The Targaryen camp had transformed. Once sleepy in the hangover of their victory at the Dusken, now it darted about like an ant mound kicked in. Soldiers sheathing their swords, tenders hitching animals to their wagons or placing saddles on the riding horses. Noncombatants packing the tents and helping the knights dress in their armor. At the single royal order for immediate mobilization, the whole colony shifted into battle stance to march on the capitol.
"I wouldn't know what caused this, my Lord," Sansa said quietly, black dress brushing the blades of winter grass not coated by snow. It was hells for the Reachmen and Dornish but rather comfortable for her - used to far worse. "Do you think…"
"The Targaryens and Starks are magical bloodlines, Lady Sansa," Varys replied, hands clasped together as he walked beside the Wardeness of the North. "I would not be shocked if they noticed as it was happening."
She furrowed her brows at Varys, trying not to take a dagger and stab him through the heart. "My brother may have had something to do with it."
This drew Varys' interest. "Oh?"
"He sees all and knows all. I wouldn't put it past him to let their Graces know."
He pursed his lips. "Perhaps I could have made him King, if he's truly all knowing."
Sansa couldn't help but snort. "Bran as King? No one would go for it." She rolled her eyes, emotion for once completely genuine - the Wardeness loved her little brother, but that was a bridge too far. "What would they call him? King Bran the Broken?" Laughing at the thought, even Varys smirked slightly at that.
Along with the order, all members of the small and war councils were summoned to the command tent - Lords and Ladies already filing in. Varys and Sansa entered the line behind Lord Hightower and Lady Arianne Martell, recently having arrived from Sunspear. Grey Worm and three other Unsullied spearmen guarded the entrance, likely indicating Daenerys' bloodriders waited inside. No chance at any assassination at this particular meeting.
"Commander Grey Worm," Varys said in his serene warmness. Only getting a steely glare in return - the Unsullied commander's default look. Nodding, the Master of Whisperers ducked into the tent.
For Sansa however, the glare hardened. Eyes narrowing in a welled anger for the Lady of Winterfell - it was no secret among the high command that Sansa had been the one to divulge Jon's identity. Missandei knew, and thus it was told to Grey Worm. He hated the redhead - she betrayed his Queen and King, and the tense silence between them was fine by him…
Until Sansa's hand brushed quickly against his fist, tucking a tiny sliver of paper into it. "For the Queen," she whispered only so Grey Worm could hear. Head turning ever so slightly, watching Sansa disappear into the tent, he merely grew impassive once again while sliding the message into the pocket of his trousers.
At the head of the massive map table were the King and Queen. Dressed in full battle regalia, Longclaw strapped to Jon's side while Dark Sister was strapped to Dany's. Each wearing a hardened expression that left no other emotion room upon their faces, they merely stood, gazing at the marker on the map representing Drogon - resting atop Dragonstone. An occasional white-furred head poking out from the bottom revealed their faithful direwolf. Resting between them, at the ready to attack any threats that might come their way.
As soon as the last person - turning out to be Tormund Giantsbane - entered the tent, Jon begun by simply grabbing the markers of the Iron Fleet and moving them to Dragonstone. "I take it we found Euron Greyjoy," remarked Lord Paxter Redwyne. Without Yara Greyjoy, he possessed the largest remaining fleet loyal to the Targaryens.
Jon was lost in thought, retreating back into his trademark brooding personality. Daenerys looked up, however. Some flinching at the blazing dragonfire in her violet eyes. "Yes, he is at Dragonstone."
Missandei felt a chill go through her. "Isn't that where Drogon…"
"Please tell me your Grace's dragon hasn't perished," paled Lord Royce. Sansa bit her lip, willing herself not to speak at the moment. She was lost in the murmurs and shivering lords and ladies.
"No, my child has not perished." A flash of pain crossed over Dany's expression before the rage smothered it. "Euron Greyjoy rides my dragon. He has become a dragonrider."
There was complete silence. All wearing looks of horror or disbelief, though Varys hid a satisfied nod, lips tucking into his mouth in thought. "How is that possible?" breathed Tyrion.
"It's not possible," said Edmure Tully. "Only a Targaryen can ride a dragon." So long had passed since dragons soared over Westeros, much of what was known about them had been lost to the ages. Only the basics, and even then mostly legends or second hand sources written in the Citadel. "This could be disinformation by Cersei's Hand…"
"No, it is the truth." All eyes turned to Jon, hands splayed over the map table. Head down, not even looking at his war council. "There exists an artifact from Old Valyria. The Valyrians called it a dragonbinder - it was made from Valyrian steel and hollowed out dragonbone. Imbued with the magic of the pre-Doom fire mountains." Bran, from Winterfell, had guided him, and Dany to the portion of the past where to find out - strength only powerful enough for a quick glimpse. "Most were used to control the dragons, temper them so their riders could make the bond, but legend holds that a few were made so that non-Valyrians could seek the bond. Tame a dragon, at least for a short while."
Sansa blinked. No one said anything about Euron riding a dragon - especially not Varys. "Are you saying that Euron found one of these dragonbinders?"
Looking up, grey eyes meeting hers, the expression on Jon's face said everything. "Yes, he did."
Panic gripped the council. Some requesting retreat, some demanding a final battle to the death, while most just babbled incoherently. Noise pounding away at her head, Dany drew Dark Sister in one swoop and slammed the pommel against the table. "Enough!" She stared down every man and woman present. "Euron is a fool, a mad dog. The true threat is the one who let him off his leash." Taking the figurine representing Rhaegal, she pushed it right at King's Landing. "His Grace and I will be traveling to the capital on our remaining dragon and end the reign of Cersei Lannister once and for all."
"Your Graces," Tyrion began, worry on his face. "We've talked about the risks of a direct assault on the Red Keep…"
Jon's withering glare sent the former hand reeling. "Your advice has led us to nothing but defeat. We are dragons, and it is time that the dragon wakes." He turned to the new Hand. "Davos."
"Yes, your Grace."
"Prepare the army. It marches for the capitol in three days." Linking their hands together, the King and Queen left the council to choke on their words. Storming out of the tent.
Before they could make their way to Rhaegal, Grey Worm quietly slipped the piece of paper into Dany's hand. Hoping he had done right as he watched his King and Queen read it. Raising a single eyebrow as Jon moved to pull Tormund to the side as the wildling chief left the tent first.
Armor strapped and ready for battle, Ser Brienne of Tarth did not know what brought her to this particular tent. Jarred out of her morass and into the hardened warrior knight she was, it seemed the height of stupidity to trigger herself yet again… but she cared little. Part of her knew she needed to see this. To come face to face with the little bit of Jaime that wasn't trapped in the shithole that was King's Landing. Wordlessly, she entered the tent. Large crib in the center of it appearing immediately.
"I was wondering when you'd show up, Ser Brienne." Tyrion's voice startled her, though there was no malice in it. He sat in the corner of the tent, haggard and worn, but sober. A small smile on his lips, polite and welcoming. "Relax, I mean no harm." He sighed. "Apparently the only harm I can cause is against her Grace."
Brienne did not know what to say. "I… I know you did your best, Lord Tyrion. But fighting a war isn't your forte."
A chuckle left Tyrion's lips, not reaching his eyes. "It seemed so easy, in retrospect, preparing the city defenses against Stannis' army. We knew he was coming, he knew we knew he was coming, simple all around. All that mattered was stopping his inevitable attack." He wished he had a drink. "But the complex movements of soldiers, of alliances. Seems I thought too highly of myself. Davos is better, not to mention his Grace."
Nodding, Brienne's gaze fell back on the young child resting in his crib. "So that's really Jaime's child?"
"Aye, a handsome little one. Lion of Lannister." Groaning to his feet, Tyrion stepped to the crib. Picking the babe up and in his arms. "Unfortunately, his mother is insane, his father is in the Black Cells, and his uncle is not the kind of person who can take care of a dear child." Tyrion offered Brienne a weak smile. "This I do know, I am the last person cut out to be a father." He peered at Brienne, the smile widening slightly. "Here, why don't you hold him?"
Brienne blinked. "What… no… I shouldn't…"
"He's been quiet for days. I think he on some level understands the shit we're all in." Insistent, Tyrion managed to get the knight to take the babe in her arms. "My brother talked about you many times, one of the few topics that made him smile genuinely. I think you'll have the same effect on his son." Whistling softly, Tyrion ambled out of the tent. "I'll be waiting outside."
Never one for the feminine aspects of life, the tiny little one felt even smaller in her arms. Green eyes peering up at her with a stunned silence - as Brienne had when seeing a dragon for the first time. Such looks didn't faze Brienne. She had known them all her life, ever since her father let her abandon a dress in exchange for armor and sword. But with this babe…
Slowly, softly, she moved a calloused hand to stroke his cheek. Looking into his green eyes, the wisps of golden hair. Perfectly a Lannister, mirror image of his father. A golden lion that would dance with a sword and break hearts when grown. Knowing who his parents were, Brienne could only see Jaime in little Tywin. Perhaps that was for the best.
"Hello, little one," she said haltingly, not knowing what to say to a babe. "I… I know your father. He's a good man, in spite of what anyone says." It was true. The arrogant, incestuous Kingslayer - he was nothing of the sort. Condemned to that thanks to his self-imposed exile into his own mind. From their conversation in the bathtub, it had been obvious that she was the first person he had told his story in the longest of times.
In spite of herself, Brienne felt tears coming to her eyes. Blinking them away. "He was lost for a long time, your father. And yet he upheld his honor, fighting with me and with the King and Queen to bring the Dawn." Tywin clearly didn't understand, but seemed to take well to listening about his father. She continued. "Your mo…" It felt wrong to give Cersei the title of this adorable baby boy's mother. "Queen Cersei, she wouldn't take kindly to how he saved you, but he did so anyway. The bravest man I've ever known…" She continued to stroke Tywin's cheek. "I love your father very much, and you should to."
For the first time she had arrived, little Tywin gave a toothless smile, erupting into giggles. From her smile, it seemed that Brienne had the same weakness for him as she had for his father.
Teeth chattering in the just below freezing weather, the man of the Reach cursed under his breath. "Fucking cold." The metal of the spyglass he held was singing his hands, even through the thin riding gloves he was wearing.
The commander of the scorpion detachment rolled his eyes. "Stop being an annoying little cunt," he hissed, thumping his hand atop the smooth ironwood of the great contraption. As much as they had trained using the small devices pilfered from Castle Black, it still felt a new feeling to have one of the massive dragon killers stolen from the captured equipment of the Golden Company.
New in a welcome way. It may have been cold but the northerner felt the surge of savage warmth deep within him. At the tip off from his Lord and the paymaster behind him, him and his fellow patriots would rid the world of the dragons once and for all. The thought only exhilarated him.
"There they are." Eyes peering out from the tree-covered hill that overlooked much of the lands due west of Duskendale, he didn't need a spyglass to spot the beating wings of the King's Fury. "The bastard rides into the trap."
"We'll teach 'im not to sleep with foreign whores!" one of the men snarled. They had about twenty, armed to the teeth - ready for any eventuality. Another battery in the lowlands had the same. The Targaryens would never escape this trap.
A curse left the lips of the spotter. "It's just her!"
"What?" asked the battery commander, overseeing the cocking of the scorpion's winches. "The bastard isn't riding the monster?"
"No, just the bitch."
Dismissive snorts left many of the men. "Giving up what's supposedly his monster for the Valyrian whore." Of course he was nothing but a puppet blinded by the whore's body. "Traitor to the north," he muttered. Soon, a true northerner will sit on the Iron Throne.
Hidden among the trees, the first battery tracked the green silhouette with keen eyes. These weren't the overzealous Lannister fools or Ironborn savages that botched the last two attempts to kill the Dragon Whore's monsters, but ones that had practiced and prepared for months. Tasked by their paymasters as the ace in the hole. Confident that the Targaryens wouldn't spot them in the snowy wilderness of the northern Crownlands.
In what seemed like full minutes, the dragon approached the crosshairs of the sights. Calibrated by the best maesters in Oldtown. "Ready!" yelled the gunner.
"Loose!"
"On the way!"
The torsion wires of the scorpion released the built up tension with a single twist of the lever. Shooting the projectile into the at the fastest speed. Fins at the end keeping it steady, aimed for the point in the air that the target would soon be upon.
Hands tight around her son's spines, Dany could sense Rhaegal's torment. A still pulsing grief at the loss of Viserion, a deep rage building up at Drogon's capture, and a worry for his father. On the ground without the green dragon's protection and support. "I know, my darling," Dany whispered, knowing Rhaegal could hear her. "I worry for him too."
'I wish I could be protecting him as I am you and my siblings.' Rhaegal knew she was carrying the next generation of Targaryens before even Dany knew. Such compelled him to take the first wave of scorpion bolts from Euron's fleet.
Dany simply stroked his scales, love pouring out for her child. Even though she was Drogon's rider, her love for Rhaegal was just as strong - the Queen just knew that Jon would love Drogon just as much.
Normally, the Queen would have lost herself in the majesty of being on dragonback. Watching the world in a way only a Targaryen dragonrider could, freed of the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of the gods themselves - but not today. Not with what she knew. As such, her peering, watchful eyes caught the tiny dark dot that lanced up from the ground against the white of the snow. "RHAEGAL! BANK!" With a roar the dragon complied, wings beating abruptly and thundering to the side in a tight turn that staggered Dany. Scorpion bolt shooting past only off by yards.
"They've loosed!" yelled the spotter, watching the fight play out in real time. "Miss! It's a miss!"
"Fuck! Load!" The gunners moved like a well oiled machine, massive steel-tipped bolt tucked into place by the two man loading team. "Hold path, hold path!"
Sweat trickled down the forehead of the spotter - even as his breath fogged up in the chilly air - keeping the spyglasses trained on the monster. "She's going in for an attack run!"
The commander said a silent prayer to the old gods for his comrades. "Track the whore's path. Hit the beast just as they slow above."
"Yes, my Lord!"
Daenerys had spotted the battery within a split second of the evasion. Mental commands sending the King's Fury into a frantic dive so rapid that the air around them whistled. Closer and closer appeared the ground, man made weapons and armor glinting in the sun growing more distinct through the copse of trees shrouding it. Eyes blazed, rage welling within her. Fire and blood awaited anyone that dared to harm her family. "Dracarys!"
Scrambling in a terrified frenzy, it was over in an instant for the first battery. Bad luck had doomed them from the start, their only hope to live being killing the dragon with their first shot as the Dornish had against Rhaenys Targaryen and Meraxes. Such was not to be, Rhaegal's dragonfire enveloping them in the superheated tongue of flame. Turning they and the scorpion into ash within seconds.
All watched from the second battery atop the hill. Tracking Rhaegal's every movement. "Hold…" The commander cautioned. "Hold…"
"Ready!"
Fuck you, dragon whore. "Loose!"
"On the wa…" The acknowledgement turned into gurgle as blood spat from the gunner's mouth, arrow slamming into his chest. Pitching forward, the gunner turned the scorpion in a useless angle. Out of the fight.
Out of the thick woodland erupted dozens of men. Furs draped over them and wearing the face paint of Thenn blood guards. Axes swung, spilling blood all over the snow as they decapitated men alive. "To arms!" screamed the commander, drawing his own sword. "To arms!" The man beside him reached for his blade only to be tackled by a lunging white monster… the King's direwolf, eyes as red as blood. Teeth tearing through flesh and crunching bone.
And if the direwolf was here…
Flanked by Magnar Sigorn and Chieftain Tormund Giantsbane - the wildling's Dothraki wives Eshinni and Visiqui firing arrows from horseback, giving them rapid covering fire - King Aegon was a sight to behold. Longclaw an extension of his arm, he hacked and parried. Thrusted and slashed. Blade parrying a wild assault before twirling in his wrist. He let the attack forward, more and more Thenns following him - ripping through the unprepared battery like a knife through butter.
Running a hesitating Reachman through the stomach, the King signalled the skirmish over. Half the assassination team dead, rest captured. Only one Thenn was wounded, and he was swinging his fists at the unlucky men trying to pull out the dagger from his side.
Removing his sword from the limp body, Jon counted his blessings at the complete success. Dany and Rhaegal were making a final pass over the smoldering first battery, while the Free Folk gathered the prisoners into a single cluster. He walked over to Tormund. "Did you get all of them?"
"Aye," spat the wildling, rolling his shoulders. "A couple tried to get away." He hefted his axe, coated in blood and brain matter. "No one else tried."
Jon snorted his approval. Inspecting the dozen or so men in unadorned Northern or Reach armor. Suppressing the urge to rend and burn all of them himself. Beside him, Ghost snarled at the prisoners, causing them to flinch. Eyes picked out one in particular. "You two, get that man to his feet. He's the ringleader."
The Thenns obeyed their King Crow, hauling the cursing northerner upright and away from the others. Tormund blinked. "How do you know he's in charge?"
"Clean clothing," Jon replied simply. "Those in charge never get their hands dirty. At least not of the asshole variety."
The ginger wildling chortled. "You keep saying you're not a poet, but that was better than any flowery bullshit other prissy southerners have said." Such was the highest of affection from Tormund.
"You say the sweetest things," Jon replied dryly. "Do you charm your Dothraki wives like that?"
"Nah. I slap their asses, they punch me, and then we're tumblin' naked." At that point both Eshinni and Visiqui were upon him - socking him in the stomach before kissing each of his hairy cheeks.
An amused smirk formed on the King's lips. Ironic. Jon looked up to see Rhaegal banking overhead, Daenerys' braids flowing behind her in the wind. Same thing happens to me. Apparently the fiery nature of a pair of dragons worked quite well in the bedroom. The small smirk on his face was unavoidable.
"I ain't saying fucking anything!"
The smirk fell immediately. Fists starting to clench, he glared at the prisoner. "Sigorn. I'll be questioning this cunt personally. The others you can make into your dinner."
Baring his teeth in a savage smile, the Magnar of the Thenns and Lord of Karhold pumped his fist in the air, the other Thenns whooping while the smell of soiled trousers filled the air around the cluster of prisoners.
Anger rolling off him in waves, Jon approached the leader of the traitors. "Who put you up to this?"
"Fuck you!" he snarled, earning a punch to the gut in response.
There was no patience or mercy in the King's air. He lifted the man and squeezed his throat, only relenting as the prisoner's face grew purple. "I will kill you, do you understand?" Behind, Rhaegal slammed into the ground in a hard landing, neck rearing upward in a bellowing roar. Atop his back, Dany begun to dismount. "Who ordered you here? Who gave you the scorpion?"
Only a laugh came in reply. "I don't fear death by the hand of you fucking dragonspawn." And there it was. Love or hate, Jon was no longer a wolf to many northmen. Another dragon, like Daenerys. "Sword or dragonfire, it means nothing. I'll be in the afterlife quickly enough and there will be more patriotic northmen ready to die for an independent…"
Jon cut him off with another right cross, this time breaking his nose. "Listen to me, cunt. Those men will butcher you alive and eat you. If you want a quick death, I suggest you speak freely about what I wish to know." Spotting Ghost greeting Dany as she set foot on the snowy ground - the Queen scratching his fur before stroking Rhaegal's scales - a dark smirk crossed his face. One that would have made the Night King flinch. "Ghost! Come!" The direwolf banded over to him, immediately baring his teeth at the man, who looked upon him in terror. "I haven't fed my direwolf today. I'll bet he's hungry."
Face paled in fear. "No!"
"Tell me who put you up to this, and your flesh will meet my steel." The prisoner hesitated, and Jon smiled. "Ghost, dinner." The direwolf began to lunge.
"Wait! Wait! I'll talk!" Apparently death by direwolf could break even the most hardened man.
By the end of his blubbering, Jon's eyes blazed a bright fury - violet surging forth to fight with the grey, both as dark as night. His fingers tightened around the bannerman's throat. "I should rend you with my bare hands," the King seethed.
"Eat 'im, King Crow!" one of the Thenns jeered, causing the prisoner to go pure white.
"No, please!" he gasped, sputtering through his constricted windpipe. "You gave… word…"
Surprisingly evenly given her reputation, Daenerys placed a hand on her husband's shoulder and spoke to him. "You did give your word, my King. It wouldn't be honorable to go against it." Even though she regarded the man as worse than an insect, Dany knew her husband well.
Staring furiously at the prisoner for a moment more, Jon let him collapse to the ground, coughing and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. Around him, the Thenns and Tormund looked disappointed that they weren't going to get a show… or a meal. "Aye, I did give my word." In a fluid motion that lasted but a second, Longclaw twirled in his wrist and chopped downward through flesh and bone.
"Argh!" The prisoner screamed, clutching the new stump where his left shin used to be, severed from his body. Blood began to gush, drenching his hands, trousers, and the snowfall all around. "You promised you'd behead me you fucking cunt!"
Sheathing the sword - resolving to clean it later - Jon pulled Dany close to him. Kissing her forehead before glancing down at the man. "I did promise - that my steel would taste your flesh. It did." The man's eyes widened in terror and realization. "Ghost, dinner." A sharp growl was followed by screams as the massive white direwolf pounced on the condemned prisoner. Jon and Daenerys simply walked back to Rhaegal when Ghost's teeth first ripped through warm flesh.