Chapter 21: Otto Hightower I New View contentPersianPrince696913/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#44121 AC
Ten years outside the court – and those ten years were more than enough to set the realm on a dangerous path. In that time, there had been a war, a string of untimely deaths, and a swarm of foreigners gaining power in King's Landing.
One of them was especially dangerous. Viserra Targaryen.
Otto could recognize a snake when he saw one. To the rest of the realm she appeared a dutiful and loving daughter, but he knew better. Behind that façade of obedience lay careful design. She had made herself indispensable to the King – the only person who could truly sway him.
And with an elder sister like Rhaenyra, it was hardly difficult to appear the picture of filial devotion. He was disappointed in his own daughter, who after years of marriage and shared bed had never managed the same.
Still, he was glad Alicent was wise enough not to antagonize the girl. By keeping cordial terms, she had given their faction an advantage over the Blacks.
Now the new Great Council to come would have no equal in history. Otto saw the danger clearly. Though he was the younger brother to the Lord of Oldtown, he had always placed the interests of the Crown above all else – and yet today, that very Crown seemed intent on surrendering its strength.
This council would give the great lords a greater voice. Not a calamity in itself – before the Targaryens came with fire and forged their kingdom, the Andal and First Men kings had been little more than firsts among equals. But Otto looked further ahead.
Today, they would give official voices to lords. Tomorrow, would they heed merchants? The day after, would they tremble before townsfolk? Would they one day coddle peasants and serfs?
Only the gods knew the answer.
The foremost qualification for any who would stand as king or queen is that they be a dragonrider.
Aegon the Conqueror proved by fire what no army nor gold could not – that rule in this realm belongs to those who command dragons. It was not his brilliance that won Westeros, but Balerion's shadow. From that day forth, every crown in this dynasty has rested on the wings of its beast. From Aegon to Maegor, from Maegor to Jaehaerys, from Jaehaerys to Viesrys. In that regard, the custom would not change, for to sit the Iron Throne without a dragon is to hold a sword without a hand.
Organizing this Council was a challenge unlike any other – and relocating Balerion's skull was the least of its problems.
After the Conquest, the Black Dread had not ceased to grow, and in his final years his skull had become too vast to fit through any arch or doorway of Harrenhal. Fortunately, the great fire had long since destroyed much of the main hall's roof, allowing room for what came next. A guild of architects from Oldtown was summoned to devise a crane strong and intricate enough to lift the relic and lower it into the ruined chamber. Even then, new scaffolds and stonework had to be raised simply to fasten the skull upon the wall.
Otto was not a superstitious man, but even he had to admit – after the Black Dread's return, the restless murmurs of Harrenhal seemed to fade. Some whispered the ghosts were cowed into silence. More likely, he thought dryly, the masons had at last sealed enough gaps in the walls to keep the wind from howling through them.
The greater difficulty lay elsewhere – the Faith. Gaining its approval was another matter entirely, and for that he had to work alongside Princess Viserra. He would have preferred Daemon. The prince would have done as Maegor or Jaehaerys once did: bring a dragon to the Sept and threaten to burn all dissent to ash. Otto would have welcomed that simplicity. As a Hightower, he knew too well how hard it was to bargain with septons – ancient weasels forever hungry for gold and favor. If one ever wrote an honest chronicle of Oldtown, the through-line from its founding to the present day would be this: the Hightowers forever straining to appease the appetites of the High Septon.
But no – Viserra insisted upon diplomacy. A lasting accord, she said. So Otto let her lead, choosing instead to observe how the girl operated.
The High Septon and the Conclave, who had shown no interest in speaking with a woman, soon found themselves entranced. Viserra spoke knowledgeably of doctrine, citing the Seven-Pointed Star with fluency that startled even the greybeards. When the question of divine authority arose, she conceded that all power flowed from the gods – then fixed them with that calm, unblinking gaze and asked:
"And who, Your Graces, is the voice of the gods upon earth?"
The Conclave understood at once.
From the King's name, Viserra promised to build a great new sept in King's Landing, to grant the High Septon a seat upon the Small Council, and to ensure that, in this Great Council and all future assemblies, the Faith would hold one-third of the votes.
Within a day, after their closed deliberations, the Conclave issued its blessing upon the Young King's reforms.
The nobles followed suit, most eager to align themselves with the new order. Even the Ironborn, curiously enough, offered their support – no doubt encouraged by the presence of their own dragonriding princeling.
The Northmen were less forthcoming. In those cold, sprawling lands, where stone halls ruled over miles of wilderness, a lord's authority was absolute. They feared this council would set a precedent too dangerous for their own rigid order. Otto found their concern misplaced – the Northern culture was too far removed, its blood too old, to be reshaped by southern politics.
The Riverlands, however, were another matter.
In the Westerlands, the Lannisters ruled with the strength of a single hand; their rivals, the Reynes, had yet to rise high enough to challenge them. In the Reach, the Tyrells governed by Targaryen favor and Gardener legacy alike – first among equals, yes, but secure. In the Vale, the Arryns stood upon legend itself, their blood tracing back to Artys the Falcon Knight and the Winged King before him, and as they themselves claim to Hugor the Hill. The Vale's harmony rested on the delicate balance between Andals and First Men – a balance the Arryns guarded jealously.
But the Riverlands… the Riverlands were chaotic. The Tullys had neither legend nor conquest behind them. Only the Targaryen decree kept them in power. The Freys, Brackens, Blackwoods, Mallisters, Mootons – each was their equal in strength and pride. With the realm now moving toward councils and elections, Otto saw danger forming there first.
If the Iron Throne could be decided by votes among great houses, why not the status of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands? If kings were chosen, why not their liege lords?
Among the people, Rhaenyra was not fond of the idea. She believed her father had betrayed her, and the scandal was immediate. Her fury could be heard across the Red Keep; servants swore the very walls trembled with her shouting. At one point, even the King's patience broke. He ordered her removed from his chambers and sent back to Dragonstone to reflect on her behavior.
The most curious response came from Daemon. The Rogue Prince, usually a man of action and temper, was thoughtful – and quiet. He did not come to Rhaenyra's defense, and Otto understood why. He had never believed that marriage to be one of love. Daemon's aim had been to unite their claims, not their hearts.
Now, with the King's new decree, that purpose was gone. The union had lost its use. Otto could almost see the wheels turning behind the prince's eyes – calculating whether to honor his marriage oath or to cast it aside and present himself as a candidate in his own right.
And there was, of course, a loophole. Their marriage had been sealed by Valyrian custom, not under the Seven's blessing. To the Faith, it was no true union. Should Daemon wish it, he could cast it aside as easily as an old cloak. Otto knew the man's mind well enough – his disdain for bastards, his thinly veiled contempt for the princess's sons. In truth, the only vows Daemon Targaryen had ever kept were the ones that served him.
But alas, all such thoughts had to be set aside.
It was time for the Great Council itself.
Just as it had been during the reign of Jaehaerys, dark clouds gathered above Harrenhal. The air was heavy, damp, and restless with the smell of coming rain. Thunder rolled distantly beyond the Gods Eye – as if the gods themselves sought to witness what men were about to do.
By miracle or skill, the builders had managed to patch the roofs of the principal halls. Had they failed, the lords of the realm would have spent the council not sitting but swimming.
And all of them were here. Paramount Lords had came with all of their bannermen.
From the North, Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell had come with his uncle and regent Bennard Stark. With him came banners of Karstark, Manderly, Umber, Cerwyn, Dustin, Ryswell, Bolton, Reed, Flint, and Hornwood – a procession of grim, fur-clad men who spoke little and watched much.
From the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn, accompanied by the highborn lords of Royce, Corbray, Redfort, Belmore, Waynwood, Grafton, Templeton, Coldwater, Hersy, and Hunter – knights and mountain lords whose armor gleamed like the morning sky.
From the Riverlands, Lord Grover Tully presided, flanked by his vassals: Blackwood, Bracken, Frey, Mallister, Mooton, Piper, Vance, Darry, Smallwood, and Goodbrook.
The Westerlands glittered with gold and crimson. Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock had brought half his bannermen besides. There were Crakehall, Lefford, Marbrand, Brax, Banefort, Farman, Greenfield, Payne, Prester, and Reyne.
The Reach sent a garden of banners: besides Tyrell there sat Redwyne, Tarly, Florent, Rowan, Oakheart, Beesbury, Fossoway, Mullendore, Peake, and Hightower.
From the Stormlands, Lord Borros Baratheon thundered in, his booming voice filling the hall even before the horns announced him. With him came Caron, Dondarrion, Swann, Wylde, Fell, Tarth, Connington, Morrigen, Estermont, and Buckler.
From the Crownlands, near and ever-watchful, came the sworn lords of the capital – Rosby, Stokeworth, Massey, Darklyn, Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Rykker, Bar Emmon, and Hayford – the King's own neighbors and his fiercest petitioners.
And from the Iron Islands, a presence rare and unsettling – Harlaw, Greyjoy, Drumm, Botley, Goodbrother, Saltcliffe, Merlyn, Stonetree, Volmark, and Blacktyde – grim men smelling of salt and steel, their oaths as shifting as the tides.
Then came the Faith.
High Septons and Most Devout from every sept in the realm filled the chamber's rear ranks, their robes a sea of cream and gold. Some had even come from Dorne. Their presence was telling. The Faith, Otto thought, had chosen its moment well – perhaps to remind the realm that it alone could claim to unite where kings could not. They clearly wanted to show that they have means to "bring the last kingdom into the light."
And then, the horns sounded.
King Viserys I Targaryen entered.
He stood taller than Otto remembered. Beneath his black cloak, he seemed almost youthful again – ten years younger, perhaps, but twice as alive.
He took his place at the center of the hall, before the great throne upon which Jaehaerys the Conciliator had once presided during his own council. Above it hung a vast curtain of black and crimson silk, stretching from ceiling to floor – concealing whatever lay behind.
The murmurs quieted. Rain tapped faintly against the patched roof. The torches hissed.
Viserys lifted his hand. When he spoke, his voice carried to every corner – calm, steady, resonant.
"Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, and faithful servants of the realm – I thank you for answering my summons. Each of you stands here not for your house alone, but for the realm that binds us all. Today, we meet on a day second only to that which founded our Kingdom – the day Aegon the Conqueror raised Aegonfort from crude timber and began the uniting of Westeros."
He paused, letting the silence gather.
Then the great cloth behind him fell.
Gasps rippled through the chamber as Balerion's skull was revealed – a monstrous, blackened relic large enough to swallow every man and woman in this hall whole. The firelight danced across its cavernous jaws, glinting off fangs the length of spears. Shadows stretched and shivered along the walls, and for a heartbeat every lord and septon in that hall felt very, very small.
At that same moment, flames bloomed along the walls – narrow canals filled with oil, lit in perfect sequence. They encircled the chamber like a fiery crown. The light painted the skull to the color of magma rivers, and the King to a figure half-shadow and otherworldly.
Viserys drew Blackfyre. The blade caught the fire and sang with reflected crimson.
"This," he said, voice rising, "is Balerion the Black Dread – born in the pits of the Fourteen Flames, the last dragon of Old Valyria. Upon his back, Aegon Targaryen and his sister-wives with their dragons conquered and united these Seven Kingdoms beneath one rule."
He stepped forward, the sword glimmering like lightning.
"I am Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name – King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm – the last rider of Balerion, and the last Dragonlord of the Old Freehold."
"Heed my words," he thundered, his eyes bright as molten coin, "for today we step into a new age. From this day forth, this Council – gathered here in unity – shall decide the succession of every king and queen yet to come. The crown shall pass not by birth, but by choice. By fire and faith alike, the next ruler shall be chosen by those assembled here, and shall reign for seven years, to honor the Seven Who Are One."
"And thus, by your leave and witness, I declare this: I shall rule for seven more years. On the seventh year, you shall return here once more – and together, you shall choose the next deserving, to be the Dragon King from among the dragonriders of the realm."
The storm outside broke. Lightning flashed across the sky, and the sound rolled through the castle like a dragon's roar.
When the last echo of his words died in the vaulted hall, only the hiss of the burning channels could be heard – thin lines of orange flame running like veins along the stone. Balerion's skull loomed vast and silent behind the throne, its empty sockets glowing faintly with reflected light.
Viserys raised his gaze. His voice carried clearly, calm but absolute.
"Lords and ladies of the realm," he said, "you have heard your King's will. You have seen the truth that binds us – the fire that forged our house and the Seven Kingdoms alike. I ask now, before gods and men: who among you stands against it?"
The question hung like a drawn sword.
No one moved. The silence deepened until even the fire seemed to wait.
Jason Lannister shifted in his seat, his jeweled fingers twitching. Lord Tully stared at the floor. Lady Jeyne Arryn's gaze was level, unreadable. Even Borros Baratheon, loud as thunder an hour ago, said nothing.
Only the Old Kraken's lips curved in a faint, irreverent smile – but he did not rise.
At length, Viserys inclined his head. "So be it," he said softly, though the words struck like iron. "Then the realm has decided!"
He turned slightly toward Otto, who stood in the shadows beside the throne. "Let it be written, Lord Hand. The old order ends here – and a new one begins." Award ReplyReport50PersianPrince696913/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 22: Daemon Targaryen III New View contentPersianPrince696913/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#48121 AC
The feast roared beneath him. Music, laughter, clinking goblets – all the noises that accompany such events.
The lords of Westeros were drowning their doubts in wine and meat, each pretending to celebrate the birth of a new age. And seemed like only Daemon Targaryen could hear the echo underneath – the quiet crack that ran through the foundations of their house.
He left before the toasts began. No one dared stop him. The air in Harrenhal's halls was heavy with rain and smoke, and he felt it cling to his throat. He climbed the spiral stair to his chamber, every step louder than the last, until the noise of the feast faded entirely.
He shut the door behind him and stood in the dark. The flicker of a single candle made the skull on his shelf – some half-forgotten beast from the Stepstones – grin at him through the gloom. He poured himself a cup of wine, didn't drink it, then set it aside.
He did not know what he wanted more – the crown or the woman. Rhaenyra was with child again. His second child, this time. They already had Aegon together. And yet the thought brought him no peace.
Was it love? Or was it just another claim, wrapped in satine and poison? He couldn't tell anymore.
The crown called to him too, a whisper louder than any lullaby. For decades he had dreamed of it – the weight of it on his brow, the fire of Caraxes's breath behind him, the sound of men bowing not because they feared him, but because they must.
Now the crown was closer than ever – and further away than it had ever been.
He lay down, still dressed, boots half-muddied, the storm pressing against the shutters. Sleep came slowly, then all at once.
And then – the dream.
She came to him through the dark like a flame through smoke. Tall, pale, and terrible in her beauty. Her hair was silver-white, her eyes molten gold. Valyrian – unmistakably. But not of any blood he knew. Her skin shone like moonlight over steel. She did not speak, only smiled, and the smile made his pulse quicken and his breath turn shallow.
He reached for her. The dream had the weight of flesh, the heat of bodies intertwined. Her hands found his shoulders; his mouth found hers.
When she drew back, her lips brushed his ear. Her voice was not a whisper but a wind – cold, ancient, cutting through his bones.
"Seek solace in the weirwood," she said.
He woke up with a start. The candle had burned down to a pool of wax. His heart pounded like hooves on stone. The words still rang in his head.
The feast had long since burned out, leaving only the faint smell of wine and ale lingering through the corridors of Harrenhal. The air was cold and wet, seeping through the cracks in the ruined walls.
He rose without dressing fully, only throwing on his cloak. Sleep still clung to him – heavy, clotted with dream – and yet something in his chest would not let him rest. Daemon did not know yet of what had transpired in the middle of the previous night.
Outside, the castle lay drowned in mist. Caraxes stirred somewhere in the distance, the scrape of his scales against stone low and restless. Daemon crossed the empty yard, his boots splashing in shallow puddles, until the faint white glow of the godswood appeared through the fog.
There it stood – the great weirwood of Harrenhal. Its bark pale as bone, its carved face long since half-eroded by rain.
And then he saw it – a flicker of movement near the roots. A shadow shaped like a man, thin and green-tinged, slipping between the roots and vanishing into them as though into water.
Daemon blinked. Nothing there. The tree stood silent.
He took another step. Caraxes let out a long, uneasy wheeze, the sound rattling like a dying breath. The dragon crept closer, eyes burning orange in the morning gloom. Even the beast could feel it – that old, wrong pulse in the air.
The ground trembled faintly beneath Daemon's feet as he approached the trunk. The carved face on the weirwood seemed to watch him, the eyes hollowed by centuries. Then, slowly, a red gleam began to swell in those holes.
Thick crimson sap – too thick, too dark – began to bleed from the eyes and mouth, running in rivulets down the bark. It looked less like sap and more like blood.
Something – not will, not thought – pulled him closer. He reached out and laid his palm against the bleeding face. The world shattered.
Flame. Screams. Wings.
He saw dragons – dozens – tearing through black clouds, their fire staining the sky orange and gold. He saw a war beyond reckoning – castles aflame, banners torn, oceans boiling beneath wings.
Then, through the smoke, he saw a young man with a birthmark on his face, sitting inside the roots of a massive tree, veins and branches threading through his flesh as though he had become part of it. His eyes were white as snow, unblinking.
Then – another figure – a young man in black armor encrusted in rubies thrashing in dark water, hands clawing at the surface before vanishing beneath.
A red comet streaked across the sky. A girl stood beneath it, holding three hatchling dragons that screamed toward the heavens.
And through it all, a voice – calm, female, familiar – whispered behind him:
"It is just a story… and you have a part to play in it."
Daemon turned.
It was Helaena. His niece – but not the child she should have been. She was grown – a woman, radiant and strange, her silver hair moving like silk in unseen wind. Her eyes were wide, knowing, filled with a sorrow too old for her years.
Before he could speak, another voice came – deep, amused, wrong.
"Oh, poor girl," it said from everywhere and nowhere, "how wrong you are."
Daemon's hand went to his sword, though there was nothing to fight. He and Helaena turned together, searching the blackness that pressed around them.
"Who are you?" Daemon demanded.
A laugh – dry, splintering, echoing like cracking ice.
"Oh, you really want to know?"
"I do."
"No, Daemon. You don't."
He gasped awake – thrown backward from the tree, landing hard on the wet earth. His hand throbbed; blood ran from his torn palm. The weirwood loomed above him, silent again.
But the face – the carved face – was gone.
In its place gaped a dark, hollow wound, the bark split wide open as though something had burst out from within.
Footsteps. A woman's voice – sharp, panicked.
Alys Rivers was running toward him, cloak whipping behind her. She froze when she saw the bleeding tree and the man before it.
"Oh no," she whispered, her eyes wide with dread. "Fool… what have you done?" Award ReplyReport37PersianPrince696913/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 23: Alicent Hightower I New View contentPersianPrince696914/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#51121 AC
Alicent woke to screaming.
For a moment, she thought it was thunder – the storm over Harrenhal had been rumbling since dusk – but the sound was closer, shriller. Then she recognized the voice.
Helaena.
The girl sat upright in bed, eyes wide and wet, her small hands clawing at the sheets. "He's here!" she cried. "He's here, Mother, in my dream – he's here!"
Alicent was out of her own bed before she could think, pulling her daughter into her arms, murmuring comfort against the child's hair. "Shh, sweetling, it's only a dream. There's no one here."
But Helaena only trembled harder. "He smiled at me," she sobbed. "A man with no eyes. He smiled and–" She broke off with a strangled whimper and buried her face against Alicent's neck.
Alicent stroked her back, trying to steady her breathing. The chamber was cold and still, lit only by the gray moonlight leaking through the cracked shutters. Somewhere far below, she could hear the wind howling through Harrenhal's broken towers.
Then something moved across her arm.
It was faint at first – a brush, a tickle – but then it climbed. Alicent froze. Whatever it was, it was heavy enough that she could feel the small shifting weight of it against her sleeve, scaling upward, toward her collar.
She turned her head.
A centipede – thick as her finger, glistening bronze in the dim light – was crawling across her shoulder.
A sound tore from her throat. She flung it away, shuddering, her hands brushing frantically at her skin. The creature hit the wall and vanished into shadow.
Before she could draw breath, every candle in the room flared to life.
The wicks had long burned out hours ago, but now they rose with sudden, unnatural vigor – a burst of heat that painted the walls gold and red. Helaena whimpered again, clinging to her mother's sleeve.
Then the flames grew.
They didn't burn as candles should – they roared. Long tongues of fire leapt upward, reaching the beams, bending like living things. The air grew searing, choking. Alicent could smell the wax melt, the fabric smoke – and beneath it, something else. Something alive.
The walls began to move.
At first she thought it was the fire's shimmer, but then she saw the truth – the stones were crawling. Thousands of small shapes poured from the cracks and corners: beetles, flies, crickets, centipedes, things she didn't have names for. They swarmed across the floor and up the walls, a living carpet that rustled like dry leaves.
And then – impossibly – they began to hurl themselves into the flames.
The insects threw their fragile bodies into the fire, hissing and bursting, wings crackling in the heat. More came, drawn as if by instinct or command, until the air was thick with the sound of burning chitin. The fire dimmed under their mass, flaring, then sputtering, as though the swarm meant to smother it with their own sacrifice.
Helaena screamed again. Alicent grabbed her tighter, backing toward the door.
That was when she heard it.
A laugh.
Low at first, almost beneath hearing – but it came from everywhere at once: from the stones, the rafters, the very walls. It was a man's laughter, rich and cruel and delighted, echoing as if the castle itself were mocking them.
Alicent's knees gave way. She clutched her daughter and screamed.
The door burst open.
Ser Criston Cole stood there, sword drawn, his white cloak dragging through the haze. The sight of him – broad, solid, real – felt like salvation.
He took in the scene in a single heartbeat: the burning candles, the smoke, the writhing floor. "By the Seven…" he muttered, then strode forward.
"Ser – the room –!"
He didn't let her finish. He caught both the Queen and the Princess in his arms, turned, and ran. The insects parted under his boots in a sizzling wave.
Behind them, the door slammed shut with a gust of wind that hadn't existed a moment before.
Ser Criston did not stop running.
The Queen clung to one shoulder, the Princess to the other, her small fingers locked around his gorget. Alicent could hear his breath rasping beneath the din of her own heartbeat. The corridors of Harrenhal blurred past – cold, wet, echoing. Behind them, the faint crackle of flame still hissed through the stones.
They reached the King's chambers at last. Two white cloaks stood on vigil before the doors: the twin Cargills, pale and identical in the torchlight.
"Ser Criston?" said Arryk, stepping forward. "What–"
"Open the door," Cole barked, his voice raw. "Now."
One look at the Queen's ashen face was enough. The twins moved at once, unbarring the doors and throwing them wide.
Inside, King Viserys stirred awake with a start as Criston carried the women in. "By the Seven – Alicent?"
She could barely form words. Helaena was still trembling, her eyes glassy, murmuring fragments of her dream. The Queen's own voice shook as she spoke.
"Something… in our chambers," she stammered. "It–it burned, and there were insects, thousands of them, swarming the walls – the candles – they burned like dragonfire–"
Her words tumbled over one another. Criston stood beside her, his white armor smeared with soot and crushed chitin, silent as stone but pale beneath the grime.
Viserys struggled upright, disbelief clouding his tired eyes. "You're sure it wasn't–?"
"Your Grace," Criston interrupted, his voice flat and hard. "I saw it with my own eyes. No trick of candle or dream. The chamber was aflame, the air alive with crawling things."
That broke the hush. Servants, who were on a vigil that night, were already whispering outside the door, and soon the ripple reached further. Within minutes, the chamber filled with the court's heavyweights – drawn from sleep by rumor.
Otto Hightower entered first, robe hastily thrown over his nightclothes, eyes already sharp. Behind him came the three princes – Aegon bleary, Aemond stiff-backed and watchful, Daeron blinking confusion.
Then Princess Viserra swept in, Tyland Lannister at her side, and with them his cousin Ser Lancel, the man whose broken helm and pride had once marked the melee at King's Landing.
Larys Strong arrived last, limping heavily, leaning on his cane but alert, the shadows seeming to follow him into the room.
In the corner stood all seven members of the Kingsguard, silent pillars in white. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
"What madness is this?" Otto demanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
"Not madness," Alicent said, forcing her words past her trembling lips. "We saw it. The Princess screamed – I woke – and the room… the candles lit themselves. Then the insects came. They threw themselves into the fire as if trying to quench it. And there was laughter–"
That last word seemed to hang like smoke. Laughter. A silence followed – the kind born not of doubt but of dread.
Finally, Tyland Lannister spoke, his tone cautious. "Perhaps we should… see this room for ourselves, Your Grace."
Viserys hesitated only a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Bring torches. I want no tales of sorcery or hysteria whispered through my halls."
And so they went.
The seven white knights led the way – Criston, the Cargills, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Rickard Thorne, Ser Willis Fell, and Ser Lorent Marbrand – swords drawn, torches high. The King followed with the Queen and her father, the princes trailing behind, and half the court pressing in their wake like moths to the flame.
When they reached the Queen's chamber, the stench met them first.
It was thick and sickly – burnt wax, smoke, and something fouler beneath, the sharp, sweet rot of scorched flesh. The door creaked open.
Inside, the room was black.
The first torches lifted and light spilled across the floor. The sight stopped even the most hardened knight.
Piles of insect corpses blanketed the stone – charred beetles, shriveled centipedes, melted wings. They coated the furniture like ash, a brittle carpet that cracked underfoot. The air shimmered faintly with heat.
The candles lay scattered, their wax pooled in strange patterns, and the walls – gods, the walls – were streaked black with soot, every inch of stone stained as if by dragonflame.
No ordinary fire had done this.
Criston took a step forward, his torch raised, and the light picked out a mark near the hearth – a smudge too dark to be a mere burn. For an instant it looked almost like a handprint, scorched deep into the stone.
Behind him, Alicent clutched her daughter tighter. Helaena's wide eyes reflected the torchlight like glass.
"It's gone," she whispered, though no one had asked her.
No one answered.
Only the wind howled through Harrenhal's broken towers, and somewhere far away, Dreamfyre's uneasy rumble rolled through the night.
They left the chamber one by one, as if afraid to turn their backs on it.
The knights withdrew first, silent beneath their white cloaks, torches guttering in their hands. The Queen was led away by Ser Criston, her arm trembling in his grasp, Helaena pressed close against her side. Behind them walked the King, half-limping, half-dazed, with Otto close at his shoulder, whispering counsel the King no longer seemed to hear.
Viserra lingered at the threshold for a moment, her violet eyes lingering on the blackened walls. Something in her expression flickered – curiosity, not fear – before she turned and followed the rest.
Larys Strong was the last to leave. He paused beside the doorway, leaning on his cane, and looked once more at the scorch mark near the hearth. His mouth twitched – not quite a smile, but something near it – before he, too, vanished into the dark corridor.
The castle did not sleep after that.
Servants whispered through the halls, passing rumors like contagion. The guards doubled their patrols, though none dared linger near the Queen's wing. The storm outside had quieted, but within Harrenhal's vast and broken bones, the air still thrummed with unease — as though the stones themselves remembered what they had seen.
In their separate chambers, the great lords tossed and turned.
Otto lay awake, staring at the ceiling, mind racing with questions he could not voice. He had lived long enough to distrust miracles, and this – whatever it was – had the stench of something older and fouler than sorcery.
Viserra sat by her window, unmoving, the candle before her burned down to its last inch. When it finally died, she did not relight it.
Criston Cole polished his sword by lamplight, every scrape of the cloth against steel too loud in the silence. He told himself it was to keep his hands busy, but in truth, he feared what his thoughts might conjure if they were idle.
Larys Strong dreamed with his eyes open.
In the King's chambers, Viserys sat beside the bed where Alicent lay clutching Helaena's hand, her hair unbound, her face pale in the flicker of the brazier. The King reached to comfort her but stopped halfway, his fingers trembling. He stared into the fire instead – into the shadows that danced along the walls – and thought, it laughed. Award ReplyReport35PersianPrince696914/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 24: Daemon Targaryen IV New View contentPersianPrince696915/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#55121 AC
Daemon heard of what had transpired in the night only later that day, when the King summoned him privately.
He found Viserys seated by the hearth, eyes shadowed with fatigue. The tale had already spread through every hall of Harrenhal – the Queen's screams, the fire that was not fire, the insects that burned like tinder. The court spoke of witchcraft, curses, and divine omens.
Viserys talked of it wearily, as though repeating a tale he wished was untrue. "They are frightened," he said. "All of them. Alicent will not sleep, and the girl…" He shook his head.
Daemon said nothing. His face was calm, but his thoughts stirred uneasily. He had dreamt too – and of things stranger still. But he had no intention of sharing that with his brother. Some knowledge, he thought, was better left unspoken.
When Viserys turned to other matters, Daemon was glad for it. The King's eyes brightened faintly as he spoke of his new plan – one born, he said, from reflection and necessity.
"Once we return to King's Landing," Viserys began, "the Crown will begin surveying the realm – identifying unclaimed lands, or those for sale, fit for settlement. The family must grow, Daemon. Not just in numbers, but in root and purpose."
Daemon tilted his head. "What purpose?"
"To give each of us – every dragonrider of our line – a place of their own. A domain to shape as they see fit. Let them prove their worth not in council halls, but in the world itself. And those who care nothing for the throne may at least have enough peace to raise their lands and their children in calm."
Daemon smiled faintly. "You mean to scatter the family across Seven Kingdoms."
Viserys chuckled. "To plant it, rather. So the roots may deepen. And from now on, every dragonrider will receive a stipend from the royal treasury – to maintain their beasts properly. The 'dragon price,' as I've named it."
He spoke the words with pride, as though announcing a law that would outlast him.
"The Red Keep, the Dragonpit, and Dragonstone," he continued, "shall henceforth be neutral grounds – open to all of our kin. Dragonstone especially. It is the only place that truly suits the life of dragons. No one will claim it as their own."
Daemon listened quietly, his expression unreadable. "And what of these lands you mean to grant?" he asked. "Have the claimants already begun circling?"
Viserys's laughter filled the chamber. "Of course. Aegon wants land in the Reach – he says near the Arbor, though I suspect he's thinking more of its wine than its soil. Daeron, too, has asked for the Reach, near Oldtown, so he may be close to the Citadel. Aemond…" He waved a hand dismissively. "Aemond says he'll go wherever the wind takes him."
Daemon nodded once, his gaze fixed on the fire. "And what of me?"
"You've yet to choose," said the King. "If you have a preference, speak it."
A long silence followed. The fire popped.
At last Daemon rose. "No," he said. "I'll find mine on my own."
Viserys looked up, puzzled. "You refuse land?"
"I refuse to be granted it," Daemon replied evenly. "If I want something, I'll take it. On my own terms. With my own sword. With my own dragon. Just like I took the Stepstones."
He turned and left before the King could answer.
Outside the hall, the corridors of Harrenhal were cold and silent. Through the broken windows, he saw the God's Eye gleam like dull iron beneath the gray sky. Caraxes stirred somewhere in the distance, a low rumble echoing through the stones.
Daemon paused, his hand brushing the wall. For a fleeting moment, the air seemed to shimmer – a reflection of something unseen. He exhaled through his nose.
"Let the rest play at peace and gardens," he murmured. "I was never meant to die in bed."
And with that, he walked into the mist.
Daemon did not stay long after leaving his brother's chambers. He went straight to the stables near which Caraxes lay coiled in the shadow of the ruined tower, his breath curling like smoke through the cracks.
The prince wore no armor – only fine black garments and a traveling cloak clasped with silver. But he was never unarmed. Dark Sister hung at his hip, as it always did.
He had learned that lesson in Pentos.
There had been a night there when death came for him – quiet as whispers. Assassins, hired by some Pentoshi coward whose name Daemon never learned, crept into his home. He had no sword that evening; the house seemed secure, the city friendly. Foolish thought.
The first man Daemon felled with a single punch, hard enough to break bones. He wrenched the man's blade from his grasp and ran to his chamber, where Dark Sister waited. By dawn, six corpses littered the floor each cut in halves.
After that, he carried the sword even to take a shit.
Laena had laughed, but not for long. The attack had left scars not on flesh, but in hearts. Baela, fierce as her mother, grew colder. Rhaena… gentler, quieter, frightened by every shadow. Daemon still blamed himself. Perhaps that fear had bled into her dragon egg, strangling the life within. He knew, better than most, that the bond between dragon and rider could form even before either understood it – a link of chance, not of choice.
Just as it had been with him and Caraxes.
When his uncle Aemon was slain by Myrish crossbows, Caraxes had returned to Dragonstone alone. He refused every one for three long years – until Daemon came. The dragon had known him, somehow. Daemon still remembered that day: the roar, the heat, the sudden clarity – like two halves of one soul recognizing each other.
Even before that, as a boy, he had felt drawn to the red wyrm, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was the color. His earliest memory was not of his mother's face, but of her voice, laughing as she carried him aloft on Meleys, the Red Queen. Maesters said he had first flown before he could even walk – a fortnight old, a babe in swaddling cloths.
When Caraxes finally accepted him at fourteen, Daemon had thought himself invincible. Now, with age, he found the memory almost tender – and that sentiment annoyed him deeply.
By midday of purposeless flight, his hunger gnawed. He had eaten nothing, drunk nothing. From the sky, astride Caraxes, the world looked small and gray beneath him – and then, through the dragon's eyes, he saw it: an inn. Large, low, and busy. A good place to disappear for a few hours.
They descended upon a field a fair distance away, careful not to stir panic – though sheep scattered in all directions, bleating madly. Daemon dismounted and stroked Caraxes's neck. At least the dragon would have his little feast too.
"Stay," he commanded in High Valyrian. The dragon's yellow eyes narrowed, but he obeyed.
A peasant nearby had fallen to his knees, clutching his cap, trembling so hard the dirt shook. His flock had vanished, likely half-eaten by now. Daemon tossed him a few gold dragons for the trouble. The man stammered out thanks between gasps, and when Daemon asked for the name of the place, he blurted:
"Some call it the Crossroads Inn, m'lord. Others… the Clanking Dragon."
Daemon arched an eyebrow. "Mocking me, are you?"
The man turned white as chalk. "N-no, m'lord! It's for the sign – an iron dragon above the door, all rust and chains. It clanks when the wind blows."
Daemon almost smiled. "Fitting."
He left the peasant kneeling in the mud and walked toward the inn. At the entrance, the black iron sign swayed, creaking, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen rendered crudely and half-eaten by rust. As he stepped inside, it rattled once – clank – behind him, as though laughing.
The common room smelled of smoke, ale, and old wood. A few locals looked up, then quickly looked down again. Daemon pulled his cloak tighter and found a table in the farthest, darkest corner.
A brown-haired serving girl hurried over, smiling nervously. "What'll it be, ser?"
"Fried mutton," Daemon said. "And your best wine."
He'd spent enough nights in Flea Bottom to know the worth of not drinking what the piss smallfolk called wine. He'd tried it once as a youth and nearly went blind.
The girl bobbed a curtsey and rushed off. Daemon leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, the firelight glinting faintly on the Valyrian steel at his hip.
For now, he was just another traveler. And that suited him well.
The food was brought to him – steaming, spiced, rich. Daemon fell upon it not as a prince, but as a starving beast. The mutton was tender, the wine surprisingly good – far better than the watery swill served at the New Great Council. He tore through it with unceremonious hunger, his thoughts elsewhere.
Halfway through his meal, a voice intruded – low, raspy, yet oddly cheerful.
"Good day, dear ser. Would you object if I joined you? All the other tables seem full, and a lone, weary merchant must rest his legs somewhere."
Daemon lifted his gaze. The common room was full – packed, in fact, with travelers and sellswords, a few faces familiar from past tourneys. Then he looked at the man who had spoken.
He was… ordinary. Utterly so. The sort of man one's eyes slid over without noticing. Bald, of average build and height, plain brown eyes, pale skin, simple travel clothes. A man who could disappear in a crowd and never be remembered.
He smiled pleasantly.
Daemon considered telling him to fuck off – the words came to the edge of his tongue – but something in him hesitated. Perhaps age had made him softer, or perhaps curiosity stayed his hand. The young Daemon would have drawn Dark Sister at a stranger's boldness. The older one only gestured for him to sit.
The man inclined his head in thanks and waved to the serving girl.
"Darling! Bring me everything you brought to this fine gentleman."
The girl bobbed a quick yes and vanished toward the kitchen.
"Seems my luck runs high today," the stranger said with an easy grin.
Daemon leaned back. "A good trade?"
"You could say that. It's not every day one shares a table with a dragonriding prince."
Daemon smirked. "So you recognize me. I'm afraid I can't return the favor."
"I'm a humble mirror merchant, Your Grace. I'd be shocked if you did."
"A humble merchant with a silver tongue." Daemon's hand brushed Dark Sister's hilt – lightly, but enough.
"Merely a man of education," the stranger replied. "Fond of songs and stories. There are many about you, especially among the smallfolk."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Which ones?"
"The one where you slew the Crabfeeder, for instance. Not with dragonfire, but with your own sword. A tale of courage and skill. Sometimes I envy silver-haired men. You seem to breed greatness and adventures love to follow you wherever you go."
Daemon chuckled softly. "Not all of us." He took another sip of wine. The stranger, meanwhile, looked about the room with quiet fascination.
"Ah, what a fine place this is," he mused. "Unremarkable at first glance, yet somehow at the center of everything. So many stories have crossed paths here."
Daemon's interest piqued despite himself. "Stories?"
"Oh, indeed. Kings and queens, lords and bastards. The Old King and his Good Queen once lodged here – hence the iron dragon at the door. Before that, there were two crowns upon its sign. Starks, Lannisters, Tullys – all have supped at these tables. Strange, isn't it, how one place can collect so many crossroads of fate?"
Daemon gave a low snort. "You seem fond of tavern gossip."
"In my trade, every scrap of rumor has value," the man said mildly. Then, almost as an afterthought, "You seem troubled, my prince. May I ask what burdens you?"
Daemon hesitated. But Mysaria's voice flitted through his mind: It's easier to speak to a stranger than to a friend – a stranger can't judge what he doesn't know.
He leaned back. "Perhaps I am, perhaps I'm not."
"Ah. Then it's one of two things – love or the crown. Or both."
Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly. "And how would you know that?"
"I read faces," said the stranger. "Though yours is a challenge. Men with silver hair can cloud the eyes."
Daemon smirked. "Then tell me, reader of faces – what do you see?"
"A man of vast talent. Brave, cunning, reckless. A man who could be the greatest name in history, the most important one – if only he knew why he wanted it."
Daemon tilted his head. "And what am I missing, then?"
"Purpose," the man said softly. "Direction. You have a dragon, a sword, a woman, and a will sharper than either blade or fang – yet you are restless. You always want more. And worst, you don't know what that even is. Everything you achieve turns out to be completely not what you desired."
Daemon barked out a laugh. Louder than he meant to. Oddly, no one looked their way.
"And what's your counsel, O wise mirror man?"
"Simple. Be what you are. You were not made to rule, but to act. To burn, to change, to destroy and make anew. You are a dragon, Daemon Targaryen – not a man pretending to ride one."
Daemon laughed harder, shaking his head. "You're mad, merchant. Mad or drunk."
He tossed a pouch of gold and silver onto the table. "Here. You've earned your supper. I haven't laughed that well in years."
He turned toward the door, then paused and looked back. "Tell me, merchant. What's your name?"
The man smiled that same placid, unblinking smile.
"Gaunter O'Dimm, my prince. I do hope we'll meet again – I can be very entertaining."
Daemon said nothing, only stared for a heartbeat – that faint, uneasy itch prickling at the back of his mind. Then he left.
Behind him, the sign of the iron dragon clanked once more in the wind.
Chapter 25: Serala Rhaelys I New View contentPersianPrince696915/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#59122 AC
Finally, the day had come – her golden child was returning.
Ever since Serala had married Maro Maerion and made Volantis her home, she had seen her daughter far too seldom. The letters came faithfully, always in Viserra's sharp, elegant hand, but words on parchment were a poor substitute for her presence.
According to Westerosi counting, she had wed in 115 AC. She had been thirty then – not young, though still beautiful – and she and Maro had spent a full year trying to conceive before the gods granted her a child. Or rather, children. Two boys, twins – Valerion and Viserion – born strong, loud, and perfect. They were wild little things, restless and bright, utterly unlike their older sister. She loved them dearly, but Viserra… Viserra had always been different.
She remembered little of that first pregnancy, but one vision had never faded: a young man wreathed in light, radiant as the dawn, who came to her in dreams. He had spoken softly, soothing her fears, promising that the child she carried would be extraordinary.
When Viserra had learned she was with child, she had left the Red Keep at once, flying across the Narrow Sea to Volantis on her dragon. She told them she had stopped at Gogossos to gather rare herbs from ancient tomes to aid in late pregnancies – ancient remedies of the dragonlords, found only among the ruins of the cursed island.
Serala had smiled, though she never quite believed the tale. Her daughter had always been mischievous, secretive – a serpent's mind behind a maiden's grace. Whatever she truly sought there, it had worked. Viserra mixed strange concoctions of powdered roots and crushed petals, vials of dark liquids and pale oils, and prepared special baths heavy with herbs that shimmered faintly upon the water.
Maro had been wary at first – the smell alone could make one dizzy – but Viserra insisted. "It soothes the womb," she said. "It teaches the blood to behave and prepares the body to have a smooth labor." And so Serala obeyed. She drank what her daughter told her to drink: potions that tasted of copper and rust, teas that burned the throat yet left her strong.
The birth had been easy. Miraculously so. When she first saw her sons, she gasped – not from pain, but from recognition. Their ears were slightly pointed, delicate at the tips, like their sister's. Maro laughed it off as a trick of shape, but Serala knew better.
Now, five years later, Valerion and Viserion were lively little warriors in their own minds, always pretending to guard their sister's honor, though they usually ended up hiding behind her at the first loud noise. Viserra adored them for it – she spoiled them as though they were her own sons.
Albeit joyful at the thought of seeing her daughter again, Serala knew well the true reason for Viserra's visit.
A new khal had risen on the grass sea – Rakho the Flame-Mane, they called him. With twenty thousand riders, he had already swept down upon the northern tributaries on the Rhoyne, burning villages and smaller cities, seizing slaves, and vanishing eastward again to face his rivals. Luckily, the Dothraki didn't yet reach the city of Selhorys. But everyone in Volantis knew he would return – stronger, hungrier, and bolder. And Volantis, for all its wealth and pride, was not ready.
Viserra, as ever, was thinking ahead. In her letters, she had spoken of alliances forged for the city's sake – or so she said. She had secured an agreement with the Ironborn. Her son, Imlerith, would be sent to Pyke as a ward, dragon and all, to be raised in their ways. In return, the Greyjoys would lend their swiftest ships for one campaign – an expedition against the Dothraki along the Rhoyne.
When Serala had asked, half in jest, whether she was not afraid to send the boy among raiders and pirates, Viserra's reply had been as cold as it was confident. "He'll fit in," she'd written. "Too well, perhaps."
And Serala had believed her. Imlerith was a strong, ruthless, and simple boy, like a blade. He did not brood or plot. He had been restless in the Red Keep, half-mad with boredom. On the Iron Isles, he would be at home.
Before Viserra's return, a plan had already taken shape – one woven through weeks of letters between her, Serala, and Maro Maerion.
First, they agreed on the terms of the Ironborn alliance. When the Greyjoy fleet arrived, its captains would have free right to whatever plunder they could carry from the Dothraki – gold, livestock, or flesh. Their ships were small, their holds shallow, so the loss would be limited. The promise of spoils would keep them loyal, and Volantis would pay them little else.
Second, there was the matter of Viserra's own reward. She had long dreamt of re-establishing Gogossos – not as a city, but as a fortress. To that end, a fifth of the Dothraki slaves taken would be hers by agreement. The Ironborn fleet, joined by the ships of her grandfather Raelano, would carry them to the Smoking Sea. Raelano himself would procure free architects and master builders, and among the slaves he would purchase those skilled in stonework and construction. Outwardly, the endeavor would bear the Tigers' mark – a Volantene expansion south beyond the Summer Sea, not the private enterprise of a Westerosi princess. The truth must remain hidden; slave-ownership would win her no favor in the courts across the Seven Kingdoms.
Third, they settled the question of the Unsullied. Despite the Ironborn pact, Volantis still reeled from seven years of Elephant domination, its armies thin and ill-trained. Someone had to fill the gaps. Viserra would travel to Astapor herself to negotiate a purchase under Volantis's name, using Volantene gold. At the same time, she would quietly buy a smaller contingent for her own purposes, funded partly by Raelano. Both transactions would appear as one – the city buying soldiers, nothing more.
Fourth and last, came logistics. The new "colony" – publicly a Volantene agricultural outpost – would depend on Volantis for food in its first year. During that time, the slaves would clear enough land for future crops and pastures. Half of the captured Dothraki livestock would be sent to the Isle of Tear to form the first herds. The Basilisk Isles, though cursed in rumor, possessed fertile soil; in time, the settlement would feed itself and supply Volantis alike.
On parchment, the plan looked like sound commerce and civic duty – a triumph for the Tiger faction. And none would be wiser, for who would expect a young woman to orchestrate such plans.
Aenyx descended in wide spirals, his wings slicing the sunlight as the city of Volantis rose to meet him. The tiger banners rippled atop the black walls, and the ancient stones below shone like polished dragonbone. His shadow passed across the Long Bridge, sending merchants and priests alike scattering into the arcades of their temples.
He landed within the Triarchs' inner court. The guards stumbled back, clutching their spears, their courage melting in the dragon's heat. Only two women stood unmoved – Serala and Saera – their veils whipping in the hot wind.
Serala stepped forward first.
"My daughter," she said, her voice trembling just enough to betray her joy. "The gods favor me. I thought your duties in the west would keep you chained there."
Viserra slid from the saddle in one lithe motion, the dragon's eyes gleaming behind her.
"No man has yet forged the chains to hold me, Mother."
They embraced, and for a moment the heat of the dragon seemed to fade. Saera, silver-haired and smiling in that usual, knowing way of hers, watched them both.
"Seems your beast has made quite an impression," she said lightly.
Viserra's mouth curved faintly.
Together they passed through marble corridors veined with purple and gold, the air thick with myrrh and sweet incense, until they reached the private audience hall. Waiting for them was Maro Maerion – one of two Tiger Triarchs, merchant prince, and Serala's husband. He had been out of office for a few years, but gold and looming danger had a way of washing sins clean. His rings glittered as he rose to greet them.
"Daughter of my heart," he said, spreading his arms. "The skies of Volantis have not known such beauty since your last visit. Welcome home."
Viserra inclined her head, her tone edged with mild amusement. "Then let us hope my shadow brings fortune, not fear."
"Fortune, yes," Maro replied. "Fear – we already have enough of that. Sit, all of you."
The opening pleasantries flowed as easily as the wine – talk of Saera's new verses, of Serala's younger children chasing one another through the gardens, of the endless bickering in the Council of Elephants and Tigers. Maro's smile never faltered, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed the weight of matters waiting to be spoken.
At last, when the servants withdrew and the laughter faded, he gestured for Viserra to follow him through a side door. The chamber beyond was small, its walls hung with silk maps of Essos. On the floor, a dozen leather sacks stood open, the gold within them gleaming like captive sunlight.
Maro's voice dropped to a practical tone.
"One tenth of what we owe," he said. "The rest will be sent back with the ships when the soldiers arrive. Volantis will take ten thousand Unsullied; you will take your share quietly – the gold from Master Raelano is there as well. Enough for a thousand, perhaps a few more, if you bargain well."
Viserra moved closer, her fingers trailing across one of the bags.
"Did the Triarchs approve this much?"
"They can't not approve," he said. "Otherwise the horde will pillage and take much more."
The War Room
Viserra had left, flying over the Demon Road. She returned the same way she left a few days later. After a brief rest, Maro summoned her to attend the war council.
The council chamber was vast and gilded and full of fresh air. At its center stood a marvel – a table the size of a galley's deck, carved entirely from polished stone. It showed all the lands from the Disputed Plains to the Grass Sea, every river and hill raised in relief. Mountains jutted like pale scars, forests sprouted from tiny sculpted branches, and the Rhoyne gleamed with blue glass that caught the lamplight like running water.
Viserra thought, not without amusement, that a small castle in the Riverlands could have been bought for the price of that one table.
Twelve men were already gathered when she entered; with Maro and herself, they made fourteen. They rose in courtesy – even those who hid their disdain for women in armor did not dare show it to a dragonrider.
The air was thick with arguments.
"…–Selhorys grows insolent," one merchant-general was saying. "Their tribute arrives late every moon, if it arrives at all. Let them fend for themselves when the horselords come. We owe them nothing but our contempt."
Another, older, shook his head. "And when the Dothraki finish with them, they will come for us. If Selhorys burns, Volon Therys and Valysar will join their ashes, and we will face a united revolt on the Rhoynar, disrupting the river trade. We cannot abandon a tributary."
Maro raised a hand, the gold on his fingers catching the firelight. "Enough. We trade words while the grass burns. I would hear cooler counsel. Harad, what say you?"
All eyes turned to the man seated in shadow near the wall. His features marked him as Valyrian – pale hair, violet eyes dulled to gray. He cleared his throat softly before speaking.
"I've received reports from the east," he said. His voice was quiet, but carried. "Rakho the Flame-Mane has crushed one of his rivals. He now commands thirty thousand riders, perhaps more. The other khals will fall to him in time – if they do, he could muster fifty, even seventy thousand. If we leave Selhorys unguarded, he will bypass the Painted Mountains entirely, sweep north, and strike the Rhoyne's plains. Nothing will stop him then."
A murmur rippled through the chamber – unease, quickly masked as debate resumed in low, clipped voices.
Then Maro spoke.
"We have 3,000 footmen ready, 1,000 cataphracts, and 200 war elephants," he began, his tone calm but clipped. "Selhorys has grown as sluggish as we have – they can muster perhaps 2,000 footmen, 500 light cavalry, and not even fifty elephants. In a few weeks' time, we'll have 10,000 Unsullied, and a contingent of 3,000 Ironborn will arrive not long after. Their ships are smaller, fit for the rivers, which means we can ferry our host to Selhorys faster than marching overland. Volon Therys and Valysar have pledged 2,000 more men and a hundred horse between them in total. Altogether, we stand at twenty thousand foot, a thousand cataphracts, six hundred light horse, and two hundred fifty war elephants."
He paused, letting the numbers hang in the air. "Against seventy thousand riders," he said at last, "our chances are slim."
A heavy silence followed before one of the elder senators muttered, "We've already posted heralds for mercenaries from Lys to Norvos."
Another waved him off. "It won't amount to much. The war of the Stepstones drained every free company east of the Rhoyne. Pentos and Braavos are snarling at each other again over Andalos, so they'll send no swords. The Second Sons might come, but they can't bring more than a thousand. Five thousand extra at best – and half of them drunk."
Murmurs of reluctant agreement filled the hall.
Then one of the generals glanced at Viserra. "We forget ourselves," he said. "We have a dragon. What are numbers when fire itself fights beside us?"
All eyes turned toward her – some with awe, some with hope, others with the thin smile of men who'd never seen dragonfire up close.
Before she could answer, Harad, the Valyrian-featured man from before, spoke. His voice was quiet but carried through the chamber.
"During the Second Spice War," he said, "when Garin the Great marched with two hundred and fifty thousand, the Freehold sent a hundred thousand soldiers – and three hundred dragons. Three hundred," he repeated, letting the number sink in. "To face one horde. If we pit one dragon against fifty thousand riders, every man with a bow will loose into the sky. The beast will burn bright – but not for long."
The chamber fell still. The words struck like iron.
Even the flickering light across the blue-glass Rhoyne seemed to fade.
An elephant elder rose then, his voice thick as the leather of his seat. "Strike first," he said plainly. "We find Rakho now, before he gathers more of the steppe. Bring him low in the night – scatter his khalasars before they can bind together."
A murmur ran through the table. Another man – one of the Tigers – shook his head with the slow patience of a man who had watched too many bright plans die of circumstance. "You would send men into the middle of nothingness?" he asked. "The Great Grass Sea is a continent of its own. Our men will die of thirst, hunger, and disease long before they see a bonfire. The Dothraki ride, they vanish; you will chase wind."
Someone else offered the safer counter: fortify the city, make walls like stone teeth, let Rakho rage himself tired. But the answer was almost unanimous and immediate. Rakho would not besiege; he would pass by, and burn down everything in his wake and they wouldn't be able to chase him down nor stop him.
"So we meet him in the open," Maro said, and the room settled. Most agreed.
Viserra listened in silence, watching the men put war into words. Her thoughts turned, as they always did, to precedent: Aegon had faced fifty thousand at the Field of Fire and won with three dragons; here, they faced almost twice that number with one.
Hyrryko Archymerys, Volantis's siege-master, leaned forward and traced the carved map with a long finger. "Look here," he said. "East of Selhorys the hills close down; to the west, the Rhoyne runs like a blue seam. The field between them narrows. If we force them to come through that throat, they cannot wheel around us in endless ranks."
He lifted his eyes to Harad. "If I'm not mistaken, they'll open with the usual – hit-and-run?"
Harad nodded once. "Yes. Feigned retreats, skirmish lines, arrows loosed at a gallop to bleed us before the true charge. Khal Temmo was an exception – stubborn, brave, and stupid enough to drive straight in and die for it. Rakho the Flame-Mane is not Temmo. He's a cunning man. He'll soften our front with circling horse-archers and probing volleys, trying to draw us out of formation before he commits the mass."
"What if we make them charge?" Hyrryko's eyes flashed. "A movable palisade – roofed, wheeled – a 'Wandering City' as they use in Mossovy against the Jogos Nhai – a rolling wall to catch their arrows on timber and force them to close. Before that wall, we bury wolf-holes – pits lined with spikes and hidden under turf. Many will perish before the true contact happens."
"A roofed palisade?" someone scoffed. "They will burn it with fire-arrows."
"We coat it with tallow and alum," Hyrryko answered, voice steady. "It will resist and repel flame."
One of the captains leaned forward, practical and blunt. "Do we have enough men to hold the whole field?" he asked.
Harad did not hesitate. "Yes. Place the elephants on the eastern flank, by the mountains. The ridge there and the beasts will discourage any attempt to sneak around us."
Another elephant elder – fat and scarred – barked a laugh that turned sour. "Put elephants on the ridge and you turn your own cavalry useless. They can't charge through the timber and trunks."
Hyrryko tapped the table and spoke up. "Then don't waste the cavalry up front. Hide them on the far bank. We can lash a few barges together and run a composite bridge atop them – a temporary crossing. Keep the horsemen concealed while the Dothraki close and commit to the fight against our palisade. When they are engaged, we slide the ships into place, form the bridge, and drive the cavalry across to hit their rear. It will require timing and seamanship, but we can do it."
A murmur ran the table. Someone sniffed that Rakho would never bring every rider into a single pitched battle. Harad cut him off. "He will. Either he leads from the front, or his chiefs will call him a coward and kill him themselves. A Dothraki who hides while his men die is cursed and shall not meet his ancestors nor join the Great Stallion to ride across the Night Lands. Their custom forces commitment. They will ride him and they will ride with him."
The point, grim and simple, settled the room. Maro steepled his fingers and nodded. "Very well. Make ready. All hands to work."
Before the meeting broke, another voice – younger – raised a darker proposal. "If the first shock will be the Dothraki's, our first line must be able to take it. We can use old and useless slaves as the initial hedge: form them into ranks before the palisade, man the moving wall, shift it when needed. They will absorb the charge and the first arrows. Let the palisade do its work while real warriors and elephants hold behind and safe until the proper chance arrives."
There was no moralizing in the council. One by one the men weighed the logistics.
"How many?" Maro asked.
"Ten thousand, give or take," said the speaker. "We can also scavenge the fighting pits across the city – gather the trained slave-fighters, bind them in companies, and promise the pit-owners a share of plunder and status for their contribution. It shall give some more fighting hands."
Grim faces agreed. The plan would be ugly but it was a plan.
Maro tapped the map once, decisively. "So be it. Ten thousand slaves. Pit fighters organized. Palisade constructed and wheeled. Barges readied for the bridge. Men – set to your tasks. We have a field to make, and a fate to meet."
The council broke, but the carved map did not look smaller for all of their arrangements. If anything, the plain beyond the Rhoyne felt larger and hungrier than before.