52. Volantene / Aegon V 

Hello Everyone, sorry for being late. I got caught up with finishing up my schoolyear. Luckily, I do have some good news. I will be trying to return to a weekly schedule now that the schoolyear is over. I will keep you all updated if anything changes regarding those plans. That all being said, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and please leave your thoughts in the comments. Have a wonderful day!

Norys Nogarys

8th moon, 39AC

Norys’s nose twitched uncomfortably in his tent, the air was thick with smoke from pounds of incense and bottles of perfume but the stench still lingered. No matter how many burners he lit or how much rosewater was brought in, the horrendous stench of the camp outside continued to assault his senses.

He almost gagged quietly behind a silk sleeve, cursing his previous desire to attend to this matter personally and the slaves for forcing him to endure such discomfort. His army was filled with naught but filthy creatures, each and every one. Born in mud, raised like dogs, and now stinking up his beautiful pavilion with their mere presence.

Norys dabbed at his brow with a perfumed cloth, pleading internally for the stench to fade. ‘How did it come to this?’ he bemoaned, lambasting his foolish past self for volunteering on this detestable mission. This was not the work of a former and future triarch of Volantis. He should have been issuing orders from behind the wonderful Black Walls, not squatting in a makeshift camp alongside slaves and sellswords.

He shifted in his gilded chair, his silken robes brushing against the fine leather. He momentarily questioned his own rationale, sure entrusting a matter as important as earning a truce with the Targaryens was dangerous, but surely he could have found someone else? 

‘No,’ Norys reminded himself. This was a matter too important to trust, even with his family members. His cabal of allies back in Volantis needed more time, and that was why he was here.

So far, he could at least take solace in his success. Two moons wasted here posturing against the Targaryen, giving signals of wanting to make a deal and discuss over the ruins of Norvos and Qohor, while actually letting his allies move toward Qohor and continue their work back in Mantarys.

He had succeeded in wasting two moons' worth of time, but that now may be coming to an end.  It was a delicate game, Norys knew, if he delayed too much, the dragon would lose patience and begin his war, even if it would undoubtedly be early for his desires. Yet if he wasted too little time… Norys was not certain he could even extract a deal from the pathetic ‘conqueror’, who was to say that he was not simply planning his efforts right now? Norys knew Maegor had more soldiers mustering near Pentos, and there was trouble brewing back in Westeros, but predicting the irritable Targaryen was not easy. 

Norys studied the messages from his informants, the original plan had been to stall for as much time as possible, letting the twin army to the one he was currently at the head of seize Qohor before the Targaryen could do anything to stop them, along with keeping Maegor in a precarious situation. Sure, he could attack his army, but that would lead to war with Volantis, and if his informant’s words from Westeros were anything to go by. The Targaryens’ frustrations from their last meeting made much more sense. 

According to the message sent by the commander of the second army, he was less than a day's sail from Qohor. Which meant that he could finally bring this turgid expedition to an end. He cared naught for Norvos, the army he was at the head of was merely the means he would earn a truce he would craft with the Targaryen and be in a position to stop the detestable pretender from seizing more rightful Volantene clay. 

Norys allowed himself a thin smile as he set the message down, smoothing the parchment with ringed fingers. Victory, for now, was within reach. It would be a delicate balance to achieve it, but he knew he was capable, he was a member of the Old Blood, after all. His Valyrian ancestors would not fail at such a task, and neither would he. 

“My Lord,” he heard one of his servants say from the entryway. 

Norys’s head turned slowly, he had not really been expecting news. They should know by now that it was his staff that truly led this army. If they needed something, they were to go to him. He did not bother speaking to his slave as his head turned, instead, he merely stared at his Rhoynish slave with his deep purple eyes. 

“A message from the enemy,” he said, his voice low and demure, just as it ought to be. 

Norys motioned for one of his other servants to bring the message to him. He was certainly not willing to get up from his comfortable seat, much less get farther away from the meager aid he could get from his incense, scented candles, and rosewater perfumes. 

One of his personal staff, a slave he had owned since childhood, brought the paper over to him. Norys gingerly unrolled it before reading the contents in his mind. 

The calligraphy was perfect, high Valyrian, elegance the likes of which could only be found behind the black walls. It said simply. 

You will meet with me today, and you will discuss terms of peace in good faith, or your empire shall burn.

For a heartbeat, Norys felt his stomach twist, a sour taste rising in his mouth. He crushed the feeling down with practiced ease, fear was for lesser men.

Norys stood quickly, making for the exit.

…

The meeting place they had chosen was not new to Norys. A ruined farmhouse along the Noyne, long since destroyed by the Dothraki and not yet rebuilt. It happened to be neutral ground between the two army encampments, so it was an easy choice. 

That did not mean that Norys liked it, of course. It smelled even worse than his military encampment, the smell from the river mixing with the mud and shit of a dilapidated home. But Norys stomached his distaste for now. As he had important business to attend to. 

He entered the disgusting building warily, preceded by several of his guards. His guards fanned out with disciplined efficiency, their polished armor and bright sashes a deliberate display of wealth and order.

They were expensive guards, after all. Unsullied bought from the markets of Astapor. His family deserved only the best guards, after all. Their protection could be entrusted to nobody else. 

Across the ruined home, Maegor waited. No banners, no ceremony, just a handful of grim men in dark plate armor, and the Red Dragon of House Targaryen stitched roughly onto a faded black cloak. He sat on a hastily prepared bench, his hand already on his sword like the brute he was. 

‘Savage,’ Norys thought, inclining his head in the barest gesture of respect.

That was all the Targaryens were, barely better than the savages they ruled. They had forsaken their traditions, their heritage, to hide on a damp rock in the middle of nowhere. Then they had the gall to abandon their traditions further and embrace the ‘loving’ arms of their subjects in Westeros. It was laughable. 

“Prince Maegor,” he said smoothly, “I thank you for granting me an audience once more. It honors Volantis to treat with you,” he spoke, his voice reflecting his decades of experience in soothing the egos of thuggish men, who could never clearly see the bigger picture. 

Maegor’s gaze was sharp, unamused. “You’ll thank me by speaking plainly this time, Volantene. I’ve no patience left for empty words.”

Norys allowed himself a slight, diplomatic smile, the smile he reserved for unruly members of his party. “But of course. We are both men of action, are we not? I come bearing proposals of peace and trade, to the benefit of both our peoples,” he spoke, entirely truthfully for the first time since he arrived outside of Norvos two moons ago.

“Peace and trade, yes, that sounds promising, I do suppose you received my letter?” he asked, allowing a light amount of amusement to filter onto his face. Any untrained simpleton would have missed it, but Norys had spent decades in the cutthroat politics behind the black walls. He could not fool him. 

‘Monster,’ Norys thought. The idea that this Targaryen could so brazenly threaten all of Volantis and her holdings with no repercussions was a travesty that needed to be solved. Luckily, that was just what he was here to do. Give Volantis enough time to solve its imbalance in power. 

Norys kept his smile fixed in place, though inwardly he felt the first pricklings of irritation rise further. “My prince,” he said smoothly, “Volantis has of course given your words the utmost consideration. We understand your concerns.”

He paused, the perfect politician's pause, before continuing, “And we are eager to avoid any path that would lead to further... misunderstandings between our peoples.”

Maegor’s fingers tapped once against the pommel of his sword. A dull, metallic sound. No words were spoken, but a message was received, he wanted more. 

“Volantis is prepared to officially recognize your overlordship of Braavos, Pentos, Lorath, and Norvos, along with any titles you may claim. We are also prepared to discuss future trade agreements at a later date should you request it. In exchange, we desire peace and the recognition of the territorial integrity of our lands,” Norys said in a flurry. 

Maegor was silent for a long moment. The ruined house seemed to shrink around them, the stink of the river and the moldy timbers pressing in. Norys steadied his breathing, trying to avoid the clear intimidation that Maegor was trying to impress. 

“Now how am I to trust your words, Volantene?” he asked, his eyes boring a hole through Norys’s head. 

Norys inclined his head, careful not to let his disdain show. “My prince, Volantis does not offer only words,” he spoke with a practiced ease, despite every fiber of his being demanding retribution for this injustice. 

It made his blood boil to think about it. Volantis had long prided itself as the true heir of the Valyrian Freehold, the city founded by the greatest bloodlines to ever grace the earth. The noble bloodlines of House Belaerys, House Nogarys, House Endoryen, and the others, true Valyrian houses, houses that had never wavered in their worship of the old gods, in their devotion to the very traditions that had made the Freehold a titanic empire, an unchallenged colossus of the world. Those were the bloodlines that should have inherited the greatest treasure of all.

Yet it was House Targaryen that had escaped Valyria’s doom with its greatest treasure, a family that had abandoned the gods of their ancestors, forsaking the old ways. A family that, in their weakness, had given up everything that had made their line great. They were nothing more than thieves wearing a legacy not their own.

How many times had Norys stood in the great halls of Volantis, hearing the stories of the ancient houses that once commanded the skies, hearing stories of his house? 

How many times had they, the true heirs, been forced to swallow the bitter truth that while they had kept the sacred rites, the sacred bloodlines pure, and the ancient lore alive, the Targaryens had spat on the ashes of Valyria, declaring their newfound 'kingly' status, when in truth they were nothing more than mummers playing dragonlord. 

They had abandoned their culture, their language, their gods. And yet... They were the ones left holding the dragons. The dragons, Valyria’s greatest treasure!

In Volantis, the blood of the old houses ran deep, their ties to Valyria as old as the city itself. Yet it had not been they who had been gifted with the power to shape the skies, to command the very fire of the gods. No, it had been House Targaryen, the lowest, the weakest, the one who had forsaken everything. Those who fled Old Valyria because of their pathetic, weak status. 

It would be one thing if House Targaryen recognized Valyria as the true heir she was. Had Gaemon the Glorious moved behind the Black Walls and helped re-establish the empire with his draconic might. Restoring the more deserving families to dragon-riding status, he would have been worshipped behind the Black Walls. But no, House Targaryen knew they were undeserving of their might, and so hoarded it greedily on their barren rock. 

But the treasure was not meant for them. No, the treasure was meant for those who still held the heart of Valyria, those who had retained its pride and its honor, its traditions. It should have been his people, his family, Volantis, the true heirs. Yet here they were, groveling in front of Targaryens, those who were nothing more than the thieves of a fallen empire, the betrayers of their own legacy.

It was a travesty. It was a perversion of what was right and true. 

Norys grit his teeth quietly, the sound not escaping his lips, as he willed himself to remain calm. It wouldn’t do to let the heat of his anger show, not when he was here on delicate terms. But the resentment burned through him, smoldering in his chest.

Volantis had given up so much. They had expended hundreds of thousands of lives, thousands of tons of gold in an effort to restore what was lost. While the Targaryens hid on their barren rock.

Then, that wretched dragon Aegon. Crushed their rightful mission to reconquer Lys. Their powerful fleet of 130 galleys, more formidable than any single navy fielded since the fall of the Freehold. Dashed in just a few moments. 

The Targaryens had not suffered as they had. They had never known the bitter taste of failure in the face of destiny. They had not fought, bled, and struggled as Volantis had, holding on to their legacy while the world changed around them, abandoning the glorious past for an ugly future. Yet the dogs on Dragonstone now held the prize, the ultimate symbol of power, the dragons that once ruled filled the skies of Essos, spreading their glorious civilization in their wake.

The gods were cruel to laugh in the face of those who had remained true to their blood. But that cruel joke would not stand forever. Norys knew, one day, Volantis would take what was rightfully theirs. One day, Norys would see to it himself that the Targaryens were dethroned and destroyed. Their dragons would be given more deserving riders. Their kingdom would burn just as his kin had in Old Valyria. House Targaryen had escaped the Doom, but they would not escape destruction.

His servant opened the chest of gold. Treasures were specifically prepared for such a meeting. A thousand pounds of gold lie in chests. Coins, bars, jewelry, even the occasional unrefined nugget. Volantis was more than ready to bribe their way to peace, even if it twisted Norys’s guts just thinking about it. 

“A token,” Norys said smoothly. “Of our goodwill.”

Maegor did not glance at the chest. His gaze never left Norys. “How much?”

Norys smiled, a tight smile that barely touched his eyes. “A thousand pounds of pure gold, delivered in full within a fortnight, should our agreement be reached.” He let the words hang in the air, carefully measuring Maegor’s gaze. 

“A thousand pounds for a promise? Empty words from someone I know to be a liar?” he said, his voice not quite lowering to a growl but something close. 

Norys held back a sigh as he opened his hands in a gesture of benevolence. He suspected that the greedy dragon rider would want more. But Volantis was willing to pay any price. This mission must be completed. 

“We will also draft a treaty, a Treaty of Eternal Peace, to be sealed by all the Triarchs of Volantis, witnessed by your own chosen men. It will guarantee the peace between our peoples, and acknowledge the legitimacy of your rule over the northern Free Cities. Aside from Qohor of course,” Norys said, carefully studying the unmoving face of his adversary. 

A flicker of amusement crossed Maegor’s hard face, much more obvious than his light smirk from earlier. Norys felt like he was being seen right through, but he knew it was not the case. Their excavations of the Hell Road had been airtight. Yet he could not help but feel uneasy under the dark glare of the Targaryen before him.

Maegor’s smirk deepened. “Five thousand pounds of gold. A treaty of eternal peace, future guarantees on trade deals, and recognition of any future titles I may claim pertaining to my holdings. Agree to these terms, and I will recognize your rule of Qohor and give you peace,” Maegor’s counteroffer was harsh, but Norys leapt at it.

“Volantis gratefully accepts this deal, my prince,” he said, letting a small smirk grace his lips. Knowing the treasures and power he and his allies would accrue during this peace. 

Before Norys could leave the dilapidated building, Maegor spoke up once more. “But if you break it, our treaty, if your city so much as breathes wrong, I will come back. And there will be no words then. No gold. Only fire.”

Norys held his stare, his confidence only bolstered by his words. “We shall breathe easy, then, my prince.”

Norys turned to leave, accompanied by his guards. Once he was a suitable distance away from the building, he could no longer restrain himself. 

“Animal,” he muttered under his breath. The brutish thug was no better than the savage Dothraki he killed a decade prior. Volantis would need to be even more prepared to face Maegor than they had been to face Khal Temmo. Luckily, they had the means to do so. 

…

Norys let a sigh escape his lips as his pleasure barge departed the makeshift docks his army had created along the banks of the Rhoyne. Knowing that he would soon be protected from the stench and ugliness of the backward place he had been forced to venture to.

He leaned back into his fine bed. The feathered pillows and silken sheets warmed his body from the cold. Winter was here, and while he would not need to worry about the cold once he returned to his home, here he had to make sure to stay warm. 

As he settled into his comfortable bed, he could not help but relish in his victory earned on that day. He doubted that Maegor would uphold the treaty indefinitely, as no amount of gold could satiate someone as bloodthirsty as him. But a treaty of peace along with the trouble in Westeros should give them all the time they needed to continue their work in Mantarys. 

Norys could hardly wait until he was back in Volantis. Both to return to his beautiful, wonderful, perfect home and to receive more updates on the work conducted by their slaves in Mantarys. 

The conquest of their wretched sister had not been difficult. The diseased and deformed populace folded under the assault of fifty thousand men, and the city was theirs, and from there, the secrets of Valyria were ripe for the taking. 

It had been ruinously expensive to begin the excavations, of course. Mantarys had to be repurposed into a forward operating base. Where slaves, criminals, and doomed souls could be sent down the Hell Road to clear the path toward Oros. 

Much to Norys’s sadness and regret, the Doom had ruined much of the Lands of the Long Summer. The beautiful green fields and low hills that once housed villas and farms as far as the eye could see were gone now. Replaced by barren, rocky terrain and an ash filled sky. Yet that did not necessarily mean that there were no treasures to be found in the Land of the Long Summer. 

The excavators had only just begun when they began finding trinkets, gold, marble, fine gemstones, and silver. All of which paled in comparison to their find naught but five moons ago. 

A mostly intact mansion, not far off the road, complete with busts of the extinct House Galaeris members, a seemingly endless supply of gold, silver, gemstones, even some Valyrian Steel. But most importantly, a fully intact safe. Magically sealed. 

It had taken them three moons to haul the thing back to Mantarys, and even longer to find a descendant of House Galeris to open it, but their finds within that small safe had all of their cabal salivating. 

Treatises on magic not seen since the Doom, dragonlore even the Targaryens likely lacked, and best of all, the location of House Galeris’s personal estate in the city of Oros. 

The prospect of finding House Galeris’s personal estate, with its dragonpit included, was more than enough for their cabal of Triarchs and nobles behind the Black Walls to continue getting funding. They had still not gone public with their knowledge yet, as letting the Targaryens know their doom was fast approaching would be a fools' errand. But Norys could not help but feel giddy. 

The resurrection of Valyria, from her true descendants, was soon at hand. They would master the blood magic contained in Haegon Galeris’s treatise on the matter, they would find House Galeris’s secondary estate within the city, plundering its vaults for magical knowledge that would make the whole world envious, and then, they would find the attached dragonpit and dig for eggs, which had surely survived the Doom in the impregnable structure. 

Norys smiled widely as he warmed himself in his pleasure barge. Everything was coming together perfectly, and the Targaryens were none the wiser. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Aegon V 

8th Moon, 39AC

The chilly air of King’s Landing continued to bite at Aegon as he tried his best to control his breathing. It would not serve him well to lose his cool here, it would be unlike the king he wanted to one day be. 

“You are an abomination before the Seven, Aegon Targaryen! Nothing more!” spat knight Something-or-Other, his voice hoarse from hours of argument. “The spawn of incest and sin!” 

Aegon mostly tuned out the red-faced knight. They had spun in this circle for the last hour. Aegon had called this meeting not long after his army had finally secured hold over King’s Landing. The onset of winter meant that travel was more complicated. It still being early meant that there were plenty of provisions at least, but many were getting settled for the winter, so mobilization had taken longer than he had liked. 

Aegon’s hand curled into a tight fist at his side. He had come to offer them mercy. His demands were simple: renounce their horrid words, their High Septon, and disarm. If they would do that and reaffirm their loyalty to their king, he would spare their lives. 

“Your dragons are demons. We shall see your kind cast down, scourged from this world. The Seven have decreed it.” the other knight spat, his words no less angry and vicious. Aegon did not bristle at them anymore, his resolve had been hardening ever since he first arrived and saw their defenses erected on the Hill of Rhaenys. Now he was finding it was time to act. 

“Let it be known I offered you mercy,” he said, resignation taking hold of him. 

“We desire nothing from you, abomination. You are forsaken, cursed, nothing more than a devil leading the faithful astray,” one knight said. Aegon wasn’t paying enough attention to tell which one. 

“Very well,” Aegon said, turning on his heel to leave. The meeting was clearly getting nowhere. The faithful forces holed up inside of the Sept of Remembrance did not want peace. They wanted to fight, so he would give them a fight. 

As Aegon strode down the half-cobbled road, his Kingsguard escort fell into step behind him, their white cloaks fluttering in the cold wind. Two of them had arrived just a day after he had left Dragonstone. Someone had apparently ordered them to attend him here, whoever did, he did not know nor care. 

So it was that he had Ser Robin Darklyn and Ser Raymont Baratheon with him. Their advice so far had been suitable, and he appreciated the feeling of safety they brought with him. It was uncanny, feeling unsafe in a city that he had once called home. 

For a split second, he thought about his grandfather. He had made a concerted effort to find a peaceful solution. Just as he thought his grandfather would have done. But that hope had been exhausted, the Faith wanted war. 

He wondered again what his grandfather would truly do if he were in his shoes. His grandfather could command a room like no other. Men listened to him, respected him, and feared him. He got the faith to willingly support him, even with his incestuous marriages. 

‘How did you do it, Grandfather?’ he wondered as he and his Kingsguard escort climbed back into their saddles and made for the Red Keep. He had chosen to bring the ten thousand soldiers mobilized from the Crownlands into the city to better control the place, and he was commanding it from the Red Keep. 

Aegon’s comparisons to his grandfather’s conquests had been raging in his mind for the last two moons. He recounted every battle he had studied. The political negotiations his grandfather had told him about. The Grand Maester’s lessons in rhetoric and speaking. Yet he could find no easy solution out of the mess his father’s weakness had thrown him into. 

To put it simply, everything had gone to hell. There were two armies in the Riverlands, 5,000 strong each. One was marching toward his position here in King’s Landing while the other was harassing the loyal subjects of House Targaryen. Aegon wanted to go and deal with them, but there were about a dozen other problems tying him down.

The most obvious was his current predicament in King’s Landing. The city felt like it was on the verge of a riot at any minute, so he had to keep two thousand of his forces on the streets to support the city watch. But that paled in comparison to the problem on the Hill of Rhaenys. 

The faith forces in the city had retreated there once he had arrived in King’s Landing, holing up in the Sept of Remembrance. Aegon had been tempted to attack them then, and in hindsight, perhaps he should have. But he was unwilling to challenge the 700 knights that the faith had and the 4,000 poor fellows backing them up. 

Of course, the slow mobilization of his forces in the Crownlands had only made things worse, as it had given the faith forces time to dig in. They had erected stronger fortifications since he arrived in the city. The wooden palisades erected had been reinforced with rubble and earth, to the point where the entire top of the Hill of Rhaenys was now encircled by a large earthen wall. 

He had been tempted to just burn it all with Balerion, torch the entire hill and let the Faith Militant burn in their sept. But some part of him could not bring himself to do it. His grandfather had ordered the construction of the sept out of love. Out of the memory of the love of his life, taken too soon. The romantic in Aegon’s heart couldn’t destroy that, couldn't tarnish his grandfather’s legacy. 

And so he had tried diplomacy. Hours spent trying to coax the knights holed up inside to just talk. Let him give them an offer of peace. He was even willing to pardon all of them if they just laid down arms and gave up. But they had denied him, they wanted a fight. 

Aegon rested his head in his hands as his horse trotted down the unkempt paths. King’s Landing had degraded further under his grandfather and father’s absence, and now the road network carefully planned out by his grand uncle Orys had been all but abandoned, houses and rubble making a mess of the previously planned out network. 

But he could feel the pressure building on him. Letters continued to arrive every day. News of the realm continuing to disintegrate poured into King’s Landing unbidden. 

In the Reach, three armies of six thousand strong each had formed. One threatened Highgarden, another prepared to join with the Hightowers and their force of nearly twelve thousand. Another army menaced the Stormlands, moving gradually northwards toward King’s Landing from Cider Hall.

The Stormlands were restless, too. A smaller army had risen for the Faith. Lord Orys Baratheon had called his banners to crush it, but he was forced to keep a significant force stationed in the Dornish Marches lest Dorne try to restart their raids once again.

In the Vale, the situation was dire. Many pious lords had flocked to the Faith’s banner. Lord Ronnel Arryn had called his banners, but loyalty was fractured; many refused to fight against their kin, according to his reports.

Even the Westerlands were not spared. Six thousand men under Ser Joffrey Doggett had been driven from Lannisport by the Lannisters. The Lannisters, true to their nature, called their banners to defend their own lands but refused to march eastward. Doggett’s host now moved to join the Riverlander forces besieging Raventree Hall.

Yet he was here, unable to aid any of them because he was stuck dealing with the Faith inside of the city. He had been looking for an answer for oh so long. Moons spent sending correspondences with his grandfather on Dragonstone. Discussing potential methods of resolving the situation with his advisors. But as he approached the walls of the Red Keep, an answer was provided to him. 

A black and red banner, with a three-headed dragon billowing in the wind. The sight of it brought Aegon back to attention, his course of action made clear. 

“Fire and blood,” he muttered, resolving to do what must be done. 

…

Aegon tapped his foot impatiently against the cold stone as he watched the assault begin anew from the ramparts of the Red Keep. Far away, the battle raged with brutal ferocity. His banners flew high, but the ground of Rhaenys’ Hill was slick with blood from previous attacks.

He had been loath to give the order, but he was running out of time and options. He could not sit here in King’s Landing doing nothing while the Kingdom continued to dissolve, or he would be no better than his father. He had to act, and so he had chosen to.

He ordered his army to attack the Sept of Remembrance. His Kingsguard escort, Ser Robin Darklyn had volunteered to lead the charge and so Aegon had let him. Aegon would not deny the strong, gnawing urge he felt to be among the fighting himself, to cut down the Faith Militant with his own blade. But deep down, he knew he was no true knight. Not yet.

He was not his uncle, skilled and strong enough to crush several skilled combatants at once, nor his grandfather either, whom all regarded as a skilled swordsman. Not yet. He lacked the hardened instinct born from a lifetime of battle, the kind of instinct that men like Ser Addison possessed without thinking. Aegon had trained, he had sparred, but there was no replacement for the bloody education of real war.

And so he remained there on the Walls of the Red Keep with a detachment of soldiers and Ser Raymont Baratheon by his side, ready to back up the army if needed or defend the Red Keep from any potential treachery or surprise attacks. So he watched, waiting, learning, while better men risked their lives under his orders. 

He scanned the fortifications through his far eye. The ladders his army had procured were strewn about, tossed from the walls by the defenders, bodies strewn across the crude earthworks like frosting on a cake, their blood turning the earth a horrid dark brown. 

The defenders were tenacious beyond reason. Every meter of ground was contested with a fanatic's zeal, and every push by Aegon's men met with boiling oil, arrows, stone, and whatever else the defenders could procure.

He watched as the mass of his army crashed against the walls once more. Each man loyally attempting to climb the earthworks with a ladder or without. Aegon watched as dozens of men succumbed to arrows, swords, spears, and all other manner of weapons. 

Aegon’s jaw tightened. His hand twitched toward his sword hilt. He hated just how helpless he was.

Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to be the same dragon that his enemies had feared when his grandfather still lived, but still he hesitated, the shadow of his own inexperience weighing heavily on his shoulders. He had read about battles, studied old campaigns, sparred with the best knights of the realm, and listened to endless stories from the greatest conquerors the world had ever seen. But no book, no story, no anecdote could have possibly prepared him for this.

The smell of blood and fire on the wind wafted over the whole city. The sound of men screaming as they died echoed down the hill and over the roughly constructed buildings hemmed in by the walls. The sickening knowledge that each corpse piling up on the hillside died for him, because of him. 

He clenched his fist against the rampart, cold stone biting into his palms. He scanned the battlefield further, seeing a few soldiers make it up the earthworks and over onto the other side. Just to be cut down by a horde of fanatics.

It was then that Aegon saw him. Ser Robin’s white cloak, dirtied by dirt and blood, ascends the earthen wall. Aegon watched with bated breath as he observed the commander of his army, the loyal and devoted Darkrobin, a true warrior and leader who led from the front, try his hand at getting over the ridge. 

Up and up he climbed, slashing at spears with his shining steels word before he made it to the top, accompanied by what must have been half a dozen of the finest knights under his command. 

A dozen shouts erupted in cheer along the ramparts of the Red Keep. Lords and Knights watching the battle through their far-eyes like he was. But their cheer was quickly quashed. 

Aegon noticed it first, his heart sinking as he saw a spear stab perfectly in a gap in the Darkrobin’s armor. Blood sprayed out from under his arm, coating his beautiful white armor and pristine white cloak in red. It was not long after that when the rest of his warriors fell too. Brought down by arrows and spears. 

Aegon clenched the cold stone so hard he felt his hand grow wet with blood. Anger and regret at his own weakness, letting other men die for him. He was so distracted in his rage that he did not hear the quiet goodbye said by Ser Raymont to his right. 

Images of his father flashed through his head. How he cowered on Dragonstone, poisoned by grief and indecision. Aegon could not help but compare himself to him then. How was he any better? Sure, he was here, but he was letting good soldiers die under his watch. Ser Robin died because of him. 

Aegon turned on his heel, mentally calling for Balerion, despite not needing to. His dragon had been curled up not far from Aegon’s position for the entire battle. What must have been five hours now, given that the sky was rapidly turning the same hue of purple as his own eyes, the sun a molten thing at the edge of the world. 

Ser Raymont spoke louder then. “My Prince,” he said. Placing a hand on Aegon’s shoulder. 

“Gather the soldiers and prepare to attack. I will clear a path to the Sept,” Aegon said, his voice stern and kingly, just as he imagined how his grandfather would say. He did not look back to see Ser Raymont nod his head. Instead, he descended the steps and ran toward his dragon. It was time to end this farce, to bring the traitors fire to match the blood they spilled. 

Balerion sensed his rider’s intent long before Aegon even got close enough to touch his scales. The Black Dread rose from where he had lounged, the earth shuddering with each movement of his massive body. His great wings unfurled with a sound like a great sail snapping in a storm, casting the courtyard into deep shadow even as the last light of the sun bled across the sky.

Aegon’s heart thundered in his chest as he climbed the ladders hanging off Balerion’s side. His blood was bubbling in rage and anger at both his enemies and himself. Balerion responded to his own bubbling rage with a low growl of his own, powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the Red Keep. 

Without a word, Balerion leapt into the air, and Aegon nearly bit through his tongue from the sudden, brutal rush skyward. His fingers tightened around the riding chains as the Black Dread climbed high, just high enough to clear the hill and descend onto the smaller hill the Sept sat on. 

The cold winter winds of the evening tore at his cloak and hair, cold against the sweat on his brow, but Aegon barely noticed. His purple eyes, shining with reflected fire, locked onto the Sept of Remembrance, and more importantly, the earthworks around it. 

He could see from his position, even without his far-eye. The warriors of both sides pull back. His soldiers ended their assault as the Faith Militant cowered behind their walls. 

‘They won’t save you,’ Aegon thought, his dragon letting loose a ferocious roar. 

As he neared the hill he could see better just how badly the battle had turned. His men were broken, scattered across the hillside. Some fought on in isolated pockets, others tried to drag their wounded away. There would be no more glorious charges. No more ladders or clever tricks. It would end the way all things did when dragons were involved, with fire and blood.

Aegon pulled sharply on the chains, and Balerion roared, a sound so vast and deep it seemed to shake the very bones of the world. Soldiers on both sides paused in awe and terror, looking skyward as the living shadow of death passed overhead.

With a thunderous BOOM, Balerion landed on the earthworks, crushing them under his unimaginable weight. With a lightning-fast swipe, his whip-like tail cracked through the air, slamming into the earthworks fifty meters away, casting rubble, wood, stone, and dirt high into the sky as a cavernous hole was blown into the walls. 

He heard a cheer resound from his men, but he did not let that distract him. 

“Dracarys!” Aegon bellowed, his voice raw with rage and regret.

The Black Dread answered. A torrent of black-red flame erupted from Balerion's maw, washing over the second line of earthworks on the hill like a wave of death. Stone exploded under the force, timber palisades turned to charcoal in an instant, and men simply vanished, their bodies consumed before they had even time to scream.

Before Aegon could even react, his dragon shifted, raising his wing to block a flood of arrows that poured down, aiming to pierce his lightly armored form. Aegon did not even have time to thank his dragon mentally before Balerion responded in kind. Whipping his tail around again to turn his attackers into a fine red mush. 

With a deafening roar, Balerion charged the second line of fortifications on the ground. His weight and speed tore up the cold ground atop the hill before he crashed through the palisade as if it were not there at all. 

Aegon managed to regain control before the Sept of Remembrance met the same fate, however. With a snap of the chains, Balerion was ushered into the sky once more. Aegon breathed heavily as the air quickly thinned, his dragon carrying him from danger. 

He swiveled in his saddle, looking down at the battle below as his men charged the hill one final time. The attackers crumbled under their assault, their leaders were naught but ash now, and their fortifications were destroyed. When Aegon saw them enter the main marble structure of the Sept, he turned Balerion back toward the Red Keep. His duty was done, he had given them fire and blood.