34.The Fall of a Titan
by Gladiusx7th Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC
Petyr Baelish, Casterly Rock
How much could you strip from a man before he lost his will to live? How much could you take before they shattered?
For good or ill, some men broke early, some men endured until the end, and Edmure Tully was the former. The last Tully lord was dead.
He had been placed in the upper cells of Casterly Rock, the pleasant, cosy ones made for noble prisoners, with windows carved into the stone and clean bedding. They called them pleasant, though only by comparison to the black pits below.
Petyr had seen his foster brother over a moon prior. The brightness from his eyes was gone, and his gaunt face was heavy with guilt and self-loathing. The gods had seen fit to play their cruel jape: the Frey bride had given birth to a stillborn daughter, and perished herself within days of the birthbed.
Now, Edmure Tully had nothing. No daughter. No wife. No Riverrun. Not even his pride was left.
One of the dungeon turnkeys, a pockmarked fool who had lost two sons at the Battle of the Camps, had taken joy in taunting the deposed Tully lord. The latest taunt, however, was that his niece, Sansa Stark, had been usurped by her bastard brother by taking Winterfell.
The next morning, they found Edmure dead on the floor in a pool of blood. He had smashed his head into the wall until his skull cracked open.
Some said it was grief, but Petyr knew better.
Even broken with loss and grief, Edmure harboured a hint of stubbornness. They had taunted him, but all the fool had heard was that his niece was safe with his half-brother. There was not even a shred of doubt in his mind that Edmure had chosen to end his life so as not to burden his remaining kin.
Nobody shed a tear for Edmure Tully. Littlefinger almost felt sad despite knowing the man since childhood. Almost.
The deposed Tully lord had been largely forgotten in Casterly Rock until his death—that’s how low the House where Petyr fostered had fallen. With his Stark and Arryn nephews dead and the Riverlands under full control of House Lannister, his value as a hostage was long gone. Probably even Sansa would not mourn for her uncle, for why would she cry over a man she had never seen or known before, blood or not?
Regardless, things did not seem to be going well for the Lannisters.
“It is as we have feared.” Ser Daven wore a grim face today as the small council was gathered. “Daenerys has wed Aegon, their forces are joined, and now they’re using the dragons in battle. Riverrun has fallen, and the remaining Riverlords will be next.”
Or more likely to surrender. They had bowed their heads to the lions easily enough, and it would be easier to do it again to a dragon.
Petyr wanted to climb higher and higher, but instead, he kept falling deeper and deeper. Harrenhal was lost, fallen into the hands of Aegon, and he was now a lord without a fief. Littlefinger never cared for lands and such, but the titles and prestige coming with them were worth far more for his plans.
Yet, for some reason, Cersei Lannister did not look worried. The proud lioness received every raven and word of House Targaryen’s advance with uncharacteristic indifference, the composed smile on her face never wavering, as if the dragons did not matter anymore.
The source of that composure eluded him.
Had she truly hired the Faceless Men as he suspected? Or perhaps a different plan. He knew not, but there was no doubt some scheme was afoot. Petyr had heard the barest of whispers that many crates had been loaded onto the Roaring Lion in the private docks at night. The very same carrack had disappeared a few days later, as had some of House Lannister’s warships.
This knowledge was why Littlefinger still lingered in Tommen’s council. The climb was too steep, and he no longer saw a swift way to the top. A slow climb, with even more scheming and planning, would take years, decades even, for the fruits of his efforts to ripen. But a man like him, who had toiled hard to rise high, was loath to give up.
Joining Aegon and Daenerys would prove futile if they were to perish at whatever scheme Cersei was plotting. And if they survived, the question was whether they would trust a turncloak.
Going North would be even worse, for Petyr would be left to Sansa’s grace and mercy. Cat’s daughter had been a sweet little thing once, but how much of that remained after the Bolton bastard’s knife?
No matter how much he loathed it, he had two more options to consider. Petyr could go to the Summer Isles and retire with his hefty fortune. The Desolation of King’s Landing had put a sizeable dent in his stash of coin and estate, but the rest of his savings were more than enough to spend the rest of his life like a prince. Or, he could make it for the Free Cities and vie for power and influence there.
Hope was an insidious yet coy mistress that promised much, and Petyr Baelish remained here, serving the lions.
Today, Cersei still looked calm and unbothered, but her glance often drifted towards him as if searching for something.
“What of my aunt?” the Queen Regent asked, her voice sharp despite the wine slur that had crept into her speech in the past moons. Once the envy of many, time and loss had seen Cersei’s beauty begin to curdle. Feasting and wanton drinking had begun to thicken her waist and turn the edges of her sharp face rounder. The agile slenderness of a shadowcat had long melted from her gait.
Daven hesitated, his mouth pursed in a thin line. “Genna Lannister was given to the Silent Sisters, and her remaining grandsons perished in the sack of Riverrun.”
Those poor boys had the misfortune of being born part Lannister and part Frey. Perhaps a decade prior, they could have been considered blessed by the gods, but Petyr couldn’t think of a more reviled union in the kingdoms today. Even Cersei did not seem saddened at their passing.
Yet the council couldn’t hide the worry on their faces—especially the Lord of Red Lake, who Peytr suspected regretted joining Tommen but hid it quite well.
“What can we do against the dragons?” Crane’s thinning grey mane was unkempt, and large purple bags adorned his eyes. “If a stronghold like Riverrun can fall to young dragons, what chance do the rest of them have?”
“Riverrun lacked scorpions,” Qyburn said mildly, fingertips pressed together. “And the defenders must have been ill-prepared for fire from the sky. The dragon is still young and thus vulnerable.”
“Indeed.” Devan nodded solemnly. “Our carpenters and sawmills work day and night, the forges never grow cold, and our craftsmen churn out scorpions and bolts, bows and arrows with all haste they can muster. The Westerlands will be ready when the dragons come. Every castle from the Golden Tooth to the Feastfires shall be manned and stocked with enough supplies to withstand two years of siege.”
“Even without dragons, Aegon commands thrice the swords and spears we do,” Petyr noted, folding his hands under his chin.
Cersei scoffed. “My father always said winter is the bane of armies. And autumn is nearing its end, according to Maester Creylen. If this pretender insists on a quick campaign, he’ll be done in by the snow and cold. No, we have a much greater problem. Read.”
The Queen carefully slid a roll of parchment onto the table. The parchment made its way round the councillors, earning itself scrunched-up brows and a handful of curses, and Petyr was the last to receive it.
“Sparse on detail,” he murmured as his eyes darted across the inked words. “If Ser Lucion sent it, he must’ve known Winterfell’s eyes were upon him.”
“At least the Princess lives,” Devan said, clearing his throat. “That’s more than we had hoped for.”
“House Martell’s words once again prove empty,” Crane said evenly. “No wonder Ser Arys Oakheart was slain. The Dornish were trying to murder the Princess, and the old snake must have silenced the white cloak to keep his honour intact.”
“We shall pray for the success of Ser Balon Swann, then,” Petyr clasped his hands in a show of piousness. “May his horse be swift and his sword sharp.”
“The vile Dornishmen would doubtlessly hide this Darkstar wretch,” Cersei hissed like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Then, her eyes flicked to him. “And why am I only hearing of this now, Baelish?”
Petyr bowed his head deeply, his words thick with regret. “The Martells have always been masters of deception, practising their trade for centuries, where I am but a novice in comparison. But I shall redouble my efforts!”
Dorne and House Martell were too far away and too strong to deal with. But Petyr did not doubt that Cersei would nurse this slight like a drunk loved to nurse a cup of fine wine.
Her face was as dark as a storm cloud, though she held her tongue, doubtlessly plotting in her mind again. The silence grew heavier as the councillors traded uneasy glances, but none dared to speak. In the end, Ser Daven gathered his courage.
“What of the North?” he asked at last.
“What of it?” Cersei asked flatly.
“They demand the return of Widow’s Wail, a sword that had been theirs in the first place. Trading peace and a stolen sword for Princess Myrcella is not… unreasonable.”
“Peace?” Cersei laughed. It was a cruel sound, tinged with amusement. “Jon Snow weds the wretched daughter of Stannis Baratheon, lays claim to half my son’s kingdom, and calls it peace? Does he take me for a fool? Come spring, he’ll have cause to place a crown upon his wife’s brow and claim the rest.”
Devan tiredly rubbed his face.
“We do not have the men and the fleet to gather a host to conquer the North from the outside. And Jon Snow has stamped out all those who thought of rebellion, so we cannot dislodge him from within like Lord Tywin did with Robb. Fighting to take the North offers little but hardship and will cost us much.”
“That might be true,” Crane agreed. “But Winterfell lacks the strength to make trouble for us. And lacks the desire either, if what Ser Lucion wrote is true.”
Petyr interjected softly, “And what of the others? If Winterfell defies the crown with impunity, how long before the Vale or Dorne remember their pride? How long before the Houses of Arryn and Nymeros Martell remember that they wore crowns once and ruled their domains without paying homage to another?”
The truth was that House Lannister had grown weak. Even if they wanted to pretend to be strong, they no longer had the means after the War of the Five Kings had chipped away their strength and prestige.
But a player in the Great Game ought to look further. Even if the House of the Dragon fell to catspaws, victory was far from the grasp of House Lannister. The war had driven the realm to fracture, and the wounds of war were too deep, too cruel to mend with generous promises or clever courtesies.
If Tommen wanted to rule from the Wall to Sunspear, he would have to fight for every inch of land and pry each kingdom from its liege. He would have to forge the seven kingdoms into one realm as the Conqueror had done, but without the dragons. A tall, nearly impossible task, even if Casterly Rock was at its strongest.
There were no fools here—save for Cersei—and they would doubtlessly see what he saw sooner or later.
She slapped her goblet upon the table with force. “We do nothing,” she said, reluctance creeping into her voice. “Let’s see if the bastard makes it through the winter first.”
And so, the council meeting ended, leaving Petyr baffled. It wasn’t Cersei’s behaviour that perplexed him, for he had long gotten used to her eccentric pride—it was the letter from the North.
Lords and ladies, kings and queens, were easy to read like an open ledger. Find their wants and needs, and they would easily dance in his palm, making it easy to lead in the direction he desired. Reading the hearts of men and women was how Littlefinger had gotten so far.
Yet something had happened, something that he did not foresee even in his wildest dreams.
Jon Snow had married Shireen Baratheon. Not for love, surely. Not for beauty either, there was no charm to be inherited from Selyse Florent or Stannis Baratheon, even without considering the greyscale. The girl brought no bannermen, no armies, no lands of worth. Not even a claim worth pressing. Snow’s move made no sense. And men who made senseless moves unnerved him more than most.
Had the bastard wed Myrcella instead, Petyr wouldn’t be surprised. A Baratheon in name, daughter of a king, she could have brought everything Shireen did and then some. Even scarred, she would be prettier than Shireen. It could have paved the road to peace between Winterfell and Casterly Rock. But Shireen?
Petyr’s fingers twitched. He wished to go to Winterfell himself and peer into the bastard’s mind, see what drove him to such a queer decision. But he knew that once he ventured into the wolf’s den, he might never leave. Not alive.
Two more moons, he told himself. If things soured further, he might sail south instead. Lys, the perfumed city. Slip in the night onto one of the ships and head there, or to the Summer Isles, where the summer never really truly leaves.
Cersei’s glances lingered on him too long for comfort. She was beginning to see through him—or to imagine that she did. Neither boded well.
He made for the postern door, seeking comfort in Jennelyn—his auburn-haired whore with the watery blue eyes and big teats. When he squinted, she could even pass for Catelyn.
He never saw the shadow behind the archway. Only the sudden blow at the base of his skull, and the cold stone floor rushing to kiss him, only for darkness to claim him first.
A splash of cold water awoke him. Petyr gasped for breath, but his mouth found only salt and brine.
His head was wrenched out of the water, and he started coughing. A hand—rough, calloused, and unkind—struck him hard between the shoulder blades. Once, twice, until he vomited up the sea. Pain stabbed through his ribs with each cough.
He could taste the salt in his throat and feel its sting in his eyes. He was somewhere near the sea, then—the distant echo of the waves betrayed that much.
His head throbbed with a dull ache that did not recede, muddying his thoughts. The back of his skull felt wet and sticky. Blood? He could not tell. His limbs felt heavy and sluggish, and when he tried to move, he hissed in pain. His wrists and ankles were shackled, and his skin felt raw against the heavy irons.
Darkness threatened to consume him. The thing beneath him was cold and damp—some sort of stone. It offered no reprieve, no more than the stale air did.
He tried to speak, but all that came was a hoarse rasp.
Who?
Who would dare? Who could?
Petyr Baelish had no enemies. None who knew so or who lived. He had wrapped his insults in courtesy and jest, offered his betrayals with a sweet smile, and ensured the only ones who ever saw the dagger coming would never survive. And those who had lived to hate him… did not live for long.
He had been careful. So careful. But not careful enough.
The weight of the shackles, the fetid dark, the absence of anything resembling courtesy—all of it pointed to one thing.
They meant for him to vanish.
“Littlefinger,” a familiar voice greeted him, its haughty tone echoing in the dark. “You must wonder why you’re here. Knowing you, you must want to know how it came to this.”
The silence lingered, as if the woman paused to take relish in it. Or perhaps she liked the sound of her own words.
“I received an envoy from Highgarden—a dutiful dullard of a man telling a most interesting tale.” Her words thickened with anger. “I did not want to believe it, at first. But the words were very convincing, with details that made all too much sense. And oh, what a tale it was! How someone used my hate for my vile, stunted brother to get away with the murder of my son!”
He managed to wipe his eyes with his damp sleeve and turn around, only to see Cersei looking at him, like a furious lioness ready to pounce. Her face was cloaked with red by the flickering lantern, making her seem almost demonic.
Before Petyr could even open his mouth to deny it, strong hands lifted him effortlessly, and his face was slammed under the cold water again.
Panic flooded his mind along with the chill, and his limbs tried to flail against the shackles as he tried to escape the iron grip holding him. It was in vain—Petyr was never strong, never a fighter. He had given up pursuing the sword after Brandon had gifted him that scar.
He struggled to keep his breath more and more with each passing second. Just as he thought he’d drown again, he was pulled out of the water and dropped like a sack of rocks on the ground.
“Please—” He managed to cough out and tried to wipe his blurry eyes again. But the sting of salt never left them.
Cersei was not alone. A short, round man, garbed in a bloodstained robe, held a lantern at her side, illuminating what looked like a cave. Pliers, queer-looking scissors, a whip, and other wicked-looking tools hung heavy from his belt.
A torturer.
“We’re deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock.” A cruel smile danced on Cersei’s lips. “Nobody shall even look for you here. Tell me everything I want to know, and you will get a quick death.”
“Please, do me a favour and lie, you filthy maggot.” The torturer had a greasy voice, yet his tone was lusty in a way that made Petyr’s skin crawl. “I’ve not had a toy to play with for moons now. I might have failed at becoming a maester, but I learned a trick or two in the Citadel. Just enough to help me keep my toys alive for moons. Years, if I do particularly well.”
Petyr shuddered. This was Cersei… she wouldn’t hesitate.
She sniffed imperiously. “He insisted on pulling out a nail or two first, but I am a gracious woman. I decided to give you a chance to confess first.”
“There’s no need for such things, Your Grace,” the torturer urged, palming his pliers with great enthusiasm. “I heard many things about this man’s silver tongue. How can his words even be trusted? Let me make him squeal a bit first. In an hour, he’ll sing everything you want to know. Grant me a day, and his deepest, darkest secrets will be all yours.”
“I’ll speak,” Petyr croaked out desperately. “I’ll tell you everything…”
“Everything?” Cersei echoed noncommittally.
He bowed his head. A painful pulse went beneath his scalp, making him wince.
“Everything. Just… make it quick afterwards.”
“Tsch. Look at you, ever the haggler. Very well.”
A glance at the torturer dissuaded him from lying. The fat man was gazing at him as if Petyr were a naked virgin in a whorehouse. Petyr started shivering, and his wet garments offered no protection against the cold.
The realisation struck him like a hammer. He had too many friends, but none were close enough to miss him. Nobody would look for him here. Was he done in and by the grasping roses of all people?
Why?
Petyr had never harmed a Tyrell, yet nothing stopped them from implicating him in Joffrey’s murder, for they no longer backed House Lannister. Was that all it took? Just some… spite?
Littlefinger was unwilling.
But the cold irons on his hands and feet only sank into his flesh when he half-heartedly tried to move. The looming figure of Ser Robert Strong looked ready to rip him apart alive.
“Look at him hesitate, Your Grace. I think he needs some convincing,” the torturer said, licking his lips. “I’ll go heat up my bronze screw—”
“Wait!” Petyr cried out, hating how desperate he sounded. But oh, he couldn’t stand the pain. “It started when Olenna’s men approached me—”
Under Cersei’s gleeful gaze, the true tale of Joffrey’s demise started spilling out of his mouth like a flood. His temple pulsed painfully, and his mouth quickly went dry as every word raked at his throat.
Cersei’s eyes became colder and colder the more he spoke, and by the time Petyr was finished, her face had turned into a statue. She then turned to the rotund man. “Hugo, did he lie?”
“No, Your Grace,” was the greasy reply. The torturer looked sad, almost ready to cry. “But… perhaps, perhaps making sure wouldn’t hurt? I am sure more secrets will pop out once I start digging.”
“Indeed.” Cersei’s agreement chilled Petyr’s blood. “You have earned yourself a reward, my good man. You can have this wretch. Make him sing for me.”
Childlike joy appeared on the rat-like face as he puffed up his chest like a bloated frog.
“Your generosity knows no bounds, My Queen!”
Something big behind him moved, grasped his neck, and the latest Lord of Harrenhal was lifted effortlessly. He managed to twist his face, only to spot the armoured figure of Ser Robert Strong in the corner of his eye.
He wanted to resist, but his meagre strength had already fled his trembling limbs, and even on his best day, he would not be a match to the smallest of the kingsguard, let alone this steel-clad giant.
“You promised!” he managed to muster a croaky shout towards the queen as he was carried after the torturer. “You promised me a quick death!”
Cersei smirked cruelly, her green eyes glowing in the dim light. “I lied!”
No, no, no! This was just a nightmare—it could not be happening! Petyr shrieked half in fear, half in terror.
“Save your strength for later, darling, you’ll need it.” The oily voice was dripping with excitement. “We’re going to have soooo much fun together, you and I!”
‘This is just a nightmare,’ Petyr thought desperately, ‘everything would return to normal when I awake.’
‘This is just—’
The breath was knocked out of his lungs as Petyr’s back was slammed on a damp, hard surface, and the pain quickly reminded him of the reality of the situation.
He was not dreaming.
The giant gauntleted hands of the brutal white cloak pressed him and strapped him with manacles, and his limbs were painfully spread out. He desperately tried to claw at the white gauntlets, but to no avail.
In the end, even his head could not move, and Petyr was forced to watch with horror as the short, fat man hummed a cheery tune while methodically heating his pair of iron pliers in a small, red-hot furnace.
His bladder gave out first as a warm stream ran down his leg, and the stench of piss and shame wormed its way into his nose.
He should have told King Robert that his wife was cuckolding him.
10th Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC
Eddison Tollett, Castle Black
“I had the weirdest dream,” he muttered drowsily as he made his way to the kitchens.
“What is it this time?” Hother Umber, the new Lord Steward, grumbled.
“They elected me Lord Commander,” Edd said, shuddering. “Everything was on my shoulders, and everyone kept coming to me for the smallest thing.”
The tall greybeard scoffed. “‘Tis hardly a dream. You got elected Lord Commander a few moons back.”
Edd stared at his cup of ale, and a sigh tumbled from his throat.
He did not want it.
He had tried. He had. Surely, people would see that he would make an awful Lord Commander? Edd did not shy away from telling everyone about it before the election.
Yet the damned Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke elected him anyway because Jon left him the Commander’s cloak and raven. And that was even before he had managed to reconquer Winterfell and become the new King in the North.
Things got easy once Jon sat in Winterfell, and troubles began melting away. The tension between the Watch and the Wildlings lessened greatly; however, the work and the responsibility chafed on his mind and soul. At least he didn’t have to bother with rangings, for Jon advised him not to risk his remaining men for little gain.
Why scout beyond the Wall when they knew what lurked there?
As if Edd could ever forget those two cold blue eyes that shone with malice, freezing your very soul.
That life was gone. Now, he was beset with endless drudgery of reports, organising, ordering people, writing letters and sending to Winterfell, settling disputes between the wildlings, the smallfolk, and the different commanders…
He almost preferred to go back to digging latrines and standing vigil atop the Wall at night.
Ten of the Watch’s castles had been manned, although some held a garrison of barely two dozen men. The trickle of recruits from the North had increased into a small stream, but the one from the South had lessened instead. There just weren’t enough men, and what little came was scum or overproud knights, yet there was too much work to be done everywhere.
His respect towards Jon increased tenfold—how the natural son of Eddard Stark managed to deal with all those dreadfully boring things with such ease was beyond him.
Things had just reached a delicate balance, but soon enough, Hugo Wull and Greatjon Umber would come to bolster the Wall with four thousand swords under the command of Jon.
It pleased many black brothers to know that the former Lord Commander had not forgotten them, but all Edd could imagine was the headache of managing another four thousand mouths to feed. The Big Bucket and the Umber Lord were known for their temper and would not be easy to please, too…
Then, Satin, his steward now, waylaid him on his way to the solar, red-faced and heaving for breath.
“There’s something on the Wall!”
“You mean besides the men supposed to patrol it?”
“…Yes.”
…That didn’t sound good.
His steward led him to the yard outside, where Fulk the Flea looked beside himself with worry.
“What is it?” Edd asked, despite dreading the response.
“While patrolling to the east, I saw this, uh, big thing perched on top of the Wall, and it refuses to move.”
“Big thing?”
The man just shuffled, opening his mouth and closing it shut a few times, failing to find the words.
Great. More work—this time in the cold.
After a painfully slow ascent in the iron cage and a fifteen-minute walk over the slippery gravel, Edd, followed by a dozen rangers, finally found the big thing that refused to move.
“Mother, have mercy,” one of the men whimpered behind him.
Two smouldering pits of dark cobalt sized up Edd dispassionately in a way that made his knees shake. Such eyes alone could frighten even the bravest men, but were not half as terrifying as their owner.
A bloody dragon was nestled in the middle of the rampart.
Edd had seen this dragon before—a small growling ball of scales and spikes that shrieked at anyone who approached. Winter, Jon had called it. But it was just a whelp, as big as a hunting hound, not nearly the size of a bloody mammoth!
Even now, Winter rumbled in warning as they approached a deep sound that shook him to his bones. Edd couldn’t decide if it was scarier than the maw of razor-sharp fangs, all the size of daggers.
“I’d say,” Edd’s voice quivered as he slowly backed down, “that this section of the Wall is guarded well enough. Move back, now. Slow and steady.”
The dragon’s sinister gaze traced every step as they retreated, but made no move. The gods took mercy on them today.
Gods, why was Jon’s dragon even here? He would have sent a raven to Winterfell if his friend had not proven his skills as a skinchanger. All the wildlings gossiped about it like a bunch of old washerwomen… and if the dragon was here, it meant Jon sent it here.
“What about patrols?” Fulk asked as soon as the dragon was out of sight, his face damp with sweat.
“….The patrols can turn around here.”
12th Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC
Aegon Targaryen, Riverrun
So deep into the ravaged Riverlands, the issue of feeding tens of thousands of men had become a hefty task. Most of the food still had to be brought from the Crownlands, for lands around the three forks were swept clean long ago. Twenty-five thousand men were the limit his supply lines could support into the Westerlands.
“You have to split your forces to pacify the remaining Riverlords anyway,” Jon explained stiffly. Some Riverlords had bent the knee, while others remained stubborn and needed a visit to keep up with appearances, probably because of the hostages they had been forced to give to Lannister.
But that was not what lingered on Aegon’s mind now. His gaze was set on the man who raised him.
With each new moon, his mentor looked increasingly closed off, and his face grew gaunter. When Griff no longer awoke just before dawn and slept in, sometimes for hours, Aegon began to worry. Alas, Jon kept claiming it was just the onset of old age and promised to see Marwyn should his health worsen.
However, Aegon had far too much to worry about these days, and this was but one of the smaller trifles.
His thoughts kept drifting to his wife. Daenerys had secured the Vale, which assuaged plenty of his worries about the risky endeavour. Alas, some of his councillors believed the North could prove difficult to bring to the fold with words alone. Yet all Aegon could do right now was have faith in his wife and Ser Barristan, for they were capable, albeit proud.
At least Highgarden had paid him homage, and the Reach was now in his grasp, even though Ser Garlan had not lingered for long. He had left with a promise to join their campaign with a thousand knights and thrice as many outriders in his brother’s name in a few moons and lead a host up the Ocean Road.
“Twenty-three thousand to siege the Golden Tooth,” Aegon mused. “Word is, the Kingslayer is digging in hard, planning to hide there like a turtle in its shell.”
It would test his dragon-riding skills. Unprepared castles fared poorly against assault from the sky, but how about prepared ones? Aegon did not know. In truth, nobody knew—the last man who had ridden a dragon to war had long since died.
The bulk of his army continued marching onward as he remained in Riverrun. A lone rider, whether on a horse or a dragon, was swift. However, an army was only as fast as its slowest link—usually the supply carts and barges heavy with food that sailed up the Red Fork, so Aegon could easily catch up.
Being on the march for so long was exhausting, and now he had decided to rest in the comforts of Riverrun while waiting for his wife’s return. He missed Daenerys.
Aegon rubbed his face tiredly.
“Did I do the right thing in appointing Jonos Bracken as Lord Paramount to the Riverlands?”
“He was the first to bend the knee,” Connington said, face growing tight. “He’s not the greatest man to lead a kingdom, but that suits you just fine—a strong Riverlands will be a thorn in your side, and Jonos will never sit easily over the Trident. And Bracken did aid you plenty with the plans to pacify the other Riverlords.”
“That he did.” He hesitated for a long moment. “And yet the Imp proposed to extend the Crownlands. Have the Stormlords and the Riverlords swear directly to the crown.”
“It is a hefty burden dealing with all the petty quarrels of the Riverlords,” his mentor said, face set in a heavy frown. “Even if you mean to undertake such a grand change, biting too much at once will see you choke. Start small with folding the Stormlands directly under your command if you wish. But such big changes would have to wait until the realm is pacified and the peace is won.”
The truth was that Aegon did not want to deal with the quagmire of trouble that was the Riverlands. After the War of the Five Kings, the kingdom was an absolute wreck, and his campaign against the Kingslayer did not change these lands for the better. It would take decades before the Riverlands could be restored to even a fraction of their former prosperity. It was a thorny, quarrelsome problem, so foisting it off to Jonos Bracken was the easy decision.
The Stormlands, however, could be incorporated into the domain of the Crownlands. Aside from a few plundered villages and sacked holdfasts, there had scarcely been any fighting or looting there, and the lands and people were unspoiled while the lords were weak and war-worn. He had already taken Storm’s End for himself. Yet the problem with the royal seat hung over his head like a dark cloud. King’s Landing remained a cursed ruin that killed all who dared enter, and the Iron Throne was forever out of his reach.
Plans could be made once the peace was won, but for now, all he had to do was put his mind to winning. Bracken had asked for six thousand swords to bring the Houses between the Green and the Red Fork to heel, and Aegon was inclined to grant him his wish.
The Golden Company and some of the Stormlands levies were already sent to pacify the southernmost Houses in the Riverlands. That served a double purpose: they would push into the Western Hills and force Lannister to split their forces to fortify the Deep Den or retreat.
Aside from fervent planning, his days in Riverrun proved otherwise pleasant, and he allowed himself a measure of leisure he hadn’t experienced since his time on the Shy Maid.
Aegon spent his mornings riding Viserion. Soaring through the sky made him feel alive in a way nothing else could, and the Imp claimed the connection and understanding between the dragon and the rider had to be nurtured. There was some truth to those words, for Viserion listened to his commands more eagerly with each passing day.
Rhaegal, the last riderless drake, was impossible to command and had made its nest in one of Harrenhal’s abandoned towers after Daenerys had left. No amount of cajoling or offering of food made the dragon leave.
Some evenings, he found himself in the yard, sparring with Rolly and his new three kingsguards, sharpening his swordskills, until Blackfyre felt an extension of his arm. It didn’t take long until the sword of kings fitted perfectly in his hand, and the blade itself called to him as if it were meant for him to wield. He forged closer bonds with the men who would protect his life, too. Ser Alton Staunton, Grance Morrigen, and Edric Hardy had proven themselves worthy of the white cloak during the previous battles and were men of strong sword arm and honour.
Alas, none of them had the making of a Lord Commander, according to both Ser Barristan and Jon.
One evening, Varys came to him in the solar.
“Your Grace, a most troubling word has arrived from our envoy to Maidenpool,” he whispered with that soft, unsettling voice that better suited a woman than a man.
The eunuch unnerved Aegon greatly, no matter how much he professed his loyalty. His overbright purple robes and the unbearable smell of perfume only made Aegon gag, and the Spider stood out like a sore thumb. In his mind, there was no doubt that Varys would be the first councillor to be replaced once the war was won.
“What is it?”
“The town has been sacked yet again. Only this time, Mooton’s keep fell, and his family were slaughtered.”
Aegon had little love for the Riverlords, but the Mootons had always been loyalists and close to his father. According to Jonos Bracken, Lord Mooton feared being beset by brigands and bandits on the roads and would bend the knee at first sight of the Dragon’s Banner. An odd mixture of pride and cowardice, but Aegon could accept such caution, for the Riverlands were rife with outlaws.
Yet now… now they were gone. Just like the Darrys—all loyal to the three-headed dragon, yet none remained.
Aegon’s gaze found Maidenpool on the map, nestled on the shore of the Bay of Crabs. There were no foes, strong keeps or great hosts nearby. All the neighbouring Houses were sworn to him.
“Who dares break the king’s peace so brazenly behind my back?” Aegon demanded, feeling anger swell in his chest.
“The reports are… confusing. Something about an attack at night, the enemies bearing no sigils or heraldry, Your Grace.” Varys bowed, face filled with regret. “Some claim it came from the sea, some said they dropped from above, while others say foes snuck through the postern gate after the sentry forgot to lock it.”
The anger drained away as quickly as it came, leaving only numbness behind. Fury would be of no help here, he knew.
“This attack could only have been done by sea,” Aegon muttered as he frowned at the map again. Slipping through the Bay of Crabs… any pirate could have done it, even. And he had no fleet to deal with pirate raids along the eastern coast. “Find out who did this and why.”
The Spider obsequiously promised to find out no matter what before Aegon grew vexed by his presence and shooed him away.
His thoughts drifted to his aunt-wife. How was Daenerys faring in the North? Did she encounter some trouble? Would the Stark bastard see reason to bend the knee or stubbornly resist to the bitter end?
Most of all, he missed Daenerys. She was proud, slow to forgive a slight, and headstrong. Aegon knew theirs was not a love match, but he had already grown fond of her.
17th Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC
Drogon’s roar heralded his wife’s return and filled his heart with relief.
Yet the journey seemed to have taken a lot of her. Daenerys’s silky hair was one wild tangle; her face was pale and sunken, and her violet eyes had a stubborn gleam and burned with anger. Barristan was no better, looking like he had aged another five years.
After landing, his wife retreated for a hot soak without saying a word while Aegon summoned his council.
“Did Jon Snow refuse to bend the knee?” Jon Connington asked bluntly as they gathered around the old knight for questioning.
“That he did and some more.” Barristan’s mouth twisted. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about the beginning?” Marwyn said with a dry smile.
“Well… we got lost after the Neck—” A tale so outlandish was told that Aegon had to pinch his wrist to check if he was dreaming. Ser Barristan’s voice quickly turned hoarse despite the cup of mulled wine Aegon’s squire had brought.
Fifteen minutes later, the old knight finished his story, and the room was filled with stunned silence and no small measure of disbelief.
“I’m not drunk enough for this kind of talk,” Tyrion grumbled. With a sigh, the dwarf drained a whole wineskin into his throat, then grabbed a goblet and emptied the rich red liquid with a loud burp.
“How?” Varys asked, hands wringing with worry. “How could a Stark bastard have a dragon?”
“…I don’t know.” Barristan’s head hung low. “Jon Snow did not say.”
“You are sure Jon Snow is wed to Stannis’s daughter?” Jon Connington’s voice was dripping with far more curiosity than anything Aegon had heard come out of his mouth before. His stern demeanour was nowhere to be seen.
The knight still did not dare lift his head.
“Lord Manderly introduced them as such,” Selmy said, hesitation creeping into his words. “I have seen the girl a few years prior, and she looks the part. Florent’s ears, Stannis’s square jaw, black hair and blue eyes of Baratheon… and a dragon.”
“She has the blood for it,” Varys murmured absentmindedly. “The Unlikely was her great-great-grandsire.”
“He should have smashed the stags for their defiance, not rewarded them with a princess for a bride.” Aegon clenched his jaw. Alas, one could hardly undo things that had happened more than half a century prior.
Griff stood as rigid as a statue, and his eyes had yet to leave Ser Barristan.
“And you say she was no longer afflicted with greyscale?” There was something in his voice, something Aegon couldn’t put his finger on. Why was Connington so interested in the girl?
“Err… indeed, Lord Hand. Her left cheek was scarred, as if someone had incised the disease with a knife.”
“Curious,” Tyrion said, tilting his ugly head. “Wasn’t it supposed to be incurable?”
“Indeed,” Marwyn agreed. “Incising the flaked flesh had been tried before, but the scales simply grew over the scars. Many had tried to defeat the affliction and had failed. While the onset of greyscale can be halted, it’s just that—stopping it from spreading and nothing more.”
“Who—”
Aegon slammed his fist on the table.
“Enough! We have bigger problems than some ugly girl,” he hissed, and Jon Connington had the decency to blush. “How can some Stark bastard get his hands on dragons? Not one, not two, but three bloody dragons in the North, and this is my first time hearing of it!”
Varys squirmed under his gaze and offered a weak, “I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“Well, find out then. You’re the master of whispers, are you not?”
He bowed so deeply that his sleeves touched the floor and murmured some excuse.
Gods! Aegon’s head throbbed just thinking about it. Dragons were the kings of the sky, and the only thing that could challenge them was other dragons. The North was notoriously difficult to conquer, even without the protection of dragonriders.
“The problem remains,” Tyrion pointed out languidly, his words filled with dark amusement. “Regardless of what we like or want, Stark has dragons and has mastered them. Did you get a measure of their size, Ser Barristan?”
“One nearly half as big as Drogon, and the other two were far smaller,” the knight allowed, voice tight.
“We have the advantage, then,” Marwyn said thoughtfully. “Though size alone might not be enough.”
“A Dance of Dragons can prove dangerous,” the Spider cautioned. “The last time such a war was fought, too many died, and had no victors; some were merely lucky enough to live and deal with the corpses.”
“You speak truly,” Connington’s reply was stiff. “And yet House Stark would forever remain a threat to His Grace’s rule if their dragons are allowed to grow further. With a Baratheon for a wife, Jon Snow has a strong claim on the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Ser Barristan’s tale has proven that dragonriders are quite vulnerable without an army to guard them when they sleep.” Tyrion rubbed his unkempt dark beard. “Prince Aemon Targaryen proved much the same when he died to a Myrish crossbowman in Tarth.”
Connington narrowed his eyes at the stunted man. “What do you mean to say, Imp?”
“If we want to attack the North, an army has to be sent together with the dragons, or the risk would be great,” the dwarf said from behind his cup of wine. “But that’s merely the advice of a drunken dwarf, my lord.”
“Lord Tyrion has the right of it, I say.” Marwyn’s fingers were restless, fiddling with his jewelled chain. “But attacking the North in winter might prove more daunting than usual with the fierce cold and high snows there. It would also mean splitting our forces further or abandoning the campaign against the Westerlands.”
“Perhaps a softer approach can be attempted first.” Varys clasped his powdered hands. “We should consider fighting such a devastating war only once all other options have been exhausted. Perhaps a marriage alliance—”
Tyrion let out a low, harsh laughter.
“A wedding requires a bride and a groom.” His words were laced with dark amusement. “Come now, Varys, both you and I know both sides are dreadfully lacking in children and unwed kin. Unless, of course, you have another prince hidden away somewhere?”
Aegon glared at the map of the North as if it could give him answers to his new problems. It did not.
They all spoke sense. Too much sense, and he liked it little. Yet the king was supposed to be the one making those hard decisions, no matter how much he misliked it. A clash with the North was inevitable—now or in the future. Daenerys had quite possibly shattered the slim possibility of peace with her parting words.
“We don’t know enough,” he said at last, though it galled him to admit it. “Moving in blindly would be too risky. Varys, find out more. What happened in the North? Where did these dragons come from? Why can Jon Snow even ride one? Go now, ask Lysono Maar for assistance if you must, but I want it done!”
Varys mumbled some agreement and ran out of the room as if his satin robes were on fire.
“What of our campaign against the Westerlands?” Connington said once the door swung closed. “If we give the lions time to breathe, they will recover, and only the gods know what schemes and plots they will hatch.”
“The armies shall continue marching as before for now.”
A single hour of this council meeting drained Aegon far more than anything else; even sparring against two white cloaks for a full hour was not half as tiring.
He left the council chambers, his back damp with sweat, his head aching with a dull pain, and his legs stiff.
Just as his victory was in his grasp, another obstacle appeared. Aegon was used to obstacles, for nothing worthwhile was ever easy, and each woe, each foe was a challenge that would only make his victory sweeter. But this was not a simple issue that could be solved by good planning or cunning and wits, but a dragonrider who could challenge him as an equal.
Yet, no matter how he tried to wrack his mind, no solution came.
The Rogue Prince’s final battle above the Gods Eye had shown that you can slay a larger dragon, should you be willing to give your life for it. Aegon did not fear death, but he feared failure.
This whole thing felt like lightning out of a clear blue sky. Aegon had relied for so long on knowing the enemy’s movements while hiding in the dark. Yet now he was in the open, and his enemies had been hiding in the dark, leaving him flat-footed. He did not like it.
For a dragon to be nearly half the size of Drogon, it had to be old. Two, three, maybe even four years?
How could one hide a dragon for four years? When Daenerys hatched hers, the rumours spread to the four corners of the world within mere moons!
Worse, dragons were supposed to be hard to hatch, for many of his royal ancestors had tried almost everything only to fail. The worst failure had been tragic to the point of crippling; the fires of Summerhall had been very close to extinguishing the House of the Dragon.
Even Daenerys had no idea how she had managed to hatch hers, claiming luck. His wife spoke of an odd feeling guiding her actions, a fleeting sense at the edge of her mind that she knew was right.
Dragon eggs were rare; hatching them was supposed to be nigh impossible, yet why were dragons as common as cabbages now? Even a Baratheon and a Snow had one!
Even reluctantly, he could swallow a Baratheon girl mastering a dragon, for she was a descendant of Rhaelle Targaryen. But a Snow?
House Stark had nothing to do with the dragonlords beyond kneeling. Which meant whatever dragonblood he possessed hailed from his mother. There were no ladies of House Velaryon or Targaryen who could have birthed Jon Snow twenty years ago.
It was a chilling thought. Could any dragonseed hatch a dragon with a mere drop of Valyrian blood and sufficient luck if they found eggs? How many bastards did House Targaryen sire in Westeros for the last four hundred years? How many of them had children? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
Aegon finally reached the lord’s chamber, which he had taken for himself.
Duck, who stood guard by the door, threw him a wide, knowing smile as he entered.
The sight inside his quarters washed away all of his exhaustion and annoyance. On his bed inside lay Daenerys, bare as the day she was born.
“I hate the North,” his wife whispered as he was shrugging off his clothes. “I hate the North, and I want him dead.”
There was no doubt in Aegon’s mind who she was referring to, yet mentioning the name of another man while naked and in his bed made his heart clench.
“Did Jon Snow hurt you?”
“No, he did not touch me.” Her lips trailed down his neck as their bodies tangled together. “But I want his head for this.”
“And you will have it.”
????, Elsewhere
The foolish wyrmling was back. No, not exactly a wyrmling, but the differences were fleeting. Meaningless.
She could feel it feasting on Brandon’s Wall, gorging itself on the power of the ice. But the beast was bigger and stronger now and could eat faster.
A cruel cackle escaped her lips as she felt the shackle weakening further. The Wall was the only thing powerful enough to contain her as such, but her foolish kin had not foreseen that Brandon’s work would weaken so.
But then again, they had all perished, and only she remained.
The final fetter was beginning to loosen again; she could feel it.
Her senses overreached, and she was rebuffed with a hiss.
WE ARE THE SHIELD THAT GUARDS THE REALM OF MEN!
Yet the words had grown weak, a whisper of the mighty roar that could once shake the land itself.
Soon… soon her prison would break, and the world would taste her vengeance, for even Brandon’s Wall would be unable to stop her.
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