Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

No amount of physical labor could make a man as weary as fighting a war did, but this came absurdly close.

"You have a whole army of men to do this, yet here you and I stand. I'm going to have to start charging you double."

The Hand of the King grunted, even as he heaved a shovelful of snow onto the cart behind him. "I don't even know what I'm paying you now."

"Which means you can afford it." Bronn added another shovelful of the infuriating stuff to the side before pushing the head of the shovel into the snow and bending backwards. Aelor did the same, giving the screaming muscles in the small of his back a painfully pleasant stretch. I'm growing old. He let out an annoyed sigh when more snowflakes began to trickle down from the grey, forbidding skies above. What I wouldn't give for just one moment of sunshine.

To either side of them worked dozens of men, shovels and mattocks almost playing a rhythmic tune as they bit into the several feet of fresh snow that had covered their work of the previous day. Men along the frontline where he and Bronn stood would shovel mounds of the freshly fallen snow onto carts, which were then pulled to the side and dumped. Muscled men with mattocks slightly behind them hacked away at the harder, packed snow towards the bottom of what once had been the Kingsroad, swinging until the slick ice and uneven snow gave way to solid enough ground that the wagons of provisions could move forward another few inches.

The ride from the Wall to King's Landing would take several months with an army in perfect conditions. These conditions, however, were anything but perfect, and it had taken King Aegon's forces five moons just to reach Moat Cailin. The Seven knew how long it would take them to safely traverse the treacherous swamps of the Neck, even with the slightly built Crannogmen as their guides.

The snows that had chased Aelor and his retinue to Winterfell had only increased in both ferocity and frequency. Some nights a foot or more of snow would be dumped on the camp, forcing the men to once again clear that which they had the day before. The wagons of provisions and supplies couldn't travel until the road had been cleared; more than one had begun to go over freshly fallen snow only to sink in or, worse yet, tilt to the side on weaker patches and snap a wheel or axle.

King Aegon had been forced to slow to a grinding, infuriating crawl forward. Teams of men worked at all hours, clearing the road and moving the supply train up before another team of men replaced them. The tents where men huddled together for warmth against the bitter cold had lost all sense of organization, no longer set up each night in orderly rows. Instead they were spread out ragtag along the road behind them, many of them touching those beside them. The only latrines were those men dug out into the snow mounting on either side of their road, and those were quickly filled, making the camp a stinking, treacherous shithole of a place.

And a cold one. I can work with a shovel until I'm ready to die of exhaustion, and I'm still freezing my balls off.

Although none of that truly mattered all that much if they weren't able to resupply before too much longer. Hunting parties made up mostly of the husky Northerners who were used to the snow—though all agreed they'd never seen anything quite like this—returned with deer, rabbit, nearly anything edible to supplement the rations in the wagons. While Aelor knew it would be demoralizing and hard towards the end when rations were cut, he didn't believe the men would starve before they made it to the southern lands, where harvests were more plentiful and more could be drawn from the nobles and villages around. Water was of no concern either, as all a man had to do was strike a flame and melt some of the plentiful snow.

It was fodder for the hundreds of horses and oxen, both animals of labor and animals of war, that was proving worrying. Oats were unattainable here in the middle of a snow covered north, and most had already been eaten through. What remained was being fed only to the destriers and coursers, warhorses that needed to keep their strength up. The palfreys, drafts and oxen were being regulated to tree bark that foraging parties stripped off of any trees they came across. While the thick, adaptable oxen were handling the conversion decently enough, many of the drafts and palfreys were rapidly losing weight. More than one had perished from the cold as well, their hides being used as warmth and their meat roasted and served to the men. If they were held up for too much longer in the forbiddingly cold North, King Aegon would be attacking King's Landing on foot.

And if things truly turned sour and more than a few horses started dying, he may be doing it with his belly full of dead man.

"Come now, Bronn," the Dragon of Duskendale said as he returned to the laborious work ahead of him. "What else would we be doing if not this? A war camp is a boring place when there isn't much war going on."

Bronn snorted, unamused. "I can think of half a dozen things I could be doing, each warmer than the last."

"You're talking about the girls from Mole's and Winter Town."

"Yes I'm talking about the girls from Mole's and Winter Town. You can't tell me you'd rather be shoveling f.u.c.k.i.n.g snow than f.u.c.k.i.n.g one of them."

Aelor grinned slightly. "I can tell you that, Bronn, but I suppose the idea of a wife is a dangerous one to you."

The black haired sellsword grunted as he dumped another shovelful. "If that wife is hundreds of miles and thousands of feet of snow away it sure as shit is. Doesn't do much to keep me warm in the here and now does it?" Bronn stood up from shoveling for a moment to look the Hand of the King over. "Man looks like you could have any one of them for free most like, even that expensive redheaded one considering the way she looks at you. The way all women look at you is frankly irritating."

Aelor let his grin grow into a full smile at that. He liked Bronn; the man was almost as uncouth as Ser Manfred had been, and he gave zero shits about Your Gracing or My Lording. He simply gave his opinion and did what he was paid to do, no matter what that was.

And he had a high aptitude for killing, which was all the better.

"You mean the way she looks at all men. She's a whore, Bronn; they're supposed to look at men like that."

Bronn went back to digging. "Don't ruin it for me; I rather like to think she looks at me for my pretty face."

"Bronn the Beauty; now that is a name worthy of a song."

The two killers bent back to their task. Hours later, as Aelor fell into his cot under a mountain of furs, he prayed to all the Seven Gods that Alysanne was somewhere warm.

The cry cut through the hot air of the birthing chamber.

Alysanne Targaryen stuck her head out of the door, bellowing down the corridor in a tone similar to her husband's command voice. "Aemma, hurry with that water!"

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—or as close to one as they had anyway—darted back to her good-daughter's side, muscling by one of the birthing women in the process. Alysanne knew the midwife was probably more important than she herself was, but she had given birth to seven healthy, squalling children, and the child on the way was her first grandchild.

A grandmother at thirty and seven, with a child of my own less than a nameday old. Renlor and Myrcella are trying to make me old before my time.

None of the women here besides Alysanne, Dany and Myrcella herself knew for a certainty that the child being born was in fact a bastard, and none would know if she could help it. Alysanne would gladly throw any who try and claim such down the Moon Door Sweetrobin was always chittering on about.

Margaery, the fiercely intelligent Tyrell girl currently crouched on the other side of the birthing bed and gripping one of Myrcella's hands, probably suspected as much; Margaery was much too sharp and Myrcella too unpolished at lying for her not to catch the slips and hesitations in the soon-to-be-mothers speech. But the Rose of Highgarden had proven loyal to Alysanne and her family, and in her the Lady of Duskendale felt a small measure of trust. Margaery could have traveled with Lord Tyrion to the western coast and there secured an escort back to the Reach and her kin, but she had insisted on remaining with the Royal Family. Maybe it was a plot to imbed herself deeper into Targaryen good graces and make herself queen, maybe it was a sense of duty as one of Daenerys' ladies-in-waiting to remain with her Lady, or maybe it was genuine affection for the Targaryen children; Alysanne didn't know. But whatever the Tyrell beauty's motives, Alysanne was thankful she was here.

Myrcella had escaped the Red Keep by the sacrifice of Grandmaester Colmar, the giant, disfigured man dying to ensure Viserys lost his most valuable bargaining chip. Alysanne had heard of Davos, the former smuggler who had whisked Elia Martell and others to safety during the sack of King's Landing, but she had never met the man until he, his wife and four of his sons arrived with Myrcella at the Eyrie. He had risked everything to fulfill his duty to the crown, and Aemma had managed to talk the prickly Lysa Tully into giving his family refuge as well.

He had earned it in Alysanne's mind; his three eldest sons had died defending the rest of them from Viserys' tracking parties.

It was a miracle in and of itself that Myrcella had not lost the child during the stressful flight for the Eyrie, and another miracle that Arthur Dayne and his party of riders had come across the ragtag band of escapees near the Twins, Davos trying to bring Myrcella and his family to the safety of the armies in the North. The Sword of the Morning had been drawn in by the sounds of pursuit and the sight of Viserys' banner, annihilating one of the searcher bands though not before the third of Davos' sons had bleed out. They had arrived in the Eyrie, bloody and freezing, Myrcella close to collapsing.

Though the Langward girl had seemed to recover in the weeks afterwards, the child was still coming several weeks early, and Alysanne wondered if her harrowing experiences were a part of the cause.

Aemma returned bearing two buckets of fresh snowmelt, and Alysanne felt a brief brush of motherly love towards the girl. The red-haired, blue-eyed Arryn of the Vale had done much for the Targaryen name in the last moons, securing them access to the impenetrable Eyrie and going toe to toe with her isolated, rather unpleasant mother. Lysa Tully wasn't a bad woman, but she cared for little beyond her children and how much power she could wield, power that she understandably felt was threatened by the arrival of a Targaryen Princess and the wife to the Hand of the King. Aemma had been the mediator of several disagreements between Alysanne and Lysa, and was in her own way fighting as fiercely for Aegon's cause here as her twin brother Artys was in the Riverlands.

And now she was a willing midwife at the birth of yet another.

Myrcella's pained cry drug Alysanne out of her reverie, and she returned her attention to the birthing bed and the future Lord or Lady of Duskendale that was about to be born.

Dragons were creatures of fire in a world of ice, but they didn't seem to even notice.

Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen ran a hand over the short silvery-blonde hair on her head, the regrowth itching something fierce. On her l.a.p sat Rhaegal, named for both the slain brother she had never known and the slain niece who had died when the dragons came to life, his green and bronze scales radiating heat through the layers of furs she had donned. His growing body was wrapped around her middle, golden eyes closed as he dozed soundly.

She had worried when the snows began to fall as heavy and earnestly as they had that her children—for that was what they were to her—may be negatively affected or even, Seven forbid, die; they were cold-blooded, after all, and lizards and other reptiles didn't fare well in weather as severely cold as this. But dragons were fire made flesh, and while they preferred to sleep nearly in contact with the flames in the hearth in Dany's rooms they showed no sign of aversion to the cold itself.

And they were growing. Gods were they growing.

White-scaled Aelon, named after another brother who had saved the Targaryen dynasty, was at her feet, gnawing like a dog on the bones of the sheep the three dragons had eaten for dinner. Feeding them was a worrying task, as the more they grew the hungrier they became, and she couldn't risk too much of the Eyrie's winter reserves to feed them. While she had kept them for the most part under control, the bigger they became the more of a threat she worried they would be to not only the Arryns but perhaps even Alysanne and the others.

That fear was multiplied when she looked to Balerion.

The black dragon was the biggest and fastest growing of them all, and had in the past few days taken to the skies for short stints, something his brothers had yet to do. He was there now, body steaming as he cut through the falling snow above the Eyrie. Fiercely intelligent and utterly ferocious, Balerion seemed to be the incarnate of his namesake, Balerion the Black Dread, the same dragon who had turned the great towers of Harrenhal into melted ruins. He flew farther and farther every day, and her control over him was limited. While he always returned to feed and flew to Daenerys' balcony at night to curl around his brothers at the hearth, he was clearly the most willful of the three.

Willful enough to start hunting on his own, if the blackened bones of cats and goats found around the Eyrie were any indicator.

Dany watched him far above her, pride and fear and power coursing through her veins at the thought of what he could become. While she knew dragons would only solidify and ensure Targaryen rule for generations—and she would slaughter anyone who dared try to harm them—she also wasn't blind to the dangers they represented. What would her father Aerys have been capable of if he had had dragons under his control? What would Aelor have done?

How many more Houses besides the Darklyns, Hollards and Rogers would those two men had eliminated?

"Brilliant, isn't he?"

Dany was shaken from her thoughts by the voice behind her, turning even as she answered, Rhaegal raising his long neck as he awoke. "He becomes more so every—"

Alysanne was smiling at her, holding a bundle in her arms. It was thickly covered in swaddles against the chill of the courtyard and Alysanne held him close to her c.h.e.s.t, but resting in those swaddles and furs was a tiny, silver-haired child.

"Daenerys, I would like you to meet your great-nephew and future Lord of Duskendale, Lucaerys Targaryen."

Dany started forward, smile enigmatic, when a shadow darted down. Balerion was suddenly hovering between them, wings flapping, muzzle close to the bundle in Alysanne's arms.

Daenerys and Alysanne both froze, Balerion seeming to have descended quicker than light. Fear almost paralyzed Dany at the thought that the black dragon may see the minutes-old child as prey. Alysanne seemed to have the same idea, slowly starting to shift her grandson away from the sniffing snout of Balerion.

And then little Lucaerys' eyes opened, staring out of his swaddles at the dragon hovering inches from him.

With two hard flaps of his growing wings Balerion took back to the skies, flame liquefying the falling snow as the dragon roared in seeming adulation.

Dany could have sworn little Lucaerys Targaryen smiled.

The King in King's Landing was bored. So far his rule had consisted of the execution of five guardsmen for incompetency and mounting an old man's head on a spike. That was it, no battles aside from the one to take the city that he hadn't participated in, no sieges, no nothing, just an endless cycle of sitting and waiting.

The Red Keep and King's Landing were well prepared for the falling snow, their winter reserves having been built up over the years of peace during Aegon's rule. Her walls and defenses were unmarred after the coup that had taken the city, and any damage caused by the limited fighting had long been undone. The city was strong, and Viserys had been counseled that waiting for an attack by his enemies was wisest. While several houses had declared for Viserys and the Ironborn were doing an exemplary job of tying down the armies of Edmure Tully and Mace Tyrell, he was still outnumbered, and the strong defenses of King's Landing were his best bet of repulsing any attacks.

That was all well and good in the strategy room, but it was driving Viserys positively insane with impatience.

His nephew and brother were lost somewhere in the snows of the North, scouts unable to fight through the ice north of the Neck to give any solid information. Myrcella had seemed to escape him, that bloody c.u.n.t Colmar the Grey having managed to facilitate her escape, but the presence of Elia Sand as a hostage and the threat of the Ironborn was keeping the Dornish and their armies a respectable distance South. Viserys wished to go forward and attack one or the other, pinning one of the armies between his own and the Ironborn, but his council was severely opposed, and he could see the sense of it even if he didn't want to.

The snows were deep and frequent, and he held the advantage if he stayed in the capitol. If he left it, nothing was to stop the Dornish from assaulting or the armies in the west to forget the Ironborn for the chance to destroy him.

So Viserys waited. And waited. And waited.

Gods was he tired of waiting.

House Payne of the Gold Road in the Westerlands had declared for him, Lord Lorimer never having taken to Tyrion Lannister as his Lord. He brought with him two thousand knights and levies. The Thornes of Blackwater Rush had done the same, Lord Alester and his lands too close to the capital and too far from friendly forces to do otherwise. While his loyalty was certainly circ.u.mspect, he was an accomplished warrior and an excellent commander, and he could prove quite useful. The Stokeworths had sworn for him, as had the representatives of young Lady Ermesande Hayford of Hayford, though both had only done so once Golden Company men were at their doorsteps. While none of that was to be overly trusted, it did secure the surrounding lands to his cause, at least in name. Lord Gyles Rosby had remained loyal, but his men were north with the King and his keep had capitulated easily. The old, dying man was currently another hostage of Viserys, though he wondered if he should kill him and be done with it.

His Kingsguard was four strong for now, and he was reserving the other spots for future appointments. He had knighted and named Alester Strong to the order, the lad loyal and deadly. He had also named Ser Gerold Hasty, the brother of one of Lord Andrus Buckler's bannermen, to the white cloaks, a reputed excellent swordsman. It also helped to acknowledge the help the Bucklers and others of Renly's forces had given in securing the capitol, playing as much political importance as relevant move for the safety of his person.

Will Cole of the Golden Company had been appointed, as had the Jogos Nhai man Nhogo. A head shorter than the average Westerosi men and bowlegged, Nhogo had the pointed cranium of most Jogos Nhai, the result of his people's custom of binding the head of their infants for the first two years of life. His appointment was all prudence, as the odd little man was death with the odder blade he carried. The Westeros nobility would scoff at the appointment of such a foreigner to such a position, but this was to be a new world under Viserys, and he saw no need to explain his actions.

He had most of his guard, he had his army, and he had his capitol. All he needed was his Queen.

But that seemed to keep getting farther and farther away.

So Viserys sat in his chambers in the Red Keep, glaring out at the snow falling in droves around him, and brooded. He was a King now, but for a moment he felt like nothing had changed from his days in Summerhall.

Jaehaerys Targaryen was roused by a cold snout pressed to his face and a knock on the door.

"Jae," came the muffled call through the door, and Ghost brought him to a higher level of alert by l.i.c.k.i.n.g his face. The Prince of the Iron Throne gently pushed the albino wolf away, rising to a sitting position and squinting in the darkness. The windows of his chambers showed it to still be dark outside, and doubtlessly pouring the snow. The door to his chamber was outlined with a small ray of light, evidence whoever was knocking had a torch or candle.

"Come in," the Prince called, voice thick with sleep, averting his eyes as the door opened and light streamed in.

His cousin Aemon stood in the doorway, wearing several layers of furs and holding a torch. His always-serious face held an even more somber tone than usual. "You're going to want to see this."

He descended the steps of the King's Tower sometime later, adjusting his sword belt with his direwolf ahead of him and nephew behind, Ser Borran of the Bramsfort waiting at the bottom. Aemon didn't need to direct him, for a gathering of men were huddled in the courtyard beside the gate through the Wall, shrouded in thick furs and breathing heavy bursts of steam into the night air. Jaehaerys quickly made his way towards them, sliding between two men in the black cloaks of the Night's Watch to the center of the circle.

Laying there, blood frozen where it had spread around the mess that had been made of his stomach, lay a man in Targaryen livery.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, gruff and blunt, filled the Prince of the Iron Throne in. "He was drug in behind his horse, tied to the pommel of the saddle. None of the rest of his patrol has come back."

Aemon, voice quite, spoke from beside him. "It's Lucas Flowers, Your Grace."

Jaehaerys knew that, of course. Lucas Flowers was a bastard brother of Lord Horas Appleton of the Reach. He was a member of Aelor's retinue, though his uncle had instructed him to remain behind with Jaehaerys at the Wall. Flowers was an excellent scout, and had volunteered to help keeps eyes on the slowly advancing wildling force. Mance Rayder had numbers to be certain, but those numbers took much longer to move than the normal force, especially in the snows that had begun falling. Still, Rayder had had weeks, and the scouts had been reporting he was growing ever closer.

Now he was very close indeed.

Lord Eddard Stark held command of the Nightfort, having replaced Aelor in the capacity when the Hand of the King went south, but Robb had remained at Castle Black with Jaehaerys. The heir to the North looked to have been roused from his sleep the same as Jaehaerys, but he gestured towards Flowers' c.h.e.s.t, eyes focused. "He has something pinned to his c.h.e.s.t, Prince Jaehaerys."

Jaremy Rykker, brother to the dead Lord who had been Aelor's finest friend, knelt by the corpse of Flowers, pulling a small blade loose from his c.h.e.s.t with a gut-wrenching slunk. Unaffected, Rykker brought the note dutifully to Jaehaerys, who unfolded the bloody piece of tanned animal skin. The words were blunt and to the point, as was the name signed at the bottom.

Jaehaerys found his voice, informing the gathering of black brothers, lords and knights around him. "It's from Mance Rayder."

Lord Commander Mormont peered close. "What's the bastard say?"

Jaehaerys reread the short missive twice for folding it up. "He simply says there are things out there that will do worse than this to us all." Hard to imagine, considering the mess of intestines Flower's had become. It was clear he hadn't died quickly. "He wants us to send an envoy to set up a parlay."

Lord Cleyton Byrch, he who had rode to glory beside Jaehaerys' uncle during Robert's Rebellion, snorted disdainfully. "The man is mad. We have the advantage."

Jaremy Rykker shook his head. "We brothers of the Watch know what he refers to, Lord Byrch. I don't condone siding with wildlings in any way, but it may be worth seeing what he has to say."

Ser Borran was appalled at that. "And risk the Prince in a parlay with savages who do this to men? Come off it, man."

Jaehaerys was lost in his own thought as the men around him erupted into argument. Jaehaerys had taken a few sorties North of the Wall, but he hadn't gone beyond a day or two rides from Castle Black. The only threats he had seen in the north was that posed by the wildlings, having seen them in battle at the Nightfort. His brain told him this was a bad idea.

But.

Jaehaerys had seen his uncle Eddard execute one of the Night's Watch deserters. The man had been a ranger, reputed as one of the best, but he had been terrified the day he had died, and it wasn't at the prospect of death then and there. No, he seemed to have almost welcomed the swing of Ned Stark's sword.

It was clear he was running from something. Jaehaerys had seen battle with wildlings, and while he had been scared out of his wits it hadn't turned him into a man seeking death.

As the men raged at one another around him, Jaehaerys stood motionless, considering his options. His brain told him to ignore Mance Rayder's offer of parlay. His gut, however, told him it might be worth seeing what the man had to say. His lords and most members of the Watch wouldn't like the idea, especially considering the grisly manner in which the message had been delivered. They would rage at him, they would call him foolish.

But he was in command here, not them.

"My lords," he said quietly over the din of arguing men, more and more knights and black brothers joining the commotion. Jaehaerys tried again, yelling at the top of his voice. "My lords!" Silence slowly descended as Jaehaerys stepped into the circle beside the body of Lucas Flowers. "I will accept his offer of parlay."

Jaehaerys shouted again to stop the explosion of voices. "We will make it a neutral spot, and we will be weary of ambush, but in the grand scheme of things I am nothing. It's the Wall he needs destroy, not the man in command of it. My death or the death of Lord Commander Mormont wouldn't solve his problem and he knows it, yet he offers parlay as it is. I will go north and see what this King-Beyond-The-Wall has to say. That is my command, and it will be obeyed."

Aemon spoke quietly, through the angry silence at his cousin's words. "You'll have a hard time finding a man to act as envoy after…that." The future Lord of the Golden Tooth gestured towards the corpse at Jaehaerys' feet.

The Prince of the Iron Throne shook his head. "I won't be asking any of my soldiers or the men of the Night's Watch." His mind wandered as it often did to a pair of grey-green eyes set too far apart. He had kept himself away from them and their owner in the months since her capture, but he now looked towards the Grey Keep, where she had been held all this time. "I have just the envoy in mind, and she is no man."