Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

The messenger wore a black and green surcoat with a white crescent moon on his right b.r.e.a.s.t.

At least, that was supposed to be the color scheme. Thanks to the roughly bandaged wound from an axe having come down on his right shoulder, digging deep and rendering that arm useless, everything just looked red.

Bronzegate had surrendered without incident. After surrounding the large but plain castle with the great bronze gates that gave it its name, Aelor had displayed both Lord Buckler and the tall, portly Lord Bryce Rogers before the walls. Lady Buckler just so happened to be Lord Rogers' sister, and fear for her husband and brother as well as the ten thousand strong Targaryen loyalists surrounding her keep had made the plump woman as plain as her castle see sense. She'd opened the gates of bronze, and Aelor Targaryen rode though without trouble.

The battle fought that morning just a mile north had been short and bloody, but also relatively insignificant. Lord Buckler had had only two thousand men, a good number of them untrained levies. Their lines had been broken by less than one thousand mounted knights, many of the inexperienced peasants throwing their spears down and fleeing before the wedge of lances, led at the point by a demon in black armor with white flames cresting his helm, had even barreled into them. The rest had broken when Lord Rykker, having slipped by their right flank and gotten behind their lines by keeping to the hills, crashed into their rear—the loyalist infantry under Lords Buckwell and Bywater hadn't even had time to arrive on the field.

Only the center, manned by Buckler's retainers and the top knights sworn to him and his vassals, had put up much resistance. That's where Aelor had been. Nearly two hundred knights, half of his vanguard, had died fighting alongside him—but they'd broken the Stormlander lines.

Lord Buckler's hall was square and as plain as seemingly the rest of Bronzegate, but it housed over one hundred, and it was there that Aelor and his advisors had taken their meal. Lord Buckler, arm bandaged and face black and purple from bruising, had been confined a prisoner in his own chambers with his wife Alerie and their two small children, six year old Andrus and three year old Rohanne, under guard but comfortable. Lord Rogers, on the other hand, had viciously cursed Aelor after it had been found that the tall knight with the silver unicorn surcoat the Dragon Prince had slain had been his sixteen year old son and heir, and was now rotting in his goodbrother's cells.

Lord Barristan Hasty of Hadlow Keep had been in command of Buckler's center. He, along with his brother and two cousins, had died there.

The messenger was nearly carried in, half dead already but set on delivering his news. "Your Grace," the man croaked, in his early twenties with a thrice broken nose but otherwise fair featured face. Aelor was on his feet at once, the humble meal of venison and potatoes forgotten as he near sprinted towards the wounded knight in House Fell colors.

"Sit him down!" The dragonlord nearly roared, and a chair was quickly shoved behind the man's knees, the two sentries supporting him seating him as gently as they could.

"I…I have news, my lord." The knights brown eyes were racked in pain, but he pushed forward stubbornly before Aelor could answer. "Lord Baratheon…is at Summerhall. Defeated Lord Fell, Lord…Grandison and Lord Cafferen, one by one. Two days ago. Lord Fell is…dead."

Aelor knelt beside the badly wounded man. "Your name."

"Ser…Roland Rawlins, Your Grace." Ser Rawlins had to speak around his gasps for breath, eyelids drooping lower and lower. "Lord Baratheon knows…knows you're coming, my Prince. Only has four thousand men with him….he's going to rally the rest where…he is."

Ser Rawlins fell into unconsciousness then, and Aelor stood to his full height. "The maester, now! Move!" His men rushed to obey, four of them picking Ser Roland up and nearly sprinting towards the maester's chamber while others rushed to round the man himself, an old Northman named Harrion, from where he was tending the wounded from the battle that morning.

Aelor turned back towards the high table, where his advisors were all staring at him, half of them still half out of their seats from being startled when Ser Roland had burst in. "Ser Barristan," Aelor commanded, eyes focused. "I want the best scouts we have to ride for Summerhall and find and track Baratheon's army. I want to know his numbers and how many of his lords haven't merged with him yet."

"At once Your Grace," the Kingsguard knight replied, but Aelor wasn't finished.

"Send a messenger both down the Boneway to treat with the Dornish and another towards the Reach. The Tyrell's will still be rallying, but he's to gather the first sizeable force he can and order them to close down the Kingsroad south of King's Landing. We cannot allow Baratheon to unify with Lords Arryn or Stark. We keep him in the Stormlands, and we finish him here. The Dornish are to march with haste up the Boneway and close him off from Dorne." Ser Barristan nodded and turned, striding out of the hall while already giving orders.

Lord Rykker was standing, the plate of cooling stag in front of him forgotten. "It seems Lord Buckler was telling the truth about his wayward vassal." The Fells were sworn to the Bucklers, along with the Rogers and Hastys, but Aelor had realized shortly after the battle that only the latter two had been present. He now knew why.

Lord Buckwell grunted. "He failed to mention Summerhall, however."

"He was told to hold us here. Baratheon probably knew it was an impossible task, and didn't communicate further."

Lord Dontos Bywater of the Kingswood, gaunt of face with copper hair he kept cut close, scrunched his face up in shock. "He sacrificed his men?"

Aelor retook his seat, staring at his plate in thought. "He had too. I had ten thousand men descending on his head, and his bannermen had only just begun to rally. He had to buy himself time, especially when Fell and his allies remained loyal to the crown." Aelor looked up and waved his hand around the hall. "It worked. The longer I'm here the longer he has to amass troops."

Lord Byrch raised an eyebrow. "How did he get to Summerhall so quickly?"

"According to Rawlins he only has four thousand men. That's his retinue and whatever men he could raise on the fly. He knew he had to put down the loyalists quicjly, and he did."

Rykker furled his brow in confusion, though he too sat back down and resumed eating. "So why is he suddenly intending to rally his forces at Summerhall, so close to the Tyrell's? Why not return to his seat of power?"

"Because if Ser Rawlins hadn't told us of my ancestor's ruin of a castle, where would we be going, Ren?"

Understanding spread across Lord Rykker's face. "Storm's End."

Aelor nodded. "We attacked this force for the same reason he left it; I can't have a substantial enemy presence to the rear. Were we to converge on Storm's End, laying siege to a castle that has been deemed impregnable, Baratheon would finish rallying his men, and then he'd be in perfect position to utterly f.u.c.k us."

Lord Harte was seated beside Renfred, who in turn was directly beside Aelor, but the Dragon of Duskendale still had trouble hearing him when he spoke. "Or to ignore us completely, and march to unify with Lord's Stark and Arryn."

Bywater, who in Aelor's limited experience with him had struck the prince as eager but an incompetent tactician, spoke next. "And the Tyrell's?"

Aelor shook his head. "Mace Tyrell has a lot of men, but he's a fool. A fool with forty thousand soldiers is less useful than a genius with fifty."

"They have Randyll Tarly," Rykker pointed out.

"True, and I can only hope Tyrell has given him full command, though I somehow doubt it."

Lord Buckwell had always been down to business, and war hadn't changed that. "What is our next move, Your Grace?"

"Sieging Storm's End is out of the question. They'll only have a skeleton force since Baratheon already marched to Summerhall, but even that would likely be enough to hold us for an extended period of time. Summerhall was a p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e castle, and it wasn't very defensible even before it burned down. Baratheon is not fortified, but he's also not expecting me to head straight for him."

"And we are?"

"No, we're not." Aelor stood amidst the confused ramblings of his advisors. "The Evenstar doesn't have near enough sh.i.p.s to sail his strength into Shipbreaker Bay—they can only ferry from the island of Tarth the short distance over the Straits of Tarth to Drakesgrave, where Lord Selwyn will probably rally his mainland vassals. They'll march on land from there to Summerhall."

Rykker stood as well, knowing where this was headed. "We can potentially catch them as they disembark. Tarth has another three or four thousand men."

Aelor nodded. "The goal of our entire campaign was to scatter the Stormlord hosts before they can march. Even if Baratheon is at Summerhall, I see no need to alter that course of action. As long as the Tyrell's and Dornish do as their ordered and keep him bottled up in his own lands, we can cut him apart piece by piece."

Lord Buckwell gave a small grin beneath his massive mustache. "We're going to remove the stag's antlers."

Aelor drained his flagon of ale before turning to leave. "Damn right. Prepare the men. We force march tonight."

Lord Selwyn Tarth the Evenstar was rumored to be highly competent, a good man who accomplished what was ordered of him quickly and efficiently. That's why it came as a disappointment to Aelor when he crested the ridge and saw galleys still disembarking men in the quartered yellow sun on red and white moon on blue of House Tarth.

He supposed he could understand, though; it should have only taken him half the time it had to march the relatively short distance from Bronzegate to Drakesgrave, but the storms that gave the Stormlands their name had begun a torrential downpour that hadn't lightened until two days earlier. Ten thousand men took a considerable amount of time to move in perfect circ.u.mstances, and with the storms turning the roads into mud his supply wagons kept getting caught in the slop, slowing his army's movements to the point that Aelor Targaryen had been ready to rip his silver hair out by the roots.

The only plus was that it had slowed the army of Selwyn down as well. The Straits of Tarth were shielded from the worst of storms by the mountains of the island of the same name, but only a fool would try to transport hundreds of armored men across the waters in one.

Selwyn Tarth was clearly no fool, judging by the defensive lines his landward vassals had set up to defend the disembarking troops, even though they surely had been praying they wouldn't need them. They had to know they were outnumbered by more than two to one, and the positioning of Drakesgrave gave them nowhere to flee to. They had to be betting Aelor would march on the supposedly undefended Storm's End, leaving them to slip around and merge at Summerhall.

Even so, Evenstar had been ready. Banners bearing the crossed white quills on a brown field of house Penrose of the Parchments, the yellow haystack on an orange field of house Errol of Haystack Hall, and the quartered yellow pavilion on blue field and green laurel branches on white field of house Musgood of Drakesgrave, whose small castle and town stood a few hundred yards behind the Stormlander lines, nearly on the water of the Straits where Tarth men were rushing out of galleys. Two half-dug trenches lined the field to their front, and the Stormlander's were dashing to form a shieldwall behind them.

Aelor Targaryen whirled on his black stallion, the second of four destriers he kept in times of war. The first had died outside Bronzegate, and Aelor knew there was a high likelihood that this one wouldn't survive this battle. It was an inevitable part of knighthood; horses died under you by the score. You could only hope you didn't soon follow them into death.

"Form a wedge," he called, and voices and a warhorn carried the command down the entirety of his line. It was the same formation he had used at Bronzegate. I suppose I'm an unoriginal military mind, but things become the norm by working. This isn't a time to get too creative for my own good. He had pulled nearly all of his cavalry, fifteen hundred knights, into his front lines, leaving two hundred as a reserve. "Ren, take the left. Strong shield."

Renfred Rykker slammed a gauntleted fist into his b.r.e.a.s.tplate. "Stronger sword," he replied, before spurring his own stallion towards his awarded flank.

"Ser Barristan, you have the right." The Kingsguard nodded and rode to his own assignment. "Watch for arrows from the castle walls!" The Dragon Prince yelled after his closest friends. "Lord's Buckwell and Bywater, you have the infantry. We'll smash into them and you will fill the cracks in their lines. File them all into the same hole if you have to; we take those galleys, understood?" Both men nodded and turned their horses. "Lord Byrch, you have the reserve. Whenever you see an opportunity, take it. They have nowhere to go except those galleys and the castle, and I don't want them to reach either."

Lord Cleyton pulled the visor of his helmet down. "They won't, Your Grace." He spurred his own mount away.

"Alaric, my helmet." Aelor's tall, lanky squire instantly handed the knight his white flame crested helm, and the Dragonlord pulled it over his silvery hair. Alaric dutifully then handed him his shield and lance, before mounting his own gelding. "Stay close to me, Alaric. I'll watch your back and you watch mine. Are you with me?"

Alaric Langward pulled his own helm, a plain hunk of grey steel Aelor had gifted him before Bronzegate when the boy had made it clear he wouldn't remain behind, over his head. He's a good lad; I'll have to get him a better suit of armor. "To the death, Your Grace."

Aelor felt a sense of pride for the young man he barely knew. "Let's hope that's not the case." He turned to his men then, rows of steel and horseflesh waiting for his word and his word only.

Aelor didn't have many words; the idea seemed pretty obvious to him. "I'm not good at pretty speeches, so I won't give one. Let's just kill the bastards!" He thrust his lance into the air, and his knights did the same, roaring back at him, even the men who couldn't hear him repeating the gesture. "Targaryen!" "The Dragon of Duskendale!" "Prince Aelor!" All those filled his ears, as well as others of individual houses or the Iron Throne in general. There wasn't, unsurprisingly, any roars for King Aerys.

Aelor kicked his stallion into the action and they were off, the thunder of hooves even louder than the thunder of storms that had rocked the land mere days ago. Aelor formed the point of the wedge, his black and white lance matching his night black armor with his warring white dragons etched into the b.r.e.a.s.tplate, the white flames of his helmet shining in the sun. He was sure it made a glorious sight.

It also makes me a target. Making an impression certainly has it disadvantages.

Alaric rode to his right, a high place of honor for a squire, but he had remained alive and near Aelor at Bronzegate when many more experienced knights had died. In Aelor's mind, the squire had earned it. Ser Balman Byrch in his resplendent green armor rode to his left, his battle axe wielding brother Morgan beside him.

It took forever and no time at all to reach the first trench, which Aelor's mount vaulted cleanly, doing the same to the second. The dragonlord knew many of his men would be held up by the trenches, and some horses undoubtedly would trip in the shallow earthworks, breaking legs and being trampled by the men charging in behind. It was losses he'd have to take; the shock of hundreds of armored knights smashing into the Stormlander lines would spook levies, as even now he could see some lose their nerve and turn to flee. More did so when he lowered his lance, his knights doing the same, hundreds of sharpened steel points hurtling towards the wavering men of Tarth.

They crashed into the lines like an armored fist into a stomach.

Aelor impaled a man at arms on his lance, the momentum of his horse driving the shaft halfway through his gut. Aelor dropped it and its cargo, unsheathing his sword and setting to the grisly work he so enjoyed. His stallion had somehow managed to avoid the forest of spears on the Stormlander front lines, already having survived longer than his first did. Many of his men's horses weren't so lucky, the bloodcurdling scream of dozens of dying horses filling the air.

His own beast didn't stop, driving through the thick conglomeration of enemy combatants, his rider's sword rising and falling, dealing death with alarming speed. Before the Dragon of Duskendale truly understood what was happening, he had burst out the back of the first formation of Stormlanders and into the second, beheading the first man he came across and opening another's throat only a second later. His stallion again avoided the spears, and Aelor couldn't help but say a prayer in the back of his mind that the beast made it through as it never stopped it's momentum until he was through that line as well. Aelor wheeled around, finding that Ser Balman was no longer on his left, having been replaced by a knight in the blue and white of either Renfred or Lord Bywater—he couldn't tell at the moment, and it wasn't important—but that Alaric had against all odds stayed with him, wheeling his own gelding around with Aelor.

Even as he crashed into the already breaking men at arms, killing with each strike, Aelor's mind was spinning. Something isn't right. There are no knights solidifying these levies, no commanders holding firm.

His confusion was clarified in the next moment. "My Prince," the unnamed knight beside him yelled, pointing with a mace dripping of gore and brain matter. "The infantry!" Aelor peered over the heads of the pigs for slaughter below him, seeing his foot soldiers pouring towards the melee he was currently involved in.

And hundreds of Stormlander knights, formed in a wedge of their own and flying the stag of Baratheon and quartered banner of House Tarth, smashing into their side.

"Dammit," Aelor growled, cursing himself for a fool. It seems you're not the only one who knows how to flank. "To the infantry, go!" He spurred his own mount forward, paying no more mind to the poor men below him other than to cut down those in his way. "The flank, the flank!" he bellowed as he rode, directing more and more of his knights to the actual threat. The galleys behind him were forgotten, for the Stormlander knights despite their small numbers had wreaked havoc on his infantry, Aelor's levies—just as inexperienced as the Stormlander's—having done the same as Lord Tarth's, turning and fleeing.

It took him much longer to navigate his way through the two Stormlander lines the second time than it had the first, the field full of bodies of dead men and horses, some of the still living ones still trying to kill him. He galloped towards the new hotspot of the battle, seeing the field in front of him as if he was just an observer. Lord Cleyton's reserves of knights were already charging at the threat, his men at arms and braver levies turning to swarm at the mounted rebels. The unnamed knight in white and blue was gone, Aelor having noticed in his peripheral the man's horse go down, but Alaric Langward was still beside him as always. There were other knights from the front lines both ahead and behind him, the men who had been at the rear already well on their way to counter the flanking action.

It was a suicide mission for the Stormlanders, but Aelor knew they had known it beforehand.

When he finally reached the flanking enemy he let his rage go, hacking a man in the yellow and orange of House Errol off of his horse with more force than Aelor even knew he possessed. The Prince pulled his reins, his miraculously still living stallion begrudgingly coming to a halt, and the Dragon of Duskendale let out a roar worthy of the title as he chopped men left and right as more and more of his own soldiers converged on the threat.

A lance nearly took him in the helm but he dodged to the side at the last moment, instinctually wrapping his arms around it and yanking. The knight it belonged to, unprepared for that, was pulled from his horse, where Aelor's footmen swarmed him like buzzards on carrion. That snapped Aelor out of his haze, and he realized the suicide knights had been washed away in an ocean of red and black Targaryen colors.

He turned his stallion towards the ocean and felt his heart drop when he saw that the galleys had pulled anchor and were even now pulling back into the sea. The Stormlander's had left hundreds dead on the field, but Aelor knew in his heart that Lord Tarth and his most vital vassals and knights were still aboard those sh.i.p.s pulling farther and farther away.

"Dammit!" The Dragon Prince roared. "Dammit all!