Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Jaehaerys looked half frozen and haggard when he rode through the trenches behind a stunningly beautiful woman. His scratched armor was caked in blood and ice, whiskers unkempt and black-hair unhealthy, his body thin with half of one hand missing.

Aelor had never seen a better sight.

The black-haired Prince huddled beneath a pair of heavy furs in his brother's tent, a steaming bowl of the bland-tasting stew the defenders of the Neck had grown accustomed to on the table before him. The blonde-haired woman called Val was seated beside him, likewise equipped. Aelor had noticed that the wildling had refused to release his nephews' right arm.

That was problematic considering Lyanna Stark had a death grip on the other. The poor lad hadn't been able to touch his stew.

Although I doubt he could eat, not with so many eyes boring into him.

The long table was filled with people, each one staring at the Black Prince. Aelor sat at its head, Lyanna and then the two recent arrivals on his right. Aelor shook his head ever so slightly. This is the first time since Harrenhal I have ever been around Lyanna Stark without the wish to snap her neck. He was so happy to see Jaehaerys he couldn't summon anger at the She-Wolf even if he tried.

Alysanne sat to his left, one hand resting on his own arm while the other gripped Aemon, their eldest surviving child. She hadn't let him out of her sight since he had staggered out of the swamps of the Neck a fortnight earlier, somewhere along the journey having taken a semblance of command of the great host leaving their homeland. Perhaps it was his Targaryen name or the fact that the evacuation was his idea or maybe because they found him the best man for the job; whatever the reason, Aemon had gained a large measure of respect from the northern lords and ladies. Lord Mace Tyrell, having arrived a week earlier with his army after ridding the coasts of Ironborn holdings, was beside Aemon, his second son Garlan next to him. Both Tyrells had been floored and devastated by Loras' betrayal and death, and both were intent on proving their loyalty. Brandon Stark—potentially now the Lord of Winterfell—continued on that side, Lady Stark next to him. Lord Edmure Tully was seated next to the end and his sister, across from Tyrion Lannister, who was followed on that side back towards Aelor by Oberyn Martell and Artys Arryn. Tormund Giantsbane, a brute of a wildling, was seated between the young Lord of the Vale and Val, eyeing her curiously.

And across from Aelor at the opposite end of the table, light dancing in his green eyes and a smirk on his lips, sat Jaime Lannister.

Both Jaime and Lyanna in the same room, and my fists aren't even clinched. I'd like to think I've learned diplomacy and restraint, but I imagine I'm just getting old.

The ranger of the Night's Watch had arrived only hours before Jaehaerys and his wildling princess, having fought at the Battle of Winterfell until it became pointless to linger there. The surviving Black Brothers—many of them lost as to what their lives were now without a Wall or Lord Commander—had instantly rallied to him, and Jaime had become part of the council as a representative to the men of the Night's Watch. No one knew what would happen to them once the war was done; there was no Wall to return too. For now, all parties involved were focused on the coming threat rather than any decisions regarding the future.

There would be no future if they lost the coming fight.

Still, the change in the political landscape of Westeros left many a question they would hopefully be forced to confront someday. For now, old enemies and sworn rivals coexisted as best they could.

Others stood in the tent around them; Alaric, Randyll Tarly, Ser Karyl Vance and Wylis Manderly, Bronn and Sers Barristan and Arthur Dayne. And, perhaps most interestingly of all, young Elinor Prester, the Shebull of Feastfires. Short, slender and with hair as light and delicate as cornsilk, she had not only repulsed the Ironborn from her childhood home but also liberated several other Westerland holdings ahead of Mace Tyrell's advancing force, rallying the relieved defenders until she controlled half an army. She was as sharp of tongue and vicious as she was attractive; Aelor liked her.

There was no King Aegon, but that was intended. While the Dragon of Duskendale knew Aegon would love to be here greeting his brother, the King was on a much more vital mission.

Lady Stark spoke, voice calm but carrying a hint of the grief Aelor knew she must be experiencing. She too had lost a son, and her husband Lord Eddard had not made it south. "Lyanna, Lady Val, Jaehaerys will not be able to eat if his arms are occupied."

Lyanna didn't budge, which was all well and good; Jaehaerys could hardly maneuver the spoon with only a pinky. The Lady Val however did release his right arm, though one hand remained out of Aelor's sight, likely on Jaehaerys' t.h.i.g.h. Aelor raised an eyebrow when Jaehaerys' didn't even so much as blush. The boy he had known would have been a red-faced, spluttering fool at such an obvious sign of affection from a woman.

But then again, Jaehaerys was no longer the boy Aelor had known; his time and trials in the north had turned him very much so into a man. It was obvious when you looked into his eyes that Jaehaerys had seen things that had shaken his very soul. Nothing as trivial as a woman he was clearly involved with showing affection in public would rattle him these days, especially if that woman had underwent harsh trials alongside him.

Aelor had never fought alongside a woman before, but he still thoroughly understood the bonds formed between those who share suffering.

He spoke, covering any awkwardness others might feel at the sight. "Prince Jaehaerys, what are we facing?"

Jaehaerys took a mouthful of the stew, eyes on the table as he considered his response. "I'm sure Ser Jaime has already told you."

The Lannister in question answered. "Oh I have, but they'll actually believe it if it comes from you." A few shifted uncomfortably at the statement. Aelor did not.

The Prince mulled his answer a few moments longer before he spoke again, voice quiet and deadly serious. "Do you remember all of the stories you heard as a child? Tales of ice demons turning the world into a place of everlasting snow, slaughtering all they come across? Stories of pain and terror and death?" Prince Jaehaerys looked up, meeting his uncle's eyes and holding them. "They're all true, except that the reality is much, much worse."

Jaime Lannister chimed in again, picking back up his narrative now that he knew they'd actually listen. "Corpses without guts and half their faces gone, men and women with their arms missing and organs hanging out, sometimes straight skeletons, all walking at you as if they were no different than a normal Westerosi. Except of course that they are carrying swords or axes, and they're trying to kill you."

Catelyn Stark began to rise, hand on her young sons shoulder. "Perhaps we should leave."

Brandon Stark's voice was calm and lordly, quite an impressive feat for one not yet even two and ten. "No. These are my people and my lands being discussed; I will not shy from the facts." Bran swallowed once before adding quietly, "Father wouldn't." His mother retook her seat, visibly fighting her emotions.

Jaehaerys spoke as if there had been no interruption. "The walking dead aren't what we should be scared of, other than their overwhelming numbers. They can be killed with sword and shield and fire. It's their masters that are the key to it all; they cannot."

There was a moment of silence before Edmure Tully's disbelieving voice filled it. "They can't be killed? Nonsense."

"Truth, trout," chimed in Ser Jaime. "Two of my best men tried to engage one. Both of their swords shattered on it's, and then it cleaved them in two. Manmade steel cannot bring them down."

Arthur Dayne raised an eyebrow. "Then what can?"

The Black Lion shook his blond head, leaning back in his chair. "I have no idea."

Jaehaerys was still methodically devouring spoonful after spoonful of stew, Val eating just as feverishly beside him. His voice was quiet and calm when he spoke in between. "I do." He looked up again, eyes focusing on Bran Stark. "Valyrian steel shatters the demons into a million pieces. Uncle Eddard and Ice saved me from one before he ordered me to flee." Jaehaerys swallowed, looking down once more as he went back to his stew. "Then he charged others, and I lost sight of him. Valyrian steel will destroy them; it is all we have."

"Well we certainly have plenty of that," dryly quipped Tyrion Lannister while eyeing Lord Tarly, Heartsbane slung across his back. "Lord Tarly, Lyn Corbray, the axe of Lord Celtigar, the King's newfound weapon…why, I daresay the Walkers are doomed." Tyrion's mismatched eyes turned to Aelor then, eyebrow quirked. "Speaking of King Aegon…"

"As I've told you all, the King is working on another solution."

"Unless he has it already it won't matter." Jaehaerys had finished his stew, rising and using his good hand to wrap the blanket that had been thrown over his own shoulders around Val. "Lady Stark, Lady Alysanne and the other noncombatants should travel as far from here as they can as quickly as they can. The enemy will be upon us soon."

Lyanna was looking up at her son, still gripping his maimed left hand. "You have only just arrived. Ned and the others—"

"Slowed them down as much as we could. But just as we made better time south from Winterfell than the noncombatants did, the dead will make the best time of all." Jaehaerys let his eyes sweep the room. "Our enemy does not rest, they do not sleep. Storms don't slow them, for they are the ones to bring the storms. They are hard to kill, perhaps even impossible, and they will not stop until all of us are just like them. The Wall fell before them; we had best pray to the Old Gods and the new that we do not, or south will not go south enough. Get the noncombatants away from this place, and prepare every fighter we can field."

Jaehaerys turned to stride from the tent. "It is as uncle Eddard always promised; Winter has come, and Night will soon be upon us."

He had visited the Eyrie once before, in the tenth year of his reign. Jon Arryn had hosted Aegon and half of the King's court for a fortnight, taking the young Targaryen falconing in the mountains and hosting a tourney near the Blood Gate. The views from the impregnable castle atop the Giant's Lance had been astounding, enrapturing the blood of the dragon. The young King had spent an absurd amount of his time on the balcony of his chambers, pretending he was riding a dragon over the forests and valleys below.

And now, all these years later, Aegon was returning to the Eyrie, hoping to realize that childhood dream and make it reality. He wouldn't have thought it possible a month earlier, but he had seen the truth of it all two nights before. He had never known of Alysanne, Arthur Dayne or Rolland Storm to be liars, but it had all seemed an impossible thing to him when Aelor first told him of what Alysanne had said. The Kingsguard knights had supported the Lady of Duskendale's claim, but it still had taken the insistence of his uncle to convince the King to ride out and see for himself.

He was certainly glad he had.

One was cream and gold, the other green and bronze, and they were both the most breathtaking things he had ever seen. Daenerys, her hair still growing from the fire that had taken Rhaella's life and hatched the wonders before them, had taken command of the servants of the Gates of the Moon; a shelter was erected each night over the huddled forms of her hulking dragons, both of them having grown much too large to fit even in the stables. Aelon and Rhaegal were not obedient by any stretch of the imagination, but they seemed content enough to allow hunters sent out to bring them the majority of their meals, though they had made prey of a few unfortunate horses and still hunted occasionally. Scorched bones were scattered all over the Gates of the Moon, much to Lysa Arryn's furious consternation; only the continued efforts of her daughter Aemma had kept the Tully woman from trying to expel the Targaryen's. How she intended to do it when Daenerys had dragons was beyond Aegon, but he had understood even in his first visit all those years ago that Lysa wasn't quite right.

Both dragons were big, much larger than anything a year in age had any right to be, and both were large enough now that they could quite likely bear a smaller human such as Daenerys, though his aunt hadn't tried. But Aegon was no small human even after losing a considerable amount of weight over the past year, and while he just like everyone else didn't truly know the capabilities of a dragon, he was fairly certain they would have difficulties bearing him any true distance.

But Balerion…Aegon had yet to see the black dragon with any real clarity, but the glimpses he had caught of a massive shadow cutting through the snowy skies overhead left the King of the Iron Throne with the impression that he was largest of them all. Aegon prayed he would prove large enough, for if he didn't then his folly would be for not.

That of course required him to survive, and Aegon wasn't certain he was going to. I've endured over a dozen battles, but it's going to be buggering ice that kills me.

The same factors that made the Eyrie unassailable also made it very difficult to resupply; the walking path up and down the Giant's Lance was not very large and certainly wasn't easy to traverse, and this logistical issue and the severe cold forced the Arryns to retire to the Gates of the Moon during the winters. While the path from the base of the Giant's Lance to the first waycastle Stone wasn't overly difficult and the steeper path from Stone to the second waycastle Snow was manageable as well, the path from Snow to the third waycastle Sky was treacherous, open to the biting wind. Its steps were cracked and rotting, deteriorating from the repeating process of freezing, thawing and refreezing. Handholds carved into the mountain itself led from Sky to the walls of the Eyrie, though a pulley system was used to transport supplies and oftentimes people this last leg of the journey. That pulley system was of course useless when there was no one in the fortress above, so it did Aegon no good for now. It was a difficult, dangerous journey in the best of conditions.

Aegon was almost as far from the best of conditions as one could get, but he needed Balerion, and Balerion had made his den in the unoccupied Eyrie.

The king had ordered his Kingsguard to remain with the army now under Aelor's command while Aegon himself rode as hard as the weather would allow for the Eyrie. None of his surviving white cloaks—there were only four of them now, the last year having cut his Kingsguard nearly in two—had argued indignantly, but if Aegon's plans worked as he intended the deadly fighters would be trapped in the Vale while the King flew back to his army. He had relented by accepting the wounded Ser Rolland into the retinue of fifteen men accompanying the king, although the ride must have jostled the bastard-born man's shattered ribs and left him in a constant state of pain. The Stormlander had endured the entire journey in silence, however, and had remained at the Gates of the Moon as Aegon and one other figure began the ascent.

Who would've believed a son of Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter of Robert Baratheon would one day work together.

Mya Stone was tall and strapping lass who kept her coal-black hair shorn short. It was an unkept secret that she was the bastard of Robert Baratheon, conceived when the would-be Usurper had been fostered in the Vale, though Mya had given no indication that she was aware of just who her father was. She had been taken in and raised by Nestor Royce, the Ser of the Gates of the Moon, left alone by Aelor despite her parentage—Colmar the Grey had once told Aegon that that had been an insistence of Alysanne, not a mercy from the Dragon of Duskendale himself. Mya had by one way or another become the chief guide on journeys to the Eyrie, the blue-eyed woman and her team of mules ferrying trains of supplies up and down the Giant's Lance during the summer years. She had willingly volunteered to show the king the way to the Eyrie.

Aegon assumed she probably regretted it now.

Under normal conditions the path from the Gates of the Moon to the Eyrie would take half a day, but the snow and ice had made it instead nearly two whole days. Aegon and Mya had camped in the stone walls of Snow during the night, using the warmth of a small fire, the mules and each other. The bastard and the king's dalliance had been one of straight need; Aegon hadn't had a woman in over a year, and Mya had been more than willing. I can't begin to imagine what Aelor would say if he knew I was sleeping with the daughter of the man who killed my father. The girl seemed plenty wise enough to know that it meant nothing beyond a physical release, and Aegon had done his best to assure no bastard of his own would result from the meeting; he intended to be the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror, not Aegon the Unworthy. Despite that spot of warmth it had been a cold, harrowing trip.

And this was the worst of it.

An advantage to the steep angle of the mountain from Sky to the Eyrie was that there was finally only small amounts of snow buildup, the cold stone mostly clear of the frozen rain that Aegon had seen more of than he ever wanted to see again. But while snow couldn't acc.u.mulate on the handholds, ice could still freeze it, making the already hard climb all the harder. Aegon had already slipped twice, only catching himself with his frozen fingertips at the last second.

The wind bit through the many layers of furs and cloth, its howl barely registering over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Aegon's progress was slow, one handgrip and footstep at a time, made more difficult from the not-quite-healed wound to his shoulder. Aegon had never been overly pious, but for every foot he ascended half a dozen prayers of thanks went up with it. The Eyrie loomed high overhead, both close and forever far away. The King of the Iron Throne, the wealthiest man in Westeros, scr.a.p.ed his hands and knees through the fabric of his garments as he clung to the side of a mountain, climbing towards a dragon that might very well kill him if the ascent didn't.

His arms were burning as if they were engulfed in dragonfire by the time he reached the top of the handholds, a short and blissfully horizontal path between him and the gates of the Eyrie's courtyard. Aegon pulled his body over the precipice and instantly collapsed to the ground, rolling over onto his back as his booted feet still hung over the steep incline he had just climbed. He lie there, c.h.e.s.t heaving as he puffed mists of steam into the frigid air, snow pelting his face. Mya had stayed in the rough walls of Sky with the mules, instructed to wait two days before she began her descent. Aegon would join her if he had failed, ride off the Giant's Lance astride a black and crimson dragon if he was successful, or be dead. Somewhere in that timeframe he would achieve one of the three.

In truth he hoped it was the second or third choice—he didn't even want to think about how difficult and dangerous climbing down the handholds would be.

The Eyrie was cold and lifeless when the King entered it sometime later, the light outside having faded. There were no lords or servants living here and there wouldn't be any until the spring, so the small castle of seven towers was dark and freezing. Aegon found and managed to light a single torch, navigating through the castle by its orange glow and decade-old memories. No one was certain just where Balerion denned in the Eyrie—the dragon had only been seen flying to and from the castle, having lasted all of one night at the Gates of the Moon before spreading his wings and flying back to where he had spent nearly all of his time until that point. He would periodically fly back down to join the feeding of his siblings, terrifying the residents there and pleasing Daenerys to no end, but the black and crimson beast never stayed long after the feeding ended.

In hindsight, there was no guarantee Balerion even denned here at all; perhaps he simply enjoyed flying around the highest mountain in Westeros, and Aegon had risked his life for nothing.

That theory festered in his mind until he came upon the blackened and cracked bones of something roughly the size of a hog.

Balerion's den was in the only truly logical place it could be—the garden. As Aegon held his torch higher, casting more light around the pitch black of the open space, he saw great piles of scattered skeletons, each blackened from fire and cracked from crunching jaws. The shrubbery had been turned into blackened sticks, and many of the pieces of statuary spread throughout the former garden bore scorch marks. Aegon saw bones belonging to what he guessed to be goats, hogs, deer, perhaps even a cow or two. Balerion had clearly spent most of his time hunting, Aegon taking in every detail of the beast's den in fascination.

He didn't realize how poor of an idea walking into a strange dragon's home was until he saw the light of his torch reflected in a pair of great eyes.

Aegon froze, realizing his foolishness only as the sound of Balerion uncurling his body reached his ears, accompanied by a low, ground-shaking growl. The black pools of the eyes, which had been lower to the ground, slowly rose up and up and up. Aegon watched, terrified and exhilarated, as the animal of his family's sigil started towards him, ground moving with each step the beast took. The king didn't move because wasn't able, too in awe of what he was seeing to even attempt to run.

Balerion was big, much bigger than either of his siblings. Perhaps it was due to his inclination to hunt his own game whereas Aelon and Rhaegal allowed most of their meals to be brought to them; as the quantity of bones spread around the garden made clear, this dragon was eating plenty and often. Perhaps Balerion was simply a bigger dragon, just as there were runts and brutes in other species. Whatever the reasoning, the monster was nearly twice again as big as the others, bared teeth black as obsidian.

And he was looming over Aegon, shaking the dragonlord's soul with his rumbling growl.

I didn't think of what I'd do when I reached this point. What did I think would work, saying 'hello, I'm a king, may I please ride you'?

Aegon stared up at the dragon overtop him, terrified and mystified and confused as to why he wasn't already dead. Is it my Targaryen blood? Can he sense it? Swallowing, the King of Westeros began to slowly raise his hand, extending it towards Balerion.

It was the most foolish thing he had done yet.

With a roar that nearly left Aegon deaf Balerion shot forward, massive head rushing towards him like the strike of a viper. Aegon let out a cry, stumbling backwards both from fear and the sheer force of the dragon darting at him. The King fell to the ground of blackened bones, torch rolling away from his hand, violet eyes shut against the coming pain of a dragon snapping him in two.

But he still wasn't dead.

Hesitantly Aegon opened his eyes, first the right then the left. His vision was filled with the snout of a dragon, teeth bared but not in the process of crushing the king's skull. Balerion stood over top him, eyes two pools of fire as his nostrils sniffed the odd being trapped below him. The dragon's snout slowly smelled from Aegon's boots back up his body until Balerion's nose nearly pressed against his face. Aegon stared up at the beast, not daring to so much as twitch a muscle.

Balerion sniffed him once more, and then exhaled so forcefully that it fluttered Aegon's silvery hair. Abruptly he was no longer looming over the being he could so clearly make a snack of, the ground beneath Aegon's back rumbling as the dragon roared into the night sky. The king watched from his lying position, hypnotized as Balerion ran on his two hind legs, flapping his great wings twice before he became airborne.

The King of the Iron Throne slowly sat up, eyes fixated on where he caught the last glimpse of Balerion, surrounded by a garden of burnt stone and blackened bone.