Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Quellon Greyjoy didn't seem to think like most Ironborn, but he certainly looked the part.

The Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands stood six and a half feet tall, shoulders broad as a bull. Closer to sixty than fifty, the effects of age and a life of hard activity were beginning to show in his grey hair and weathered face, but his frame still obviously held great strength.

He came ashore half a mile away from Lannisport, where two thirds of his fleet had returned from reaving the West to blockade the port. The remaining sh.i.p.s were doing the same where the mountain of Casterly Rock met the water of the Sunset Sea, on the three great caverns the Lannisters used as a small, private dock. Twenty men accompanied him, armed with spears, axes and looks of disdain.

Aelor had ridden to meet him, leaving the mass production of siege weapons and war councils for the first time in a week. Manfred and Oberyn accompanied him, along with Greatjon Umber and Hoster Tully in addition to the fifty knights and men-at-arms. The knot on his head had reduced in size considerably, as well as the soreness from the fall that had set in the next day. Randyll Tarly and Jon Arryn were overseeing both the siege of Lannisport and the Rock in his stead.

"Lord Greyjoy," Aelor greeted, striding forward to extend a hand.

The Lord of the Iron Islands extended his own, the two brawny men shaking hands firmly. "Prince Aelor," he returned, voice friendly. "I see you have your Lion trapped."

Aelor smirked. "It seems I do, with your help."

The big reaver gestured to the equally tall man beside him, though he seemed to be more of a boy, build still thin though it was likely to pack on muscle in the coming years. "My third son, Victarion."

Aelor nodded in greeting, something the ironborn returned with clear reluctance. The boy was scowling fiercely, disapproval radiating off of him in waves. His expression would give Manfred a run for his money, though nothing could truly equal the surly disposition of the Kingsguard currently standing slightly behind Aelor.

Ignoring the Greyjoy boys glare, Aelor gestured to his own companions. "Oberyn Martell of Dorne, Jon Arryn of the Vale, Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth and Manfred Darke of the Kingsguard."

The introduced men murmured greetings, Quellon smiling as he returned them. "My other sons are on the longboats, Balon and Euron commanding the force at the Rock while Aeron serves with the Lannisport feet." He glanced to his present child, smile becoming forced for a moment. "You'll have to forgive my sons, Prince Aelor; they would much prefer to be reaving, and don't like bothering with the affairs of greenlanders. A foolish take on life, but I've yet to break them of it."

That omission made Aelor temporarily wary of what would happen when Quellon passed on to the Drowned God or whatever it was he believed in, but that was a concern for another time. "The crown thanks you for your service, Lord Quellon. We have a tent prepared for you at the center of camp, and ask you join the war council."

The Ironborn were shaky on horses it seemed, and by shaky Aelor meant totally incompetent, save for Lord Quellon himself. It was for that reason that the Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands and his son rode ahead alone, his men marching—shuffling, more like, but Aelor supposed he'd look as foolish trying to stand on a warship in rough water as they did on land—behind. It was a marvelous display of trust, even for men who were allies, but Quellon Greyjoy had always tried to conform more to mainland standards.

Aelor decided rather quickly he liked him.

They rode at the head of the column, Greyjoy on Aelor's right while Oberyn and Jon Arryn rode to his left, the four highest-ranking men in the force sharing the place of honor. "How went your raids, Lord Quellon?"

"Well, Your Grace. My sons Balon and Euron captured the Crag, and Lord Westerling's family was taken captive. They are being rowed to your men at Casterly Rock as we speak. The same goes for the Farman's of Fair Isle. Their heir was killed when we took the castle, but his wife and three daughters are your prisoners."

"They should be taken as salt wives," came the ugly voice of Victarion, riding just behind his father. "It is the Old Way."

"Silence, boy," barked Quellon, voice red with anger. "You know it is forbidden."

"It shouldn't be," spat back his son, eyes truly evil when Aelor turned to regard him.

"Enough." Quellon had twisted in his saddle as well. "Return to our men; if you cannot keep your tongue silent as it should be you can wag it all you want to them." Man and son glared at one another for a long moment before Victarion dutifully turned his horse out of the line, galloping back towards the walking ironborn, bouncing in his saddle like a squire.

"I apologize, Your Grace," Quellon Greyjoy said, still glaring after his son. "I've tried to implement more of the mainland ways into the Islands during my time, but it has been met with…skepticism, to put it mildly."

Prince Oberyn shook his head. "We were all fiery-tempered young men once, Lord Kraken." The Dornishman nudged Aelor lightly. "This one still is."

Aelor grunted at the Red Viper's comment but ignored it. "You may keep plundered loot, as per our agreement, though I hope we were clear on it being forbidden again once the war is over." Aelor knew that, while it was unsaid, innocent villages were being pillaged as wholly as Lannister bannermen. Women were being carried off as salt wives contrary to Greyjoy's commands—Lord Quellon must know it too, but there was little he could do to prevent it—and would spend the rest of their days in captivity, all because Tywin Lannister had killed Elia.

And because Aelor Targaryen had unleashed the Ironborn hounds in response. The sane, true part of him wanted to curse himself for a heartless butcher, but the other part, the part he embraced when he thought of all he intended to do to Lannister and his kin, reasoned that they were Lannister smallfolk, and thusly separated from the others.

It was heartless and brutal the Dragon of Duskendale knew, but those were the very things he had become.

Quellon had nodded in response, blissfully unaware of the inner war Aelor Targaryen fought constantly. "I understand you perfectly, Prince Aelor. My men will return home as soon as the Rock falls, while I will sail to King's Landing to swear fealty to King Aegon."

"And assume your place as Master of Sh.i.p.s."

Greyjoy laughed at that, a hearty, genuine sound. "Ah yes, and that." He turned to look once more behind him, face still smiling from laughter but voice deadly serious. "Perhaps I should leave my sons behind, though."

He offered Lannisport parlay only for the sake of Elia's memory, not because of any goodness on his part.

The defenders of the walled city took hours to respond, doubtless wary of a trap, but eventually the gates opened, and a part of ten rode out. All bore the banners of House Lannister, the golden lion and crimson field infuriating Aelor to even glance at. They met halfway between the city and the siege lines, both parties visibly wary of treachery, the guards watching not only the men they were meeting for blades but also the city or lines for arrows.

The leader of the Lannisport party was clearly a Lannister, one of the seemingly countless green eyed blonde haired cunts the city was named after. Middle aged and short, the envoy was smiling even as both parties reined their horses to a halt.

"Ah, Targaryen. Come to surrender have you?"

Aelor was in no mood for games, diverting nearly all of his energy to keeping himself from ripping the smiling face off of his skull. "Who the hell are you?"

The man half bowed from the saddle, smile never leaving. "Tybolt Lannister of the Lannisport Lannister's at your service my fellows." He sat up straight, smile turning cruel. "You led your intended flanking force, yes? I hope you enjoyed my gift. Spikes can be such unpleasant things, and horses make such terrible noises when they die."

Oberyn's hand shot out to grasp Aelor's arm in caution, something the Prince was appreciative of considering it had begun to reach for the sword on his side, the Lannister guards tensing in response.

"Men make much the same sounds when they die slowly, Lannister," the Red Viper responded, showing unusual levelheadedness even though his voice was pure venom. "I intend to show you and all of your family that fact."

Tybolt's smile had never left, instead growing larger. "Cute, Dornishman, but that would require you breaching the walls behind you; something you will find very difficult to accomplish, even with your rapist heathens in the sea and those catapults you have been building."

I don't want to breach those walls, vermin; I want to burn them. Aelor didn't say that, of course; it was best to keep that a surprise. "I don't have to breach your walls," the Hand of the King said instead. "I just have to stop you from leaving them."

Tybolt laughed at that, an unusually unpleasant sound. "You're looking at Lannisport, Dragonspawn. Merchants by the thousands stop there, and while I'm sure your Drowned God fools will stop more from doing the same we Lannisters have stored plenty. My men and I can last far longer than your own will wish to remain."

Aelor gestured towards the defenses in question, voice ice. "There are tens of thousands of people trapped in there with your soldiers though, most of which aren't warriors. Women, children, the elderly; all of them are mouths to feed, thousands of hungry stomachs that offer you nothing in return."

Tybolt wasn't swayed. "All of them are loyal to our cause."

That was utter shit and they all knew it, but the gleam in the Lannister's eyes told Aelor the man had no intention of surrendering, Tybolt's mind set long before the dragonlord had even offered it to him.

That suited the Dragon of Duskendale just fine. He hadn't been going to offer the Lannister's a chance to surrender, wanting their blood not their apologies, but they hadn't known that.

Neither did Oberyn or the other Royalist around him. Surprise was going to abound.

"Expel them from your city. They will be given free passage."

Aelor felt Oberyn dart his head to stare at him in confusion, an emotion displayed plainly on Tybolt Lannister's face. "What?"

Aelor kept his violet eyes focused on the Lannister green ones. "The women, children and elderly; let them leave."

Tybolt leaned back, face becoming enraged. "So you can use them as hostages to hold against my men and me? You insult me, Targaryen!"

Aelor clenched his teeth for a moment before replying. "They will not be hostages, and the only thing I intend to do you is kill you, Lannister." The Prince sat up straighter in Warrior's saddle. "I am not my father." I am, actually, in more ways than one, but what is a white lie or two when it comes to murder and warfare? "I don't want to make war on women and children. Evacuate the city. Let all of those useless mouths leave."

Oberyn started to speak but Aelor cut him off. "Only the elderly, the women and the children mind you. Any man who looks like a soldier will be beheaded. Anybody with a weapon, no matter their age or s.e.x, will be gutted. They can depart from dawn to dusk, but anyone who exits that city at night will be killed. They will bring no wagons, no jewelry, no family heirlooms; they will only bring the clothes on their backs. They will have nothing; but they will live."

Tybolt stared incredulously for a moment before laughing again. "By the Seven you're serious. You Targaryen's truly are mad, aren't you? You would willingly allow a city under siege to boot out thousands of unneeded bodies, prolonging the siege by months or years? It is a miracle you inbred devils lasted three hundred years, a true miracle!"

Aelor's let fire seep into his eyes, even as he kept his tone even. "I am allowing you to 'boot out' thousands of unneeded bodies so I won't have their blood on my hands when I tear Lannisport and everything inside it apart." Tybolt's laugh stopped at the sheer hate in Aelor's words, even as the Prince continued on. "In four days I am going to attack that city. In four days I am going to take it and kill every living thing inside; every man, every horse, every dog, everything right down to the f.u.c.k.i.n.g termites in the wood. Everything that breathes is going to have its throat slit, whether it fights back or begs for mercy."

Aelor had the full attention of Lannister and everyone else now. "I am going to tear down every house, every fountain, and every scrap of wood and stack of stone. By the time I am done, Lannisport is going to be nothing more than a pile of debris and rotting Lannister corpses."

The Dragon of Duskendale relaxed slightly, letting some of the tension that had built in his spine ease away. "I would prefer to avoid having the blood of innocent smallfolk on my hands, Tybolt Lannister, but they will not stop me. If you do not allow the innocents to leave I will still attack. I will still take your walls and then your lives. I will still end every life, from the staunc.h.e.s.t soldier to the oldest crone. Mother, brother, son, daughter—I will not discriminate. They will die together or alone, one-by-one or all at once. Each and every soul will lose their lives, by blade or fire or sheer terror, I give not a whit. Lannister blood, guilty and innocent alike, will turn the Sunset Sea red, and your bodies will feed the sea lions for weeks."

Aelor glared into the horror-struck faces of the Lannisters, letting all of his hate fuel the abhorrence in his tone. "There will be no surrender and no mercy, not for you, but you can still save your families. You have four days to send them out of the city, where my men will direct them. Four days to keep the blood of the innocent off of your own hands, because if you don't evacuate them their deaths will be as much your fault as my own. That is all the time you have, for in four days I am coming into your city to raze it to the ground, regardless of who is inside."

Aelor took Warrior's reins into his hands, staring straight into Tybolt's eyes. "I advise you evacuate, Lannister. The innocent make such terrible noises when they die."

The Dragon of Duskendale turned and galloped away.