a heartbeat later.
Above all, the banners fell – one after another – trampled into the mire.
By the first hour's end, half the men lay groaning or still. The Tarlys broke first – their captain felled by a hammer-blow from a Stark, their line collapsing under Tyrell spears. The Royces held longest of all, their runes smeared with blood and bronze dented like old shields of myth, until a Lannister flail shattered their captain's visor.
Now only six companies still fought, if the word company still meant anything. It was no longer banners but men, staggering through fog and filth.
Auron lost two of his own – cut down when a Velaryon's poleaxe found the gap in a reaver's shoulderplate. Another drowned in the mud, helm filling with blood and water. Eight remained. He spat in the dirt, salt on his tongue. Eight's enough.
He drove forward again, catching a Mallister across the thigh, spinning, then breaking another man's wrist with his shield rim. The Mallisters broke from him, but not before one landed a mace head against Auron's shoulder, hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"You fight well, salt-fucker," the Mallister captain gasped as Auron's axe met his chest.
"You die better, river-whore," Auron said, and shoved him down.
The last push came at noon. Starks, Lannisters, Tyrells, Velaryons, and Auron's camp – five forces collapsing inward, the melee shrinking to a boiling knot of steel.
Auron met a Stark with a hammer half his height; the man swung, missed, and Auron's backhand broke his nose. A blunted spear slammed his ribs, and he turned, kicking the Velaryon holding it into the mire.
When the horn finally blew, even the King rose to see what had survived. The dust hung low, golden in the light.
When it cleared, twelve men still stood:
From Lannisters, two knights, gleaming and proud.From Tyrells, one.From Starks, one.From Arryns, one.From Velaryons, one.From Royce, none.From Tarly, none.From Mallisters, one.From Dondarrions, one.And from his small company – only Auron Greyjoy himself, breathing like a man who'd just swum through hell and surfaced laughing.The herald's voice rang over the field:
"Twelve remain! You shall each fight tomorrow in single combat – by draw and by chance – until one remains to claim the Princess's hand and the King's favor!"
The crowd roared. The knights saluted. Auron merely wiped the grime from his face and looked up at the royal dais. Viserra Targaryen was watching him again, veil lifted just enough for her mouth to curve.
He smiled, faintly, wolfish. Tomorrow, then.
The duels were fought under full sun, the air sharp with the smell of sweat and scorched steel. Each match drew more blood than the last – no blunted play now, no quarter asked.
The first duel saw the Arryn brought low by the Dondarrion, lightning against the mountain, the Stormlander's speed undoing the Valeman's defense. The second, a Lannister crushed a Tyrell with his shield edge – gold over green. The Velaryon outlasted a Mallister in a flurry of sea-steel, the two men saluting with weary grace as the herald declared it.
Then Auron Greyjoy entered the sand.
His first match was against a Stark – the youngest son of Winterfell's steward, tall, pale, grim. The Northerner fought with a cold economy, every blow meant to break, not dazzle. They circled in silence until Auron feinted high, then drove his knee into the Stark's gut and sent him sprawling.
"Yield," he said.
"Never."
Auron's backhand ended it.
His second duel came against a Lannister, bright as a coin. They traded blows like storms trading thunder. Twice Auron's helm rang, twice the lion reeled – until a third exchange brought the Greyjoy's axe down square upon his opponent's breastplate, crumpling it inward. The man gasped, dropped, and the herald called his defeat.
By the fifth match, blood had painted the sand rust-red.
The Velaryon fell to the Dondarrion, but the Stormlander's left arm hung limp; in the next pairing, Auron met him. The fight was short. Auron ducked under a wild swing and struck the man's helm so hard his visor shattered.
When the horn blew, only two men remained:
Ser Lancel Lannister, the last lion standing, and Auron Greyjoy, the sea-born knight Daemon Targaryen had once dubbed "the Black Wave."
The King himself rose to speak:
"No blunted steel now," Viserys declared. "The hand of my daughter is no prize for sport. Let them fight with a sharpened edge – to first blood drawn or to death."
The crowd howled its approval.
They fought long – ten minutes, then fifteen – the lion's finesse against the kraken's brute strength. Lannister's sword flashed, slicing shallow across Auron's arm; Greyjoy's axe answered with a roar, shearing half through the Lannister's shield. When Lancel lunged, Auron caught his blade on the haft, twisted, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. The sound was a dull crack.
Lancel staggered, gasping, dropping to one knee. The herald moved forward – but Auron stayed him with a raised hand.
"Yield," he said.
The lion looked up, eyes watering, pride trembling on his lips – then bowed his head. "I yield."
The horn sounded.
Auron turned toward the King, his chest rising and falling like the tide. King Viserys stood smiling, and beside him Viserra – unveiled now, her hair bright as flame, her gaze fixed only on him.
"Rise, Ser Auron Greyjoy," the King proclaimed, his voice carrying to the farthest tent. "Victor of the Melee, Champion of the Crown, and betrothed to Princess Viserra Targaryen!"
The roar that followed shook the city walls. Auron lifted his weapon in salute, the salt wind from the bay curling through his hair like the whisper of the sea itself. And for the first time in his life, the kraken had claimed not a simple plunder – but a crown. Award ReplyReport34PersianPrince696911/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 17: Auron Greyjoy IV New View contentPersianPrince696911/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#35117 AC
The feast filled every hall of the Red Keep that night.
Banners from ten thousand corners of Westeros hung over the vaulted ceiling – lions, dragons, krakens, moons, roses, and stags – all drowned in candlelight and wine. The smell was roasted boar, spiced fish, and the sharp sweetness of Arbor gold. Minstrels played, the hall thundered with laughter, and for the first time in years, King's Landing forgot its debts and its sins.
At the head table, King Viserys I sat in flushed contentment, the crown half-twisted on his thinning hair. Princess Viserra, radiant and shy, sat beside him in a gown of pale red silk that glimmered like dawn over saltwater.
And beside her, awkward in a lord's chair too soft for his liking, sat Auron Greyjoy, champion of the melee – the Iron Kraken of Pyke, a knight of the realm and, as of tonight, the betrothed of a Targaryen Princess.
He ate little. The food tasted too rich. He kept glancing at her – her small hands, the way she laughed behind her goblet, the tilt of her head when her father spoke. Each time her eyes met his, his heart beat harder, faster, until he wondered if all the court could hear it.
The toasts began – Lannister and Tyrell lords boasting in turn, drunk on both wine and wounded pride. Jason Lannister roared with laughter, slapping his cousin on the shoulder.
"To cousin Lancel!" he cried. "May he heal faster than his purse!"
The hall burst in laughter again; even Viserys chuckled. But Auron only raised his cup. He had broken Lancel's helm in two; he had heard the man yield with blood on his tongue. It felt far away now.
Then came Prince Daemon – flushed, dangerous, glittering in black and red. He rose with a flagon in his hand and that wild smile that could mean love or murder.
"A fine fight, Ser Auron!" he bellowed. "I knighted this man myself on the Stepstones – I remember the day. The blood on his blade was thicker than the soup the cook made that night!"
The hall roared again, Daemon drank deep, and then – half a beat later – he said the words that would end everything:
"Seven hells, why wait? The gods favor youth and courage. Let us have the wedding! Here, tonight, before all the realm! A knight's sword, a princess's hand, and a cup to seal them!"
Viserys blinked, then grinned like a man twice drunk.
"Aye! Why wait indeed! What say you, my daughter?"
Viserra hesitated only a breath – then rose. "I would not wait, father." Her voice trembled, but her smile did not.
"And you, my champion?"
Auron felt the room spin – the sea, the sun, the roar of dragons – and said, "Your Grace, I would marry her now, and count the stars blessed for it."
A cheer went up that shook the windows. The septon was fetched – Eustace, thin and old, already half drunk himself. He smiled vaguely, muttered about fate and love, and stumbled forward to bless them both.
The vows were swift; the kisses slower. When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet, shining like pale amethysts. He thought his heart might burst.
The feast did not end with vows – it began anew, louder, madder.
The bedding was announced with roaring glee. Women cried for the groom, men for the bride, and in the oldest of Westerosi traditions, the two crowds fell upon them laughing.
Hands pulled at Auron's doublet, tore his sash away, tossed him into the air as the women undressed Viserra with careful delight. He caught a glimpse of her – her face scarlet, her hair loose over her shoulders, beauty caught between innocence and terror – before the doors to their chamber were thrown open and they were flung inside.
The door slammed shut behind them. The cheering faded. Only their breathing filled the silence.
She stood before him, bare-footed on the carpet, the lamplight catching the silver of her hair.
"My brave and strong knight," she whispered.
"My princess," he said back, his voice barely a voice at all.
She came closer – the scent of her skin was lavender and wine – and held up her hand. A ring gleamed there: gold twisted around a crystal clear as diamond but marked by a thread of red at its heart, like frozen blood suspended in glass.
"Are you willing to give your life for me?" she asked.
"Always," he said, and kissed her hand, the ring, the pulse beneath.
Then the candles dimmed, and the night closed around them. The rest was warmth, breath, whispers – the kind of silence that could break a man's heart if he listened too long.
Later, when the horns had long gone silent, the maids came. They took the blankets, as tradition demanded, to show the red stain of consummation to the feasting crowd below. Cheers rose from the hall once more – coarse, wild, oblivious.
When the doors shut again, Auron sat upon the edge of the bed, dazed. His armor was gone, his calloused hands felt foreign to him. He had married a princess. A princess.
Viserra moved behind him, her touch light upon his shoulders.
"You are thinking too much," she murmured, and kissed the back of his neck.
Soon after, she told the maids to prepare her bath – her usual bath, she said – a strange ritual of boiled milk and herbs that made the room smell faintly of sweetness and something sharp.
When it was ready, she dismissed the servants and slipped into the tub. Steam coiled around her like ghostly veils.
"Come," she said softly. "Join me."
He hesitated – then did. The milk was scalding at first, then soothing, strange against his scarred skin. She smiled at him and poured wine into two silver cups.
"Drink," she said.
He did.
The sweetness filled his mouth – honey, cinnamon, something bitter beneath. A warmth spread through him, deeper than wine, heavier. Then came the wrongness. His pulse quickened; his limbs grew heavy.
"Viserra…"
His tongue barely formed the name.
The cup fell from his hand.
He could not move. Could not speak. His breath came in gasps that did not obey him.
She stood above him now, her eyes bright, her naked body gleaming like pearly scales of her dragon in the candlelight. In her hand she held a dagger that glowed faintly – runes shifting along the blade.
"Are you willing to give your life for me?" she whispered again.
He wanted to answer, to say yes, yes, always, but his mouth would not move.
The first stab broke the surface of the milk with a soft splash. Then another. And another.
Pain roared through him – the liquid turned red, then darker, until it was no longer milk but blood. His blood.
Viserra's face was serene. She licked the blade once, closed her eyes, and began to chant. The words were old, older than the Faith, older than Valyria, winding like serpents through the air.
The milk thickened, bubbled, and then began to climb — climbing her skin, seeping into her pores, veins lighting crimson beneath.
Auron felt himself emptying. His heart still beat, but slower. His blood was leaving him, pouring into her, and she into something else entirely – her eyes glowed faintly, her hair swayed though there was no wind.
When the chanting stopped, he could no longer feel his body. Only cold. Only silence.
His eyes – unblinking – caught one last sight.
A child had entered the chamber, barefoot, clothed in rags. His face was shadowed. Viserra smiled at him gently.
"Come here, sweet child. Don't be afraid. Take the cakes and fruit, and please call Lord Larys. We have trash to dispose of."
Then nothing.
The next morning, the Red Keep woke to horror.
The body of Ser Auron Greyjoy was found in the sewers below Flea Bottom – pale as ice, eyes open, body pierced by a hundred wounds. The maesters whispered he had no blood left in his veins.
The King wept for an hour. Viserra stayed in her chambers and would not eat, her maids said. Prince Daemon laughed, softly, and drank. And the realm began to whisper that the Iron Kraken, who won a princess's hand in fire and steel, had been devoured by it in turn.
Word spread faster than wildfire. By midday, every corridor of the castle buzzed with rumor: that he'd been slain by jealous rivals, poisoned by a spurned lady, sacrificed by red priests, or killed by pirates who came to avenge old debts.
Viserys I Targaryen "the Young King" ordered swift justice. Gold cloaks dragged in suspects by the dozen – sellswords, maids, even a few lesser knights who had shared Auron's wine the day before. Within three days, nearly half the court stood accused in whispers. Yet none confessed, and no proof was ever found.
Too many had reason to wish him dead, and too few were above question.
By the end of the week, the inquiries were quietly set aside. The city returned to laughter and rumor, the court to its songs and lies.
Only one person was never named, never doubted, never questioned – the young widow, Princess Viserra, who wore mourning black and as people said shed tears aplenty. Award ReplyReport38PersianPrince696911/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 18: Daemon Targaryen II New View contentPersianPrince696912/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#38120 AC
Gods, what a dreary business funerals are. Even dragonfire cannot make grief interesting for long.
Laena had chosen her end well enough – better than most. When the birth failed and her screams turned hoarse, she had stumbled from her bed and begged Vhagar to do what no maester could. The dragon had obeyed. There are worse deaths than fire, Daemon thought – far worse, like lingering, or growing old.
Now what remained of her – blackened bones and ashes – was set to be given back to the sea, as the Velaryons always demanded. Driftmark's sky was thick with clouds, and the wind smelled of coming storms. He stood apart from the rest, half cloaked, half bored, and wholly amused at the squabbles that followed his wife to her grave.
It began with that green whelp Aemond, currently one-eyed as a half-blind crab, thinking himself bold enough to climb atop Vhagar before the ashes cooled. Daemon had to laugh – the boy had steel, he'd grant him that. Less steel in the eye-socket now, but courage nevertheless.
When the Strong brats caught him afterward – well, it became a proper children's brawl. A bastard called another bastard a bastard, as bastards do, and before anyone could blink, Lucerys swung a knife into Aemond's skull and took his eye for himself.
Daemon smirked as he watched them dragged before the King. The hall rang with shrieks – Rhaenyra and Alicent, two hens with talons out, clucking over their wounded chicks while poor Viserys tried to crow above them. He looked ready to die just to end the noise. Daemon stayed back, hands folded, lips twitching. He'd seen quieter riots in the Free Cities.
Then the boy, bleeding through his bandage, stood straight and said through his teeth, "I paid with my eye for the dragon. It was a fair exchange."
Daemon had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing aloud. The little green bastard had spirit. Pity he'd crawled from Alicent's womb – if he'd been Daemon's son, he'd have been worth the trouble.
The shouting raged on – Viserys demanding apologies, Alicent demanding blood, Rhaenyra demanding justice – but Daemon was no longer listening. His eye had caught something, or rather, someone.
She stood at the edge of the hall like a figure carved from silver and flame – his brother's second daughter, Viserra. Daemon had never been quite sure. No longer the sly, bright-eyed girl who trailed after her mother and grandfather at court.
Time had passed, now at eight-and-ten, she was an adult person. Her face did not change much, it only became slightly sharper and the charm matured. What changed more was her stature. She was tall for a woman, with a full, commanding figure – the kind that immediately fixed attention in any room. Her build was lithe and curved, the proportions generous but not heavy, balanced by a proud posture. The way she carried herself – the straight back, the easy turn of the head – suggested the calm assurance of one long accustomed to being looked at.
Her chest full, the waist narrow, the hips round. The proportions of her figure were striking – closer to those found in old Valyrian statues than among mortal women – yet her bearing kept it from seeming exaggerated.
Altogether, she gave the impression of abundance – of life felt keenly and expressed without restraint. There was nothing fragile in her beauty any longer: it was vivid, confident, and unmistakably alive, the kind that left the air slightly charged after she had passed.
Her gown of crimson silk clung as if molten; her pale hair shimmered in the torchlight like living frost. But her eyes – those deep, amethyst eyes – they carried something colder. Something that watched and measured, as if every soul in the room were a piece on her board.
And beside her stood a boy, her Kraken spawn – Imlerith she named the boy. His head was crowned with silver hair that caught every glimmer of light; beneath the fringe burned eyes of deep violet with an ink drop of Greyjoy gold, the old Valyrian hue, edged by black brows that gave his face a strange, commanding gravity.
He was almost two now and could already walk and stand by himself, which he preferred. Maids called him a very conscious child for that, because he was already too large to carry around for any woman. Despite being a full year younger than Joffrey he was almost the same size as Lucerys, who was five years old. The size of the boy didn't leave any room to question his parentage. His father – Auron Greyjoy was too, a tower of a man, yet the boy in front of him promised to grow even larger.
Daemon watched the child toddle toward the maimed prince. The boy's little hand – large for his age – reached out and patted Aemond's shoulder, as if to comfort him.
"Big dragon strong, good…" he lisped, then tottered back to his mother's side.
The room fell silent for a heartbeat. Even Daemon chuckled. "Seven hells," he murmured under his breath, "the spawn already speaks."
He looked at Viserra then – truly looked. The tilt of her mouth, the calm, deliberate way she stood. She did not smile at Aemond's pain, nor did she flinch at the stares that followed her son. Instead she only placed a pale hand on the boy's shoulder, possessive as a dragon over its egg.
Daemon's smirk deepened. There was something of himself in her – the disdain for propriety, the amusement at chaos, the calm in the middle of storms. Perhaps that was what unsettled him most.
He turned his gaze seaward, where the waves swallowed Laena's ashes and the gulls cried overhead. "Goodbye, wife," he said softly. "You'd laugh to see what comes next."
The court left Driftmark like a tide rolling back to sea – loud, fussy, and full of clattering trunks.
Viserys had enough of salt air and family squabbles; he missed his painted masks of peace. Alicent looked ready to faint from the damp, her boys scowling behind her like ducklings trailing a viper. The maesters swore the sea wind worsened the king's cough. Perhaps it did – Daemon thought the man was just allergic to consequence.
When their ships slipped from harbor, the sky broke open in pale light. Rhaenyra stood beside him, silent. Her sons chased gulls on the sand, their laughter carrying strangely clear in the wind. He let them run – boys should run before the world teaches them to crawl.
He stayed behind because he could. Driftmark suited him: the hiss of waves, the stink of brine, and the quiet that followed when the court was gone. A week passed like a lazy dragon – slow, content, but ready to burn something for sport.
Then, one morning, the silence cracked.
Two shadows came from the east, cutting through the haze above the sea. The first gleamed silver-white in the sun, wings shimmering like wet pearl – Aenyx. The second, smaller and darker, flitted beside him, awkward in its beat but fierce in spirit.
Viserra had returned. She brought her son and something else: a little creature. It flew beside Aenyx in uneven rhythm, wings thrashing with the eager violence of youth.
Daemon watched the two dragons circle and descend, the larger gliding with grace, the smaller crashing into the sand with all the dignity of a drunk sailor.
Even at a tender age, the hatchling was a thing of menace, though perhaps only a glimpse of the terrifying majesty it would one day command. It was still small enough to fit within a cavern's alcove, its form a compact, coiled knot of obsidian scales. The same sharp, bony ridges that would one day crown its adult form already traced its spine, though they were softer now, almost like serrated cartilage, pricking the air.
Its two powerful hind legs were disproportionately large, ending in clumsy, oversized claws that scraped a nervous uneven melody on the stone. It moved with a jerky, frantic energy, often stumbling as its nascent limbs fought their own weight. The wings – gods, those wings – too large, too black, too heavy. They made the creature seem more like a bat than a dragon. Smoke rose faintly from its nostrils, and its eyes burned a low, molten orange.
He chuckled. "A child's beast for a child's blood," he muttered.
Viserra dismounted like someone stepping down from a throne, not a saddle. Imlerith clung to her hip, his small hands gripping the scales of her belt as if born for armor. The boy laughed when the hatchling snapped at a crab, a deep, proud laugh for one so small.
"He's chosen?" Daemon asked, folding his arms.
"He has," Viserra said. "From Silverwing's last clutch – Vermithor's brood-mate," she added with a faint smile. "The dragonkeepers told me she laid the eggs after a quarrel. Vermithor and Silverwing had parted for a time, so they said. One young keeper swore that Silverwing strayed too far, that she flew north and back again before laying. He claimed this hatchling bears none of Vermithor's hue or temper – that its sire might be Cannibal himself."
Daemon raised a brow. "Cannibal?"
"That's what the fool said," she answered evenly. "The others laughed him out of the pit – they said it's impossible. But look at him," she gestured to the little black thing snarling at its own tail, "and tell me he looks like Vermithor's get."
Daemon glanced at the beast again. Now, it was biting a rock, deciding whether it was edible. "A fine start," he said dryly. "Bites first, thinks later. Takes after his mother, then."
She smiled at that – not kindly. "And his uncle, I think."
The exchange hung between them like smoke.
He studied the boy. The child stood watching the dragons, his small fists clenched, his gaze too steady for his years. "And him?" Daemon asked. "Will he ride soon?"
"In time," Viserra said, brushing wind-tossed hair from her face. "He's already unafraid."
Daemon believed it. The boy didn't flinch when Aenyx lowered his vast head beside him, nor when its breath singed the sand at his feet.
"And what is the name of this wonderful creature?" Rhaenyra came by, and asked.
"Fetanahuir!" Proudly announced Imlerith, probably lisping. But at the sound of his name the dragon stood up on his rear feet, spread its wings wide and evoked a piercing loud shriek. Aenyx growled softly, not at the hatchling – at the world, perhaps – and the child dragon only looked up, curious, as if listening to some language the others could not hear.
Aenyx's wings folded; the hatchling mirrored him clumsily, nearly toppling over. Daemon couldn't help but laugh. "You're breeding an army, niece. What next? Will the child conquer the Stepstones for you or become the Khal of all Khals?"
Viserra's gaze slid toward him, calm and unreadable. "If I asked him, he would."
There was no jest in her tone, and for a moment Daemon felt that familiar thrill – the chill you feel only when you realize someone else is as fearless, or as mad, as yourself.
Rhaenyra eyed Viserra's dragons warily. Daemon turned from them, looking seaward. The horizon was clear – for now. The royal fleet should have already reached King's Landing. He could almost hear the bells already, ringing to announce the court's return, the illusion of peace restored once more.
Behind him, Aenyx roared – a long, rolling note that made the stones hum beneath his feet. Fetanahuir answered with a higher, broken whistle.
Chapter 19: Aemond Targaryen I New
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He hated many things.
He hated the Red Keep – the noise, the whispers, the laughter that always stopped when he entered. He hated his brother's smirk, his mother's sharp tongue, and his father's soft heart. He hated the bastards most of all. Every time someone's hand went to the knife at their belts, he could still feel the sting where his eye had been. The socket burned sometimes.
He wore the bandage still. He liked the weight of it. It reminded him of what was taken – and what he had gained.
Vhagar.
Let them laugh, he thought. Let them call him one-eye. He had the mightiest dragon in the world, older than their house's kingdom. When he flew, the wind tore his cloak and the sea turned white beneath him. He didn't need their laughter. He didn't need any of them.
Almost.
There were some he could stomach. Helaena, his sister, soft and strange, who never mocked him and spoke about dreams and bugs only. Ser Criston, who looked at him as if he were a man, not a wounded puppy. And Viserra.
Viserra – his father's second daughter – had always been kind to him. Never pitying, never condescending. When he was small, she would bring him to the Dragonpit, telling him tales of the Freehold – of the dragonlords who bred monsters and ruled fire as others ruled water or wind. She spoke Valyrian the way his grandsire spoke to his seven gods: with reverence. Before her son was born, she often took him flying on Aenyx. He remembered the feeling – the rush, the cold, the smell of smoke and scales. Before he had wings of his own, she had given him hers.
Now he had Vhagar, and no need for anyone's mercy. Yet he could not quite forget her lessons, or the quiet pride in her voice when she spoke of what they were meant to be.
He was thinking of that now, walking down the cold marble corridor, his boots echoing in the silence. His father had sent for him. That in itself was strange enough to make him uneasy.
He found King Viserys in one of the upper solar chambers, standing by the window. Viserra was there too. She turned first when he entered. Her smile was small but genuine, and it made him feel – for a heartbeat – like a little boy again, before the eye, before everything. She laid a hand on his shoulder as she passed.
"Your Grace," she said softly, "I shall leave you two to speak."
She brushed past him, her scent of smoke and lavender fading with her steps.
Aemond stood uncertainly until his father turned.
Viserys's face was pale, softer than he remembered, but his eyes were distant, fixed on something beyond the glass.
"Come closer," the King said. "Tell me – why do you think Vhagar lies there?"
Aemond followed his gaze. Far beyond the walls of the city, on a green rise above the shore, the great dragon lay coiled like a fallen mountain, the waves breaking against the rocks below her tail.
"Because she likes it there, I suppose," Aemond said at last.
Viserys smiled faintly. "Before Laena, her rider was my father – your grandsire, Baelon. When I was your age, she slept in that same place. My father told me once that our family named that hill Visenya's Hill. When Aegon and his sisters first landed upon Westeros, each dragon chose its own. Vhagar rested there. The name has held ever since."
"I thought Visenya's Hill was in the city," Aemond said.
"It is," Viserys replied, "the one within the walls. But that was later. When she first came to this land, she settled there – where Vhagar sleeps now. She only moved after Aegon and Balerion arrived, to claim the higher ground."
He paused, his gaze still on the slumbering dragon. "Strange, isn't it? Dragons remember things we forget."
Aemond said nothing. His throat felt tight. He had thought that hill was nothing – a lump of stone, dirt, and grass. But now he saw it differently. Vhagar's choice was no accident.
Viserys's voice softened. "You made me proud, Aemond. I have not said it before, but I mean it. I had not realized how much I missed her – how much of my father still lingers in that creature. I feel so small again, watching her wings blot out the sun."
He turned at last and looked at his son – the first true look Aemond could remember.
"I thought I would never see that dragon again," Viserys murmured. "But you brought her back to us."
For a moment, Aemond forgot his hatred, his anger, his grudges. He saw not the weak, weary king, but a man remembering who he once was.
Then Viserys smiled again – sad, wistful, almost shy.
"Say, what do you think, my son? Shall we visit her together? See if the old lady still remembers me?"
Aemond did not know what to say. The warmth that rose in him was foreign, almost painful. He nodded slowly. "I would like that, Father."
Viserys placed a hand on his shoulder – light, trembling.
"Good," he said. "Then tomorrow, we'll go. Just you and I."
Aemond bowed his head, not trusting his voice. For the first time in his life, he finally felt seen.
The morning for him started with the dusty smell of maesters and the putrid stench of freshly applied medicine. His father remembered yesterday's promise. The city was still waking when they rode out from the Red Keep – father and son, one gray, one scarred. The guards followed closely only as far as the Dragon Gate; Viserys had ordered the rest to trail them in distance. "This is family business," he'd said.
They rode in silence for a time. The King's horse was slow, limping slightly on the uneven road, and Aemond kept his pace steady beside him. The hill rose ahead, green and bare except for the sleeping mountain that was Vhagar.
Viserys spoke first. "You've grown quiet, my son. Tell me, what do you love most in this world? What gives you joy?"
Aemond hesitated. No one had ever asked him that before – not truly.
"I like reading," he said at last. "And training with Ser Criston. He says I'm his best pupil."
Viserys smiled faintly. "And dragons, of course?"
Aemond nodded. "I love flying most of all. When I'm on her back, I forget everything else."
"Ah," said Viserys, almost wistful. "The same sickness runs in our blood then. When I was your age, I wanted to ride more than anything." He looked down at his gloved hands. "I might not look it now, but I was once a fair knight myself. I broke lances, crossed blades, thought the world was nothing but tournaments and glory. But I loved history more. Stories stay young even when men grow old."
They climbed higher, the wind growing cooler. Gulls cried overhead.
Aemond risked a question. "Is it true you were the last rider of Balerion?"
Viserys glanced at him, half insulted, half amused. "Why do you ask? Don't believe the maesters?"
"I only wanted to hear it from you," Aemond said quickly.
The King chuckled. "Ha! Don't fret, my boy. I might not look like it now, but I was not always this broken shell. Yes, I rode him – the Black Dread himself."
His voice lowered, and for a moment Aemond heard the man he might have been in youth. "He was... vast. To fly upon Balerion was to sit astride the shadow of the world. His fire was not orange but black as tar, his breath thick as storm clouds. When his wings opened, they drowned the sun. You didn't steer him – you prayed he took you where you wished to go."
They rode on in silence awhile, the wind pressing their cloaks against their backs. Aemond tried to imagine it – the Conqueror's dragon, the weight of ages beneath you.
Then Viserys spoke again, softer now. "So that you know, you have a very wrong vision of Balerion. He was not simply the biggest or the fiercest. His first rider was Daenys the Dreamer – the one who foresaw the Doom. Balerion carried our house to safety. Before him there were others – Anogaros, a pale she-dragon greater still, fierce and ghostly. And beside Balerion flew Nessarion, slightly older than him, a she-dragon who laid the first true clutches on Dragonstone. Of those clutches came Archonei, Meraxes, and Vhagar."
He smiled faintly. "So you see, Nessarion was the true mother of our line – the grandmother of every dragon in this age. And from those three came all others. From Meraxes came Quicksilver, the dragon of Aegon the Uncrowned – and perhaps even Cannibal, some whisper. From Quicksilver's blood came Meleys, Syrax, Seasmoke, and the rest.
From Vhagar came Vermithor, Silverwing, and Dreamfyre. Silverwing's brood has been most fruitful – Caraxes, Sunfyre, Tessarion... even your little nephew's new beast, if the keepers speak true. And Dreamfyre's? More secrets. Once she only had Sheepstealer, but now there's Aenyx too – born of her old mingling with Caraxes."
Aemond listened in silence, his mind filling with shapes and names like a map of living fire. "So each has their own line?" he asked.
"Yes," said Viserys. "And their own temper, as we do. Some are noble, some cruel, some half-mad. Dragons are not ours to master – they are our mirrors."
When they reached the crest of the hill, Vhagar stirred.
Her eye opened first – a great molten sphere of gold, glinting beneath the morning haze. Then came the sound: a long, low rumble like the birth of thunder. She lifted her head, and the ground trembled beneath her breath.
"Long time no see, old girl," Viserys said suddenly – in High Valyrian, rich and flawless.
Aemond froze. He had never heard his father speak the ancient tongue – not once. Not like this. His voice rolled smooth and certain, the language of kings who ruled dragons, not men.
Vhagar's great nostrils flared. She exhaled a gust of hot wind that sent the grass waving. For a moment, Aemond thought she might roar – but instead she bent her colossal head, bringing her snout close enough that the King could lay a trembling hand upon her.
"I missed you," Viserys whispered in Valyrian again, stroking the dark-green scales. The dragon's eye half-lidded, and she let out a sound that might have been a sigh.
Aemond stood beside them, the wind sharp on his face, his one eye burning. He had never seen his father so alive – or so ancient.
He realized then that Vhagar had carried three generations of their family. That she had seen kings rise, queens burn, and yet still came back to this same hill. Will I outlive her? Will she outlive me? he wondered. Or will we die together?
As if sensing the thought, Vhagar turned her vast head toward him and opened her jaws in what might have been a smile. The inside of her mouth glowed faintly red.
Viserys looked from dragon to son. "I'm glad you claimed her, Aemond. Truly. We have more dragons now than in my father's time – both within the Red Keep and outside. King Jaehaerys had thirteen children at once, and the halls were full of life. I was born when the world was still bright. Then, in a blink, it was only me and my brother left."
He let out a sigh, long and quiet. "Treasure this time, Aemond. We never know what tomorrow will bring."
Chapter 20: Tyland Lannister I New
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PersianPrince6969
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120 AC
The year 120 after Conquest proved to be among the most grievous in living memory – a year of fire, death, and uneasy reckonings. It began with loss, and it looks to end in scandal.
First came the passing of Lady Laena Velaryon in Pentos, whose fierce spirit had long tempered that of her husband, Prince Daemon Targaryen. Her death in childbirth loosed him once more upon the winds of fate. The ashes of his wife had scarcely cooled when tragedy struck again at Driftmark, where a quarrel among children left Prince Aemond Targaryen without an eye – and the realm without peace. The insult of bastardy, once whispered, was shouted now in every hall. Blades had been drawn, blood spilled, and no reconciliation could follow.
Lord Harwin Strong, whose shadow loomed too near princess Rhaenyra, was sent away to Harrenhal, the great black ruin that devoured all who held it. His father, Lord Lyonel Strong, Hand of the King, begged leave to accompany him, unable to bear the shame that clung to his name. Not a moon's turn later, fire consumed Harrenhal's towers. Both father and son perished in the flames, leaving the castle and its cursed inheritance to the youngest of the line, Lord Larys Strong – already known in whispers as the Clubfoot, and now the realm's new Master of Whisperers.
Thus was the small council left in disarray. The roll of its members stood as follows:
Hand of the King – Vacant
Queen Consort – Queen Alicent Hightower
Grand Maester – Grand Maester Mellos
Master of Law – Vacant
Master of Coin – Lord Tyland Lannister
Master of Ships – Lord Corlys Velaryon
Master of Whisperers – Lord Larys Strong
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard – Ser Criston Cole
Of the eight seats, two were empty, one newly filled with a snake, and one – Lord Corlys's – now abandoned, for the Sea Snake had sailed home to Driftmark to bury his daughter and brood upon his losses.
But grief had not finished its work. The final blow came soon after, striking at both the Velaryons and the Iron Throne itself. Laenor Velaryon, husband to the Crown Princess Rhaenyra, was found dead upon the docks of Spicetown – stabbed through the heart by his companion and, so rumor claimed, his lover. His murderer vanished with the tide.
To Lord Corlys, it was ruin. The Sea Snake, whose ships had carried gold and glory to every port in the known world, now had no heirs of his blood. His daughter Laena had left twin girls behind her – one with a dragon, one still without – but his son Laenor left only doubts. The three boys who bore his name were the talk of the court, and few tongues were gentle.
Yet even that scandal paled before what followed.
Before the moon had waned, word reached King's Landing that Princess Rhaenyra had wed her uncle, Prince Daemon – in secret, on Dragonstone, without leave, without mourning, and barely days after her husband's death. The act sent shock through the realm and nearly broke the King's heart.
Old King Viserys, beset by illness and grief, turned again to those who had once steadied his hand. At the urging of Queen Alicent, her father, Lord Otto Hightower, was recalled to court. The raven announcing his return reached the capital within days; the man himself was expected within a fortnight.
The King was not seated upon his chair. He stood by the tall arched window, gazing out over the city's pale morning sky. Far above the smoke and roofs of King's Landing, three dragons wheeled through the air – silver, green, and gold, their wings flashing like banners of living flame.
Despite the weight pressing upon his heart, the sight drew a small smile to King Viserys's lips. The Queen, standing a little behind, watched him watch them. The lines on her face eased for a moment. Their marriage had never been a tender one, but it held what many lacked – respect, if not love. All the realm knew where the King's favor lay, and it was not with his queen; yet of late, as Viserys's eyes turned more often toward his younger children, the knot about her heart had slackened somewhat.
At length, the King turned from the window and swept the chamber with his tired gaze. The members of the small council waited – Grand Maester Mellos, Lord Larys Strong, and others too cautious to meet his eyes.
"Otto will be furious," Viserys said at last, almost to himself, a grim chuckle in his throat.
"My love," Queen Alicent protested, "whatever for? How could my father ever be?"
"No, no, I know him," Viserys murmured. "He will be. He always is. Remember, it was at his urging that I named Rhaenyra my heir – to keep my brother Daemon from the throne. And now, the gods have their jest: Rhaenyra and Daemon's claims stand as one. The wheel turns in curious ways."
"But, Your Grace," began Mellos carefully, "surely something can be done. The ceremony was not sanctioned by the Faith, only by Valyrian custom. By royal decree, the marriage might yet be annulled–"
Viserys raised a hand. "Tell me, Grand Maester – do you have a dragon?"
Mellos blinked, thrown off balance. "Why… no, Your Grace, of course not, but I do not see–"
"Rhaenyra and Daemon have two," the King said evenly. "Will you be the one to carry them the message of annulment?"
Silence fell. Mellos's mouth opened, then closed again.
"I thought as much," Viserys said, lowering himself into his chair with a weary sigh. His gaze drifted past the maester, to where his second daughter sat apart from the table – Viserra, poised and silent, at a smaller wine table near the opposite window.
"With Ser Otto returning as Hand," the King said after a pause, "why not take a place yourself? The seat of Master of Laws, perhaps. You have the wit for it, and the realm would profit from a voice less poisoned by old rivalries."
Viserra looked up, her tone calm, melodic – the faintest echo of her mother's Essosi grace.
"The reason, father, is the same as it has always been," she said. "My mother's blood runs from the Free Cities. My grand-uncle was once First Magister of Lys; my mother now shares a Triarch's bed in Volantis, and he is a Tiger besides – expansionist to the bone. The lords of Westeros would never abide a daughter of such lineage seated in counsel over their laws. Were I to accept, the year might end in rebellion."
Her words hung in the still air.
Lord Larys Strong stirred. "And with all due respect, Your Grace, her caution is well placed. My… network leaves little room for doubt. If rebellion should come, it will be led by Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon."
Viserys's eyes flashed. "And what makes you think my own family would rise against me, Strong?"
Larys bowed his head, the ghost of a smile at his lips. "Because the whispers, Your Grace, say Laenor Velaryon did not die by only lover's hand. Many claim Prince Daemon guided that murder. The smallfolk–"
"The smallfolk," Viserys interrupted with a grunt, "speak treason between their cups every night. Shall I make policy from tavern talk now?"
"Your Majesty," said Larys smoothly, "I do not insist it is true – only that it is believed. My agents among Driftmark's servants report the same tale. Lies, perhaps… but the haste of this marriage serves as warning enough, if not proof."
Alicent stepped forward, her voice sharp but pleading. "Husband, we all know your heart is generous, but be reasonable. What have your daughter and brother brought you but pain and shame?"
"And what would you have me do, wife?" snapped the King, his temper breaking loose at last. "Strip Rhaenyra of her birthright? After half the realm swore their oaths to her? And crown whom in her stead – Aegon?" His voice rose with fury. "The boy spends his nights in the Flea Bottom and his days in drink! When your father judges him unfit – as he will – what then? Shall we summon the lords again to name Aemond next? No one will come, Alicent! No one! And when I am gone, we shall have three kings at once, each tearing the realm apart!"
He struck the council table with his fist. The sound cracked like thunder through the chamber.
No one spoke.
Then Viserra rose from her seat, graceful as smoke over the morning water. She poured a cup of wine, placed it by her father's hand, and moved behind him. Her fingers, light as silk, pressed gently into his shoulders and neck.
"Do not vex yourself, father," she said softly. "There is another way."
Viserys closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Then speak it, daughter… and thank you."
Viserra's fingers still rested lightly upon her father's shoulders when she spoke again – her voice low and steady, the sort that carried even through the murmur of rain against the high glass.
"Tell me, father," she began, her eyes drifting to the table and then to the council at large, "why do the Free Cities have no kings?"
The question hung oddly in the air.
Queen Alicent blinked, uneasy. "They… love their freedoms?" she offered, her tone uncertain.
"Partially," said Viserra, smiling faintly, "but not truly. If a man cunning enough rose in Pentos or Lys and gathered power absolute – called himself king, secured his line for a generation – he would found a monarchy as solid as ours. The difference is not of strength, but of tradition. For the Free Cities call themselves the Daughters of Valyria, and in that heritage lies their pride. Should they crown a king, they would no longer be free – no longer daughters of the Freehold, but orphans."
The chamber had grown still. Even Larys Strong, who had a habit of half-smiling through most discourse, now looked thoughtful.
"You all know the Freehold had no king," Viserra continued softly. "But do you know why? Why no lords, no princes, no crowns?"
Tyland Lannister, whose mind for structures of power had been honed since youth, spoke before he quite realized it. "Because of the dragons," he said.
Viserra inclined her head. "Indeed."
Viserys frowned, curious despite himself. "And how does that help us now?"
"With too many dragons," said Viserra, "no one can rule unchallenged. The Valyrian Freehold balanced its might through the many – its lords, its dragonriders, its competing bloodlines. It was dangerous, yes, but stable, for power shifted like the tides. Yet when one house, one hand, tries to hold all dragons at once, they burn the hand that holds them. During the Conqueror's reign, only his heir flew a dragon. Of King Jaehaerys's thirteen children, only three were permitted mounts: his heir, his spare, and his spare's wife. Prince Aemon, saw that his daughter became a dragonrider after Princess Alyssa's death, but the Old King's heart softened with age – and his restraint died with him. You, father, have followed his kindness. Now we have a court filled with dragons… and dragons breed ambition."
Viserys gave a weary chuckle. "So what is it you propose? That I make Westeros one vast Free City?"
"Not vast, father," she replied. "Only wiser."
The chamber leaned in, as if drawn by a spell.
"You were not born to your crown," Viserra said, her tone silken but edged. "You were chosen by the lords of the realm, as my mother's uncle once chosen by the magistrate in Lys – as Pentos chooses its Prince. You were elected, father, not ordained. So let us make that practice not a rare accident, but a rule. Let the crown of the Seven Kingdoms be an office, not an inheritance."
"Preposterous!" burst Grand Maester Mellos, his chain clattering as he half-rose. "The lords are not merchants to bargain for a throne! And the Faith will never abide by it. Rule flows from the gods, not from the will of men!"
Viserra inclined her head gracefully. "I understand your concerns, Grand Maester. But recall – the lords have already tasted the power to choose. They did choose my father once, when uncertainty ruled the realm. And the Faith of the Seven is the faith of Andals, not dragonlords. The Valyrians believed that to rule was not a birthright but a proof of worth. One must demonstrate strength, wisdom, and favor – in the eyes of gods and men alike. The rest is a ceremony."
Tyland Lannister studied her closely. Her poise was disarming; her reasoning dangerous. He could almost admire it.
Viserra continued, "When the Hand returns, he will see what good may come of such syncretism. Andal tradition wedded to Valyrian practicality. An elected monarch whose reign lasts seven years – in honor of the Faith – and who may not serve two terms consequently. The lords shall gather to vote anew each time, as they once did for my father."
"By the gods," murmured Mellos, sinking back.
"And what would this achieve?" Tyland asked, his curiosity unmasked.
"It would bring peace," Viserra said simply. "No bloodshed over succession. No sons at war with fathers, no brothers at war with brothers. Let Rhaenyra and Daemon reign if they must. When their term ends, the lords shall gather again and choose anew. Aegon cares little for crowns, and Aemond and Daeron–" she glanced at the Queen, who stiffened, "– may yet earn one without need to take it by force."
He watched her then as one watches a hawk twist in the wind. The King's hesitation had been long and soft, the kind of doubt that took root in a man's bones, but the Princess would not let it linger. She leaned forward, quick as a thought.
"It is a tall task, my daughter," Viserys said at last, voice small against the council room's high ribs, "and to be honest I am not sure it is my privilege to stir thousands of years–"
"Then who?" Viserra cut in, sharper than Tyland had ever heard her. The slight lift to her tone was almost a tremor. She rose and, without ceremony, knelt at her father's feet and took his hand. The motion made the chamber still. "Father, who are you?"
The King blinked, as if the question were a blade, and for once the old, royal composure failed him. For all his crown's weight, he had never been asked that by anyone before.
"He is our King and Sovereign, my lady," Tyland said, steadier than he felt.
"Not only that." Viserra's eyes locked on Viserys – no courtliness now, only iron and purpose. "I have said it to you many times, yet you seem to not understand it. You are the last rider of Balerion the Black Dread. He was not born in a cradle of the Red Keep nor in the Dragonpen. He wasn't born on Dragonstone either. He took his first breath in the heat of the Fourteen Flames. You are the last rider of that dragon. You are the last dragonlord of Valyria! Who is to make such decisions if not you! Father, please, trust in yourself again, just like the realm, no, just like I trust in you."
There was a small, dangerous silence. The Queen's face had gone white around the lips. The Grand Maester's fingers twitched near his chains. Larys, who kept his expression shallow and unreadable, cleared his throat and found a sound like assent.
"I support the Princess," Larys said smoothly, "and, in the spirit of precedent and stability, I would offer Harrenhal for a gathering – a Great Council – should Your Grace command."
Viserys still sat, the color gone from his cheeks, as if the very idea of himself in such a light was both foreign and opiate. Then Viserra slipped from the chamber in a flurry of silk; she returned moments later, breathless and flushed, clutching something long and dark at her hip.
She came to the King and drew the thing free. Ser Criston jumped forward as if a wordless alarm had been sounded; hands moved toward hilts. The hall held its breath. The Princess drew Blackfyre – the old sword that carried the shape of kings – and, in a motion as simple as it was theatrical, she set the blade into her father's hands.
For a long beat Viserys only stared at the metal, as if the iron had spoken his name. "I don't command the same respect my grandfather had," he confessed, smaller than the crown, voice thinner.
"You will," Viserra said, voice steady now but warm with conviction. "Balerion's skulls will hang on Harrenhal's walls again. Let the ghosts howl when the doom returns. Stand beneath the Conqueror's dragon and lift the Conqueror's sword. Only a fool will refuse to believe in you then. You are no fool, father."
Tyland could see the change take hold – subtle at first, then vast. The King's trembling hands closed around the hilt of Blackfyre, and the air in the chamber seemed to still. The light caught the blade's rippled steel, and its reflection burned across Viserys's face like living fire.
For a heartbeat he sat unmoving, as though the weight of the sword pressed against every year of his reign – all the softness, all the doubt, all the small humiliations. Then, slowly, he drew breath. His shoulders straightened. The tremor left his fingers. The dimness in his eyes kindled again.
It was as though the steel itself had called him back to himself.
He rose, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer frail or uncertain. It carried like iron striking stone.
"So it is decided," he said. "Let the heralds be sent. The realm shall be called to council once more."
The room uncoiled. Men and women exchanged looks. Tyland, who had watched many crooked crows and clever plans, felt the board rearrange under his hands. This was no mere shallow scheme; this would shake the foundations of this very kingdom. And Princess Viserra had just set Westeros into a completely different future.