Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Pain was such a flexible thing.

It came in all sorts of forms, able to bring out complete opposite reactions when inflicted in the slightest different way. Most avoided it, the threat of pain able to convince them to do nearly anything you wanted. Others embraced and treasured it, like the Burned Men of the wildlings of the Vale. It could be a form of despair as was common, avoided like greyscale, or it could be a form of p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e if the inflicting hand knew what it was doing. He had come across a Lyseni whore in his days as an exiled sellsword who had been obsessed and enamored by pain, and she had remained his favorite for nigh on half a year due to her sheer uniqueness.

Pain could be inflicted quickly, with a sword or spear or other weapon, or it could be inflicted slowly, with the vast array of poisons he had worked at mastering since he was a young man. Death was nearly as flexible, capable of coming with or without vast amounts of pain.

For Tywin Lannister, Oberyn had chosen vast amounts, and even that wouldn't be enough. He had a week to kill him on the march back to King's Landing, and he intended to use every second of it.

Torture was as adverse as pain and death. The Boltons of the North flayed their victims alive, peeling the skin form the muscles and tendons while the prisoner thrashed and flayed. Oberyn had only tested it for the first time the day before, one finger at a time, and he had to admit the process was satisfyingly brutal. Burning was another, more common practice, and Oberyn wasn't against tried and true methods. A Lion roasted as well as any other, and Tywin Lannister had always been called a Lion.

But Oberyn was a Viper, and poison was his weapon of choice.

The old Lion was tough, even Oberyn would admit that, but they all broke sooner or later, and Tywin Lannister was no different. Three different poisons seeped slowly through his system, none of the doses fatal by themselves and even when combined would take longer than Oberyn had to kill the former Lord of the Westerlands. Each caused a different effect, fully intent on making Tywin's last hours as miserable as possible. Widow's Blood slowly shut down Tywin's bladder and bowels, the body's inner toxins working on the old man's flickering life. Basilisk venom pulled his mind slowly apart, causing hallucinations and terrors to haunt the Lion's mind even as his body shrieked in pain. And finally the venom of a viper slowly clotted his blood, sweat pouring down the Lion's b.a.r.e bloody torso as his body betrayed him, killing itself slowly with only limited input from Oberyn himself.

The Red Viper of Dorne knew in his heart his sister wouldn't approve. Aelor Targaryen had told him the same, seeming to have come to the conclusion during some part of the same revelation he seemed to have had during the flames of Lannisport. Oberyn assumed his new betrothed, the Lefford girl, was part of it, and he would fear his old friend was being manipulated if it weren't for the calm reassurances of Ellaria, who had gotten to know the heir to the Golden Tooth decently well.

That and it was Aelor. He was much too attuned to the game of thrones to be deceived by a girl he barely knew, and while the wiles of a woman's warmth were as effective as the greatest of derived schemes, the last scion of Targaryen strength was in no danger.

Even so, Oberyn intended to remain in King's Landing once they arrived for a good while. Oberyn trusted Aelor—and the Prince of Dorne didn't trust much of anyone—and the Lefford woman seemed a decent individual, but one could never be too cautious when an Infant King was on the throne, and Lord Leo was unabashedly ambitious.

He'd have to show the man just how foolish any plotting would be. Maybe he'd give the Lord of the Golden Tooth Tywin's body after he gave Aelor his head.

But that was a fear for another time. Now, the Prince of Dorne stood and unsheathed the dagger at his side. As he took a step towards the bloody tortured man in front of him, the Red viper smiled.

His second return to King's Landing had been much better than his first.

For one, he hadn't escorted the empty armor of his dead brother to the Great Sept of Baelor. There was no solemn pall over the smallfolk as he rode through their midst to the Red Keep. Instead, they had shouted and rejoiced, shouting his name or his nephews, though Aelor knew what they were truly cheering for.

It brought the Dragon of Duskendale no small amount of joy either. Tywin Lannister's tarred head entered the city on a spike, emerald green eyes glazed and sightless, face forever locked in a silent scream of pain. Aelor knew the Lion of the West's last days had been terrible; he'd ordered Oberyn to conduct his business well back of the main column, but even despite the distance he had heard the former Hand of the King's screams.

He asked Elia to forgive both himself and her brother, even as the Prince of the Iron Throne relished their sound.

Randyll Tarly and three thousand volunteers had remained behind in the Westerlands to settle any unrest Tyrion Lannister's ascension to Lord Paramount would bring. Aelor intended to offer Kevan the regency for his nephew, if the man could be found.

And if he would accept. Aelor knew many in the West would hate him for years to come after Lannisport, but he didn't care. They could hate him all they wanted as long as they feared him just as ardently, and anyone with eyes could see they most certainly did.

It was morbidly funny in a sense; he was using the same tactics to instill order that his most hated enemy, the man he had ordered tortured to death, had used. Whatever his rage at Tywin Lannister, the Lion's methods had been effective.

Hopefully his head, rotting next to Pycelle's skull, would be equally so in showing Westeros the wraith of the dragon.

The Dragon of Duskendale had held his sister for the first time soon after his arrival, Daenerys Stormborn every bit the Valyrian Princess. Viserys was still reeling from the loss of their mother, and Aelor knew it would be a long process to settle his youngest brother down, but his babe of a sister seemed to calm the young Prince temporarily, something Aelor was thankful for. He knew perfectly well that Viserys could easily in his child's mind blame Daenerys for their mother's death, but the opposite seemed to be the case. He was clinging to girl, always wanting to hold her, checking in on her constantly, being the older brother to Daenerys that Aelor had—to his shame—never been to Viserys. Aegon was growing and Rhaenys alongside him, with each day the toddle growing to look more and more like Elia.

The Targaryens were very much alive despite the recent attempts to change that fact, and Aelor didn't intend to let Westeros forget it any time soon.

His Small Council had reconvened the morning after his return to the capital, now complete since Quellon Greyjoy had travelled with the army from Casterly Rock on horseback and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Gerold Hightower had returned with Ned Stark from Dorne. Aelor had very nearly removed the white cloak from Hightower, Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne for forsaking their king and following Rhaegar in his folly, but he had ultimately decided against it. Even so, he had made it abundantly clear that their loyalty to was to their King, and had left no room for doubt in any of their minds that he would give the next Kingsguard to forget their vows over to Oberyn.

Several new faces had sat in during that crucial council meeting on invitations from Aelor. Oberyn, who as Alysanne and Ellaria had predicted seemed to have forgotten the argument he and Aelor had nearly killed one another over, had managed to not only sit through the whole thing without fidgeting but also managed to avoid insulting anyone. His time with Tywin seemed to have settled his normally testy attitude. Barristan, whom Aelor had yet to gather the courage to talk to privately, had also sat in at the Dragon of Duskendale's invitation, along with the new Grandmaester.

The Conclave at the Citadel in Oldtown had selected a hulking brute of a man named Colmar as the replacement to Pycelle. Closer to seven feet than six, he was half again as broad shouldered as Aelor with a bull thick neck and huge hands. Born to a whore in Maidenpool four and a half decades earlier, he had survived a bout with greyscale as an infant, leaving his broad face disfigured and earning him the dubious nickname of Colmar the Grey. The man wore the name like armor, dressing in all grey robes. However grisly the disease had made his countenance, it certainly hadn't affected his voice, which was as booming and boisterous as Greatjon Umber's, nor his mind, which even in their limited interactions Aelor had gauged to be as sharp as Valyrian steel.

The Small Council and their additional advisors had debated and worked for half a day, arguing and figuring, Grandmaester Colmar sending out nearly every raven in the rookery with messages going all over the Seven Kingdoms. Wyman Manderly had torn into the figures of the new influx of gold seized from Casterly Rock, having by Barristan's account worked tirelessly during the time the Prince had been gone to get a firm grip on the Throne's finances. Bronze Yohn Royce had alongside Oberyn toured the massed army outside the gates of King's Landing for volunteers for the City Watch, having stripped half of those who had survived the Sack of their gold cloaks, the order having become infected with dishonest and incompetent men during the years of Aerys reign. The Lord of Runestone had been met with a rash of volunteers, most of them former peasant levies who had found an aptitude for war and martial pursuits or were simply looking for a consistent meal and place to sleep, and Bronze Yohn claimed it would take him several days to filter through them all.

Lyanna Stark had come to the capital with her brother as well, now mere weeks away from delivering Rhaegar's child. That was the only issue he hadn't brought before the council, and even now the Dragon of Duskendale wasn't sure how he was going to handle it. He hadn't talked to the Stark girl yet, knowing himself well enough by now to recognize he needed time to gather himself before he did so to avoid ripping her foolish head off.

Maybe he'd bring Alysanne along when he finally did.

Aelor Targaryen was set to marry his betrothed in a fortnight, noble ladies from all over the realm already clamoring to be a lady-in-waiting despite Alysanne having only arrived in the capital the night before. She was handling the rushed preparations rather well, already settling into her position as consort to the most powerful man in Westeros. A few of the hostages from the rebel regions had already filtered into the capital, and Alysanne had made it her duty to settle the understandably frightened children into their new surroundings.

The Slightly Larger Council dispersed a few hours past midday, having convened that morning before dawn. As he had many times before, Aelor stopped Barristan before he could leave, waiting until the chambers were clear.

His mentor met Aelor's eyes calmly; there was no judgement, no betrayal. Aelor couldn't quite force himself to return the gaze, and a silence hung over the two for a long moment before the Prince of the Iron Throne managed to find his voice.

"I suppose you heard about Lannisport."

Barristan the Bold's voice was as calm as his gaze. "I imagine all the known world has by now, Your Grace."

"You would have stopped me if you were there."

"I certainly would have tried."

Aelor nodded, eyes on the ground. "I don't regret it, nor will I ever. Does that make me as bad as Aerys?"

Barristan didn't hesitate. "King Aerys would have burned the city with everyone in it, smallfolk and soldier alike. You didn't, Your grace."

"I wanted to."

"I know you did, yet still you allowed the innocent to escape. That is when I knew."

Aelor looked up for a moment, meeting his constant friend's eyes. "Knew what?"

"King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land." Barristan smiled ever so slightly. "Yours missed both sides, Your Grace; it landed on the edge. But I wholeheartedly believe that will make you the greatest of them all."

Aelor looked down again and swallowed. "Is this where I say I am sorry, Barristan?"

The most powerful man in the Kingdoms couldn't move as Barristan the Bold slowly walked to his side. The knight of the Kingsguard lightly laid his hand on the Prince's shoulder, and the Prince knew he was forgiven. "No, Aelor. This is when you become the man you were always meant to be."

The Hand of the King and regent to Aegon the Sixth held court that evening, ascending the steps to the Iron Throne as regally as any King ever had. Instead of sitting on the ugly, sharp piece of burnt and twisted steel, he had ordered a simple chair to be settled in front of it. While he had silenced the whispers that Aelor should overpass Aegon in the succession, he knew the thoughts were still in the back of the minds of his most ardent supporters—and his soon-to-be goodfather Lord Leo. Aelor refused to add fuel to the fire of those thoughts.

Besides, the simple chair was much more comfortable than that forsaken throne.

Nobles from around the Seven Kingdoms were present, among them Mace Tyrell and Ned Stark, who had been awaiting Aelor and his return. The Prince of the Iron Throne nodded to the latter as he sank into the chair, silently thanking the Lord of the North for having the foresight to keep Lyanna from the throne room and the eye of the court.

"Lords and ladies," he spoke, as Barristan and Manfred took up positions on either side of the dais the throne sat upon. "We finally have peace."

A cheer went up, one Aelor let grow for a long while before silencing with the raising of a hand. "There is much to be done, and I am not one for wasting time or for ceremony. Lords Arryn, Tully and Stark." Each of the Lord Paramounts stepped forward. "You willingly bent the knee when you could have continued fighting, and then loyally assisted the crown in defeating Tywin Lannister even after reprimands were issued. House Targaryen rewards loyalty, and as such only five hostages shall be required of each region to serve five years where placed. Many have already arrived, and I again defer to you and your Lord bannermen in deciding who shall serve. Lord Stark, your son or daughter shall be required in King's Landing only once every two years instead of every other year, and the same shall be required of Lord Arryn's heir should he and Lysa Tully be so blessed. Lord Hoster, Edmure shall remain my squire and hostage until he is of age, but I will personally present him with a suit of plate armor, a sword and a destrier bred from my own warhorse when he is knighted, as thanks to House Tully for your service."

Each man nodded and issued their thanks, returning to the crowds of the court when Aelor waved a hand. As was his nature, he instantly moved on to the next issue. "Ser Rolland Storm, step forward."

The Bastard of Nightsong was young, only eight and ten, the brother of the even younger Lord Bryce Caron in the Stormlands. Even so, he had alongside Greatjon Umber and the Northmen broken the Lannister lines outside Casterly Rock and Lannisport, slaying four of Tywin's kinsmen among several others. Though he had fought at the Trident alongside Robert, he had only been following his liege lord as had so many others, and Aelor was a warrior who respected other warriors. "While you fought the Crown at the Trident, you served it exceptionally well during the Battle of Casterly Rock, and I am told you are an excellent swordsmen. As such, I am offering you the seventh and final position in the Kingsguard, to serve King Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of his name loyally until the day of your death."

The young man with pox scars was unsurprisingly shocked, only able to nod his head in his surprise. Aelor returned the nod. "Kneel, Ser Rolland, and rise as a member of the Kingsguard."

Aelor watched on as the Bastard of Nightsong swore an oath forsaking his family and swearing allegiance to Aegon Targaryen and the Targaryen dynasty, Barristan placing the white cloak around his shoulders. While some would grumble at the appointment of a former rebel and of one so young, Aelor knew Aegon would need strong swords to protect him, and as a bastard Rolland had few prospects in the Stormlands. He could rise much higher than he otherwise would in the Kingsguard, and the young man seemed to know it.

As soon as the young man was cloaked, proudly taking up a position aside Sers Barristan and Manfred, Aelor came to the most crucial decree he had to male. "Stannis Baratheon, step forward."

The middle Baratheon was tall as the first had been though his lanky form had yet to fill out, his face as grim as Robert's had been jovial. Aelor had heard how the young lord had resorted to eating boot leather and rats rather than surrender to Mace Tyrell, only yielding the castle when Eddard Stark had arrived and persuaded him to. While Aelor wouldn't forget that Robert had killed Rhaegar—and he was sure Stannis wouldn't forget that Aelor had killed Robert—he couldn't help but be impressed.

Aelor met the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands Baratheon-blue eyes as he spoke. Stannis held the gaze. "You followed your brother as a second son should. As a second son myself, I can respect your actions. Your brother is dead by my hand, as my own brother is dead by Robert's. That could easily breed future animosity between our Houses. I have been counseled—likely wisely—to have you and your brother take the Black."

Stannis held Aelor's violet eyes unwaveringly. "That would be your right, Your Grace."

Aelor smiled ever so slightly. "I am not going to do so, however. You are the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands by right, a position you will maintain. Hostages will be taken from among the Stormlords, five as is the sentence of the others regions. Your brother and heir Renly will become a ward of Lord Mace Tyrell, not only as a buffer against any attempted retaliation against the throne but also as a reward to the Lord of the Reach for services rendered. Your first child, when born, shall undergo the same arrangement as Lord Stark's and Lord Arryn's. If you accept these terms, you will be accepted back into the King's Peace."

Stannis was unafraid. "And if I don't?"

The Dragon of Duskendale respected the lad's courage, but he would learn that Aelor was not one to be trifled with. "If you don't, I will descend these stairs and drive my sword through your stomach, to watch you bleed out on the floor of the throne room as both our respective brothers did in the waters of the Trident. Renly is likely to be much more accepting of my deal if he also becomes the Lord of Storm's End."

Stannis held Aelor's violet eyes for a long moment. "I suppose I accept these terms then, Your Grace."

Aelor nodded. "You are a brave man, Stannis Baratheon. I hope that bravery will serve the Iron Throne well in the future."

The Dragon of Duskendale stood. "Lords and Ladies, the rebellion is over, and peace finally surrounds us all. May Aegon the Sixth's reign truly begin."