Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Jaehaerys hadn't been lying when he said you could smell them before you could see them.

The Dragon of Duskendale stood a few paces to the front of the longest line of men Aelor had ever known of Westeros fielding, the scent of death and decay swirling in his nostrils. They stretched nearly out of sight to either side of him, the long line of shields and spears resting silent as men and women waited. They were stacked behind one another, the second waiting one hundred yards behind the first. Between the two defenses a deep trench had been dug, implementing the tactics of the survivors of Winterfell by dousing it with lantern oil. Archer towers, hastily built by the abundance of men who had been waiting, were dotted around the lines, crossbowmen and longbowmen waiting with stacks of cloth-wrapped arrows and braziers for lighting them. Aelor turned to look at one, where his eldest surviving child waited. Aemon had never been a warrior and wasn't a good shot, but he volunteered to remain behind and reload for crossbowmen, claiming this was everyone's war. Aelor was terrified for him—he'd already lost two children, and the death of a third would kill him—but he was also fiercely proud.

The White Dragon turned back around, peering at the field of white and wildfire.

The jars had been stacked at key points in the terrain, in naturally occurring trenches where the dead were likely to funnel and in chokepoints the defenders had made by throwing up barricades to try and influence the dead's advance. The most accurate shots in all of the combined armies stood ready to target them and fire, equipped with the goldenheart bows that had been taken from the dead and captured archers of the Golden Company. Catapults, the same simple and quick to build design Aelor had implemented two decades earlier at Casterly Rock, stood just behind the second line, long lines of barrels of burning pith ready to fling at the enemy.

The living were as prepared as they could be for the dead. Aelor supposed they would soon find out if it was prepared enough.

King Aegon the Sixth had not returned. Aelor didn't know what that meant; perhaps he was on his way, perhaps the dragons hadn't been big enough, or perhaps he was even dead. Some men had grumbled that the king had abandoned them, forsaking his own people in face of a reportedly infinite foe. The White Dragon himself hoped his nephew showed up either with a dragon or he didn't show up at all; he had already told Aemon and Baelon there was no shame in fleeing if this fight became hopeless. He imagined Aemon would follow the command; his second born had grown in force of personality and toughness over all he had seen, but he had never tasted battle. Baelon likely wouldn't follow that command, no matter how overwhelming the opposition became. His fourth born had tasted battle, and he had found the taste sweeter than anything else in life. Baelon would only lave this field if he was victorious or he was dead.

That was all well and good, for Aelor had the same determination.

"Do you suppose Lucaerys will fare well?" Aelor wished desperately he could have met his grandson. Perhaps he still would if the day was won, but Aelor knew the likelihood of that was small.

Alaric pondered the question for a moment from Aelor's side. "What do you mean? He's only an infant." He had been as blindsided by the knowledge of a grandson as the Dragon of Duskendale had been, and Aelor didn't know if he was thrilled or furious. Both men had been pleased to hear that Alysanne, Cersei and Tyrion had been savvy enough to cover the marriage up with the story of a rushed marriage, but Aelor wondered if the skepticism it was surely met with would negatively affect Lucaerys' position as Aelor's heir. In all legality the infant truly wasn't, as his birth was in truth that of a bastard, but Aelor would kill any man who questioned Lucaerys. But Aelor might not live out the day, in which case there was call for concern. "I mean if I don't live out the day. I doubt Aemon would ever have any intention of trying to usurp him, and Baelon has never shown any interest in ruling over anything other than a sword, but still…"

Alaric answered after a moment more of deliberation. "As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Myrcella and Renlor were married. The only ones who know otherwise aren't likely to tell the truth. He's the grandson of Aelor, cousin of Aegon and great-nephew to the Lord of the Westerlands. Not to mention he'll have Alysanne Lefford and Cersei Lannister fighting for his rights. I daresay he'll do better than either of us ever did."

Aelor nodded, gazing on ahead. Alysanne had followed the non-fighter south less than an hour ago, remaining with her sons and husband until the scent had rallied the defenders to their positions. He already missed her fiercely, and part of his mind wondered how she would do without him. His wife had always had a strength unseen in most nobles, a strength that had allowed her to survive years of marriage to a man many saw as a monster. She'll do well. They'll all do well.

Of course, I can always just survive this and make sure they will. Yes, let's try for that.

So the Dragon of Duskendale stood and waited, as the stench of decay grew ever stronger.

When his violet eyes caught distant movement in the dredges of the swamps leading south, Aelor ordered the defenders to stand ready. The order was repeated up and down the long lines, men who had been standing somewhat relaxed tensing, shieldwall growing closer together and spearmen gripping their weapons in preparation. Randyll Tarly had command of the left, Ser Barristan the Bold the right. Balon Swann had command of the archers, and Mace Tyrell was as out of the way as he could be in command of the catapults. His son Garlan, the fierce swordsman, was in the center; he would fight alongside Aelor and Baelon today.

The snow, which had been so fierce and constant for weeks now, suddenly and abruptly stopped. Aelor looked up to the grey skies overhead, pondering the occurrence. Sailors always say the eye of a storm is calm. That makes sense; the Others bring the storm after all.

Aelor watched as the horizon slowly turned from white snows and the stumps of the trees the royalist had chopped down to a mass of cloth and armor, covering shambling beings that gained speed as whatever they used for consciousness registered the army of living before them. There were so many of them Aelor couldn't even begin to estimate their numbers, a literal ocean of dead coming for them. Even at a distance he could see the furs of wildings, the leathers of northmen, the black of brothers of the Night's Watch and the armor of southern knights and lords.

The Dragon of Duskendale took a deep breath, letting it leave his lungs in a slow exhale. He looked over to the tall Lord of the Brindlewood beside him, holding out a gauntlet and saying something he hadn't in eighteen years. "Are you with me, Alaric?"

And as always, Alaric took the proffered gauntlet and replied. "To the death, Your Grace."

Aelor looked back to the approaching tide of dead, lowering his white flamed helmet over his Targaryen silver hair as Alaric turned to go to his command. The Dragon of Duskendale drew his sword and held it high in the air, hearing the sound of thousands of other blades leaving their scabbards.

The White Dragon stared into the heart of the approaching storm. They spread as far or farther than Aelor's own lines, seemingly large enough to wrap around them twice. Alaric, Oberyn Martell, Arthur Dayne and young Artys Arryn were in command of four separate forces of cavalry, under orders to rush to where they were needed, be it a threatened flank or a faltering point in the lines. Aelor didn't bother to turn and see if they were already reacting—he trusted his men to do as was best, even the young Lord of the Vale.

There were too many dead to truly funnel as the living had intended them too, but enough avoided the barricades or fell into the natural dips in the terrain. The archers fired as one, bunches of burning arrows flying through the sky to land around the wildfire catches as the catapults launched barrels of pitch. Aelor knew what was coming, and braced himself against the coming explosions.

He was taken back to a time outside of a now-dead city when the world exploded with a great green light, the force sweeping across them. Aelor stood against it, feeling the force of it batter against him as he watched dismembered body parts fly into the air amidst clouds of snow and ground. He heard the gasp of shock from those behind him, heard armor and weapons rattle as men were knocked down. More explosions soon shook them, but Aelor kept his feet, staring towards the enemy.

The dead kept coming. Aelor had known they would, but he had hoped none the less. Great gaping holes had been opened in their ranks from the wildfire that still burned all across the field, but more dead soon filled them. Groans of despair sounded behind him as the men and women saw the relentless advance, the last of the wildfire holdings exploding in a shower of blood and green flame.

Aelor turned to the two lines behind him, looking first to the left and then following the lines all the way to the right. He was a man alone in front of the lines, a black speck against the white snow with a tide of enemies rushing towards his back. Aelor raised both his sword and his voice, shouting over the sound of firing catapults, burning wildfire and snarling dead. "Is that all that it takes to dishearten the men of Westeros?"

A few voices shouted a quiet negative. Aelor shook his head, raising his voice even louder. "I asked, is that all that it takes to dishearten the men of Westeros!?"

More voices, dozens of them, answered him. "No!" Others along the lines turned to look at the dragonlord to their front, taking their eyes from the terrifying waves of death approaching them.

Aelor wasn't done. He yelled, louder than even he knew he could bellow. "We are alive. I aim to stay that way. What say you?"

The answer was hundreds of voices this time, more and more men and women turning to watch their leader. Some likely couldn't hear what he was saying, but they shouted anyway. The response was more of a wordless bellow than a true answer, but Aelor took heart in it all the same.

"I say we put the dead back into the ground!"

Hoooooooooo!

"We fight for our sons!"

Hoooooooooo!

"We fight for our daughters!"

Hoooooooooo!

"We fight for the living!"

Hoooooooooo!

Swords slammed against shields, spears were thrust into the air, banners waved and horses screamed. The black ocean was close to Aelor, close enough that they would be all over the lines at any second. Aelor didn't turn. Instead, he thrust both his sword and shield into the air, holding his arms to the heavens as he shouted again.

He let his final word morph into a long, guttural war cry, one that every living man and woman present would echo. "FIRE AND BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Still screaming and violet eyes blazing, the Dragon of Duskendale spun, in the same motion bringing his raised sword down in a vicious strike. The blade cleaved a half-rotted man in two through his c.h.e.s.t, Aelor beheading another with the backstroke, wading into the ocean of dead.

All seven hells were unleashed.

He still wasn't dead. Aegon took that as a positive sign, mainly because it was the only one Balerion had given him.

He had been at the Eyrie for seven days, and he hadn't accomplished any of the three options he was supposed to accomplish in two. He had scourged the Eyrie for parchment and quill, writing a letter telling Mya to leave for the Gates of the Moon. He had tied it to a rock and thrown it from the precipice towards the waycastle of Sky, hoping Mya would investigate it's clatter and do as he said.

It'd taken him six times writing the same missive and six throws before he got one near the small castle far down the slope of the Giant's Lance.

The King of the Iron Throne had taken only enough food for the two days he was supposed to have been here, and had taken to subsiding on a dangerous food source. He would scavenge Balerion's most recent kill once the dragon took flight for another, using his dagger to carve off small chunks of scorched meat. It tasted terrible and half the time wasn't cooked completely through, but it was better than the nothing he would otherwise have; supplies and food in particular were valuable resources in the winter, and nothing had been left in the Eyrie when the Arryns left for the Gates of the Moon.

It was risky business, going anywhere near a dragons recent kill, but Balerion had proven time and again that he wasn't interested in outright killing the silver-haired two-legged being. He had come to accept Aegon's presence as long as the king kept his distance, paying him little attention and showing no aggression unless Aegon tried to draw too close to him. Even then the dragon would only roar and rise to his legs, and Aegon would slowly back away.

It was hard to ride a dragon if you couldn't even get within ten feet of one.

The King was in a constant state of freezing, all stocks of wood having been taken down the mountain with the Arryns as well. He'd managed to light some of the garden's shrubbery that Balerion hadn't already turned into cinders, and the walls of the Eyrie kept him from the wind, but those supplies were running low as well. Something needed to change, but be damned if Aegon had any idea of how to make it happen.

Aegon peered out of the Moon Tower, the bedchamber of the Lord of the Vale that the King had taken as his own while he tried to plot his next move. Balerion was in the garden, gnawing on the skull of a bull he had likely stolen from some farmer that morning. His eating habits seemed to differ on the dragon's moods; sometimes he would bring fresh kills back and devour them slowly, sometimes he would return with a mass of burnt fur and flesh and chomp it down quickly. Aegon imagined the dragon likely ate a number of his meals wherever he killed them, feeding his voracious appetite at a rate that nearly matched his growth.

I'm supposed to ride you. There's a prophecy, 'Prince that was Promised', all of that good stuff?

Balerion actually looked up towards where Aegon leaned halfway out the window, glancing at the King in seeming mockery before returning to the skeleton he was savaging. With a sigh he walked back towards the bed, throwing himself across it in frustration. He couldn't very well save his army from whatever fate was descending on them from here, but he also couldn't return to the Gates of the Moon as a failure. What kind of Targaryen am I when a dragon won't even let me touch him? Some 'blood of Old Valyria' I'm proving to be.

Aegon racked his brain for every bit of dragonlore Grandmaester Colmar had driven into his mind, but it hadn't give him anything useful the last seven days and didn't give him anything now. Many dragonriders had been given their future mounts when the dragons hadn't even hatched. Aegon imagined Dany would have a much better chance of mounting Balerion than Aegon did, but each dragon only ever had one rider at a time and each dragonrider only had one dragon at a time, not three. Perhaps he should have tried to mount Aelon or Rhaegal, but neither dragon seemed large enough to carry his muscled form.

Other past dragonriders, like Maegor the Cruel, had claimed dragons after their dragonrider had died. Aegon didn't rightly know just how they did so, as the process had never seemed to be something he should learn; dragons were supposed to be extinct after all. He remembered the story of how Nettles, one of the dragonriders during the Dance of the Dragons, had left a dead sheep a day for Sheepstealer, building trust between the two—that would work swimmingly if it wasn't for the fact that Balerion was keeping Aegon fed, as there was no way he could traverse down the slope, kill something with his sword or dagger, then climb back up carrying it. Other Targaryens had the advantage of the Dragonpit, a controlled space where the dragons resided; Aelor had the open garden of the Eyrie and a steep fall down its sides.

Such was his predicament. It wasn't kingly to pout, but Aegon had been doing a fair bit of pouting over the last seven days.

He assumed Balerion was just grumbling when he first heard the dragon make a sound, and thusly ignored it. But when he heard the explosion, horribly distant but still audible to him, the king rose to a sitting position on the stripped bed, furling his eyebrows in confusion. More explosions followed, each likely miles away but the sound carrying even to the highest mountain. Aegon supposed he wasn't overly far from where Aelor and those would rage war, at least not as a dragon flies. If I could only RIDE THE DAMN DRAGON, I'd find out for myself.

Only one thing Aegon knew of could make that sort of sound, and only vast amounts of it would make it loud enough to be heard this far away. Wildfire. I'm too late; the dead are upon the living, and I'm too far away to be of any use.

Aegon sprinted out of the tower, rushing down the steps before rushing out of the tower onto the walls of the Eyrie, leaning against the par.a.p.ets. He stared to the northwest, where a mountain range and a section of the Riverlands separated him from where his people waged a war for their very existence. He couldn't see anything through the falling snow and dark skies, but Aegon knew in his heart just what was happening.

A reptilian rumble shifted his attention to Balerion down in the garden. The great black dragon had risen to his legs and forearms, snakelike neck craned back as his large nostrils sniffed the air. The black dragon let out a short, loud roar, and far below Aegon at the foot of the Giant's Lance echoed the cries of his siblings. Aegon c.o.c.ked his head, watching as Balerion scr.a.p.ed first one clawed foot and then the other across the garden's ground.

And then, ground shaking, he took off at a run.

Aegon watched him for a moment, sprinting parallel below where Aegon stood on the wall. The idea came to him suddenly with a punch of anxiety, fear and exhilaration. In order to mount the dragon he needed to get close to him, and Balerion had prevented that. But even if he would, that would end with Aegon on Balerion's back.

Balerion's back was right there.

Aegon's legs were sprinting less than a second into the thought, the sound of Balerion's pounding wings filling the air. The king's mind was running even faster than his body, telling him to stop now while he still had a life. If I can even land on his back, what if I can't hang on? How do I steer him? What if he rolls midflight? CAN he roll midflight? This is a terrible idea, an absolutely worst idea I've ever had. Stop stop stop stop stop…

He had one last thought as Balerion began to rise into the air. Well, at least I'd have done something to try and help my kingdom, even if it was to fall to my death.

The King of the Iron Throne leapt.

Aemon had always thought he would make a shit soldier.

He was right.

Yet the second son of Aelor clung to a rickety archer tower, reloading crossbow after crossbow for the men around him. His arms ached from pulling the strings back, fingers bleeding in several places from where he had nicked himself on the steel or iron points of the crossbow bolts. The world around him had resorted to a bloody mess; where once there had been an orderly line to the front, now there was a mass of dead and living laying into one another with reckless abandon. Shouts and screams filled the air, accompanied by the roar of the still-burning wildfire and otherworldly snarls of corpses.

Aemon had only been able to watch as his father disappeared into the ocean of steel, the collective war cry he had started—so contagious that even he, quiet and bookish Aemon, had joined—still echoing across the battlefield. Dead had leapt onto the top of the lines, crashing against the forest of spears and shields. The battle had engulfed everything, now raging all around the bottom of his tower and in the oil covered trench behind him. It still hadn't been lit, though in several places all along the front the dead had pushed through and engaged the second line.

Aemon from his position high above the melee could still see his father, a bubble of whirling steel far ahead of where the first line had once been. Baelon and Jaehaerys, both having been in the center, had somehow found their way to him, a rock of three sword-wielding Targaryens dealing death to the dead.

Aemon would occasionally glance over at his kinsmen as he continued reloading crossbows as fast as he could, throwing them into the hands of the men around him. One was a deaf black brother aptly called Deaf D.i.c.k Follard, the old man able to aim and fire quickly with great accuracy. Another was a Valeman man-at-arms sworn to House Hunter named Hugo, a third a lordling from the Reach named Ben Cuy who had served as the wounded Ser Rolland Storm's squire. There were four others on the tower, three archers and a young wildling girl that was, like Aemon, reloading.

Aemon's body acted on instinct, pulling the string back, setting the mechanism, loading a bolt, and then handing that ready crossbow to one of the archers, taking the empty one from their hands and setting to reloading it. It was a simple, mindless process that he did over and over, fingers becoming raw, the sound of snarling dead all around him. He glanced out either at his father or at the battle as a whole only periodically, but he could see the tide turning. Catapults still fired barrels of burning pitch into the mass of dead, men and women still fought in a bloody melee, and archers like those on his tower still fired bolt after bolt and arrow after arrow. Fire was everywhere, both the green of wildfire and the orange of normal flame.

But Aemon could see the number of living, already outnumbered, steadily dwindling around him. Ben Cuy saw the same, the young lordling with peach fuzz dropping his crossbow and drawing his sword, leaping from the tower to the mess of gore below. Another of the archers, a bearded man the wildling girl was keeping resupplied, turned and leapt from the other side of the tower, looking more like he was intending to flee than join the battle. The second line had become fully engaged, the forces of cavalry long ago having ridden to where they seemed most needed.

The living were losing, and the White Walkers hadn't even arrived yet.

Aemon was so terrified he wanted nothing more than to follow the bearded man in his flight. Instead he stayed on his tower, reloading crossbow after crossbow, trying desperately to block the sounds of pain and terror all around him.

The wildling girl—Farrah, Lara?—saw it first, eyes opening in terror as she pointed behind Aemon. The Targaryen with Lefford features whirled around, and to his utmost terror saw the rotting arms of a wight in the process of pulling himself onto the platform, dagger in it's bony hand. Aemon looked to Deaf D.i.c.k, who was aiming his crossbow entirely oblivious to the threat. "Follard!" The old man didn't move, and the wight's head came into view. "Follard!" The black brother still didn't move, trying to pick a target out of the mass of bodies below.

Of course he can't hear me, he's called Deaf D.i.c.k.

As the wight snarled, pulling its decaying body onto the platform, Aemon lurched forward. He snatched the dagger out of Follard's belt, turning and throwing all his strength into a stab towards the dead man. The blade sank into its eerie blue eyes, gut-wrenching cry cut short as the blade stabbed into his already dead brain. Aemon yelled—half war cry, half terrified scream—as he withdrew the blade, the wight tumbling down atop the bodies alive and reanimated below.

Aemon stared after it in shock before he hesitantly raised his eyes, glancing around the battlefield once more. It was worse than it had been the last time he looked, more and more living turning to flee despite their compatriots hollering for them to stay and fight, for there was nowhere south enough to escape. The trench had somehow been lit, separating the battle into two separate entities, but the second line was as jumbled as the first had been, a massive melee that turned the ground red and brown and covered in dead. One of the catapults was swarmed with wights, and most of the others had gone silent.

We're losing. The dead are prevailing against the living, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.

Aemon swore it was his imagination when he heard the guttural roar.

He looked up anyway—he didn't want his last sights to all be of walking corpses and dying men. Three figures soared in the skies, growing ever closer and bigger. Aemon squinted towards them, trying to determine what in the sake of the Seven they were.

When he realized, Aemon nearly fell off of the tower.

Seven save me, I'm seeing dragons.

One was bigger than the other two combined, all three roaring as they neared the slaughter field. Steam rose from their scales, the largest red and crimson, one white and gold, the third green and bronze. Their great wings beat against the air, cutting through the skies quickly.

And perched on two of them, one the black and the other the white, were two figures.

Aemon didn't know where they had come from. He didn't know how any of it was possible. He had no bloody clue if he wasn't just seeing a hallucination; perhaps he was already dying, and this was the last dreams of a dying man.

He also didn't know who one of the riders was, but he had no doubt of the identity of the other.

Aemon may not have been much of fighter, but he could yell when he wanted to.

"Look to the skies! The King! The King comes! Dragons! Fight, fight for your King!"

Little by little men or women would look up and see the approaching figures. Some would die, frozen by the sight and being killed by those they were fighting. Others turned and sprinted all the faster, their already maximized terror growing longer. Yet more took up the call, and a spirit reentered the beaten forces of the living. Aemon stood on his tower, bloody dagger in one hand, screaming as loud as his under-used lungs would scream. The survivors fought harder, shouting for their king, shouting of a sign from the Seven, or just shouting mindlessly.

Some laughed hysterically, others cried, many died.

And then the dragons swooped low, three plumes of fire spreading across the ocean of wights.

Aelor nearly leapt out of his skin when a stream of fire swept across the wights a few feet to his front.

It was odd that anything could take him by surprise in this field of terror and disbelief. He was fighting beings that should have been dead long ago, their guts hanging from their split bellies, their faces desiccated or rotting, eyes icy blue and dead. More than one had attacked Aelor while still burning, covered in green fire, screeching a terrible broken war cry. Aelor had dismembered them, crushed their skulls, cleaved their bodies in half, yet more just kept coming.

He screamed, he gouged, he fought, and it had all seemed for nothing.

But as the wights to his front burst into flame, Aelor looked to the skies in shock.

Swooping over him was a cream and golden dragon.

A dragon.

Aelor had believed his wife was telling the truth about the animal that adorned his family's banner—he'd sent the king in search of them, after all—but he was in no way prepared for the real thing.

As the dragon swooped over, Aelor spied a figure on its back, too small to be Aegon. The hair was shorter, but Aelor recognized his sister instantly.

Daenerys Stormborn, coming to battle like Visenya Targaryen of old.

Aelor's spirit soared, his blood nearly singing. Shouts of 'the king', 'dragons', 'for the living' echoed somewhere behind him, and Aelor added a wordless roar of his own. Baelon and Jaehaerys were somewhere near him, their own shouts of elation joining his.

It was as if dragonfire was burning through his body, and Aelor loved every moment of it.

Aelor cut through the dead like they were made of snow, bashing them aside, every swing of the sword killing the dead. He rushed a wildlings head with his shield, decapitated a former knight, snapped the brittle arm bones of a decayed black brother before stabbing him through the eye.

He laughed as dragons roared overhead. This was what he had fought his entire life for—dragons had returned, the symbol of Targaryen power that had been lost to them a century earlier restored. He spotted Aegon upon a massive black dragon, his nephew's face alight with a vicious grin as he swooped overhead.

It was mirrored on Aelor's.

The bloodbath continued, always more enemies no matter how many they chopped down. Aelor and his sons had been an island far ahead of the rest of the force for a long portion of the battle, but not long after the arrival of Aegon and Daenerys Aelor begin to see more of the living around him. They were gaining ground, emboldened by the arrival of their king and princess atop creatures long thought dead, the living finally making progress against the dead.

They made so much progress, in fact, that they drew the true enemy onto the battlefield.

The White Walkers were as Jaehaerys and Jaime had described—icy blue skin, horribly blue eyes, hair as white as snow. The Walkers tore into the survivors, replacing the numbers their wights had brought with their sheer indestructability. Aelor saw swords shatter, armor part like skin under a maester's blade. The revitalized army of the living were soon shattered again, some turning to flee despite the dragons continuously razing the army of the dead. Aelor stood detached from it all, watching as the last hope seemed to flee amidst a rash of icy demons.

And then he saw him.

There was no mistaking this particular Other. The ice of his head was shaped like a crown, two of his kind beside him like bodyguards. He wasn't participating in the battle, instead calmly strolling through the field of death and destruction, watching the unfolding slaughter. He was dressed in black studded leather, a sword sheathed across his back, walking as if he owned the world.

He doesn't yet. Too kill the body, you remove the head.

The Dragon of Duskendale bashed aside a wight and broke into a sprint, leaping over the piles of bodies towards the Night's King. He didn't know how he was going to do it—his sword was simple steel, good work but not otherworldly. It didn't matter though. If today was going to be the day mankind would fall, Aelor intended to go out as he had lived.

The chief ice demon saw him, grotesque face unmoving as he registered the black-armored being charging at him with reckless abandon. Instead of drawing his own weapon or moving to avoid, he simply twitched his hand towards Aelor as if he was an annoying fly. The two bodyguards instantly moved to intercept him, both raising their icy weapons. Aelor readied himself as they drew close, having no real plan but to swing and swing hard.

And suddenly a dragon dropped out of the sky.

Aelor was forced to dive to the side as the black dragon crashed to the ground, his nephew atop it, landing atop the two advancing White Walkers, clawed feet smearing them across the field as the great beast slid to a stop. The black dragon roared as Aelor gained his feet, darting his neck forward to snatch a wight, tossing it into the air and then down his gullet.

And off of his back leapt the King of the Iron Throne, Blackfyre raised as he screamed a battle cry.

Valyrian steel. The Prince that was promised. Rhaegar's proclamations.

It all flew through Aelor's mind as he rushed to join his nephew in battle.

The Night's King met the living king's charge, and just as Jaehaerys had claimed Blackfyre did not shatter. Instead the two blades collided, smoky black and sheer ice, giving off a terrible clang as they did. The Night's King parried Aegon once, twice, and then Aelor was at his side.

The Hand of the King's sword was not Valyrian steel. The Others blade met his, and the ruby pommeled blade that had claimed so many lives shattered in Aelor's grip. Aelor stared in shock at the useless grip in his hand, arm vibrating from the blow, before an icy hand slammed his helmet upside the head.

The Dragon of Duskendale went flying, the blow ringing his ears and buckling his knees despite the seemingly careless way it had been delivered. It was as if Gregor Clegane had come again, swatting him into the wall of Aegon's nursery as the Mountain had done so long ago. He hit the ground with a ferocious exhale, world swimming.

Looking up through those swimming eyes, Aelor saw his nephew battle the ice demon. The Night's King was faster and infinitely stronger, and though he couldn't destroy Aegon's blade he could still outduel him. It became abundantly clear to Aelor that that was about to happen.

The Dragon of Duskendale regained his feet, wobbly from the blow to the head, and staggered towards where Aegon grew more and more taxed though there was nothing Aelor could do. The King in the Iron Throne was losing ground rapidly, the Night's King's icy blade everywhere at once. Aelor increased his pace though he still had to focus on each step, stumbling over the uncountable number of bodies littering the ground.

Three blows from the Night's King sent Aegon to his knees, and then a savage two-handed swing sent Blackfyre from the King of the Iron Throne's grip. The Night's King's icy lips twitched into a semblance of a smirk, and he drew his blade back.

Aelor sprinted forward.

The Night's King drove the blade forward in a stab aimed for Aegon's c.h.e.s.t, the Targaryen dragonrider defenseless.

With a throaty roar The Dragon of Duskendale crashed into the Night's King, taking the blow meant for his nephew. The Other's blade stabbed through Aelor's armor like butter, plunging through his guts and out his back.

And, with another strangled war cry of rage, elation and pain, Aelor's hands wrapped around the White Walker's wrist, trapping his blade.

The icy contact burned Aelor's hands even through his gauntlets, but he did not let go. The King of the True North pulled at his blade embedded in Aelor's innards, and while it jerked the Hand of the King forward and tore up more of his insides he did not relinquish his grip or the blade. Icy eyes met violet ones, and Aelor let out a pain-filled chuckle. The Night's King's head snapped around as Aegon reappeared at his side, Blackfyre swooping in, the King of Westeros sounding for all the world like the dragon he rode as he shouted.

Aelor saw the Other's face contort in otherworldly terror before he shattered into a million pieces, the wrist Aelor was gripping and the sword he was trapping following suite.

The Dragon of Duskendale grunted in pain, hands pressing against the split steel over his belly, and fell to the corpse-covered ground.

One second Aemon had been fighting as wights swarmed his archer's tower, stabbing and slashing with dead Deaf D.i.c.k Follard's dagger, and the next they just fell to the ground.

Aemon stared in confusion as the wights that had been very-much moving seconds earlier lie motionless over the field. The wildling girl—Farrah was definitely her name, and she and Aegon were the only survivors of their crossbow team—peaked out from behind him, tear-tracks down her face. Aemon looked around, from the burning ditch to the fiery swaths dragonfire had made. Where earlier there had been wights and White Walkers, now there were only men, standing in various states of confusion, their swords raised to parry blows that had been smashing towards them. Corpses covered the ground as far as the eye could see, more than could be counted.

But there were no standing dead, no White Walkers. All that was left was the living—few of them, so few it overwhelmed Aemon's mind, but living nonetheless.

We've done it. We've won.

A laugh escaped him then, sharp and disbelieving in its own sound. Farrah clutched him from behind, her small head—she couldn't be more than ten—pressing against his back. Aemon laughed louder, whirling to grab the wildling into a ferocious hug.

We've done it, just as the men of old did. We've prevented the Long Night!

He whirled Farrah around the rickety, bloody archer's tower, laughing as hysterically as anyone ever had. But that laughter died when Aemon spotted Baelon sprinting across the field, Jaehaerys limping along behind him, to where a figure was crouched between two of the dragons, holding a third in his arms.

Aemon was off the tower and sprinting over the carnage before Farrah realized he had moved.

He knew it was his father before he even found the ring of people.

The dragons were all over the suddenly sparse field, gobbling corpses old and new. The mystery rider, whom Aemon could now see was his aunt Daenerys, stood next to the crouched man, tears down her pretty, grim-covered face. Baelon was holding her, bleeding from a nasty cut across the bridge of his nose, the always-emotionless brother's eyes also filling with tears. Aemon had passed Jaehaerys, his cousin gripping a bleeding t.h.i.g.h as he hobbled. His other cousin, the King of the Iron Throne, sat in the snow, holding a man in his l.a.p. Blood covered the king's legs, clearly hemorrhaging out of the lying man's back.

His father's hands were pressed to his stomach, blood flowing between and around them.

Aemon let out a strangled cry as he fell to the snow beside them. His father was taking shallow, pained breaths, body occasionally twitching. His violet eyes, racked with pain, found Aemon. A weak smile covered his face, his voice weak and faint, the words coming at great cost. "I…knew you…were a dragon, son."

Aegon spoke in his king voice, though it wavered. Tears fell down his face as well. "You are not allowed to die. I am your King. You will not die, am I understood?!"

Aelor coughed a bloody cough, looking up at his nephew leaned over him. "Rhaegar…was right. You are…the Prince…that was Promised."

"No, uncle, you cannot go! I command you to live! For once in your life heed me, please!"

Suddenly the convulsions in his father's body stopped, his violet eyes going unfocused and unseeing. A great, bloody smile crossed a face that was suddenly at peace, a hand reaching up to pat his nephew's cheek. When Aelor spoke this time his voice was strong, as strong as Aemon had ever heard it.

"Your mother is as beautiful as ever. But tell Alysanne I loved her most. Don't worry; Elia understands."

The hand fell to the side. With an exhale that sounded to all gathered like a roar, the Dragon of Duskendale breathed his last.