ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Chapter 58: The Attack on King's Landing
POV: Gendry Baratheon (304 AC)
In the royal suite of King's Landing, standing before the large gold-framed mirror, I adjust the folds of my heavy wool attire with slightly trembling fingers. I cannot help but think of the turbulent and insane era we were destined to live in. We had barely emerged from such a bloody and devastating war against the overwhelming force of the Northern Empire, and just when I naively imagined we would finally have a period of peace to rebuild the South, an idiot comes from the East claiming to be the late Aegon Targaryen.
They couldn't even choose a better-crafted lie. Even claiming to be Viserys Targaryen would make more sense to the Southern lords, even if the age didn't match and the entire continent knew Daenerys's brother was already years dead.
As I sigh, staring at my own tired reflection, I feel a pair of warm, soft arms wrap around me from behind. My queen, Arya Stark, presses her body against mine. Unlike me, she is completely naked, her pale skin contrasting sharply with the darkness of my clothes. Her skillful hands slide easily down my waist, heading straight to the front of my body. With a swift movement, she unfastens my belt and loosens the cords, letting my trousers drop to my ankles.
Next, Arya wraps her fingers around my erect shaft and begins a rhythmic handjob, without diverting her deep, grey eyes from the mirror in front of us. I cannot help but feel a pang of embarrassment at the look of pure desire and submission stamped on my own face. Through the mirror, I watch the playful, mocking smirk form on my wife's lips as she speeds up her hand's motion. A few seconds later, I cannot hold back the urge and spill completely over her hand and against the mirror's glass, dirtying the crystal surface.
Arya lets out a short, delighted laugh, letting go of me and walking toward the private privy with her hips swaying shamelessly in her nudity.
— Don't even think about it, my dear husband, — she says without looking back, noticing my intention to follow her. — I am not in the mood for a long fuck right now.
I look at her in surprise, and Arya turns her face, letting out a hearty laugh:
— I'm joking, you idiot! Don't worry... after this exhausting meeting is over, I'm going to give you the pussy pounding you want so badly.
With that, she cleans herself in the warm bathwater and puts on her leather and linen clothes with the practicality of a warrior.
Minutes later, we walk toward the Small Council chamber, which, due to the circumstances of the impending war, now serves as the capital's main War Room.
I cannot help but recall that during our bloody war against the Northern Empire, the imperial armies, even though they could have come by ship to besiege King's Landing directly, made a point of marching overland from the North simply to spread destruction and death across the Riverlands. This time, however, to respond to this new threat in the South, the imperial fleet came by sea due to the rapid movement capabilities of their ships. And another who disembarked at the capital's harbor just a few hours ago was Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. She arrived extremely irritated with her family from Dorne and grumbling about something the heir of House Umber wouldn't stop laughing about at the docks—something related to a messenger and how the fellow had dared to "put it in his mouth." I remained completely oblivious to what that meant. Who put what in whose mouth? I decided not to ask.
I won't lie: stepping into that room filled with legendary figures from the North gave me a shiver and a bit of genuine fear.
Seated around the large oak table is the trio of Targaryen siblings from the North: King Aemon, Lord Aegon, and Princess Rhaenys. Among them, it is impossible to miss the gleaming crown resting atop Aemon's dark hair—the King Beyond the Wall, sovereign of the wildlings, the giants, and the Children of the Forest. Alongside them are the great leaders of the Lands Beyond the Wall, such as the massive Tormund Giantsbane and the fierce Lady Ygritte. I cannot help but stare at the wooden bow resting beside the redhead, of which legends say never missed a single shot in battle.
Also present and seated at the table are two living legends of steel, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne, whose very presence commands a solemn and almost sacred respect throughout the room. Beside them, the monumental figure of Greatjon Umber occupies a prominent place at the table—the legendary gentle giant and loyal companion of Ser Willam the Just, famous to this day in Southern songs. This time, he himself is sitting there with us, his colossal stature commanding absolute authority, accompanied by Roderick Dustin, the heir of Barrow Hall and half-brother on their mother's side to Aegon and Rhaenys.
Faced with a gathering composed of men and women who seem to have stepped right out of an era of myths, I felt slightly unprepared to lead the South. Fortunately, having Arya by my side and the firm presence of my uncle Stannis Baratheon brought me some grounding.
As I take my seat at the head of the table, I await the arrival of the remaining members. My uncle Stannis is one of the last to enter, accompanied by the Southern councilors who, obviously, did not dare be late for the meeting, knowing the Northerners had arrived long before the scheduled time. I watch my uncle sweep his stern eyes over the lords of the Far North and decide to walk in the direction of King Aemon. I understand Stannis's choice: among all the terrifying warriors in that group, Aemon is undoubtedly the most diplomatic and approachable.
I see Stannis draw near and ask a few questions in a low voice. I know exactly what my uncle wants to know. With a voice heavy with the anguish of a worried father, Stannis asks about his only daughter.
Aemon offers a calm, welcoming smile to Stannis:
— Do not worry, Lord Stannis. Emperor Arawyn may seem like a cold and distant man on the outside, but I assure you he possesses a great heart. He would never bring any harm to a young woman as innocent and gentle as Princess Shireen.
Stannis lets out a deep sigh of relief that causes his shoulders to drop for the first time in weeks. However, upon noticing my uncle's reaction, King Aemon lets a playful and slightly teasing smile grace his lips:
— But... well... perhaps in a very short time you might be able to go North to visit her.
Stannis furrows his brow, suspicious:
— And for what reason?
Aemon leans forward and says in a casual tone:
— Well... judging by the way Princess Shireen looks at my cousin Robb Stark when they are at the Neck, it won't take long at all before she becomes the Second Queen of the Neck.
I won't lie: the face my uncle Stannis made upon hearing that was completely priceless. He froze on the spot, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets and his teeth grinding silently, unsure whether to be outraged or utterly speechless.
In the meantime, the last of the Southern councilors settle into their chairs, and the war council officially begins, with Stannis still visibly in shock in his seat.
King Aemon rises from the head of the table and looks at everyone present in the room:
— Now, I ask all of you to relax and close your eyes. We are going to take a look somewhere else.
Before I or any of the Southern lords could question the meaning of that bizarre phrase, my vision goes completely black. The world around me turns stark white for a fraction of a second, and when I come to, I feel the dizzying sensation of flying high in the sky.
Beside me, floating like incorporeal ghosts, are Arya, Stannis, Aemon, and the rest of the room's members. Looking down, I see the ground of Westeros hundreds of meters below and, set up on a vast plain, a colossal military camp flying the golden banners of the Golden Company and the red three-headed dragon banners.
— Is this happening right now, or is it a vision of the past, cousin? — Aemon asks, looking down.
— It is happening at this very moment, Aemon, — a voice echoes from beside us.
I dare to look forward and see the figure of a young boy with light brown hair, grey eyes, and an expression... well, completely expressionless, really. It was a face as calm and distant as ice.
Arya lets out a shout of joy in the air:
— Bran! brother!
Without hesitation, Arya rushes forward in her astral form and hugs the boy so tightly that the youth instantly turns bright red with embarrassment, grumbling loudly:[1]
— Arya, stop that! You are embarrassing me in front of the Southern lords!
I, along with the other Southern lords, cannot help but stare at young Brandon Stark with a mixture of fascination and reverent awe. He holds the legendary title of the *Three-Eyed Raven*—a title granted only to the most powerful greenseer of each era. According to rumors spreading across the continent, it is a mystical rank virtually equivalent to that of a King. [2]This youth has lived isolated in the swamps and fortresses of the Neck for a long time, intensely training his mind to assume the role of the realm's invisible protector.
After managing to free himself from Arya's tight embrace, Bran points downward:
— This is our enemies' main camp.
In the blink of an eye, our vision plummets from the skies, and we are transported into the center of the enemy camp, walking invisible among the peacocks and soldiers of the Golden Company. Right there on the ground, we come face-to-face with the main strategic problem of this war: the cream dragon Viserion, resting near the royal tents.
Near the beast, I see the young boy with violet eyes who claims to be Aegon Targaryen, accompanied by the veteran Lord Jon Connington.
Noticing a detail at the boy's waist, I ask in a low voice:
— That hilt on his waist... it looks strangely familiar to me. What is that?
Aemon answers without breaking his gaze:
— That is Blackfyre. Our House's ancestral Valyrian steel sword... stolen and kept by the bastards for centuries.
Approaching the main tent, we hear the commanders laying out their attack plan: their strategy simply consists of marching in a straight line toward King's Landing, destroying, burning, and slaughtering any force that dares stand in their path, relying on Viserion's firepower.
Suddenly, emerging in an extremely sensual manner from inside one of the ornate tents, I see Princess Arianne Martell. At the sight of her, Princess Rhaenys beside me grinds her teeth in pure irritation. Right behind Arianne emerge the Sand Snakes and Oberyn Martell himself—or rather, a projection of the camp's memories, where Oberyn appears heatedly arguing with his daughters, trying to convince them to abandon this madness and return home, but the girls flatly refuse to leave Young Griff.
Taking advantage of the moment, I ask Rhaenys in a whisper, taking care not to irritate her further:
— Princess... for what reason does your family from Dorne seem to have accepted and embraced this farce so easily?
Rhaenys sighs, her voice dripping with contempt:
— Whether it's Arianne or my cousins, Gendry... they have always harbored deep envy toward me and the position my mother and brothers hold in the Empire. It was remarkably easy for that bastard to convince them with false promises of crowns and golden thrones.
Before I can digest her answer, I blink my eyes and feel my mind being pulled back.
In a split second, I am once again seated in the wooden chair of the Council Room in King's Landing.
Lord Aegon Targaryen breaks the room's silence, looking at the maps laid across the table:
— Now that we accurately know the enemy's plans and forces, we need to prepare. Does anyone have an effective plan?
The room falls into a heavy silence for a few moments. My queen, Arya, is the one to speak up:
— Can the two of you, Aegon and Aemon... defeat that dragon in a direct confrontation?
Aegon crosses his arms and ponders:
— Yes... we could likely bring Viserion down. However, the injuries and casualties a direct fight against a dragon would cause here in the capital simply wouldn't be worth it. Besides, Emperor Arawyn should arrive in the South before an unnecessary battle takes place. — Aegon turns his face to his brother: — Can your sword cut through a dragon's scales, Aemon?
Aemon rests his hand on the hilt of the legendary flaming sword sheathed at his waist:
— According to Arawyn himself... *Lightbringer* is capable of cutting through absolutely any matter in this world.
At that moment, I feel a strange discomfort creep up my spine. I glance out of the corner of my eye toward the edge of the room and see Melisandre, the red woman accompanying my uncle Stannis, staring at King Aemon with a hungry, predatory gaze that gives me goosebumps.
Princess Rhaenys steps in, pointing at the map:
— With my water elemental magic amplified by the runic matrices Aemon can draw, couldn't we knock that dragon out of the sky if he tries to attack the walls?
Aemon shakes his head negatively:
— That is too risky a plan, Rhaenys. We would only have a single chance to hit the mark, and if we fail, the city will pay the price. Instead of attacking, I will use my sorcery to add elemental protection runic matrices directly onto the stone walls of King's Landing.
With no further objections, the war council is concluded. Our strategy is set simply and directly: defend the capital and resist the initial siege until Emperor Arawyn arrives with the main Northern force.
Upon returning to our royal quarters late in the afternoon, I find Arya already waiting for me. The canopy bed is made, and my wife awaits me upon the sheets. She wears only extremely provocative black silk lingerie, designed with a strategic opening in the fabric made exclusively to expose her intimate slit.
As soon as I approach, Arya pulls me by my tunic, pushing me onto the bed. She quickly climbs atop my body and adjusts her position, guiding my member inside herself and beginning to ride with an overwhelming intensity.
Arya has always been a deeply dominant and fierce woman during sex. She possesses a technique and rhythm so precise that I honestly do not have the slightest courage to ask where or with whom she learned it.
At a certain moment, noticing that my mind was wandering toward the troubles of the war, Arya lands a crisp, light slap across my face, pulling my chin firmly:
— Focus on me, damn it! Think only about my pussy!
I press my hands onto my wife's soft waist, marveled by the strength and beauty of those moving hips, and match her thrusts until we both reach a deafening climax that leaves us gasping over the sheets.
The next day, knowing the enemy troops are still about three days away from the capital, I decide to head down to the castle yard to train and keep my muscles warm.
As I adjust my grip on my heavy steel warhammer, I see King Aemon approaching the yard. He is accompanied by Lady Ygritte and the priestess Melisandre. If Arya is right in the jokes she makes in our quarters, Aemon has likely already slept with both redheads—after all, according to my wife, the King Beyond the Wall has an admitted, uncontrollable fetish for red-haired women.
I greet the King with a respectful nod and invite him to a spar in the yard.
Much is said across the continent about Aemon's surreal mastery with a sword. After all, the young man was trained and openly praised by none other than Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne—two living legends of steel.
A small crowd of guards and Southern lords quickly forms around the yard to watch the duel. I can understand their fascination: after all, our fathers—Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen—dueled to the death at the Trident using the exact same weapons we hold now.
We begin the bout. I charge with all the strength in my arms, making the warhammer cleave through the air in devastating strikes. However, to my misfortune and frustration, no matter how fast or heavy my attack is, the man in front of me always finds a graceful way to dodge, parry with his blade, and counterattack, forcing me to retreat and defend desperately.
After several minutes of an intense exchange of blows that makes metal ring across the yard, Aemon finds a miniscule opening in my defensive posture—an imperceptible flaw I didn't even know existed and that likely no ordinary warrior would ever have spotted. With a swift movement of his foot and a strike of his pommel against my hand, Aemon disarms me and knocks me down onto my seat in the yard's dust.
The King sheathes his sword, extends an open hand to me, and pulls me up with ease:
— You truly are the son of the Demon of the Trident, Gendry... It has been a long time since I encountered someone so incredibly good with a warhammer.
Approaching the yard with an approving, dignified look, Ser Barristan Selmy—who serves King Aemon alongside Ser Arthur Dayne—nods respectfully:
— Indeed, my King. Not even your father possessed such mastery and precision with a hammer as this lad demonstrates. And to think his father was Robert Baratheon in the flesh.
Over the next few hours, I decide to test my skills against the other Northern champions. However, I fail to secure a single victory against the imperial knights. I was defeated by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan in a matter of a few moves—the mastery of those two old legendary knights is genuinely on a superhuman level. My other notable defeat was against Princess Rhaenys, who used impressive agility to disarm me. Still, according to the sincere praise of the Northern warriors, my combat skill for someone without a single runic matrix carved into his body was simply sublime.
Three days pass in the blink of an eye. The time for training, conversations, and praise in the yard comes to an end when the damned golden banner of the Golden Company finally appears on the horizon line.
The combined forces of the South and Dorne advance in a massive formation toward the gates of King's Landing. They do not plan a long or traditional siege; their intention is to launch a direct, overwhelming, and destructive assault to wipe out the capital's defenses in a matter of hours.
Positioned atop the city walls alongside the Northern heroes, I watch King Aemon step forward and extend his hands toward the wall's stonework. With a magical whisper, he activates the runic matrices carved into the masonry.
At that very moment, swooping down from the skies at a terrifying speed, comes the cream dragon Viserion. Mounted on the beast's back, Young Griff roars the command in High Valyrian:
— Dracarys!
Viserion dives in a focused strafe, preparing to spew a devastating column of fire directly onto the wall to incinerate the defenders.
However, the second the dragon nears the structure, the runes carved by Aemon glow an incandescent blue. In an incredible display of mystical power, the waters of Blackwater Bay surge vertically up the city walls, projecting high into the sky and creating a colossal, semi-circular water barrier that envelopes and shields all of King's Landing.
Viserion, at maximum diving speed, collides head-on against the dense barrier of pressurized water. The force of the impact is thunderous. The cream beast is violently thrown backward, losing wing elevation and tumbling disoriented through the air. From the limp body swaying atop the dragon's back, I realize the rider was instantly knocked unconscious by the force of the collision.
Viserion regains his balance a few meters above the ground and, letting out a painful, confused yelp, beats his wings and flies off in a frenzy, carrying his unconscious rider away on his back.
I stare at the scene in utter shock and ask Aemon:
— Did... did he die from the impact?
Aemon watches the creature recede into the horizon and shakes his head:
— Unfortunately not, Gendry. He only fainted from the shockwave. However, we should be completely free of the dragon's threat for a few days.
I step closer to the edge of the wall and hesitantly touch the mystical water barrier rising over the city like a translucent dome:
— How long will this water protection last?
Aemon answers calmly:
— Theoretically, the barrier can remain stable for a full week. If the dragon returns and keeps attacking the structure continuously, it will last about four days. But I highly doubt he will have the courage to try that again anytime soon. Besides, Emperor Arawyn will arrive at the capital in two days, so the barrier's duration won't make the slightest difference in the end.
With a respectful nod, the King Beyond the Wall turns his back and departs from the wall, accompanied by his men.
I remain standing upon the stone wall, gazing out at the dome of water and the paralyzed enemy army down below. I cannot help but ponder in silence how something so absurdly terrifying and complex as dealing with a dragon attack—a nightmare that would be absolutely impossible for us, Southern lords, to solve without a miraculous stroke of luck—became such a simple, easily managed issue for the North.
Aye... times have definitely changed.
I turn my gaze back to my wife, Arya Stark, walking side by side with her cousin Aemon toward the fortress staircases, and keep my deepest thoughts hidden in the secrecy of my own mind.
[1] Tried to farm aura but failed miserably.
[2] I wonder who spread that rumor? 🤔🤔 I imagine it must be someone whose name starts with C and ends with ercei.