Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

It is a miracle Renly and Stannis Baratheon are brothers.

While both men were tall, black haired and blue eyed, that was where the similarities stopped. Stannis was muscular where Renly was lean, balding while Renly wore his hair to his shoulders. He was grim and sullen, whereas his younger brother was always smiling and jovial. Stannis wore almost exclusively black, from his everyday clothing to his armor, while Renly rode into King's Landing in a suit of green and gold plate. Stannis hated pomp and circ.u.mstance, while Renly seemed to thrive on it.

Alysanne also trusted Stannis, and she sure as hell didn't trust Renly.

The youngest of the three Baratheon brothers had brought nearly ten thousand men with him, and the first thing Alysanne had noticed was how young they all were. Renly himself was two and twenty, and his second in command seemed to be the even younger Loras Tyrell, who seemed to have forsaken his sieged homeland to relieve the sieged capital. Boys, much like her Renlor and Aemon, made up the vast majority of their forces. The knights—with the exception of a few hedgeknights—were all young men, too young to have seen the Rebellion. It was painfully clear to Alysanne that they were all spitfires, desperate for a war to prove themselves in, dragging along their father's levies or their own in the case of young lords.

Those were the first things she had noticed. The second thing she had noticed was the Houses they all seemed to be from.

These were not Stormlords levies and retinues, though a few were speckled in. Though the banners they flew were all the Baratheon flag, the surcoats and shields of the men themselves told the true story. There were a conglomeration of eagles and deer and bulls, all sorts of animals and sigils. Boars of Crakehall, golden coins of Payne, candles of Waxley; to a man, the shields and surcoats were from Houses that had warred against the Targaryens near two years ago. That was the first warning bell.

Alysanne instantly noticed the plethora of three buckles on a blue field, the sigil of House Buckler; that was the second. Their Lord, a tall and stern-faced man of three and twenty named Andrus, sat a grey stallion near the front of the procession of nobles. His presence turned Alysanne's feelings of relief and hope into a conglomeration of anxiety and concern. Andrus was half Rogers', his mother having been from the House that Aelor had destroyed so thoroughly. While Lysa Rogers had been a kind woman who had cooperated with Aelor during the Rebellion, opening the gates of Bronzegate to save her husband and brother, Alysanne had no doubt Aelor would have killed her had she still been alive after her brother's attempts to assassinate Alysanne and Renlor had come to light. It was through luck—for House Buckler, not for Lysa—that an illness had taken her and her third child mere months before the purge that claimed the lives of all her father's family. Lord Ralph had joined her in the grave five years later.

Lord Andrus had been eight when his uncles and cousins were all killed, and he hadn't had to suffer his mother dying the same way. But Alysanne was under no illusions as to just what the man must think of Aelor, and his presence and the presence of all his knights and levies worried her.

Renly, however, was doing his best to assuage those fears. "Lady Alysanne, an honor to see you again." The dashing Baratheon dismounted a white stallion straight from a song, his green helm adorned with the antlers of a stag. Just like Robert's had been. He struts like a King, not like a man fourth in line for a single region.

Alysanne's unease grew even as she curtseyed in response to Renly's own short bow. "Lord Renly, the honor is mine, especially in these circ.u.mstances."

Tyrion bowed as well, smiling up at the tall Baratheon. She had been on the Small Council with Tyrion Lannister long enough, however, to see her own concerns were running through his mismatched eyes. "You have come at an excellent time, Lord Renly. Your timing was nearly…uncanny."

If Renly was here to sack instead of save, he was excellent at hiding it. His smile was smooth and natural. "While my brother was preparing to sail, my companions and I took it upon ourselves to gather men to aide in repelling the Ironborn from our coasts. It was through sheer luck that we were passing through Dalston Keep when word of your impending trouble reached us. We turned north to the capital as soon as we heard." Renly looked around, smile never faltering. "I take it we're not too late."

"Quite the contrary," Tyrion replied cheerily, though Alysanne knew he was anything but cheerful inside. "You're just in time."

Though just what Renly Baratheon and his companions were in time for was looking more and more doubtful.

Laswell Peake was sailing home.

Over one hundred years prior, his great grandfather had been exiled from the Reach, stripped of his lordship of Dunstonbury and his castle of the same name by King Daeron Targaryen the Second. House Peake had fought to but a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne and had lost two of the three castles that to this day were represented on their family banner. Only distant kin still occupied Starpike in Westeros, the lucky branch of the family that had been granted clemency while the others had foundered.

Now, after three generations and four more wars attempting to overthrow the red dragon, Laswell and his brothers sailed to fight a Targaryen again, only this time they intended to place a different one on the throne. The man they fought for now, Viserys Targaryen, wasn't much of a dragon, and Laswell doubted he'd be much of a King either. The lad—for he still acted like a boy, despite his age—was damn near insufferable at times, his new power seemingly going to his head, and was as unforgiving of slights both real and perceived as he was impatient to claim his throne.

But that mattered little to Laswell. He didn't give a damn who sat on the Iron Throne at the end of this war, be it Aegon the Sixth or Viserys the Third or even bloody Harry Strickland the First. He didn't give much of a damn what kind of king Viserys might make either, be he the second coming of Jaehaerys the Conciliator or Maegor the Cruel.

All Laswell Peake cared about was Dunstonbury, the home he had been raised hearing about but had never so much as stood on the same continent as. The Ironborn, their allies in this invasion, had been warned away from doing damage to Dunstonbury despite its close proximity to the coast of the Reach, instructed to forgo battering rams and looting although they were welcome to take the castle from the squatting House Dunston. The wretched filth had been awarded Dunstonbury just as soon as Laswell's great grandfather had had it revoked, even though they hadn't a drop of noble blood in their veins; their founder had been a simple man-at-arms who had, to the vast benefit of his children, saved Leo 'Longthorn' Tyrell on the Redgrass Field, where Daemon Blackfyre and the rebellion had died. The man had named his new dynasty after the castle they had usurped, as if he had had a right to it. The audacity boiled Laswell's blood to this day.

He hoped the Ironborn starved the Dunston's slowly, but he wouldn't complain too much if they didn't. If they left him one or ten to torture to death, that would be acceptable as well.

But this was all after they had defeated the current Targaryens, no mean feat. The king they intended to usurp was a competent young man who had ruled well when given the chance, though he wasn't the one to be concerned with. It was the uncle, the Dragon of Duskendale, whom the council had decided was the biggest obstacle to their effort, and would remain so despite being with Aegon the Sixth thousands of miles away. While his brutality had swelled their ranks to be sure, many nobles with grudges old and new opting to swear for Viserys simply to see the Burner of Lannisport fall, fear of him also held many lords in place. If this strike on the capital worked as was planned, allowing them to capture the Dragon's loved ones, they could remove him. For all his ruthlessness, Aelor Targaryen was known to value nothing in the Seven Kingdoms more than his family; the Golden Company would trade them, his family for the glue to the Targaryen dynasty, and then execute him.

And then, without fear of his martial ability or of his vicious retribution, lords would flock to Viserys' banner. Or so that was the plan.

The first step in it all was the capture of King's Landing, and as Laswell and the ship beneath his feet neared the future Lord of Dunstonbury was reaffirmed that they would do so. A Baratheon banner billowed above the ramparts of the Mud Gate. Laswell knew for a certainty that they weren't those of Stannis; the Lord of the Stormlands—for now, anyway—had taken the bait the Ironborn represented, sailing the strength of the Royal Navy and thousands of soldiers around the Broken Arm of Dorne to relieve the beaten and bloody coastlines of the Reach and Westerlands. That meant the banners currently flapping in the wind represented one thing; Renly had successfully 'relieved' King's Landing.

The Golden Company was likely sailing towards gates that would wing open as they made landfall; while the prevalence of Red Targaryen Dragons meant Renly either hadn't begun or hadn't finished his coup, the appearance of the fleet would kick him into action. The only true obstacle between Viserys and the city of his birth was the small fleet of sh.i.p.s left behind by Stannis, a token lot that Renly couldn't insist to help man without raising too much suspicion.

But as the ship beneath him neared—Laswell had been awarded a place of honor aboard the first ship in the line, a position won by flattering Viserys in one of the council discussions—he saw that even that token fleet wasn't moving, save for one. It struck him as odd; the capital surely had known of the nearing Golden company fleet for days, the fishing boats that had been allowed to return and give warning—as well as signal Renly—certainly telling of the Golden Skull banner. The captains and crews of this last line of naval defense should have been on high alert, ready to leap into defense of the Blackwater Bay as soon as the Golden Company came into view, but all but one staid stationary, and even it was moving slowly, rudderless and choppy.

And all of the sudden, Laswell Peake became uneasy.

I have earned this.

It was the millionth time he'd told himself that since he'd arrived in the city, but Renly Baratheon still didn't quite believe it.

His brother would kill him for this, should Stannis survive the battles with the Ironborn. While Renly didn't care for his elder brother, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted him to die either. Renly certainly held no malice for his niece or nephews; Shireen was in truth a charming girl despite the toll greyscale had taken on her, and the boys had done nothing to Renly themselves. But Renly would make a better lord than Stannis ever could, and while the third Baratheon brother was a man of different taste than most, he certainly didn't lack in ambition.

Yet he wasn't heartless, and he knew Stannis must die. And though Renly knew there was no turning back, not now, and he knew Stannis was in his way from ascending to the rule of the Stormlands that he deserved, Renly hesitated. And hesitated. And hesitated.

His men waited for an order he had yet to give, ready to turn on the men in golden cloaks and Targaryen livery, to slaughter them to a man and open the gates of King's Landing to the invading army of sellswords. Loras stood beside him, ready to plunge his talented blade into the back of Kedge, a lowborn Captain in the City Watch. He was the commandant of the defenses of the Mud Gate, along with several hundred goldcloaks. The Commander of the City Watch, a grim man of House Bywater named Jacelyn but called Ironhand, was at the Red Keep, along with most of his strongest fighters and the strongest of the knights left in the city. Renly had protested weakly when none of his men had been stationed within the Red Keep itself, Alysanne Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister politely but firmly declining the offer of his best swords, and Renly had been unable to press the matter for fear of proving his true intentions.

Though it seemed they had gathered those intentions already. Every Targaryen in the city, as well as the sons and daughters of nobles serving as pages or squires throughout King's Landing, had been drawn back, under the protection of the remaining Kingsguard and men loyal to Aegon. Renly knew they wanted to trust him, but wisely they had opted not to.

That made this job much more difficult, as did the fact that Renly had no idea what was going on in the bay at the moment.

The Golden Company neared, their sh.i.p.s already entering Blackwater Bay, yet none of the few sh.i.p.s of the Royal Navy below showed any sign of crews preparing them for battle. Only one ship sailed to counter the invasion force, and it was floating forward at an infuriatingly slow pace. No crew stirred on its deck, no doomed captain shouted orders. It seemed a ghost ship, steadily but slowly plowing forward to its demise.

Renly watched, unable to give the order to turn as the sh.i.p.s neared, something about it drawing his entire focus. He heard the shouts of the men of the Golden Company as the lead ship crossed paths with the slowly moving sole defender of the bay, yet the sound of whistling arrows or calls to board were not among them. Next to him Kedge raised a big arm and in it a banner, and as he chopped it down like an axe on the executioner's block, the banner thrown to the ground below them, Renly realized he had hesitated too long.

The shouts of panic from the Golden Company ship were easily heard even from here. Renly added his own voice to the maelstrom, bellowing out "Now!" and drawing his sword even as Loras drew his own and buried it to the hilt in Kedge's back, the big goldcloak Captain falling to his knees. Even as trumpets blared their signal and the butchery began all around him, goldcloaks and Targaryen soldiers murdered by the hundreds in the space of a few seconds, Renly knew he had waited too long.

Though nothing could truly be heard above the sounds of death and treachery all around him, Renly heard a song. It wasn't playing in reality he knew, for even if it was it'd be drowned out by the death cries and enraged roars of King Landing's true defenders, but Renly heard it clear as day in his mind. As a single flaming arrow floated through the air, fired from some place other than the battlements, a violin played a song of a long ago act by a long dead man. The stories said Aelor Targaryen had played the same song in the moments before he had destroyed Lannisport, to the terror of those both enemy and friend.

It terrified Renly now, all these years later, as he helplessly watched the arrow fall to the water in the wake of the single Royal Navy ship.

And then, just as Lannisport had seventeen years prior, Blackwater Bay exploded.