ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Hey everyone, sorry for not posting a chapter on Thursday as promised. There's no real excuse—I just ran out of creative steam after writing the chapter for the other story 😅😅😅. But here is a brand-new one. I'll probably stick with this style moving forward—featuring more than one POV per chapter—so see you in the next one. In the next chapter, we'll see more of the other side's perspective following this defeat.
Chapter 64: The Valyrian Steel Blade
POV: Daenerys Targaryen (305 AC)
Following the flight of two colossal beasts through the grey skies of the Narrow Sea was an experience I never thought possible. Mounted on Drogon's warm, scaly back, I watched Rhaegal flying to my left, his green scales gleaming like emeralds under the pale sunlight. However, it was the figure to my right that stole all my attention and filled my head with incessant questions.
The giant red dragon tore through the clouds with a majestic ferocity. He was a leviathan of scarlet scales and night-black horns, and his mere presence in the air made the wind howl in submission.
Where the fuck did he get that dragon? That was the question echoing in my mind, over and over again. I had hatched my three children in the funeral pyres of Essos, a miracle of blood and fire. And suddenly, my Northern nephew disappears for a few days onto a rocky island and returns mounted on an ancestral monster that makes Drogon look young.
Beyond the dragon, there was the rider himself. Shiera Seastar had warned me once during our conversations on the ship: Aemon Targaryen—the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark—was not the honorable, gentle, and naive prince that Southern romantic songs painted him to be. Molded by the harshness of the North and trained personally by Emperor Arawyn, Aemon possessed a cold petulance, an unwavering self-confidence, and a cutting sarcasm that made him incredibly irritating... and, in a way, magnetically fascinating.
Behind me, sitting comfortably in Drogon's saddle, Rhaenys interrupted my thoughts with a light laugh.
— Your brother is a pain in the ass, you know? — I commented, raising my voice to overcome the sound of the wind beating against Drogon's wings.
Rhaenys leaned forward, resting her chin on my shoulder, and let out a genuine laugh.
— Oh, Aunt Daenerys... You haven't seen absolutely anything yet! — she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. — Just wait until he shows you the stupid sword Arawyn forged and gave to him. By the Gods, Aemon can spend an entire day talking non-stop about how mystical, sharp, and prophetic that blade is.
I rolled my eyes, imagining the scene.
— And there's one more golden rule, — Rhaenys added, her tone taking on a theatrical urgency. — Under no circumstances... Never, ever, ask about his castle.
I turned my face slightly, frowning in confusion. Shiera had taught me about the political structure of the Northern Empire. I knew there were two vassal kings directly subordinate to Emperor Arawyn: Robb Stark, the King of the Neck, and Aemon Targaryen, crowned as the King Beyond-the-Wall.
— Why not? — I asked, curious. — Is his castle ugly or made of frozen mud?
Rhaenys let out a crystalline laugh that was lost to the winds.
— No, aunt, quite the opposite! — she replied. — It's far too beautiful. The castle is called Dawn's Keep. It's built high atop the most unforgiving peaks of the Frostfangs, constructed entirely of magical white stone and perennial ice crystals, in honor of the eternal vow to protect the realms of men. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful and epic fortress in all of Westeros. The problem is that if you praise it or ask about it, Aemon's ego inflates to such a degree that he won't shut up about the place's architecture for an entire week!
I let out a sincere laugh. Right. Don't mention the stupid sword, and don't mention the epic, beautiful castle.
We began our descent toward Dragonstone. The three winged beasts dove in formation, landing with heavy thuds in a large rocky clearing on the outskirts of the fortress.
As soon as the claws of Aemon's red dragon touched the ground, I saw my Unsullied and the Northern imperial guards instinctively back away, alarmed by the size and unknown ferocity of that creature. I nimbly dismounted Drogon and walked over to the commanders, raising my hand to calm the guard and quickly explaining that the red beast was King Aemon's new companion.
While the soldiers brought our horses for the ride back to the castle, I heard an almost imperceptible rustle of snow and stone.
I turned around and jumped back, my heart pounding in my throat.
Standing beside Aemon, appearing absolutely out of nowhere, was a colossal direwolf. The creature had fur as white as virgin snow and eyes as red as spilled blood. Ghost, Aemon's spiritual partner, hadn't made a single sound.
— By all the gods! — I exclaimed, a hand over my chest. — A creature so large and deadly has no right to be so silent!
Aemon merely gave a slanted smile, climbing onto his direwolf's back with the same ease he would mount a trained horse, and led the way toward the castle gates.
When we finally entered the Chamber of the Painted Table, the atmosphere was heavy. Emperor Arawyn Stark was already waiting for us, standing with his hands resting on the map of Westeros carved into the ancient wood. He wore his dark runic armor and a glare that could freeze dragonfire.
— Did you fly here or ride on snails? — Arawyn barked as soon as we crossed the threshold, impatience dripping from every word. — Taking your sweet fucking time. Come on, settle down! I don't have all day to wait for sky-seeing tours.
I walked toward the empty chair next to Shiera Seastar and whispered softly to my mentor:
— By the gods... What's gotten into him to be so irritated?
Shiera sipped her red wine and whispered back with a smirk:
— Don't mind him. He's just terribly frustrated because the usurper boy from the South, Young Griff, managed to survive the last battle at King's Landing and fled. Arawyn hates unfinished business.
I looked around the large room. Aside from my own advisors—Missandei and Grey Worm—the vast majority of the lords present were vassals of the Northern Empire, alongside the lords of the Narrow Sea houses who had recently bent the knee. The overwhelming presence of the North was undeniable.
Arawyn rapped his knuckles on the table, commanding everyone's attention.
— Right, let's start this damn meeting and put an end to this Southern farce, — the Emperor decreed, his voice echoing with cold authority. — The strategy is simple and direct: the dragonriders will take their beasts and fly ahead of the army marching into the Stormlands. When you intercept the forces of the Golden Company and the Dornish traitors at Storm's End, you kill absolutely everyone holding a weapon and flying the black dragon banner. End of story. Done.
The room fell silent for a few moments. A grey-haired lord with Valyrian features—Lord Velaryon himself, head of his House—cleared his throat and asked apprehensively:
— Your Imperial Grace... With all due respect, is that just your strategy for a military siege? A frontal assault?
Arawyn raised his face slowly, glaring at the lord with a predatory intensity that made the man shrink back in his chair.
— Lord Velaryon... You have three fierce, fully grown dragons in the sky, the crushing power of my imperial army marching by land, plus the total reinforcements of the Reach ready to fight, — Arawyn spoke slowly, dripping venom. — If you need a miraculous, complex strategy full of cowardly tactics to defeat a bunch of incompetent mercenaries, then I'll be forced to say you are pathetic leaders. I demand annihilation, not a game of cyvasse.
I swallowed hard at the bluntness of his words. I leaned forward slightly and spoke up:
— I will not participate in this battle directly. My Unsullied army and the Dothraki will handle the blockade.
Arawyn turned his gaze to me and nodded curtly:
— Of course not. You do not need to, and should not, enter the dragon fight in the air. Just focus on the enemy army on the ground and burning their escape routes. The fake Targaryen boy is alive, and he will use Viserion as a shield.
Arawyn then turned his face to the other side of the table, glaring at my nephew Aemon.
— By the way, Aemon... What tacky, outrageous name did you give to that red leviathan?
Aemon lifted his chin, puffed out his chest with pride, and declared loudly and clearly:
— Doomfyre.
Arawyn wrinkled his nose, rolling his eyes.
— What a ridiculous, melodramatic name, — the Emperor muttered, drawing giggles from Shiera. — But it doesn't matter. Aemon, you and your Doomfyre can and will handle this. But listen closely to my orders: do not kill the dragon. Kill only the idiot riding it. Viserion is precious and will be essential in the true war coming to the North.
Aegon, sitting beside his brother, crossed his arms and pondered:
— In the middle of an aerial dogfight, there's no way to know if we'll have the exact chance to strike only the rider without mortally wounding the mount, my Emperor. The speed and the chaos...
— You will have a chance to do it in the air, — Arawyn cut him off ruthlessly, his eyes flashing. — Do not waste the opportunity.
The meeting adjourned shortly after. The orders were given, the fate of the Blackfyre rebellion sealed.
That night, I retreated to the solitude and comfort of my royal chambers. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks of Dragonstone echoed through the open window. Lying in my large canopy bed, I took a deep breath while Missandei sat on the edge to tend to me.
My loyal advisor was no longer a frightened child from Naath. She had blossomed into a grown, beautiful, and wise young woman, with soft curves and deep eyes. With delicate, patient fingers, Missandei was undoing the complex braids of my silver hair, removing one by one the small Dothraki silver bells that marked my victories.
Sitting in a comfortable velvet armchair in front of the crackling fireplace, Shiera Seastar enjoyed a glass of Dornish red wine, legs crossed in a posture of pure feline elegance.
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling Missandei's fingers massage my scalp, and asked:
— And what do you think of all this that's happening, aunt? All this war... This alliance of fire and ice...
Shiera took a small sip of her wine and sighed, her heterochromatic gaze reflecting the hearth's flames:
— I have merely accepted destiny, girl. You, more than anyone, know exactly what is coming from the Lands of Always Winter. This is no time to spill blood fighting and bargaining for that damn Iron Throne of melted swords... A throne that you know, deep in your heart, you don't even really want, do you?
I opened my eyes and stared at Shiera:
— And why wouldn't I want it? I was born to rule, that's what Viserys told me my whole life.
Shiera let out a melodious laugh, swirling the wine in her glass.
— Oh, Dany... I know you well enough to understand you better than you understand yourself. You don't crave the power of the throne; you crave the home and the family that were stolen from you. But let's not think about capital politics right now. Let's focus on winning this stupid war tomorrow, and bringing your other dragon, Viserion, back to us.
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of those words settle into me as an undeniable truth.
Shiera shifted in her chair and shot me a curious, inquisitive look:
— And what did you think of Aemon? The famous and powerful King of the North you wanted to meet so badly?
I felt my face blush slightly. I tried to keep my voice indifferent, looking away toward the ceiling:
— I wasn't "wanting so badly" to meet him. It was just curiosity. He was the only member of my family left for me to meet, that's all.
Shiera raised an eyebrow, an ironic smile playing on her immortal lips:
— You're still missing one, my dear.
I blinked and covered my face with my hands.
— Yes, apologies! I completely forgot about Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch. May the gods keep him. The old Maester must be a much better and more polite person than this arrogant Aemon.
Shiera let out a genuine laugh, setting her wine glass on the small table beside her.
— He must have made a huge impression on you, after all, you can't stop talking about him, — she teased mercilessly.
— Of course not! — I protested, feeling my cheeks burn.
Shiera only laughed harder. She got up from the armchair, walked over to the bed, and caressed my face tenderly.
— Spend more time with him, Dany. Beneath the Northern trenches, the blood runes, and that sharp petulance, you will see he is an excellent young man with a heart that burns hotter than dragonfire.
— I'll think about it, auntie, — I replied, rolling my eyes but unable to hold back a small smile.
Shiera gave me an incredibly sharp look, glowing with dangerous magic and familial affection.
— You're lucky I'm in an excellent mood today, girl. Otherwise, you'd be grounded for that impertinent tone.
I laughed, knowing perfectly well that, under certain circumstances, she would actually do it, and with pleasure.
But well... Tomorrow would bring the fire, the blood, and the fury of the skies. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, silently praying to the gods of Old Valyria that my baby Viserion would survive the coming battle.
POV: Willam Dustin (305 AC)
The army's march through the muddy roads of the South was an exercise in discipline and sheer willpower. With Emperor Arawyn establishing the mystical and martial alliance with Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and the overwhelming news that my foster son Aegon had bonded with the formidable dragon Rhaegal, followed by Aemon Targaryen taming the legendary wild leviathan, our morale had reached levels I thought unattainable in times of war.
The ranks of the imperial army sang and beat their shields. We were marching against death, and the gods were riding alongside us.
I stepped out of my command tent that morning, the damp air of the Stormlands soaking into my dark wool cloak and reinforced leather. I mentally prepared myself for another incredibly grueling day. And I don't mean because of the arduous logistical and strategic work of leading and organizing the thousands of men in the army—that's something I've been perfectly accustomed to since my youth fighting in the rebellions. What really wore me down was putting up with the cheap politics, the falsehoods, and the petty intrigues of the Southern lords during our halts.
However, unlike the other bitter generals, I had another reason to keep a constant smile on my face. A personal, deeply rooted reason in my heart.
As I walked through the camp inspecting the palisades, I heard the loud, metallic clatter of something falling.
I turned and saw a young Southern squire, barely out of childhood, who had tripped in the mud and dropped a pile of armor pieces and heavy chainmail he was carrying. The boy was rubbing his knee, his eyes wide with fear of being punished for his clumsiness.
I quickly walked over and extended my calloused hand to the boy.
— Are you alright, lad? — I asked in a calm voice, pulling him up and helping him brush the mud off his simple tunic.
The boy looked at me, recognizing the rustic features and the crossed-axes crest of House Dustin on my chest. He went pale and stammered immediately:
— Y-Yes... Yes, Ser Willam! That's... That's all, my lord!
I gave him a friendly pat on the back and helped him pick up the last piece of steel.
— Right, right. Off you go now, lad, and mind your step, — I said with a gentle smile.
The boy stood there gaping at me, as if he had just seen a myth come to life. The moment was interrupted by a booming, raspy laugh that sounded like the roar of a brown bear.
Great Jon Umber approached with long strides, his colossal war hammer slung across his back. He looked at the frightened boy and thundered, his eyes sparkling with pure amusement:
— Let everyone appreciate the glorious sight! For there stands the grand and unparalleled Ser Willam, the Just! The tireless protector of the innocent, the shield of the needy!
I let out a muffled laugh and replied in the same theatrical tone:
— Exactly! And always accompanied by his faithful, loyal squire and sidekick... The Gentle Giant!
Great Jon stopped abruptly, feigning comical outrage, his arms crossed over a chest as broad as a stable door.
— What?! Who's your sidekick, Dustin?! I am clearly the main character of that damn song! I'm the greater hero!
I gave a smug smile, adjusted the sword at my belt, and started walking, leaving him behind.
— If you say so, Jon... But the songs tell a different story, — I said, laughing.
The giant ran to catch up, grumbling loudly and swearing by the old gods that he would find the Southern bard who wrote the song and give him a good beating until the lyrics were corrected to show that he, Jon Umber, was the main attraction.
All this nostalgic, folkloric banter stemmed from one of the bloodiest, most traumatic events of our lives. During the violent Sack of King's Landing in Robert's Rebellion, many years ago, Great Jon and I smashed through the doors of Maegor's Holdfast. It was there that we faced and tore apart The Mountain That Rides and Amory Lorch, saving the lives of the sweet Princess Elia Martell and her children. Since that bloody day, the two of us had become the heroes of a song that spread like wildfire through the Southern taverns: Ser Willam the Just, and the Gentle Giant.
More important than any silly song, that event had changed my life forever. Trauma united our souls, gratitude turned into affection, and affection blossomed into an unwavering love. I married the Dornish princess, we raised Aegon and Rhaenys together with love and firmness, and we were blessed with our son Roderick Dustin, shaping our own lineage in the North under imperial blessings.
Together with Jon Umber, I organized the infantry regiments, and we marched swiftly through the dense forests of the Stormlands. We were heading for the plains before the castle of Storm's End, where we were to meet up with the eastern forces and Princess Daenerys's ships to completely cut off the escape routes of the Golden Company rebels. This Sixth Blackfyre Rebellion was about to find its grave in the mud.
As we marched, a dull, rhythmic thumping began to echo in the clouds. It was the sound of colossal beating wings—something that a few years ago would have caused unknown terror, but that we now recognized instantly as the melody of our own victory. And it wasn't just one beast.
Three dragons descended majestically from the grey clouds: the terrifying black Drogon, the agile green-and-emerald Rhaegal, and the monstrous, unparalleled red Doomfyre.
They circled our imperial troops, casting massive shadows over the direwolf banners, and landed in a wide clearing ahead of our vanguard. The sight and presence of Aemon and Aegon mounted on their own dragons stirred the army in a visceral way. Northerners and loyal Southerners shouted oaths of glory, frantically beating their swords against the wood of their shields in a deafening frenzy.
In the distance, coming from the coast, the Unsullied armies of Meereen and the Dothraki horde approached in perfect order to join our march toward the Final Battle.
During the hastily improvised war council tent, I walked up to Aegon Targaryen, the boy I raised as my own blood, and hugged him tightly.
— My son... — I said, pulling back to look into his determined eyes. — What a beautiful mount you've found in the east, hm? Do you think you could lend him to me for a few days? That way I could impress a certain princess from Dorne when I return to Barrowton.
Aegon let out a genuine, warm laugh, joined by the rest of the Northern group in the tent. Daenerys, standing a bit further back, frowned, not understanding the inside joke, likely casting a confused look at Rhaenys.
Rhaenys crossed her arms, gave a slanted smile, and openly mocked:
— Oh, father... Time and the easy life in the North have made your mind soft and romantic. If you arrived flying on a green dragon breathing fire, my mother would die of pure fright!
I laughed loudly, scratching my grey beard:
— Aye... I'm afraid you're right, daughter. She'll just have to settle for old Willam, then. And I'd say she's already quite blessed for it.
Daenerys took a few steps forward, her violet eyes shining with admiration as she absorbed the context of the conversation. She looked at me with respectful awe:
— You... You are Ser Willam Dustin. Ser Willam the Just.
I gave a slight bow.
— At your service, Your Grace.
Daenerys smiled sweetly:
— I grew up exiled in the Free Cities of Essos, but... I heard your song. I heard it sung in inns and dusty streets, long before I knew what the South and the North truly meant.
Aemon stepped closer, resting a hand on Aegon's shoulder, and said with a mocking smile to Daenerys:
— Yes, that's him, auntie. The heroic savior himself. And that loud, grumpy giant over there in the corner drinking ale is his faithful sidekick... The Gentle Giant.
From the back, choking on his ale, Great Jon bellowed at the top of his lungs:
— I AM THE MAIN ATTRACTION, YOU CROWNED LITTLE SHIT! I'M NOBODY'S SIDEKICK!
Aemon burst out laughing, while Aegon shook his head in amusement. I watched that exchange of words and the blossoming camaraderie of that young generation before me, and I felt my heart warm with genuine joy. Since my early days with Elia, it had always been an old dream to bring Daenerys and her brother safely to the North, to the company of her true family, far from the filth of King's Landing. Unfortunately, the machinations of fate never allowed me to fulfill that goal back then. But now, seeing the girl surrounded by our strength and protected by her nephews' dragons, I knew she would finally have all the time in the world to make up for and heal the scars of her exile.
War, however, waited outside the tent.
A few days later, the fateful moment that many men glorify in tales of honor, but that sensible wise men avoid at all costs, finally came knocking.
The mercenary troops of the Golden Company had gathered and subjugated the remnants of the Dornish Southern troops, forming a solid block in a desperate attempt at resistance. Even with the imposing structure of Storm's End's walls behind them, they were severely outnumbered. This time, there were no pompous negotiations under banners of truce. There was no meeting of generals in the open field. What had to be said had already been washed in blood at King's Landing.
The rebel enemy army chose to form their phalanxes and heavy infantry lines outside the castle gates. It might seem like madness to form up in an open field knowing they were marching into a slaughterhouse against fire-breathing dragons, but the strategic truth was simple: being trapped inside a closed stone wall and being roasted alive against their own ramparts was an infinitely worse fate.
The Golden Company's last spark of blind hope rested on the belief that Young Griff—the fake Aegon—would win the Battle of the Skies mounted on his Viserion.
— MEN OF THE EMPIRE! ADVANCE THE SHIELD WALL! — I bellowed forcefully, unsheathing my longsword and gripping my reinforced wood-and-iron shield.
We began the assault methodically. The slow, measured, terrifying march of our Northern phalanxes ground the enemy army's nerves to dust. Even before the initial clash, they lost the rest of their patience and discipline, breaking their defensive formation and launching a desperate charge against our unbreakable wall of shields. The impact of steel against oak echoed across the fields of Storm's End like unceasing thunder.
In the sky, the deafening roars began. The march on the ground faltered for a millisecond as everyone, on both sides of the carnage, looked up toward the clouds.
As the vanguard general, I held my post, orchestrating the infantry's defensive maneuvers. From the bloody earth, I witnessed the dragons emerge from the mist. The pale, smaller cream dragon—Viserion—was quickly cornered, outmatched, and isolated by the Empire's two colossi: Aemon's massive red and Aegon's lethal green.
The cream beast, guided by Young Griff's fury, continued to dodge the jets of fire desperately in aggressive, low-flying maneuvers, making it clear that the bastard boy didn't plan to just flee; he had a dark, suicidal plan in mind.
The battle in the firmament truly began. Columns of golden, green, and red flames exploded above, painting the grey clouds with the warm colors of death.
The dragons grappled in the air in a dance of claws, teeth, and torn scales. The cream dragon clashed head-on against Aemon's red titan in a suicidal maneuver. And then, to my absolute surprise and terror, I saw a tiny black dot detach itself from the cream dragon.
The enemy rider abandoned the straps of his own saddle, leaping into the dizzying abyss of the air toward Aemon Targaryen, wielding his sharp sword for a strike meant to decide the war on a single blade's edge!
POV: Aegon Targaryen (305 AC)
In the air, the Battle of the Dragons unfolded at a chaotic, breakneck pace.
The wind whipped my face as I kept my mind perfectly focused, intrinsically linked to Rhaegal's bestial, lethal instincts. I felt the heat radiating from the green scales beneath my legs and the battle frenzy pulsing through the magical bond we shared.
Ahead of us, Young Griff—the fake Blackfyre bastard—dodged desperately with Viserion. The boy was no master of the skies, but he was flying erratically and aggressively, with a dangerously suicidal plan drawn in his head.
I understood his play the moment he steered Viserion on an absolute collision course against the massive claws of the colossal Doomfyre, the red monster guided by Aemon.
When the two beasts crashed their bodies together in the firmament, the sound of shattering scales reverberated like a seismic boom. In the fraction of that violent contact, the rebel bastard revealed his final act. He undid the leather buckles securing him to Viserion's saddle and leapt into the air. Using the exact momentum of the impact, he launched his own body with a gleaming longsword in hand, aiming directly for Aemon's neck and jugular, emulating one of the greatest tales from the Dance of the Dragons above the legendary Gods Eye!
But Young Griff had made a monumental miscalculation. Grotesque and fatal.
He thought he was dealing with an arrogant, magicless prince like himself. He forgot, however, that Aemon Targaryen was the King of the Far North, the purest Warg, and a master of the occult arts taught by the Emperor himself. Aemon didn't need to perform pathetic acrobatics to win a duel; he could slice an enemy apart merely by directing his ancestral power.
I was mounted just above, in a flanking position, and I wouldn't give the bastard even a shred of a chance, even in his suicidal madness.
Seeing Faegon leap to his death, I gathered my instinctive command over the sorcery of my Dornish heritage. I drew the powerful Rhoynar water magic from the saltwater saturating the thick storm clouds and forged, in a millisecond, a sharp blade of highly pressurized water in the air. I hurled the liquid elemental dart toward the plummeting bastard.
But Aemon, as always, had already prepared his own reception.
Atop Doomfyre, without shifting his body to dodge, Aemon raised his gloved hand. His magical sword, Lightbringer, which had rested inert in his hands, responded instantly to the threat. The runic blade abandoned the solid form of cold steel and suddenly converted into a physical beam of living scarlet fire.
With an absurdly brutal speed that Faegon had no chance of predicting or parrying, Aemon whipped the dense fire through the air.
The beam of flames instantly pierced the center of the fake dragon's breastplate. I saw the bastard's lilac eyes widen in absolute shock as a fist-sized hole, perfectly rendered and cauterized, opened through his heart, cutting through the metal armor as if it were old parchment.
In the exact tenth of a second that Aemon's fire skewered him, my sharp spear of magical water found its mark. The impact force of the Rhoynar projectile struck the side of Young Griff's head. The boy's skull gave way to the hydrostatic force and exploded into a cloud of blood and pulverized bone in the air. The hollow, headless corpse of the supposed king of the South began its dizzying fall toward the muddy hills of Storm's End, ending his disgusting ambition forever.
Viserion, feeling the brutal shock of the severed bond with his rider's death, roared in blind agony. The cream dragon entered a total, desperate frenzy of irrational madness, flapping his wings wildly and unleashing bursts of burning fire in completely random directions at nothing, an imminent danger.
The colossal Doomfyre advanced with relentless fury upon the smaller creature, opening his cavernous jaws lined with sharp black teeth and biting fiercely into the back of Viserion's neck, pinning the out-of-control beast in the air in a terrifying chokehold of brute strength. Viserion's gurgling roar and agony indicated his spine would be snapped in moments.
Aemon, however, strictly honored Emperor Arawyn's imperative command. Through his absurd telepathic Warg connection, the King of the North issued a silent command to the wild dragon. Doomfyre released his smoking jaws in the air. The red beast roared in a thunderous sound of primal dominance, while the cream dragon, bleeding from the neck, flapped his wings in profound terror and flew frantically away from the battlefield, disappearing in flight among the blackened clouds.
With the air finally clear of monstrous and rebel threats, Rhaegal and I turned our attention and sharp focus back to the ground battle unfolding at Storm's End.
From the low clouds, we spotted Daenerys mounted on the formidable Drogon.
The young Queen was commanding her dragon to make short, rapid strafing runs over the rear flank of the field, burning tents and the rearguard with relentless black flames. However, she was disastrously distracted. Our aunt had spent the entire duration of the conflict with her neck craned, eyes fixed intently on the titanic clash of dragons that had unfolded in the skies. She paid much more attention to our aerial battle for survival than to the advance of her own forces and the Northerners.
It didn't matter. The moral impact of our display in the heavens had already sealed the rebellion's fate before the midday sun could even break through the storm.
The visceral, humiliating, and flashy death of the fake bastard dragon irrevocably broke the Golden Company's spine and mercenary will. Seeing the mutilated corpse of their "king" scattered across the ground, while three winged beasts prepared their strafing runs, most of the remaining companies let out a howl of despair and began lowering their shields. Swords fell into the mud; the front lines began to surrender en masse before the insurmountable wall of Northern shields and the fury of Dothraki spears.
I guided Rhaegal smoothly and landed in the center of the carnage. Aemon arrived a moment later; Doomfyre landed heavily, shaking the earth, his monumental weight sinking into the wet storm soil.
Daenerys forced Drogon to land a few yards away and quickly dismounted from the great scaled saddle. Her face, once adorned by the serene grace of a queen in exile, was contorted with visceral worry.
— I'm going after my son! I'm going after Viserion! — Daenerys ordered impulsively, her voice raised with a mother's urgency and despair.
She was halfway around Drogon, about to take to the air again, when Aemon's dark figure blocked her view.
The King Beyond-the-Wall projected his voice with the same force and cutting coldness as Arawyn, a human roar that silenced the nearby clamor:
— No. You will stay exactly here, on the ground.
Daenerys widened her lilac eyes in absolute outrage at the authoritative tone of a much younger relative. She puffed out her chest, Drogon's black scales behind her mirroring the fury beginning to spark:
— I am the Mother of Dragons and Queen, Aemon! I will be...
— ...a warrior and commander in this war! — Aemon cut her off mercilessly, a gloved finger pointed sternly. — Do your fucking tactical duty and play your part, aunt. The dragon won't magically disappear from the face of the earth; after the shock passes and Young Griff's blood rots in the magical chains, Viserion will return to you on his own, for that is the nature of the bond. Right now, you must keep your boots in this swamp to finish what we started.
Daenerys clenched her jaw, her pale cheeks flushing with humiliation, rebellion, and finally, acceptance. She glared at my brother severely and, after a tense moment of stubbornness, gave a curt nod, submitting to superior leadership in a chaotic battle.
At the exact moment of their argument, my sister Rhaenys emerged from the tangle of fallen men and piled corpses in the mud of the battlefield's flank. Rhaenys walked casually, skirting Rhaegal's imposing head, a feline smile cutting through the dirt and blood splattered on her face, holding a sheathed scabbard in her right hand.
— Look at the shiny prize I found tossed amidst the crushed carcass of that arrogant boy for you, dearest brother, — Rhaenys called out in a tone of triumphant mockery, tossing the object directly to me through the air.
I caught the spinning pommel and carefully slid the sheath off. As soon as the sun hit the metal, the breath hitched in my chest and my eyes widened.
I gripped the unmistakable, dark blade. Smoky, dark ripples seemed to reflect off the very edge of the weapon I held.
Blackfyre.
The legendary ancestral sword of Valyrian steel, the ultimate symbol of power, glory, and legitimacy of the kings of the Targaryen Dynasty, which had remained in the hands of the Golden Company alongside usurpers and false kings for countless bloody decades of humiliation. And now, alongside my sister—who wielded the dark blade Dark Sister—all the supreme weapons of fire had returned to our House. Aemon held Lightbringer and divine will, Arawyn wielded the ancestral Hammer of ages and imperial protection, and I, under the fixed, proud gaze of the emerald dragon Rhaegal, reclaimed our ancestral legitimacy with Blackfyre.
I felt the steel sing beneath my touch. The runic and blood power confirmed my final ascension.
I turned my gaze and attention to the men scattered across the field surviving the brutal massacre. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of mercenaries begged for mercy on their knees in the thick mud of the storm. Their weapons had been thrown at their feet; their defenses shattered. However, my blood boiled slightly as I noticed the armor worn by many of those front lines.
They were not hardcore combatants from Essos lured by the promise of gold. Most of the first infantry annihilated by the impacts were recruits and soldiers from Dorne. It became stupidly evident that the cowardly commanders of the Golden Company had used the remaining Dornish garrisons as human cannon fodder in this flanking battle.
I stared at the frightened, surrendered faces of the front line. I looked at Rhaenys and Aemon and asked:
— What are we going to do with them?
Before anyone from our triumvirate could answer, the imperial leaders burst through the guard of Northern knights.
My father, Willam Dustin—the man who raised me and instilled the fierce survival values of Barrowton—walked up with a heavy step, followed closely by my dear brother Roderick Dustin and the massive Great Jon Umber, whose armor was caked with the coagulated blood of the crushed infantry enemies from the vanguard.
My father locked his piercing, evaluative gaze upon the crouching rebels and ordered emphatically, directing his voice to the nearby soldiers:
— Keep the rebel infantry locked in these line chains! We must await the arrival and final decree of Emperor Arawyn, or receive his orders, to decide the fate of traitors of this magnitude. The final punishment belongs to His Imperial Grace, according to the laws of the Empire.
I opened my mouth to agree and raise my sword.
— Yes, father... — I began to say, turning my attention to secure the guard over the dozens of mercenaries in the mud. — We will ensure that...
But my civilized sentence, the implicit mercy of the laws, and the orders awaited from the crown, were cut transversely in the air before they could be completed.
Aemon's icy voice rang out from nowhere. No intonations, no hesitations; just the timbre of ruthless command echoing in the soot-filled air, carrying the deadly cold that shaped his ruling existence in the Far North:
— Dracarys.
As if those ancient syllables directly invoked the divine destruction of the world, a terrifying roar shattered the moment of calm.
Doomfyre opened his cavernous jaws. The wild dragon of the North unleashed upon the surrendered men before him a monstrous pillar of scarlet flames that seethed internally with small streaks of absolute black shadows. The titanic torrent engulfed the quagmire and covered the kneeling warriors instantly, boiling the moisture out of the Southern mud and reducing, in three miserable, infernal seconds, more than half of the combatants to ash, excruciating moans, dark smoke, and glowing bones.
My eyes widened under the wave of extreme heat that touched my face. Rhaegal snorted beside me, instinctively, fire rising and tearing at his scaly throat as he felt the overwhelming presence of killer magic emanating from my cousin's wild beast, the animal roaring, ready and furious.
Before my men, before the Northern and Dothraki army, if I withheld my orders in the heat of the massacre already unleashed, it would only evidence unacceptable weakness. In that tenth of a second, as the putrid, acrid scent of cooking human skin hit my nose, I, subjected to the burdens of kingship thrust upon me, took a deep breath and echoed the same terrible word with Valyrian resolve:
— Dracarys.
The burning, emerald-green jet exploded across the muddy horizon, consuming the final and lateral flanks of the unfortunate rebels.
In the agonizing confusion of the flames and the desperate attempt of those still resisting on the periphery, dozens of men who saw the chaotic fire spreading scrambled to their feet, breaking the line of surrender to run screaming. None made it ten yards from the chaos before a collective whistle invaded the bloody clearing. With a sharp crack, Crannogmen archers, Lord Karstark's men, Dothraki, and Unsullied archers mercilessly and precisely struck the backs and legs of the fleeing men, immobilizing and destroying every remaining threat until the plain was sealed into a field of the dead.
I turned sharply toward Aemon, the Valyrian steel hanging firmly in my heavy grip. My chest was heaving.
— What the hell was that, brother? — I demanded to know, trying to balance the weight of the excessive brutality and field discipline against the pacifying words of my foster father just moments before the chaos.
Aemon, ignoring the blackened, charred corpses around us and wiping a dark stain from the edge of Lightbringer, answered me calmly, his gaze carrying millennia of perennial ice through his Stark blood:
— No mercy and no pity for those who raise false swords, usurp our reigns under traitorous names, and incite the useless spilling of our imperial soldiers' blood with the back of Winter approaching, Aegon. These dogs fought for decades in the trenches of the Rebellions; they would die betraying, regardless of chains. Our Emperor has always taught me about the inefficiency that mercy represents during the Long Night. And Arawyn himself would burn this entire field top to bottom without needing to await a protocol royal decree to justify the corpses of mercenary troops. I will not waste my hours containing useless scum. No pity and no mercy for useless rebels.
I weighed a humanist argument on the tip of my tongue. But, as I tried to process the calculating coldness in the sentence I had just witnessed—before the remains of a terrifyingly pierced false Aegon and a renegade dragon humiliated in the heights—the words drained from my heart.
I watched my foster father. Good Ser Willam Dustin blinked his rustic eyes slowly, adjusting his heavy hands on his bloody belts, deeply measuring the intensity of royal authority in his foster nephew's dark gaze, and then bowed his head before the inscrutable massacre.
— Let your order be done and perpetuated, King Beyond-the-Wall, — Ser Willam declared in a muffled voice, his boots crunching drily over the debris.
I stared fixedly, intently, at the incredible work of art encrusted in darkness and mysticism of the Blackfyre relic sheathed in my own gloved hands. Then, I diverted my contemplative gaze once more to the desolate, smoking trails of twisted bodies between the southern gates at Storm's End, stretching for miles to the stormy ocean; hundreds of lifeless Southern combatants.
This was the price of the end of games, and I swallowed the knot in my gut.
Glory was not made of victories romanticized in ballads. This, ultimately, was solely and invariably, the disfigured, rustic, destructive, and overwhelming face of war itself.
And before the empire of ice and the beasts of fire crossing the lands as far as the winds reach the icy shadows, there was no longer any room for compassion; and I had learned in a visceral way, while listening to Rhaegal's primal roar burn against my ears, that our heritage demanded scarlet blood before every dawn of the Northern Empire.
And we could not, let alone would not, do absolutely anything other than collect that tax to ensure our final survival.