Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

The wind and snow were only half as cold as his father's voice.

"I don't care if there is a storm coming. We leave now."

The stablemaster of the Night's Watch—Galen or Guyard or some such—was walking a fine line of disfavor with the Dragon of Duskendale, and the quiver in his voice betrayed that he knew it. Still, the heavily cloaked man tried to intervene on the behalf of the horses currently cl.u.s.tered together in the courtyard of Castle Black. It was noble of him, though terribly foolish. "But, my lord, the new snow may block fox dens or—"

The stablemaster stopped midsentence when Aelor Targaryen whirled on him, violet eyes burning. "I am fully aware of the dangers to my horses, Stablemaster Garth. If they die in this storm from exposure or a misplaced step I'll be afoot, and that doesn't bode well for my speed in returning south now does it? I will take the utmost caution. Now bugger off."

Renlor winced in sympathy for the rebuked Black Brother. The man was merely expressing concern for the coursers, destriers and pack animals that were hastily being prepared to depart despite the coming storm, an admirable quality in any stablemaster. Still, he had chosen a particularly poor time to voice his concerns to the Lord of Duskendale; Aelor Targaryen had never been particularly good at listening when he was angry, especially to opinions that differed from his own. And although Renlor was of a considerably more relaxed nature than the man who had fathered him, he totally understood Aelor's anger.

Rhaella was dead.

Renlor remembered the day his sister had been born, in the fuzzy mix of images and sounds and recalled emotions that constitute the memories of a three year old. She had been tiny, even smaller than him, and his mother had let him hold her sleeping form. It had pleased the toddler Ren to no end, and he remembered sitting on the bed in the birthing chamber with the newborn in his tiny l.a.p, his mother holding Aemon and his father's broad arm encircling them all.

And now that babe was dead, burned to death in the secret passages Ren had played in as a child.

He and his sister had never been overly close as they grew, what with Rhaella being pampered from day one to be a queen and Renlor to be the lord of Duskendale. While he had spent hours sparring with Sers Manfred Darke and Barristan Selmy, she had spent hours on her needlework, learning not only to sew but also to make pleasant conversation to the other ladies doing the same. While he had learned diplomacy at the feet of Grandmaester Colmar the Grey and Lord Wyman Manderly, she had learned courtesies with their mother and Ashara Dayne. Still, despite the few similarities they shared in either education or character, she had been his sister; for a decade, she had been his only sister.

And his uncle had killed her, the same uncle who had tickled them when he was small, been Daenerys' courser and Kingsguard, and allowed Ren to win in clumsy sparring matches when Ren could barely pick up a wooden blade. Betrayal, rage, sadness, pain…Renlor felt them all.

The Seven knew what his father was feeling.

Renlor watched from atop Balerion, the black-hided and muscled great grandson of his father's horse Warrior, as the Dragon of Duskendale marched towards them in long, angry strides. Alaric Langward, thankfully unaware of just how close Ren and his daughter had grown, limped alongside him, ever his father's advisor. Ren had always split Aelor Targaryen into two different entities; there was Aelor his father, who taught him swordplay and threw him in the air as a child and ruffled his hair affectionately to this day, despite Ren's protests. And then there was Aelor the Hand of the King, who was stern and unsmiling and utterly ruthless in both war and negotiation. Ren had learned at a young age that you could reason with Aelor the father, but it was best to remain silent around Aelor the Hand of the King.

Lord Commander Mormont and a few Black Brothers followed his father, the gruff Northman clearly unpleased at even more men leaving the Wall in this time of trouble. Aemon—the brother not the old uncle—were also walking across the muddy courtyard, dressed heavily in furs, along with Jaehaerys, who had gone as pale as the falling snow. His closest sibling in both age and heart had remained behind when Ren, Baelon and their father had traveled to the Nightfort some weeks ago, burying himself in the library of Castle Black with a relish for learning Renlor had never shared. He silently prayed his little brother wasn't coming south—while there was certainly an enemy in the north as well, the blood Renlor had shed and the wildling girl Jaehaerys had captured proof of that, the chance of another battle soon seemed low. In the south, however, it was guaranteed, with the Ironborn and Viserys running amuck over their homeland. Aemon was bookish and frighteningly intelligent, but he was no warrior; Ren prayed their father realized that in his wrath.

As the group neared, Ren heard Mormont's gruff voice over the howling wind. "I am sorry for your loss, Prince Aelor, but your men are needed here."

His father's voice was in turn sharp and cold, and it was clear to Ren that his mind was settled on the matter. "Which is precisely why I am leaving the vast majority of them here under my nephew's command, Lord Commander Mormont. You still have thousands of troops and a seven hundred foot tall wall; you can spare my retinues and I."

Jaehaerys cut in, voice concerned and eyes fixated on the man he had hated mere months ago. "Uncle, I am not suitable for this position."

Aelor snorted as he waved his hand to Baelon, who instantly brought old Warrior forward, the beast's breath billowing into the cold air in great clouds of steam. "You are suitable if I say you are suitable, and I say it."

"I have no experience leading men, no—"

Aelor turned to him, and the procession stopped as he did. Renlor had desperately tried to learn whatever skill his father had for completely taking over a situation, and to his chagrin he had never mastered it. "Lord Commander Mormont will advise you as well as obey you as a Prince, as will your uncle Maester Aemon and Ser Borran; you are far from along Jaehaerys. What more, you have been trained nearly since your birth for command. You've learned swordsmanship under Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, stewardship under Colmar the Grey and tactics under Randyll Tarly. That and you have been bloodied, accounting well for yourself in the skirmish outside the Nightfort. And, above all, you are a Targaryen. All of your life has built you up to this moment; now you need to seize it."

His father swung onto Warrior's massive back, taking the reins from Baelon so his third son could mount his own stallion. His face was still masked in a cold scowl, though it softened slightly when he glanced at Aemon. "Are you sure, son?"

The young Targaryen nodded. "I will be of no use in the south. Here, Sam and I may be able to find something that will turn the tide in case of…" His brother trailed off, and their father nodded in understanding.

Ren felt himself straighten when his father sat up straight in his saddle, turning to face the men of his retinue who had finished packing provisions for the ride south. They were few as far as war parties go, roughly one hundred of Aelor's meanest and most deadly fighters. The levies were to remain at the Wall with Jaehaerys, as Aelor intended to overtake Aegon and his army as well as mass with the moving armies in the south. That left Aelor, two of his sons, Lord Alaric Langward and near one hundred knights and cutthroats to ride south after the King who had so callously left them behind and the pretender who had provoked the dragon's wrath.

His father's voice was authoritative and booming. "Prince Jaehaerys has command at the Wall. We ride."

And with the sound of howling wind and creaking tack, Aelor Targaryen rode to war.

He had thought his victory would make him feel invincible and powerful, but it had instead left him angry and hollow.

Viserys had never seen battle, though he had heard the roar and inhumane screech of it clearly when the Lions of Lannister had invaded his home as a child. Most of his youth had been spent in times of peace, caring for his sister and suffering through the lessons his brother insisted he take. It had spent in this very city, the city where he had been born.

The city that now burned.

The battle was long over by the time Viserys made landfall. He had chaffed at being kept from the fray—Aelor would never hang back while men died for him, and while Viserys knew he wasn't his brother he certainly wasn't a coward either—but his advisors had insisted he do so until they at least made landfall. It had proven a wise decision, as Viserys had watched from behind as at least a dozen of the lead sh.i.p.s and all the men on them, among whom he would have been had he had his way, exploded into the green flame that had made both his brother and his father infamous.

Laswell Peake, the man who had taken Viserys from his exile and made him a King, had gone to ashes in that blast.

The streets were still clogged with bodies, most in gold or crimson and black, smoke heavy in the air as a fire or fires had started and been beaten out. Viserys rode over the drying blood and age-old filth, atop a brilliant white stallion. It was a magnificent mount befitting a King to be sure, but Viserys silently found himself missing the black-hided beast he had left behind when he had been forced from Westeros by his cursed nephew. The bloodline of Warrior made for unparalleled beats of war, but Viserys supposed this was more for show anyhow.

Alester Strong, his squire/bodyguard, rode beside him on his left, Captain-General Harry Strickland his other. An honor guard rode to the rear and front, though Maylo Jayn had methodically combed the city for remaining Aegon loyalist in the hours since the Red Keep had fallen. Viserys quietly hoped a danger would appear; he was itching to test his skills in true battle, and the blade at his side made him feel invincible.

The Seven had certainly deemed him the true King of the Seven Kingdoms. It surprised him, considering he had never given a whit about them before nor they him, but he had no doubt of their blessing now.

He possessed Blackfyre, the blade of every Targaryen King until Daeron the Good and the wars fought after that succession. He, Viserys Targaryen not Aegon Targaryen, wielded the blade of Aegon the Conqueror and Daeron the Young Dragon.

Even as he rode up the Hook towards Aegon's High Hill he let his left hand stray to the hilt of the blade on that hip. The hand-and-a-half longsword had a smoky black blade, its pommel with a ruby in its center. When Viserys laid his hand to its worn grip he swore he could feel the power of the Targaryen Kings both good and bad who had wielded the mighty weapon. It made Viserys feel powerful, confident and in command.

It made him feel Kingly.

The members of the Golden Company had bestowed it upon him on the eve of assault, and Viserys in his joy had taken both Sylara and Lilas with a ferocity he hadn't known he possessed. It had been one of the finest moments of his life, holding the blade of his ancestors as he sailed forward to claim his Kingdom and his bride.

Except he had claimed neither. Not even Blackfyre could abate the anger he had felt when he had been informed that Alysanne and his nieces and nephews—and Daenerys—had evaded his grasp.

The Red Keep had taken the longest to fall, though fall it had. If not for the secret passages and the men who had infiltrated the castle through them Viserys had no doubt they would still be battling for it at this very moment, in the early morning light of this new day. Still, the battlements and courtyards left no doubt of the ferocity of the fighting that had taken place there. Viserys rode through its gates into its carnage, though men were even at this moment moving to clean the bodies and gore from the cobbles and red stone walls.

Renly Baratheon awaited him, taking a knee as any good vassal should when Viserys swung from his horse. "Your Grace, the city is yours."

Viserys tried to keep his voice calm, tempering his anger at the youngest of the Baratheon brothers incompetence with the knowledge that without him King's Landing would likely not have fallen. His voice came out f.o.r.c.i.b.l.y cheery as he waved for the Stag to rise. "So it is, Lord Baratheon. Though it appears Alysanne Lefford and her spawn are not. Nor is my sister."

Baratheon kept his face emotionless. "The Keep was taken in quick order, though pockets of resistance lasted for a long while. Many nobles escaped through the tunnels, among them Lady Alysanne and her children."

"I had men in those tunnels. Are you telling me they waltzed right through them?"

Franklyn Flowers, who had alongside Pykewood Peake been in command of the men infiltrating the secret passages, spoke quickly. "There were more tunnels than the one you used, Your Grace."

Viserys' face twitched at audacity of the Bastard of Cider Hall. Still, he kept his voice calm. "I: warned you that was the case, Flowers."

Baratheon cut in, his voice full of anger. "They lit fire to the tunnels, Your Grace. To 'smoke the nobles out'. They have found several bodies."

Viserys felt a rage unlike anything he had ever felt before, intertwining with a fear of the same magnitude. Not even the anger he had experienced when that imbecile Bryce Caron had courted his sister came close. "You risked my sister's life? The very woman who will be your Queen? On whose orders? On whose orders!"

Flowers fell into full self-preservation mode. "Pykewood Peake's, Your Grace. I tried to warn him off it but the man would not listen." Viserys saw that for the lie it was, and it must have flashed across his Valyrian features for Flowers took a step back. The small part of his mind not taken with anger and fear rejoiced that he could make a man such as Flowers, a seasoned and malicious killer, so afraid. "We have confirmed that none of the bodies belonged to Queen Daenerys, Your Grace, though I admit some were burned badly."

Viserys whirled on the assembled commanders and men in the courtyard. "Where is Peake!?"

Baratheon answered him. "Dead, Your Grace. My man Loras Tyrell has already executed him for his stupidity."

That mollified Viserys slightly, though he turned back to Flowers with ferocity. "Are you certain my sister was not harmed?"

The bastard hesitated, and in that hesitation Viserys nearly killed him. But Flowers dropped to his knees and produced from a pocket of his shirt a scorched necklace of steel and silver, half melted in places, though the brilliant sapphire in the center of its charm was still clearly visible. Viserys instantly relaxed at the sight of it, though a great pain and, much as he loathed it, guilt burned through him at its sight. "Only one body could have belonged to the future Queen, Your Grace, and this was found alongside it.

Viserys took the scorched chain and charm from Flowers' fingers, remembering all the times he had seen it around his niece's neck. His voice was soft even to his own ears. "The body did not belong to my sister, lucky for all of your fates. This belongs to my niece, Rhaella. At least, it used to."

He possessed no hatred for Rhaella. She had been a kind, sweet child who had tried her damndest to include her older, more jaded uncle in everything she could. While Viserys had known Rhaella would be here, he had never considered the possibility that she might die due to his actions.

The guilt and shame that crashed down on him nearly overwhelmed the King of the Iron Throne.

Instead he turned to Baratheon, keeping the emotion from his voice. "You say Peake has been dealt with?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"You are lucky, Flowers. It seems I will not kill you. At least not today." Mind still reeling from what he had done, he tried to think of what a King would do next. Only one thing came to mind. "Since you have allowed nearly every noble you were ordered to bring to me escape, pray tell who did you capture?"

He was brought to a corner of the courtyard where ten or so figures sat huddled despite their high birth. He saw among them one of Oberyn Martell's bastards, as well as the daughter of one of the Riverlords though he couldn't recall her name.

And then he saw his daughter in the arms of Myrcella Langward.

Viserys wasn't much of a father and had never taken an interest in either of his bastards, but he knew his child when he saw her. Instantly he pointed to Daenella. "Find a nursemaid for the infant at once, you fools; she is mine." As men rushed to obey, one of the female sellswords of the company—Kora, Kya?—letting a maternal instinct take over and pulling Daenella from a resisting Myrcella, he couldn't help but notice the swell to the Langward girl's belly. "That, however," he commented, gesturing to the blonde's middle "Is most assuredly not." Myrcella instantly clasped her hands to her belly, face instantly terrified.

It didn't take Viserys very long to puzzle out just who that child likely belonged to.

The smile that lit his face was genuine as he turned to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Renly having followed his King to where the noble hostages were held. "It seems you have not entirely failed me after all."