~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all rights for characters, plots and settings belong to G.R.R. Martin and FromSoftware. I have no ownership.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert's heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son. I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court clean. As Robert should have done after the Trident."
"I never asked for this crown. Gold is cold and heavy on the head, but so long as I am the king, I have a duty … If I must sacrifice one child to the flames to save a million from the dark … Sacrifice … is never easy, Davos. Or it is no true sacrifice."
Stannis Baratheon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Westeros, North
301 AC
Stannis Baratheon
At first, he didn't understand what the man had said, or rather, the words were so absurd that his mind couldn't accept them.
A Targaryen? Named Aerion? Son of Rhaegar and Lyanna? No such person existed. Was this another pretender? Some wizard from Asshai with Valyrian features?
But why would he claim to be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark? The only thing that could have resulted from this union was a bastard. Was this another Blackfyre? No, that's impossible. Their line died out with Maelys the Monstrous.
Stannis glanced at the others. Wyman Mandarly paled, but a glint appeared in his eyes, as if he had seen something they still hadn't or had solved a long-troubled mystery.
Frey, on the other hand, was terrified, his eyes torn with shock, though more from the strange aura emanating from the man than from his proclamation.
The Bolton bastard seemed to take this very calmly, his face twisted into a creepy smile, but his posture and eyes showed his uncertainty.
"Hahaha," the bastard laughed aloud, then asked with amusement, "Couldn't you think of something more cunning? The son of a hammer-smashed dragon and a Stark whore?"
Ramsay Snow had barely managed to utter the words before he had to grip the reins tightly as his and the other horses bolted back with a squeal as a massive sword appeared from nowhere in the man's hand and slammed into the ground with a bang right in front of them.
Although calling it a sword might be a bit much, looking at the weapon, he couldn't help but think of the Iron Throne. The Greatsword looked like a massive sword fused together from many partially melted blades.
Besides, it didn't look like one a human could lift. Perhaps someone like Mountain could, but using it in combat was beyond his capabilities. He tried not to think about the sword appearing out of nowhere, as if by magic.
But the man calling himself Aerion and proclaiming himself king lifted it easily with one hand and held it out in front of him, pointing the tip of his sword directly at the Bolton bastard.
Stannis felt a sudden chill run through him at the words falling from the man's lips, even if they weren't directed at him.
"If you insult my mother or my father again, I will kill you, right here, right now, regardless of all laws and rules," the man said, his voice as cold as the nights on Wall.
Then he shouldered his sword, and his gaze fell on Stannis, his mood turning 180 degrees. "I know you don't recognize me, Lord Stannis, but much has happened and changed since we last met."
Stannis was certain he'd never met the man, and he had quite a good memory for faces. Both friend and foe.
"I don't recall us meeting, Ser," he replied, not intending to call the man king, but not wanting to insult him either. He knew he was dealing with something more than just a man.
Aerion smiled faintly and replied, "We met at the Wall, and you wanted to marry me to a beautiful princess.
Stannis narrowed his eyes, examining the man's face more closely. It hadn't even occurred to him before. But now that he thought about it and imagined the man with dark brown hair and dark gray eyes, the man's face strongly resembled Jon Snow's.
But that was impossible. He'd seen the young Lord Commander not so long ago. Besides, no one changed their appearance like that... But could he say it was hard to believe? After what he'd seen and experienced, after what Melisandre was capable of? No, it wasn't.
But what had happened to the young man to transform in this way and gain strength and powers culled straight from the Age of Heroes?
He didn't even have to consider Jon's words about his parents for long. Now it seemed perfectly obvious. The honorable Ned Stark had set out to find his sister and returned with her body and newborn child, claiming it was his bastard son.
No one questioned it then. No one asked questions. Robert wouldn't allow it. Besides, as bitter as it was to swallow, the swords of the North were by far the greatest factor in their victory. The Northmen fought with ten times more zeal than the rest.
These thoughts flashed through his mind, but before he could respond or even react, Wyman Manderly spoke.
"Jon Snow, you are he, are you not? Or rather, that's the name Lord Stark gave you."
Jon Snow, or perhaps Aerion Targaryen, nodded slightly, but the look he gave the fat lord was not a friendly one.
"You are clever, Lord Wyman..." he replied, "though perhaps not entirely. I wouldn't call fraternizing with the Boltons a display of any intelligence."
"You motherfuck..."
Clearly not liking being ignored, the Bolton bastard tried to say something, but the massive grafted sword struck the ground again, kicking up snow and trapping him instantly.
"I'm not talking to you right now, mutt. I advise you to enjoy every moment of life I'm giving you," threatened Jon, Aerion, or whatever the hell his name was.
The bastard, clearly out of his element and seeing he was going nowhere, turned his horse and galloped back to his ranks. Frey and the rest of his men quickly followed. Only Wyman Mandarly remained, more calm than his situation suggested.
Jon, however, only gave him a brief glance, then watched as Ramsay approached his troops. Suddenly, golden particles began to gather around his left hand, a second later coalescing into a massive golden bow, as thick as his forearm and a good nine feet long.
Another weapon no human had the right to wield. When a golden arrow, gleaming with light, more like a scorpion's bolt or a spear, materialized in the man's right hand, Stannis couldn't bring himself to equate the man with the young Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Placing the massive bow on the ground, Aerion Targaryen notched an arrow and drew it to full length with more ease than should have been possible.
A moment later, as Ramsay Snow stood beside his ranks, giving orders for battle, Targaryen released the arrow. Stannis had never seen a bolt travel so fast, not even one fired from a scorpion.
He saw only a flash of gold, and a second later, a mile away, the Bolton bastard was obliterated by a gigantic arrow that not only tore him to pieces but also struck the ranks of his men behind him, exploding with golden light.
Stannis watched in fascination as the enemy commander vanished, and besides the bastard, at least two dozen soldiers fell to the magical arrow.
Before he could marvel at the sight, however, Aerion was already drawing another arrow. This one, however, he aimed at the Freys.
Panic erupted in the enemy army. Eliminating a flesh-and-blood enemy was one thing, but magic was another entirely. Stannis couldn't even blame them, for even he would hesitate to engage an enemy with such power at this moment. Moreover, they had just lost their commander.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Westeros, North
301 AC
Aerion
Instead of sending another arrow, Aerion turned back to Wyman Manderly, and the bow vanished from his hands as quickly as it had appeared.
"You have 10 seconds, Lord Mandarly, to convince me not to kill you on the spot," he said, feeling his patience running thin. But let no one say he wasn't fair in his judgment.
Bran had said to trust the Lord of White Harbor, so he was willing to take the risk anyway. However, he wanted to hear the truth from the fat lord and his explanation.
He also took a closer look at his now-smaller frame. After all, he'd heard him called Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse. Besides, he'd seen him several times before at Winterfell and had to admit that even on the incredibly fat man, the war had taken its toll.
He had clearly lost weight; where there had been four chins before, there were now only three, and most significantly, he was sitting on a horse, though his saddle had been modified, and the mount itself was one of the largest he'd ever seen. Massive, with thick legs and a strong back.
The same was true of the others. Stannis himself looked as if he'd lost at least a quarter of his weight, and the same was true of the others.
As his brother had said, they were clearly starving, and the cold wasn't helping. The Baratheon army was decimated and barely alive, and compared to the army facing them, it looked truly wretched.
Moreover, they were clearly forced by their situation to fight in the open. Stannis was too competent a commander not to try to lure Ramsay into a trap.
He turned his attention back to Mandarly, who was trying to find the right words, but before he could say anything in his defense, his horse jerked restlessly, and Aerion reached out with his mind to calm the beast.
From the side, in the snow, Ghost emerged, previously unnoticed. His figure matched that of the horse, but he towered over it in mass. Wyman, spotting the direwolf, froze. The others followed, and Aerion heard one of Stannis's knights draw in a sharp breath.
His faithful companion tottered over to him, and he reached out and scratched him behind the ear, still staring at the Lord of White Harbor and waiting for an answer, oblivious to the chaos that was taking place in the Bolton army.
"So, Lord Wyman? I don't have all day. I have to avenge my brother, his mother, his direwolf, and thousands of Norsemen who fell at the hands of the Boltons and Freys. I wish none of them had escaped me."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," the fat Lord of White Harbor replied, bowing his head. "I swear my loyalty to your House Stark, and this is all just a game, a show, to prevent the Freys from killing Willys, my son, who is being held in the Twins." He tried to explain as quickly as possible, barely catching his breath.
"But I've been working secretly against them all this time, preparing a rebellion. I even sent Ser Davos Seaworth to Skagos to retrieve young Rickon, who's hiding there. I swear by the gods old and new that nothing would give me greater joy than to plunge a dagger into the heart of Roose Bolton or Walder Frey."
Aerion gazed into the man's bright blue eyes for a moment longer, then nodded. "I believe you, my lord. Lord Stark has always said that the Mandarlys have always been among the most loyal bannermen of the Starks. But don't think this conversation is over."
The man accepted his words with obvious relief, even smiling slightly. Still ignoring the others, Aerion turned to him once more. "Do you have any way to inform your forces to attack the Boltons from the flank?"
"Of course, my king," the lord replied, then reached for the horn hanging from his belt and added, "Three short blasts and my loyal knights will know what to do. They will lead my soldiers in an attack against the Boltons and Freys."
"Very well. Blow it then, and I will see to attracting their attention," he ordered, then looked at Stannis. "Lord Stannis, if you think your men are fit for combat, you may advance on them from this direction. Do as you see fit."
Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed the hilt of the Grafted Greatsword and pulled it from the frozen ground. He then remounted Torrent and drove him towards the Bolton army, which was beginning to reorganize.
The same, however, could not be said of the Freys, who were clearly as cowardly as their masters and seemed only a fraction away from fleeing.
Aerion had no intention of fighting them from the back of his trusty mount, not in this mass of bodies. In a flash, they were at the enemy army, and he wasted no time in ordering Torrent to leap into the air.
A moment later, they were forty feet above the sea of soldiers, and he kicked off Torrent's back, soaring even higher into the air. Holding his massive sword, he spun three times and used the momentum to hurl the blade, held in both hands, directly into the midst of the Bolton forces.
The greatsword struck the ground in a commotion of bone crunching, the sound of ripping flesh, and cries of agony and despair. Aerion fell right behind him, amidst the tangle of bodies, gripping the hilt in his hand.
He swung the blade around him, tearing and slicing through the flesh of the soldiers around him. The grafted blades were as sharp as Valyrian steel, and the armor made no impression on them. Considering the sheer mass of the blade, which weighed more than his friend Sam, the weapon became a tool of slaughter.
The sound of a horn reached him in the distance, and more terrified screams echoed around him. The men around him, both old and young, tried to flee from it, but they had nowhere to go, surrounded by their comrades.
The grafted greatsword was covered in crimson and fragments of torn skin, shattered bone, and ripped muscle.
And he swung it without hesitation, each blow striking more than one enemy, each fatal. Aerion poured into each swing, each blow, all his hatred for the Boltons and the Freys, and his love for his brother and the North.
These men were at the Red Wedding, on the orders of their lords, murdering people he loved and respected. Loyal sons of the North. Traitors, perjurers.
With each passing second, instead of growing tired, he felt a growing hunger for their blood. The Bolton formation was completely shattered, and they tried to flee. The same happened to the Freys. But he wasn't about to let that happen.
Ghost, Torrent, and Godwyn tore at the Frey flank. The direwolf ripped and tore flesh with ease, its thick fur and hide deflecting swords and spears like steel armor.
Torrent trampled the soldiers, crashing into them with a force that shattered bones and crushed flesh, while his flying companion swooped down repeatedly, ripping faces and gouging out eyes with talons as long as his own fingers.
But that was only the beginning. A silver bell appeared in his left hand, ringing once, twice, and then twice more.
To the south of the Frey forces, Banished Knights Oleg and Engvall, along with the Lone Wolves, appeared. By the time the soldiers spotted them, both the wolfs and the powerful knights were already among them.
Moreover, ordinary weapons were ineffective against spirits, and only Valyrian steel and perhaps obsidian, which possessed magical properties, could harm them.
The last summoned Spirit, which took a significant portion of his Focus, was Rick, Soldier of God, who struck the Boltons' southern flanks with unstoppable fury, slaughtering dozens in a matter of seconds.
Rick was so powerful that if he had summoned it during the fight with Margit, they would have defeated Fell Omen. However, his pride would not allow him to do so. This was a duel, not a battle. Honor and his own pride demanded that he defeat his opponent face to face.
Otherwise, he wouldn't be worthy of the title he aspired to. In the Lands Between, you were the strongest, or you had to submit. Any shortcut led only to future disaster.
Shortly after, the Manderly forces struck the Bolton flank, and Stannis's forces approached from the west, intercepting the soldiers who tried to flee in that direction.
As he had used most of his Focus to summon so many Spirits at once, he summoned the Flask of Cerulean Tears and took two long swigs, instantly feeling his reserves replenish.
He then threw himself into the densest group of soldiers, the Dragon Communion Seal appearing in his left hand, and without hesitation, he cast the incantation.
He rose several feet into the air, and from the dragon's maw that materialized above him, a sea of sapphire flames poured out, which he directed towards the Bolton and Frey forces.
Gluttonous flames consumed the soldiers one by one, first dozens, then hundreds, leaving only ash in their wake. Agheel's Flames proved ideal for use in such a situation, especially against humans who had no protection from fire or escape route.
If the enemy soldiers had previously felt fear, they now felt pure terror. Any formations that had still been trying to hold together for survival now fell apart completely. Everyone fled, caring only for their own survival.
The army was practically wiped out, and he ordered his animal companions and Spirit Summons to pursue any soldiers who managed to escape.
He himself also gave chase. Not only was he unwilling to spare any of these soldiers to exact justice and avenge those they had murdered at the Red Wedding, but he also didn't want any of them to reach Winterfell and warn Roose Bolton.
Bolton still had about 5,000 men with him, and Winterfell was well fortified. Well, it would probably take him a while to clear it out.
He chased Bolton and Frey men, grasping Grafted Greatsword in one hand and a staff in the other. Those who didn't reach his blade were finished off by the spell, though he focused only on Glintstone Pebble and Arc.
It took them over an hour to slaughter the entire army, and Ghost and Godwyn were still searching for the last remnants in Wolfswood and on the plains. He doubted anyone would survive, however.
Then, the gathering and piling of corpses began, as he had ordered. He intended to burn them as quickly as possible. Lord Wyman's men did most of the work, as Stannis's soldiers, frankly, were barely able to stand.
He paced the battlefield at a leisurely pace, heading towards the place where the most important commanders were gathered. He wrinkled his nose at the onslaught of the stench. Thousands of dead, unwashed bodies, combined with the faces and urine many had excreted, were not pleasant.
The temperature made it more bearable, though it would be different if the battle had taken place in the hot south, for example in Dorne.
The soldiers he passed stared at him with a mixture of fear, admiration, and many other emotions, not even trying to hide it. On the one hand, he didn't like being the center of attention, and the numerous stares he received were irritating in the long run.
Yet, this was what he ultimately needed. To become more of a symbol than a man. A man is much easier to kill or destroy. A symbol, a living hero, a champion of the gods, or whatever you call it, wasn't so easy.
Finally, amidst the bustling soldiers, he spotted lords and knights standing at the very edge. Stannis and Wyman Mandarly were clearly arguing heatedly about something.
Two groups had formed, with only Baratheon's knights on the side of Stannis and the Lord of White Harbor and both his own men and Mors Umber in the other. He heard their raised voices.
The soldiers parted before him, giving me plenty of space. They had seen his might and witnessed his magic. They felt respect and fear, and they weren't alone in this. For when the lords saw him, they too fell silent. Even Stannis waited patiently, though he was certain he would be the one to struggle the most.
The Lord of Storm's End was proud beyond measure, so from the very beginning, Aerion was certain that persuading him to acknowledge his superiority would be extremely difficult. On the other hand, if he succeeded, he would gain a capable commander and a just man for the coming wars.
"My lord, sers. "We must speak," he greeted them with a faint smile, trying to soothe the fear emanating from them. Before he could say anything more, however, Lord Wyman, despite his great bulk, fell to one knee, supporting himself with his sword. His men and Umber followed.
"Your Majesty. Accept our fealty," the fat lord said, lowering his head. The other apprentices did the same. Aerion glanced at Stannis, but he remained silent, his jaw set.
His gaze returned to the kneeling lords. "I accept, rise; this is not the best place for such things."
"Aye. Thank you, my King," Wyman replied with a small smile.
"I thought you would not be willing to acknowledge my authority so readily, my lords? It's hard to find anyone in the North who would love my father's line," he said, eyeing them searchingly. Had his display of strength shaken them so much?
"Aye, Your Majesty. You are a Targaryen but also a Stark, raised by Eddard Stark, whom we all respected. He was an honorable man, and I know he raised you as such. You may be a Targaryen, but the blood of the King of Winter flows within you, and the North seeps deep into your bones," Wyman said, his confidence returning with each passing moment.
"Your cousin Rickon lives, but he is too young to rule. Moreover, Young Wolf, King Robb, has left a will naming you his successor. It is in the hands of Maege Mormont and Galbert Glover, who come under the protection of Lord Reed."
Aerion smiled to himself. 'Robb, you fool. Even in death, you help me,' he thought, but then his expression darkened. He had been unable to help his brother in any way since his murder.
He pushed those thoughts aside; he didn't even want to think about them. Instead, he looked at Stannis. "I intend to unite the Seven Kingdoms and prepare them for what's coming, for it seems the threat is greater than we could have imagined. I've been beyond the Wall once more and seen how terrifyingly powerful our enemy is."
He declared, but Stannis remained silent, while the Northern Lords exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what he was talking about.
Receiving no answer, he added, "You have no chance of victory, for how many of your own men do you have left? A few dozen? A hundred? Two? I have more than Bolton. Besides, I don't need an army to take Winterfell."
"I don't doubt it. Not after what I saw today," the Lord of Storm's End finally replied, giving him a hard look, though it might have been more effective if he hadn't appeared to be barely able to stand.
A moment later, he added, "Let's talk. You will tell me what happened. What is happening with my wife and daughter? Then I will decide."
Aerion nodded, then turned to Wyman. "Lord Wyman, send someone to see to feeding these men. You certainly did not travel without supplies."
"Aye, Your Majesty," he replied, then turning to one of his men, "Evan, I entrust this to you."
Satisfied, Aerion looked around. "Let's find some quiet place. We have much to discuss. Winterfell. The North. The future."