The Icefyre Conquest 34

“Just how are the Ironborn in this bay when they are supposed to be in the Iron Islands?!” The Prince’s screams echoed out of the King’s bed

“Just how are the Ironborn in this bay when they are supposed to be in the Iron Islands?!” The Prince’s screams echoed out of the King’s bedchamber, and Moore silently stared down the Lannister bannerman ahead of him, a cough covering up the snort that had escaped the guard. It had been an hour since he had escorted the Queen inside the Maegor Holdfast, the distant sight of Greyjoy Ships clashing against a handful of those kept at the Harbor against the backdrop of the dying sunlight seeming almost poetic to him.

Situated inside the heart of the Keep, Maegor’s Holdfast didn’t allow him any view of the city outside, but a page was running to and from the moat, providing him—and thus the Queen  and the Prince with updates. Besides him, Ser Arys Oakheart stood at attention, his longsword sheathed at his hip and his helmet held in his arm. The Queen had commanded both Blount and Trant to head out, ordering the former to stay at the entrance to the Maegor’s Holdfast, while Trant had been sent to the entrance to the Keep along with two hundred men.

Currently, there were a handful more than a thousand and two hundred Gold Cloaks in the city outside, and the Red Keep had a garrison of about four hundred soldiers. About fifty of them were the Queen’s personal guards from the Casterly Rock, and about the same number were Renly Baratheon’s soldiers, sworn to none but him. There were about three dozen soldiers from the handful of Crownland Nobles that were still in the city, and after that came the permanent garrison of the Keep itself. Last they had learned, the Greyjoy forces had successfully entered the city, the City Watch being too late in responding to the threat and manning the walls. From what he had seen and heard from the page, the Ironborn stood somewhere around a thousand and three strong, and with how they had always been lousy fighters in general, Moore was somewhat confident that even an incompetent man like Slynt would be able to stop them with the number of swords he had at his comma-

“They are the Keep’s gates!” the boy’s voice echoed from the corridor to their left. Instantly, everyone snapped straight, reaching for their swords and spears as the out-of-breath lad came into view, stumbling and gasping for air. “They are at the gates!”

“Ser Trant can handle them from the portcullis, he has two hundred men with hi-”

“It is not the Ironborn Ser!” the page shook his head, pointing in the direction of the gates, “It is the people! They want to get inside the Keep! The Ironborn are setting fire to the Flea Bottom and the Street of Merchants!”

“We can’t open the gates,” he shook his head, “There is no way to tell if they are the smallfolk or if the Ironborn are mixed in with them.”

“But we can’t let th-”

“Ser Moore!” The Prince’s voice echoed out of the room, swallowing Oakheart’s protests, “Open these doors, you stupid woman!”

Turning around as the heavy doors groaned at the hinges, Moore and Oakheart both snapped into attention and lowered their heads as they saw the Prince kick the servant to the side and storm out. His eyes flicked towards the maid for a moment as he saw her crawl away towards the side, Moore looked back towards the Prince while the Queen walked into the view. “Moore,” the young prince snapped, his narrowed eyes looking up at him as he pointed towards the entrance of the castle, “Order these men to kill anyone who tries to enter the castle.”

“And the smallfolk, my prince?”

“What about them?” the Prince turned towards Blount, genuine confusion on his face as he stared at the knight, “Are you dea,f Ser Blount? I said Kill them all. I don’t care if it's the smallfolk or those squid fucking Ironborn. Kill anyone who tries to enter my castle!”

“And the smallfolk, my Prince?” Oakheart asked, removing the fist that he had placed by his heart, and Moore caught the glint of the golden leaf he kept pinned upon himself as he too finally looked up. He instantly saw the sudden distaste on Joffrey’s face, but yet, it seemed the Reach knight was made of sterner stuff than he had thought as he continued, taking a small step forward and pleaded, “Shouldn’t we allow them entrance into the Keep’s outer sections at least?”

“Are you stupid?” came the bemused reply from the golden prince as he stepped forwards too, “Did I not just say kill anyone who comes to my castle? I don’t care if it's the Ironborn or the smallfolk, or anyone else! Just kill them all and be done with it. Tell that to Trant right now!”

Silently, Moore looked towards the Queen, more than intelligent enough not to question the brash words openly. His eyes however found her looking at the boy, nothing but fond exasperation in her eyes as she laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned down, one hand rising to hold the dangerously dropping gown at her chest. “Joffrey, my dear,” she sighed, petting crowned head softly before her gaze flicked towards them, “The Kingsguard will handle these little Ironborn and the smallfolk. They are weak and far inferior to the Lannister soldiers I brought from Casterly Rock. Come now, my lion, you don’t need to worry about these silly matters. Eat your dinner, the lamb will get cold.”

“Bu-”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with these things, Joffrey,” the Queen shook her head with a smile, waving a hand in their direction, “You have given your orders, and they will follow them. Now, how about you enjoy your dinner and cleave these matters to the soldiers, hm?”

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes, turning on his heel and walking inside the chamber, giving a glance at the maid still kneeling to the side, “You! Get me some tarts from the Kitchen, understand?”

“Yes My Prince,” the maid nodded hurriedly and instantly scampered off, leaving them standing in silence as the Prince and the Queen retreated into the bedchambers. Nodding towards the doors, Moore signaled at the soldiers by him to shut the chambers as he donned his helm.

“You stay here and guard the Royal family,” he spoke, catching Oakheart’s eyes and watching the Reach’s knight face fall even further, “I will relay the commands to Trant.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Robert’s absence, the Master of Laws held command in the city. A fact that Renly was quickly beginning to hate as he stood at the balcony that overlooked the entrance to the Red Keep, his antlered helm at his side while a page fastened his greaves to his legs. In the distance, the familiar sight of the crimson eye with a black pupil stared back him, the personal sigil of Euron Greyjoy flying above the Silence.

And it was not merely the Crow’s Eye’s ship that was the cause of his spoilt evening and further souring mood. Cracks, Galleys, and Longships all filled the Blackwater Rush, flying Euron’s colors as well as the Kraken flags here and there. He had seen them flood the harbor in droves, driving the ragtag line of defense the Gold Cloaks had put up at the gates back into the city before rushing inside like pests. He had sent Janos Slynt to the front with a hundred soldiers from the Keep to back up the Gold Cloaks—and he had been on time too, since the commander of the City Watch had been all but ready to disappear from the chaos.

Unsheathing his longsword, Renly looked at the four hundred or so men arrayed before him, holding lances, spears and swords and shields alike as they arranged themselves in formation. To the side, Meryn Trant shouted at the top of his lungs, issuing orders and cursing out the men to move faster. From the vantage he was on, Renly could see most of the city outside the walls of the Keep, his eyes flicking towards the fires that had started in the Street of Merchants and the Flea Bottom.

“Lord Baratheon,” a runner came to a top below him, gasping for breath as he pointed behind him towards the city, “These are not Ironborn—the-they are pirates! From the East!”

“What are you saying, solider?” he frowned, gripping the railing tightly as he looked back towards the city, the smallfolk beginning to crow the entrance to Keep, “That’s Euron Greyjoy’s ship in that harbor!”

“They were shouting in Essos,i milord!” the soldier shook his head, and Renly looked at the cut running down his arm, blood seeping out of the makeshift gauze made of a dirty cloth, “The City Watch is losing milord, They hide in the smallfolk and attack us!”

Before he could even think of something to say to that, Renly looked towards the gate as shouts and screams begging for help echoed through the air, the people of King’s Landing banging on the gates. He saw the question in the eyes of the soldiers manning the gates, and Renly saw how their questioning stares turned more and more judging by the minute as he stayed silent.

“Save us!”

“Help us, Lord Renly!”

“Help us, Queen Mother!”

“Sire, the people?!” The guard at the porticullis looked up at him, his hands ready on the crank, and Renly felt sweat beading upon his brow. He had always been the favourite of the smallfolk, easygoing and charming amongst the people with his fair looks and laughing eyes. It certainly helped that they had no love to spare for Stannis, and Robert seldom graced them with his presence. Yet in this moment as he held the fate of the smallfolk shouting for his help bin his hands, Renly felt nothing but tremors in his stomach and an ache in his throat as the water in his mouth dried up. Someone shouted in his ears, but all he could see was the crowd running up the road towards the Keep, the fear and hope on their faces clear as day despite the almost dark sky. There were barely two or three minutes of sunlight left, and he could not let the smallfolk die outside to the Crow’s Eye and his pirat-

Unbidden, the memories of when he had been but a boy surfaced up in his mind. The time during Robert’s rebellion against the Targaryens, when Storm’s End had been besieged by the Reach’s forces. He remembered the sight of the lavish, extravagant feasts being hosted by Mace Tyrell for months on the end, all the while the rations inside their Keep continued to dwindle to what little meager garrison Stannis had been commanding.

He remembered how, in the dark of the night, he had seen the soldiers kill and eat anything that came within the range of their spears. Mice, rodents…and even the ravens had been devoured to keep the men somewhat functional, leaving just one to act as a messenger to Robert in case the Storm’s End fell. And moreso, Renly remembered that helplessness, that hunger and fear that almost took him as a lad, wishing for Stannis to do something. 

Anything.

And today, he saw that same desperation, that same fear in the eyes of the smallfolk running towards the Keep. The time and place had changed, but the circumstances were the same for these people. In that moment, as he felt the weight of the sword in his hand…Renly realised something.

Today, he was standing where Stannis had been standing all those years ago. There was more than a decade of age difference between them, and when Storm’s End had been laid to siege by Tyrell, villagers from all over Stormlands had run towards them for shelter and more often than not, they had died as the Reach had cut a bloody swathe through the already depleted Stormlands. Steeling his eyes, Renly looked at his helm and donned it, feeling the cool material surround his head as the night fully descended upon them all.

“Open the gates,” he muttered, straightening up and squaring his shoulders as he felt his blood flow and his heartbeat quicken, nodding at the guard still holding onto the crank, “Ready yourself and make way for the smallfolk. Lord Stokeworth, make sure they find their way towards the stables and outer courtyards. And order the servants to distribute some food and water to them, they have been starved enough by the merchants.”

“At once, Lord Baratheon.” The frail, slightly bent man nodded, moving off the balcony with two of his soldiers to carry out the orders as the portcullis was slowly raised, and soldiers pushed the heavy bronze gates open, revealing the dozens of ragged, crying people on the other side.

A flicker of light caught his attention, and Renly shifted his gaze from the incoming crowd towards the source and his eyes widened as a plume of fire erupted into the sky near the Street of Pleasure. 

And yet, that was not all.

Within moments, a dozen explosions rocked through King’s Landing, making his eyes widen more and more with each cloud of fire and smoke that rose into the air, carrying the screams of the people with it. Flea Bottom, the Markets, the Streets of Merchant and Pleasure, the Noble residences, Visenya’s Hill, nothing was spared as all of them watched with shock at the sight of the fiery mushrooms rising into the air as high as forty feet. Screams echoed throughout the city once again while the explosions continued unabated, and Renly watched with mounting horror as fires began to start all over.

“So that’s what those Essosi ships were for.” Baelish’s unwelcome voice fluttered through the air, breaking the stupor that had descended upon him. Turning his incredulous eyes upon the Valeman, Renly saw the amusement in the man’s eyes as they met his, before the Master of Coin continued, “Earlier in the day, four Essosi ships had docked at the harbor, registering themselves under the name of Dyros Black, a famous pirate from the South East waters. They had brought with them great barrels of alcohol—rum and whiskey, all looted of course. They were to be sold across the taverns and inns over the city, and even I was astounded at the rates they were being dropped off at, many times for free.”

“Barrels you say,” he muttered, bemused and shocked in equal measure as he turned around, another fireball lighting up the night sky, and something in the corner of his eyes caught his atte-

“Lord Baratheon!” Mandon Moore’s flat, raspy voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned around yet again, finding the KIngsguard striding towards him, his dead eyes staring at the people milling about in the yard below, “The Queen had commanded the commoners to be removed from the castle.”

“The Queen holds no power here,” he frowned, “I am the Master of Laws, and currently in the absence of the King and his Hand, I hold command over the city and this Keep.”

“They are to be killed by the order of the Queen and the Prince,” Moore shook his head, and something in his voice gave Renly pause, as his blue eyes automatically flicked down to the fingers clenched upon the longsword at the Kingsguard’s hip, “We have been ordered to se force if necessary, but no smallfolk shall step inside the walls of the Red Keep.”

“Have you lost your mi-”

Screams cut him off, and Renly whirled around as his eyes snapped towards the source of the shouts, his eyes landing on the soldiers and people running away from a cart of barre-

Heat blazed over his skin, and Renly felt his eyebrows singe as he was pushed back, the sound of thunder cracking though his ears as he fell on his arse with surprise. Even through his closed eyes, Renly could see the massive fireball that had erupted a mere stonethrow away from him, his armor feeling like an oven within an eyeblink. Something wet splattered on his face through the gaps on his helm, and Renly grimaced as he tasted blood on his lips. As the sound of roaring flames died down, he was treated to the cacophony of screams and shouts ringing across the yard, and he gasped, opening his eyes to the sight of the dark, curdling smoke rising through the air before him. Horrified and shocked in equal amounts, Renly slowly raised up his sword arm, thanking the gods that his weapon was still in his grasp. Planting the sheathed tip on the floor, and he slowly pushed himself up—biting his lips as he opened his eyes, only to find the lifeless eyes of Derek, one of his personal guard staring back at him, half of his face gone with a bloodied, charred piece of wood lying by his feet.

“That is the result of allowing anyone inside the Keep, Master of Laws,” Moore’s voice came over the chaos that was reigning in the air around them, and Renly turned his head to glare at the Kignsguard, finding the kn ight already turning around and unsheathing his sword to block a thin, curved blade, “I would suggest you to move yourself away from the field, where you may be safe.”

Moore’s sword flashed through the shadows, glinting in the torchlight and revealing the surprised, ragged face of the attacker before the lognsword carved through it, leaving the man falling back and dead. Standing up sluggishly, Renlyt gacve obne last glare to the departing Kingsguard before he focused back on the yard below, and his face instantly blanched in horror. Bits and pieces of flesh and body parts littered the whole ground, splatters of blood and charred gore reflecting the burning wreckage of the cart. Below him, people and soldiers alike groaned and screamed in agony, burnt and injured in the blast that had taken place.

His throat dried, and Renly tasted sand in his mouth as he looked at the carnage he had brought inside the Red Keep, his eyes flicking down unconsciously to Derek’s half-destroyed face. Stumbling forward a step, he looked down at the struggling, moaning soldiers as the smell of alcohol and burnt flesh filled his lungs. Gripping the railing before him tightly, he stared as Lord Stokeworth tried to bring some sense of order back into the men, the soldiers cautiously moving towards the gates as they gingerly stepped over torn limbs and the shaking, grasping hands of the dead and dying.

And as he looked at the small child right by the burning cart, torn apart in the wake of the explosion with his whole body burnt and destroyed, Renly realised something. Something that felt as bitter in his heart and mind as the air tasted on his tongue, a realisation that had invaded his thoughts many a times whenever he heard someone talk about just how well Stannis had commanded the Royal Fleet, or even the remaining Baratheon Forces.

He wasn’t Stannis.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“There is a hidden passage here, My Queen,” Baelish muttered, snapping his fingers and nodding at one of the four Gold Cloaks he had brought with him—all on his payroll of course. That wasn’t to say Cersei hadn’t taken her precautions, he thought with a wry smirk, his eyes flicking to the ten soldiers that stood in formation around the Royal Family, again, all Lannisters despite the black and gold heraldry that adorned the walls around them. Of course, nearest to the Royal family stood Trant and Moore, both bloodied from the fights against smallfolk and Pirates alike at the gates, “It shall take you directly to the Sept of Baelor’s inner chambers—from where I have arranged swift escorts to the Westerlands.”

“What of Uncle Renly?” the princess’ soft voice spoke up, the young girl looking up towards her mother, and a part of Baelish desperately wanted to lean down and whisper “What Uncle?”, but he simply turned around and walked towards the wall moving sideways, his eyes peering into the darkness beyond as the princess continued, “Should we not ask him to come with us to Father and Grandfather?”

“He has a duty to defend this city, Myrcella dear,” Cersei's soft, haughty whisper floated through the air, “Besides, he has already proved his incompetence by opening the Keep’s gates to the commoners and those Pirates. I would not have him endanger Joffreys or your safety anymore. “

Before the Princess could reply to those words, screams and shouts echoed down the corridor—still far away, but Baelish didn’t want to waste another minute in useless chatter. “Your Highness,” he bowed, flamboyantly waving his hand in the direction of the revealed passageway, “I shall be back soon with Pycelle. Till then, I would wish for you to ensure your safety in the Sept’s inner sanctum.”

“What do we need that old goat for?” Joffrey scoffed, crossing his thin, reedy arms and doing the best impression of Robert as he tried his best to stare him down, “Leave him behind and instead bring an actual goat. At least it would feed me.”

“Pycelle is currently writing a letter to be sent to your Grandfather my sweet,” Cersei interrupted as she nodded towards the passageways, and four guards instantly walked inside, hedging through the small entrance carefully while lowering their spears, “He is a valuable servant, and his knowledge of medicines as well as Ravens is important for us. Right now at least.”

“Fucking Slynt, losing to Pirates and Flea Bottom insects of all things,” Trant scoffed quietly, but in the silence of the dark corridor, he may have shouted for all to hear.

“Half the Gold Cloaks were drunk out of their minds in the taverns and inns on the free rum and whiskey,” he drawled, stepping back a respectful distance as the Queen entered the passageway, her hands on the Crown Prince shoulders while her other two children tottered after her, the rear being brought by the remaining soldiers and Ser Moore, “and the other half was taken by surprise as well as the explosions from what I heard. Greyjoy played this smart.”

“It's stupidity is what it is,” Trant snorted back, “Just how does he expect to hold this city? Pycelle has already sent ravens to the Crownland Houses. He barely has a thousand men. At max.”

“Greyjoy is as mad as one can be, perhaps more,” he shook his head, “Most probably, he just wanted to create chaos and loot the treasury. That's all an Ironborn can think of. That is all he has done in the southern and eastern waters ever since his exi-what the…”

Baelish stopped, his eyes focusing on Trant’s face, more specifically on the side that was towards the windows that faced the city. A slight emerald glow reflected on his rough skin and scratchy beard, as well as on his pauldrons, despite the dim torchlight around them. There were no green curtains on the windows, and there was no Sun to cast light in such a manner. The only thing that could do this in the night wa-Baelish turned his head so fast that his neck made a nasty cracking sound, but that sting of pain was forgotten instantly as he saw the massive, towering plume of emerald fire reaching up into the night sky. Green fire rained down upon the city around as his mouth dropped open, and a moment later he was hit with the sound of the screams and shouts renewed along with the explosion itself, as wildfire ran rampant through the Flea Bottom.

“No fucking way,” Trant whispered, taking a step forwards to join him at the window, and before he could reply, another equally massive fireball erupted into the sky, this time coming from the Market Square, “Greyjoy brought wilfire?!”

“No…this is not Greyjoy,” he shook his head, taking a stumbling step back as his mind, one that had plotted adn schemed for years, one that was amongst the best in Westeros if not the best, started running at a pace that would have made an Archmaester jealous, “Wildfire is too volatile for that, he would have never have made it to the city from Essos…this is Aerys!”

“The Mad King?!” Trant shouted, and for the first time since he had known the stout, vain Kingsguard, Baelish heard naked fear in teh man’s voice, “Why would h-”

“To deny anyone his city,” he whispered, remembering the tales of the Last Targaryen King, turning around and quickly walking inside the passageway, “I need to get out of here. There is no way he didn’t keep wildfire beanth the Red Keep.”

“Fucking hell,” Trant swore, “Move faster Littelfinger!”

“What do you think I am doing?” he snarled back, hobbling along the darkness as he grabbed a torch from the wall. “You just be ready to kill any pirates or smallfolk; leave the thinking to me!”

“Yeah well you what I think, you are moving too damn slow for me!”

“Ju-” A gauntleted fist struck him in the back of his head, and Baelish instantly crumbled, striking his forehead against the wall before he fell on his face. As blackness enroached on his vision, he screamed at the feeling of Trant’s sabaton-clad foot crunching down on his ankle and back, his bones snapping underneath the pressure. A moment later, the sound of feet beating against stone came from ahead of him as Trant started to run, taking away the fallen torch with him and leaving him in the darkness of the tunnel. He opened his mouth to shout after the knight, but all he could manage was an agonised groan as he felt the bones in his ankle shift and grind against each other, throbbing with a pain that reminded him of that arrogant, stupid Northman. Coughing and gasping, Baelish slowly pushed himself up and leaned against the wall, his tear-filled eyes staring at the orange glow moving farther and farther away, the sound of Trant running echoing in the silence and dimming by the moment.

“Curse you, Trant,” he rasped past the choking throat and tears, looking down at his broken ankle with an anger that turned in his chest, clawing at his whole body, “CURSE YOU!”

For seconds or minutes, he just sat there feeling the throb in his leg as he swam between wakefulness and sleep, waiting for Pycelle to come by. In those moments, Baelish took comfort in only one fact, that he had at least ensured that accursed Stark's and his son’s deaths. Now he just has to mo-

The Keep shuddered beneath him, and suddenly, Petyr was back in reality. His eyes snapped open, adrenaline flowing through his body as he looked towards the entrance a scant few metres away from him, the sound of Pirates and commoners alike looting the Keep still coming through. “Fuck you Trant,” he reiterated, turning left and slowly crawling forward, another quake running through the Keep and loosening the dust around him, “Pycelle! Where the fuck are you?!”

Dragging himself forward on the dusty, uneven floor, Petyr spat to the side, tasting copper on his tongue as his leg pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Sweat fell into his eyes continuously, and his shirt and tunic were quickly becoming soaked to the bone when another tremor—much greater than the previous ones—shook the whole castle around him. 

Baelish turned his head towards the castle entrance, hastening all he could as the tremors intensified, loose stones dropping on him from the ceiling of the tunnel. Barely a few moments later, he felt the heat behind him, and a scream tore out of his throat as emerald fire blasted throughout the corridor and into the tunnel. Eyebrows burnt and the smell of sulphur heavy in his throat, Baelish stopped as the wildfire died down just a couple of meters away from him, liquid droplets of poisonous green burning upon the walls and floor.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped, smiling widely as he breathed in deepl-

The stone walls around him cracked and splintered, and Petyr’s eyes widened, flicking around in the emerald glow cast by the wildfire. He moved backwards, ohshing upon his ruined leg as the stone cracked further, tiny flakes dropping around him as the Keep shuddered yet agai-

A heavy stone dropped on his hand, and before he could so much as blink, another fell on his back. The next second, the tunnel simply collapsed around him, burying him and his dying screams, and all of his ambitions in one eyeblink.

—-----------------------------------------------------

Pycelle stood -------------------------------------------------------------------

King’s Landing.

The Capital of Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms.

The city created by the Conqueror and his sister wives upon the Blackwater Rush’s coast after their victory over the armies that had opposed them. For three centuries, it had stood as the single constant reminder of what had joined Westeros into a single Kingdom. The Dragons had died off, the Targaryens had been killed or driven off, and even magic was almost a thing of the past in this land. But yet, King’s landing stood. Reminding everyone that independent thrones were a thing of the past.

Well, his brother and their ancestors had their delusional episodes every now and then, but Euron didn’t care one bit about them or the “Salt Throne”. His motivations, his desires were much bigger than Balon’s, and his feeble obsession with the Iron Islands could ever dream of. His older brother might fashion himself a King all he wanted, but Euron knew that he was but a petty, stupid pirate.

What he wanted was much grander, more beautiful than anything these Kings and Lords could think of. While they squabbled over a piece of Iron and trinkets of gold, he had been travelling the world in search of the true power. From the Shadowlands of Asshai to the Ruins of Valyria to the pieces of shit living in the Temple of Undying, everything was built upon magic and its endless power. 

And Euron was going to master that power. Everything that had made those empires great was going to be in his hands, from the Dragons of Valyria to the Shadowbinding of Asshai. From the fire bending of the Red God to the creatures of the Shadowlands, he was going to make everything his and conquer the world. 

Starting with his foolish older brother and cocky little shits.

Or maybe just burn it down, he reflected quietly, standing on the deck of the Silence as he quietly left the harbor, his hand rubbing up and down the large draconic skull by his side, Euron looked at the city to his left, licking his blue lips as he saw another emerald explosion light up the burning city, viridian fire as chaotic and dangerous as him flying into the air and then dropping down on like falling stars.

He had to thank the warlocks of Qarth for this gift—hard to do given he had killed quite a lot of them once he had learned all he could. If not for their future-seeing draught, he never would have learned about the barrels of wildfire sitting quietly underneath the city.

Waiting for him to come along.

He had to thank Aerys Targaryen once he became the God-King of Planetos. And for that, he needed Dragons, Euron mused with a glance at the dragon skull by h-ah, there went the Sept of Baelor. Sad he couldn't get a front seat to that view. But still, as the screams of the people inside the city drifted through his ears, along with the smell of charred flesh and wood and sulphur, Euron took a deep shuddering breath and sighed deeply. The emerald glow from the burning city shone in his eyes, and the Crow’s Eye turned eastwards as he gripped the spikes on the dragon’s head.

Now, now he just needed his bride.