Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Blackcrown had fallen. Again.

He'd never been his father's favorite son, despite his efforts to be the best reaver this side of Dagmer Cleftjaw. Long days spent as an oarsman aboard a longship followed by evenings training with his sword and axe had left him lean and scarred, yet still his father paid little attention. His raids in the Summer Isles, deemed extraordinary daring and dangerous by all of his men and others besides, had been met with a simple raised eyebrow and hand wave of dismissal.

He was the expendable son.

That was why he was given command of thirty longsh.i.p.s at the beginning of this war, to go and smash them against Oldtown's trebuchets or the Arbor's galleys, to at least die as an Ironborn even if Iron King Balon never considered him one.

Prince Theon Greyjoy hadn't died. Instead, he had become the Bloodkraken.

He'd taken Old Oak in the dead of the night, his reavers sailing into the docks with muffled oars and swarming the small port city and castle nearly before the Oakheart Lords had any notion they were there. He'd sacked the ancient castle and then rowed to Oakenshield, finishing off what his uncle Victarion had started, battling over the walls and into the heart of the castle. He'd taken Lord Hewett's buxom bastard daughter, Falia, as a salt wife, and on her pleas had also claimed two of her trueborn sisters. Theon had at first thought she meant it as an act of mercy, saving her sisters from the Ironborn underlings, but Falia had quickly proven that notion a foolish one.

She was the first woman he'd ever met with a deviant side as broad as his own. Theon half-fancied himself in love.

The third son of Balon Greyjoy had learned of the firsts' death shortly after the fall of Oakenshield, his eldest brother Rodrik having met his fate—a well-deserved one, in Theon's mind—at the end of a Mallister's blade. His other brother Maron was engaged with the Prester's of Feastfires, both Ironborn and greenlander refusing to give up a vicious siege that had gone on for months. The Lord of Feastfires, Garrison Prester, had been killed leading a sortie against the Ironborn, and his second-in-command, a cousin named Forley, had died with him. Instead of weakening the Westerlanders, it seemed to have instead strengthened them. A raven haired daughter of Lord Garrison, six-and-ten Elinor Prester, had taken over command of the defenses, and by all reports was wreaking more havoc than either her father or male cousin had been able to.

Ironborn numbers had dwindled so severely that Maron had called for aide, something Theon knew his older brother wouldn't have done if at all avoidable. It was unseemly for an Ironborn to call for any type of help, much less when facing a woman.

Theon loved it. One of his brother's had gotten himself killed while the other and an uncle had been shamed, while Theon was covering himself in riches, women and glory. Minor captains had steadily been flocking to his command, inflating his numbers to near four times the size they had been at the beginning of the war. At this rate he would have to be more wary of Asha during a kingsmoot than Maron or Victarion.

That was probably the case in any instance, but that was neither here nor there. His sister was trying to hunt down the Redwyne fleet, which had been playing cat and mouse for ages, while their father had been raiding Dorne's scorched coasts while he waited for the Royal Fleet to arrive. No word had been had from any of the easternmost fleets in several weeks, but Asha had always been secretive and the Iron King normally deemed it below him to keep his followers up to date on his activities. If Sunspear, the only target of true worth before the Stormlands, had fallen to anyone word would have spread by now, as would news of the galleys of the Iron Throne appearing. Theon imagined the Royal Fleet had likely already been smashed by his father, and that Balon Greyjoy was sailing towards the riches of the Eastern coasts.

Victarion, still seething at having his nephew sail up and take his glory from him, had sailed off to answer Maron's call, likely in hopes of reclaiming some of his own renown and further damaging Maron's. Theon had sailed the opposite direction alongside a fleet under Dagmer Cleftjaw, to re-take Blackcrown from the Reach forces that had driven the original Ironborn out. While everything of value had been removed during the first taking, it would serve as a warning to the Reachmen that none of the greenlands was safe, and that it would take more than a token force to hold any keep this side of Dorne. Theon also hoped it drew forces away from his ultimate goal, which to this point had been too well defended to even contemplate attack.

He was going to take Oldtown, right out from beneath the pompous Hightowers.

He fell asleep every night, Falia on one side and one of her bound sisters the other, with dreams of the glory to come.

It was from that sleep he awoke to word that a fleet had stolen up on them in the night, engaging Dagmer just off the coast of Blackcrown.

The sound of the battle was fierce even from shore as Theon and his reavers rushed to man their sh.i.p.s. As he sprinted towards the docks, kraken-helm in one hand and bow across his back, he could see the blue sails with cl.u.s.ters of red gr.a.p.es. Redwyne seems to have given Asha the slip long enough to hit me. Theon's heart soared. It appears my sister shall be put to shame during this war as well.

"To oars!" He shouted as soon as he stepped aboard his longship, aptly named Glory Seeker, rather needlessly as his men were already pulling out of the docks. "We crush the Redwynes today!"

Dagmer had already been holding his own against the Redwyne fleets by the time Theon's came barreling in. Arrows and grappling hooks flew between sh.i.p.s. Theon ordered the Seeker up beside one of the largest galleys with the Redwyne sail billowing, the Reachman galley sitting a full two decks higher than his own longship. Regardless his men tossed grappling hooks, and Theon picked off two enemy archers with his bow before he reslung it and hauled himself up and over the side of Redwyne vessel, axe and sword soon covered in blood. Two other sh.i.p.s of lesser captains had likewise assaulted the Redwyne vessel, and before long the scores of Ironborn had painted it was red as the gr.a.p.es on her sails.

Theon removed his axe from the brain of a Reach sailor, barely noticing the carnage as his men and those of the other captains mopped up what was left of the Redwyne men. He strode towards the forecastle, dispatching a wounded man in blue and yellow along the way, using the height of the massive vessel to look over the battle at the sea.

What he saw froze his blood.

Approaching from the direction of Dorne was a fleet, their sails turning the blue of the sea into an ocean of colored cloth. But those sails belonged to neither his father nor his sister, the sh.i.p.s too wide in the water and tall in the mast to be reavers. Those were galleys, not longsh.i.p.s, too many of them to be prizes captured, all sailing towards Theon and the remnants of the Redwynes.

At their front the largest of the galleys sailed, its deck adorned with scorpions and her rigging with marksmen. Her mainsail flew the crimson dragon of Aegon Targaryen, her topsail the black stag of Baratheon.

The Royal Fleet had arrived.

For a moment Theon could only stare, mind unable to process the implications of the Royal Fleet's sudden arrival off the western coast of the Reach alongside the Redwyne's. His father was supposed to have met them south of Dorne; he and Asha combined would have had too many sh.i.p.s for a greenlander to defeat, and even if by a miracle one had their would have been survivors to bring the tale to the rest of the Ironborn. His father and his captains were too experienced at sea to fall, and they were expecting the Royal Fleet; they weren't likely to have been taken unawares.

Yet here his enemy was, and the Iron King was nowhere to be found.

Shouts of alarm began on the deck around him as more and more Ironborn became aware of the approaching fleet. Several captains were turning towards the new threat, while others were shamelessly beginning to edge their crews away from the battle.

Theon understood why. This piece of the Redwyne Fleet had clearly been a distraction, drawing the Ironborn into a disorganized mass of ship-to-ship combat. The Royal Fleet then bolted in, organized and fresh, to smash them.

To smash Theon.

Greyjoy knew then he was going to die.

His mind was a blur of images as he raced back to Glory Seeker, refusing some of his crew's pleas to flee. His Ironborn made a fight of it, sinking and burning three more sh.i.p.s before the massive black hulk and black sails of the royal flagship loomed over him.

He saw Dagmer had also been drawn towards the flagship, and both Ironborn made to board her simultaneously. No communication had both boarded the royal flagship, both reavers making a last-ditch effort to remove the head of the snake so that the body would die. Scorpion bolts tore through his longship and arrows through his men as they boarded, and as soon as they gained the deck they were set upon. It wasn't sailors who met them but instead knights and experienced men at arms, some dressed in full armor despite the fact that it would drown them should they be cast overboard. His uncle Victarion, who also dressed in full armor, would call them brave, but Theon considered them stupid.

But either way, brave or stupid, they were deadly.

Theon saw the Cleftjaw die, a greenlander mace turning the ugly scar of his face into an uglier mass of blood and bone, knocking the infamous captain to the ground where the mace-wielder proceeded to smash his white-haired head in. It was a different man, in black and gold armor with stag antlers on his helm, who killed Theon. They battled for what seemed liked hours, Theon quick and elusive with his axe in one hand and his sword in the other while the muscular greenlander—clearly a Baratheon—was savagely strong with his sword and shield.

It was Dagmer who ultimately caused his doom, the Prince of the Iron Islands slipping on the old Ironborn's blood and going to a knee. The Baratheon's sword had knocked aside his axe and then removed his head before Theon Greyjoy could even think to scream.

The Bloodkraken's head bounced once, twice, thrice across the bloody deck before it dropped into the murky sea.

They arrived a fortnight after he'd left them standing in a field.

There was no pomp and circ.u.mstance for this meeting, no show of strength. Jaehaerys Targaryen, accompanied only by Lord Commander Mormont, Ser Borran of the Kingsguard, Robb Stark and their two direwolves rode to the edge of the clearing in front of the Wall. There they were met by Mance Rayder, the big red-bearded wildling known as Tormund Giantsbane, the giant himself called Mag the Mighty and the disturbingly beautiful blonde-haired woman called Val. No snowbears came from the woods, no squat women waved impaled dog heads around, and no line of knights on horses peered down from a position of superiority.

The two sides simply met, and once again started to business. Snow fell around them, a near constant thing now, as Mance Rayder once again pleaded his case. "I brought your proposal before my people."

Jaehaerys nodded. "And?"

Rayder's tone was tight with barely-controlled anger. "I lost nearly a hundred men in the brawls that broke out. My people refuse to kneel."

"I'll take that as a no, then."

Rayder raised a hand. "You didn't let me finish." His voice lowered with his hand. "I lost near one thousand more when the dead hit us that night. We burnt our own as soon as they fell, but then the same evil we've been running from caught up to us. My people are on their way here, whether that gate is open or no."

Jaehaerys' throat was dry, but he kept his face calm. "You know my terms. They will not change."

Mance raised his chin a hair. "You seem like a smart lad, even for a southerner, but you're being foolish. I just told you the dead are near, nearer than any of us would ever want their like to be, yet you'll let me bring the only thing between you and them down before you let my people through."

He shook his head. "Quite the contrary. You would bring down the only thing between me and them before I let your people through."

The red-haired Giantsbane spoke, voice deep and raspy. "The free folk don't kneel, southerner. We nearly tore one another apart when the idea of it was mentioned."

Mance nodded. "There are those who would rather die than kneel before any man."

Jaehaerys swallowed, then spoke the words he had been preparing to say for weeks. "Then let them."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall seemed insulted. "Leave my people to die?"

"Not all of them," the Targaryen Prince cut in, before Rayder could work himself into too big of a lather. "Just the ones who won't swallow their pride enough to save their people's lives. Any man who wouldn't kneel to save his family is not a man I want anything to do with. If they would refuse my offer and doom the rest of you, leave them. Those of you who would kneel and follow the commands of the King are free to come below the Wall, though with the stipulations mentioned and a few others to boot."

Giantsbane grunted. "And what do we do when those we leave come knocking on your Wall?"

Jaehaerys met the bigger man's eyes. "Nothing; you do nothing. I do something."

"And just what would you do?"

Jaehaerys tried his damndest to embody Aelor in that moment. "I'll give them what they want. Death."

Mance spoke, voice still on the edge of control. "Those who refuse to kneel picked me as their king just as those who were open to the idea did."

"And those who follow a king obey that king, or he is no king at all. They chose you to follow; if they choose not to do so in this, then your hands will be clean."

"And yours will be those of a murderer."

Jaehaerys didn't let his face flinch, though his insides certainly recoiled. "No. It'll make mine more kingly than yours ever could be." Jaehaerys gestured behind him, towards the Wall that towered behind them. "That is the key to your salvation. I hold it. I can give it to any of you who choose to follow my commands. And I can just as easily withhold it from those who won't. I have made my position clear, Mance Rayder."

The King-Beyond-The-Wall spat. "And I've tried to make mine clear as well, but you won't listen. The threat I'm running from is far greater than the one my people represent!"

"And I have a Wall to defend against it."

"I warned you I would bring that Wall to the ground if I have to."

Jaehaerys rose to his full height. "Then do it, and we'll all die together."

For just a moment Jaehaerys thought Rayder would strike him. Ghost and Grey Wind sensed it, both direwolves stepping closer to the Prince of the Iron Throne and growling low in their throats, while Borran and Robb stepped forward with their hands on their swords. Rayder didn't move to attack, though, his eyes locked on Jaehaerys' as his mind clearly raced. The Prince of the Iron Throne met the gaze, refusing to buckle, even as his breath caught in his throat.

It was several long minutes before Rayder let out a long sigh.

"What are these other 'stipulations'?"