ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Chapter 59: The Emperor in the Field
POV: Arawyn Stark (304 AC)
Walking down the dark oak plank of the imperial ship, I descend with rhythmic steps and set foot once again on the stone docks of this cursed city. I let out a deep sigh and whisper, in a tone audible only to myself, my most sincere feeling for this place:
— How I hate this shitty city that smells like shit...
Beside me, the one who makes a point of leaving her disgust openly clear is Ros, who has come to the Southern capital for the first time. She turns up her nose with a visible grimace of repulsion, delicately covering her mouth as she stares at the filthy alleys and the pestilential breeze blowing from Blackwater Bay:
— How can anyone live in a place this foul-smelling, by the gods?
I merely let out a short, amused laugh at her comment. As I advance along the dock, the Northern honor guard and the present lords immediately kneel before my figure. Even my cousin Arya, who holds the position of Queen of King's Landing, bends her knee in solemn respect to the Emperor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Arya's action and the mass kneeling of the Northerners make many of the surrounding Southern lords bristle and grind their teeth, deeply unsettled by the crystal-clear demonstration of who truly rules this continent.
With a slight wave of my hand, I say serenely to everyone:
— Rise.
I walk past the ranks of soldiers and stop directly in front of the young King of the South. I look at the lad with a calm gaze and speak:
— Hello again, lad. How have you been?
Gendry adjusts the belt of his tunic and sighs, visibly worn out:
— Not very well, unfortunately... since my peace was interrupted by this idiocy from the East.
I give his shoulder a light pat to reassure him:
— Don't worry. We will resolve this very, very soon.
After formally receiving the rights of a guest and the greetings of the Southern court, I mount the back of Winter. My giant ice direwolf—whose size far surpasses that of any ordinary warhorse, being, in fact, considerably larger—lets out a low growl that makes the horses of the Southern guard rear in sheer terror. With an imposing stride, we advance through the stone streets toward the Red Keep.
Once within the grounds of the Red Keep, Arya accompanies Ros and me toward the Godswood. Even before we set foot beneath the canopy of ancient trees, Winter raises his head and lets out a thunderous howl that echoes throughout the entire castle. The call is answered instantly by Nymeria's sharp howl, but I know through my mystical connections that Ghost is also present there.
Ros walks beside me, chatting her usual nonsense to pass the time. As we enter the grove's clearing, I see the three giant wolves playing and chasing one another as if they were helpless little puppies—completely ignoring the fact that each one there has the height and weight of a combat horse, with Winter being even larger than the other two.
I decide to remain a little longer in the grove, enjoying the serene atmosphere alongside Ros. Before Arya steps away to return to her royal duties, I fix my gaze on her and ask:
— Are the directives being fulfilled, Arya?
Arya stops her tracks, turns to me with flawless posture, her grey eyes fixed on mine, and answers with absolute devotion:
— The glory of the Empire shall prevail, Emperor.
And, with only that, she turns her back and leaves the Godswood.
I search for Ros with my eyes and see that she is, in some unusual way, teasing and "fighting" with the three giant wolves, who give playful little nips at her skirts. I let out a low laugh and comment:
— I didn't know you had that bitch's soul in you, my dear...[1]
Ros turns her head quickly, flashing me a sharp look and a cheeky smile:
— Don't make me say who the real bitch here was, Arawyn dear...
I give a side smile:
— Come, leave them be for a moment. The enemy's messenger will arrive soon.
Ros stops what she is doing. In a second, her eyes turn completely white with the use of her Green Sight, scanning the flow of time and the lines of destiny in the capital. After blinking and letting the natural color return to her irises, she remarks:
— This guy is quite full of himself, isn't he?
As we walk slowly toward the inner corridors of the fortress, I reply calmly:
— Yes... a bit of an idiot, truth be told. But I don't blame him entirely, nor the other lords of the South. To their limited minds, dragons are invincible creatures that can only be defeated by other dragons.
Ros tilts her head, curious:
— Even with Meraxes having been defeated in the past by a scorpion bolt in Dorne?
— Yes, — I explain. — But that was a monumental stroke of luck that had never happened before and will not happen again in a conventional manner.
Upon arriving before the imposing doors of the throne room, I stop in the corridor and look to the side. The capital's royal herald stands paralyzed, staring at me with a mixture of dread and fascination. I look at the fellow and say:
— Now is the time when you announce me.
The man swallows hard, recomposes his posture by adjusting his tunic, and shouts for everyone inside the hall to hear:
— Presenting Emperor Arawyn of House Stark... the Emperor of Winter!
I enter the throne room and sweep my eyes over the assembly. It is the typical gathering of fools one expects to find in a Southern court: vain lords, useless whispers, and cheap intrigues. One of the main reasons for crowning Robb as King of the lands above the Neck was precisely to prevent this kind of mediocre theater from happening in our lands; to the North go only the truly important and vital matters. For the rest of the administrative trivialities, I have Margaery, who loves playing that political role, leaving me completely free to focus on what I truly enjoy and master. Of course, all the decisions she makes and everything that happens in the Empire's politics already pass through my prior knowledge, including their future consequences.
Reaching the foot of the Iron Throne—which remains completely frozen beneath a layer of eternal ice, exactly as I left it during the Empire War—I raise my hand. Sorcery responds to my command, and I create a throne of clear, shimmering ice directly in front of the structure. I sit down imposingly, observing young King Gendry watching me with respect.
I say quietly:
— In a few moments, someone from the enemy will arrive.
After a few minutes of waiting in silence, the messenger finally enters the hall. To Rhaenys's misfortune and relief, it was not the same miserable fellow who had been sent to Dorne and ended up soiling his trousers at the harbor.
All the guests and leaders of the North are already settled in the hall. I observe the lad who enters: he does not belong to the Golden Company, but rather to Westeros. He is a noble from some minor Southern house who decided to join Faegon's rebellion. And yes, there were still idiots of that caliber to support a lost cause. Fortunately for the intelligence statistics of the South, they were only irrelevant, minor nobles. Aside from Dorne—where only the Daynes and their direct vassals remained neutral, resulting in a small internal civil war between Darkstar and young Edric Dayne—the rest of the South preferred prudence. Since I know Edric will win that conflict in Dorne without major problems, I will do nothing to intervene; otherwise, I would have to send Arthur or Ashara down there to resolve it.
The lad standing before me obviously preferred to be anywhere else in the world than there. Standing before my ice throne, he gathers whatever courage he has left, unrolls a parchment with trembling hands, and begins to read:
"The true King of Westeros, Aegon VI Targaryen, orders you to lay down your arms and surrender immediately! Otherwise, you will receive fire and blood!"
The youth falls silent abruptly after the quick reading. I stare at him for a few seconds and ask:
— And what else, boy? Out with the rest of it.
The lad, utterly terrified by the pressure of my aura, stammers as he answers:
— The... the King calls you to a meeting of leaders in a neutral area outside the walls!
I give a cold smile:
— Very well. Tell him, when he finally wakes from his limp faint... and tell Jon Connington and Harry Strickland as well, who were the real bastards that sent this stupid message, that we will meet tomorrow. Since today the boy is still knocked out from the impact against the barrier. Now, go.
The lad makes an awkward bow and practically runs out of the throne room.
As soon as he leaves, Gendry approaches me and warns:
— That is a trap, Emperor Arawyn...
— Yes and no, — I reply, resting my head against my ice throne. — The idiot just wants to try to intimidate us with the presence of his dragon. But depending on the tone of tomorrow's meeting, he might decide to simply attack us right then and there. And before you ask or worry, lad... with me present here, this battle was already over before it even began.
At night, in the dense and mystical silence of the Godswood, I am performing my nightly exercise.
With her young, flexible body pressed against the rough trunk of the ancestral weirwood, Arya has my right hand clamped onto her chin. I force her head up, compelling her to look directly into my eyes while bending her like a letter C beneath the weight of my body. With one last, deep thrust, I release all my warm seed inside her, filling her completely.
I withdraw from within her and walk calmly to the ice throne I created in the clearing. Ros is already there, sitting naked on one of the structure's arms, resting lazily, since I had done the exact same with her moments before.
Arya comes to meet me with visibly trembling legs. She stops before me and kneels on the cold grass.
— So, how is it going? — I ask, running my hand through her dark hair.
She raises her face, her breathing still ragged:
— It is going perfectly, Emperor. Last night Gendry fucked me well... and I am pregnant with his child.
— Very well, — I say in a calculating, authoritative tone. — With the birth of Gendry's child, our plan for the South will finally begin.
Arya merely nods her head in absolute agreement. Without saying another word, she approaches my groin and begins working on my shaft with her mouth. Ros rises from the arm of the throne with a mischievous smile and joins her in the task.
I have absolutely nothing against young Gendry Baratheon. He is a good lad, useful and loyal in his own way. But this plan must be executed without flaw.
Looking at Arya kneeling there, I cannot help but recall how all of this began.
During the Empire War, while I controlled from a distance an avatar made entirely of water magic in the South to destroy the enemy forces, my true body remained comfortably seated on my throne in imperial lands. While my avatar advanced and slaughtered the defenders of Riverrun fortress, the real Arya was lying on her knees before me, keeping her mouth on my member. I remember perfectly narrating in detail to her, as she bounced on my lap riding shamelessly, how I was killing Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn. And when I narrated the exact moment I executed Catelyn Stark—the woman who had arrested her father Ned—telling her how I ripped that bitch's heart out with my own hands, the girl had an orgasm so overwhelming and violent that she fainted right there, impaled on my dick.
The things that followed were surprisingly simple. Especially when I said, through my water avatar in the South, that I would ask Arya if she still wished to go forward with the marriage to Gendry. At that very moment, as she bounced on my groin, she answered me breathlessly that yes, she would accept the union because she was "in love" with Gendry.
This is all truly fascinating. I think about it now, in the present, watching those two beautiful women competing for my pleasure. The male children of my uncle Ned were extremely easy figures to handle and control. Robb is loyal, Bran is the Raven, and Rickon is just a wild boy. The oddest of them all in the South ends up being Tommen, and that solely because the boy has a bizarre fascination with insects. As for Ned's daughters... well, they are as deeply disturbed as their own mother Cercei was. Sansa being the least crazy of them—and well, we all know perfectly well how Sansa is.
Back to the master plan: it is nothing overly complex. It is something simple and brilliant. This heir of Gendry's that Arya now carries in her womb will be raised under Stark influence and as a true Northerner in the future. He will serve to ensure that the South becomes formally a vassal kingdom of the Empire or merely an official "ally"—which, in the practice of our power, means only that vassalage does not need to be declared openly to the people. But no matter the nomenclature: the South will never again be a problem for the Northern Empire after the conclusion of this war.
I reach my climax once more. This time, as both Arya and Ros want my seed and begin competing for the space, I finish by spurting everything directly onto the faces of both.
Arya wipes the corner of her lips with the back of her hand, stands up, and gives a crooked smile:
— What would my hubby think if he saw me come into the room like this?
I have already learned how to deal with the quirks and perversions of the daughters of the North—simply don't pay it mind. I answer dryly:
— Do whatever you want.
She insists, curious:
— What would happen if he found out, Arawyn?
I quickly use my Green Sight to calculate the threads of that "what if" in destiny. I look at her and say:
— There would be a nasty fight. In the end, you would end up physically dominating Gendry and imposing your will, but he would not take the situation well. He would try to find out who you slept with, discover it was me, and that would lead him to completely reject the child in the future.
Arya lets out a little laugh, wiping her face with her sleeve:
— Yeah... so it's not worth the risk right now.
I use my elemental sorcery to instantly purify and clean both of their skin. I stare at Arya and command:
— It really isn't worth it. Now go back to your husband and be a faithful wife.
She makes a mocking bow and replies:
— That I have always been, Emperor.
The next day, upon meeting with the retinue at dawn, I notice that the young King of the South has a terrible sleep-deprived face and deep dark circles under his eyes. No wonder: his queen arrived at their quarters the previous night carrying an insatiable lust, which made the poor lad lose almost his entire night of sleep in bed.
Departing through the south gate of King's Landing, we advance in formation to the location set for the neutral meeting—a large, flat, open field located a short distance from the stone walls.
With the exception of myself, all the leaders and knights of the retinue are fully clad in their heavy armor and gleaming helmets. It is an impressive array of legendary figures gathered in one place: myself, mounted on the colossal back of Winter; the three Targaryen siblings of the North—King Aemon, Lord Aegon, and Princess Rhaenys—; the royal Southern couple, Gendry and Arya; the legends of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Oswell Whent; as well as our direwolves escorting us.
On the other side of the field, we see the men of the Golden Company approaching on horseback in a pompous formation. And right behind them, tearing through the air, comes Young Griff mounted on the back of the dragon Viserion. The cream beast lands heavily on the ground and advances, walking with slow steps.
Well, at least the boy wasn't foolish enough to climb down from the beast's back.
Breaking the heavy silence that settled over the open field, I take the floor first, facing the lad up there:
— So, boy... what foolishness did you have to say?
Young Griff does not answer me directly. He sweeps his violet eyes across the retinue and fixes his gaze on Rhaenys and Aemon, recognizing their features:
— My sister... and my father's bastard. You two should be kneeling before your true King!
Aemon gives a short, cold laugh:
— King of what are you, boy? You are king of absolutely nothing.
Jon Connington, riding alongside the dragon, adjusts his horse's reins and stares at Aemon with wide eyes:
— I see Rhaegar's face in you, boy... Even with your Stark colors, can you not see the similarity between yourself and Aegon here?
Aemon replies with serenity:
— Yes, I see the similarity.
Jon Connington opens a victorious smile and turns to his commanders:
— See, nobles of Westeros? Even Rhaegar's own son recognizes the truth and stands on our side!
Aemon interrupts him coldly:
— I am talking about Aegon... not the bastard trying to pass himself off as him.
Young Griff on Viserion's back puffs out his chest in pure rage:
— Respect me, brother! Or you will know fire and blood!
Aemon rests his hand calmly on the hilt of his sword:
— I already know true fire, lad.
The man mounted on the dragon turns his face to Aegon Targaryen and scoffs:
— And you must be the bastard who was raised in the North as if he were someone... So why don't you take off that helmet? Are you ashamed of your commoner face?
Aegon doesn't say a word. He merely raises his armored hands and removes the steel helmet, revealing his face to the sunlight.
Jon Connington nearly falls off his horse as he stares at Aegon's face. The old lorde turns drastically pale and whispers, in absolute shock:
— Rhaegar...? Is that you...? But... you were dead...
The Lord of the Gift stares at the old man with a firm, grave look:
— I am not my father Rhaegar, Lord Connington. I am Aegon Targaryen... the one and true!
Aemon tilts his head and concludes with irony:
— Well... with that, we see that everyone here already has the definitive answer as to who the real one is.
— LIES! — screams Young Griff on the dragon's back, snapping Jon Connington out of his trance.
I watch the scene closely. I see resolution and bitter acceptance pass through Jon Connington's mind. He realized the unquestionable truth before his eyes. However, at the end of the day, he raised that boy as if he were his own son from childhood. And he chooses to stand by the boy, even knowing now that he is defending a farce.
Jon Connington hardens his expression and shouts:
— Yes! The truth has finally come to light! Now, we will give you one full day to surrender unconditionally. I promise we will give you a swift death... If you do not accept, my son will destroy that water barrier and burn every last one of you alive!
The old man reaches for his horse's saddle, grabs a thick cloth sack tied to the leather straps, and hurls it in our direction:
— Here is an example of what happens to anyone who decides to stand against us!
The sack hits the ground and unties itself. From inside it, the severed head of Renly Baratheon rolls across the grass.
Gendry takes a step forward on his horse, seized by a surge of pure rage:
— YOU BASTARDS!
Jon Connington spits on the ground with contempt:
— That damned sword-swallower won't soil the world with his profane presence any longer! But at least his death served to let you know exactly what your fate will be!
I sweep my eyes over Connington and let out a low laugh, staring at the old lorde:
— You... of all people on this continent, really want to talk about swallowing swords, Jon?
Connington freezes in place, his face turning bright red with anger and embarrassment as he catches the direct allusion to the repressed feelings he had always harbored for Rhaegar Targaryen in the past.
Without bothering to wait for an answer from that washed-up old man, I use my wind elemental magic. With a light gesture of my fingers, I make Renly's head rise gently from the ground, return inside the cloth sack, and fly straight into my hands.
I look at the young King of the South and say with sincerity:
— Renly was a good man. He was kind, intelligent, and had his flaws, yes... as every good man also has, after all we are not saints.
I turn back to the forces of the Golden Company. In ancient times, I would have merely thrashed these bastards and sent them back to Essos with kicks to their rears. But not today. This time, their insolence crossed every line.
With a single mystical thought, I summon my Dread Imperial Armor. The dark, runic metal covers my entire body in a fraction of a second, causing my heavy anti-magic warhammer to emerge in my hand.
The aura emanating from the armor and the weapon is so terribly overwhelming and profane that the dragon Viserion takes several steps back on the ground, letting out an alarmed yelp and flapping his wings in sheer mystical terror of that presence.
With my voice echoing deep, heavy, and profoundly distorted by the armor's runic metal, I raise the warhammer, point the weapon directly at Young Griff, and declare:
— Enjoy your last days of life, boy... for I will personally come after you.
Without giving them the privilege of another single word, I turn Winter around and begin riding back toward the city gates. As I pass Gendry, I hand over the sack with his uncle's head and say:
— My condolences for your loss, lad... But don't worry: you will have your vengeance. I will make sure you personally hear the screams of agony from this young griff.
And so, I return to the top of the walls of King's Landing, waiting patiently for the dawning of tomorrow to unleash our vengeance.
[1] This joke doesn't work in English. You see, *cadela* means a female dog, but it can also be used to call a woman a bitch. He plays on this double meaning, so I explained it since it got lost in translation.