54. Aegon VI / Aenys XIV

Hello everyone! This is a nice action-heavy chapter for you all, and I have been looking forward to it. So I hope you enjoy it. Here are some quick notes. I messed up the KG last chapter, so I will be including a short revision there. Ser Corlys is still the LC as of this chapter. Besides that, everything should be good. I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!

Aegon VI

10th Moon, 39AC

Aegon could not help but marvel at the vast expanse of fluffy white terrain around him. One could be forgiven for thinking he was above the clouds, if not for the blackened husks of trees and the skeletal remains of burnt cottages that dotted the land like pocks on a dying fool.

This winter may still be early, but its fury was unrelenting. The soft, rolling fields that birthed the bountiful crops in the summer and supported robust groves of apples, pears, plums, and peaches were now buried under a thick blanket of snow. 

The snow laid thick across the previously well-tilled fields of the Western Riverlands, burying the living and the dead beneath its cold embrace. The sky was somehow even more grey than it had been on Dragonstone and yet he was here all the same. 

Balerion’s wings beat slowly and steadily as he glided in wide circles over Raventree Hall. The castle below remained steadfast, they had managed to hold out against the faithful forces that had erected to face them in combat. Wisely, the Blackwoods hid behind their castle walls and awaited him and his army. 

The outbreak of this war was both timed poorly and well in different ways. The negatives were obvious to anyone with a brain, as the cold bit at his soldiers' extremities and the already weak infrastructure of the Riverlands strained to support his soldiers' march around the Gods Eye. The roads had either disappeared under the snow or turned to much less helpful ice in the biting cold. 

Yet not everything had been working against them. Their allies had full stocks of supplies, granaries were full from the last autumnal harvests which meant that so long as they could hold their walls. They would not be starved out, anytime soon at least. They would need those stores to last them the rest of the winter, but he supposed that death later was preferable to death sooner. 

The storms had also slowed everyone, friend and foe alike. The Faith’s rabble had no discipline, no quartermasters, no winter camp. While Aegon’s legions shivered and marched, the armies raised in the name of the Seven simply crumbled.

Still, Aegon found little satisfaction in it.

He pulled tighter on Balerion’s reins, guiding the massive dragon into another slow arc above the empty branches in the forest a few miles south of Raventree Hall. There had been movement reported earlier that morning from some of House Blackwood’s scouts, horsemen, perhaps a dozen, galloping westward under cover of darkness.

“Cowards,” Aegon said under his breath, bitterness dripping off of him like the snow which melted off Balerion’s endlessly scalding form. The whole lot of them were nothing but cowards. His father had written that the war must end soon. Before the snows could hem them in, and the supplies would run dry. But how was he to finish a war if his enemies refused to fight?

“They flee at the sight of us,” he muttered to Balerion, receiving a low, dissatisfied grumble in response. The Faith had seemingly had some sense in their thick, empty skulls. Ever since he had destroyed the faith forces on the Hill of Rhaenys, no faith forces were willing to meet him in open battle. 

Sure there had been skirmishes. Organized bands of armored horsemen had hit his supply lines several times. Forcing him to abandon the wagon train to relieve House Blackwood’s forces in time. But he had yet to run into a group larger than perhaps fifty men. 

At Harrenhal, he had expected another battle, certainly not to the same standards as the one he had in the capital, but a stand worthy of song at least. But he was denied, sure there were a few stragglers, foolish enough to believe they could bring down a dragon like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. But after ten odd fools were cut to pieces by his men, he found the steward of Harrenhal safe and sound. 

Then at Raventree Hall once again. When he was just a few days' march from the castle, the faith forces that had hemmed in his ally had disappeared into the wilderness. Into unseen coves and caves, or into the shelter of traitors. 

He could not even feel satisfaction in destroying the handful of castles that were stupid enough to openly declare for the faith. For he could tell in his bones that the screams that emanated from the burning halls and melting stone were not the disloyal lords that had betrayed his family, but their staff who were merely diligently working as was their duty. 

Aegon’s blood boiled as he remembered the humiliating letter he had to send to his father. Telling him of his lackluster achievements and hollow accomplishments. He had raised an army of nearly eight thousand men. Yet all they were doing was starving in the freezing cold outside of Raventree Hall, denied battle and their families due to the cowardice of their opponents. 

He could not even properly punish the cowards. Even if he knew where they were hiding, if he burned villages for harboring traitors, he’d become the monster the Septons named him. If he did nothing, they’d keep vanishing into the trees and hills.

Aegon cursed under his breath, his blood like fire in his veins. “They deny me the heads I am owed.”

Balerion growled in response, his partner’s wings flaring slightly as they prepared to descend. The black dread could taste the unease in the air, feel the tension rippling through his rider’s body. 

If there was one constant in this miserable excursion, it was Balerion. Reliable whenever he needed to fly, to clear his head, or to scout for enemies. He had even taken to having Balerion rest around his tent at night after his uncle wrote to him, warning him of assassins. 

Aegon doubted there were many potential saboteurs in his army. They had marched halfway across Westeros with him in the bitter cold after all. Plus, most of them happened to be from the thankfully loyalist regions like the Crownlands and western Riverlands. But he understood his uncle’s caution. On Balerio,n he was invincible, but on the ground? He was still just six and ten name days old. 

With a final pass and a wide glance around the snowy landscape, Aegon turned the dragon’s flight toward the southern end of Raventree Hall. The encampment his army had erected just outside of the walls marred the pristine white landscape, but he had grown to appreciate it in the last few moons. They were his soldiers after all. Which meant that they were his responsibility. He doubted that House Blackwood could support his soldiers for long after all. Their stores may be full for now but they needed to last them potentially years and starving his allies was the last thing he needed to do. 

The frigid wind rushed past him as Balerion angled downward, wings slicing the air with practiced power. Aegon leaned into the saddle, the cold biting harder as they descended. Below, his camp slowly came into clearer focus, tents pitched in tight formations, smoke curling from cookfires, soldiers moving like ants in the snow.

They landed with a thundering gust just beyond the southern gates of Raventree Hall, the snow was kicked up into a cloud, which quickly spread the cold around, caking the surroundings in more of their bitter enemy. 

Aegon slid from the saddle and onto the ropes that clung to his dragon’s side. The warmth of Balerion’s massive body left him quickly, replaced by the cold bite of winter once more as he descended his mountain of a dragon. 

Ser Josua Massey, his personal attendant and leader of the scouting parties he had been dispatching, was already there to meet him before he could get a stone's throw away from Balerion. “Did you find any traitors, my prince?”

Aegon’s frown deepened, reminded once again of his failure. “No, they continue to hide,” he began, not stopping as he walked toward the castle. “Where is Ser Raymont?”

“In the hall, with Lord Blackwood.”

‘Of course,’ Aegon thought. Lord Blackwood had been kind enough to both open his stores for the army outside but also to open the castle to the nobles and knights within his army too. He had even offered to give up his chambers for Aegon, but he had refused, settling for one of the myriad of guest rooms in the expansive castle. 

He could not fault his noble soldiers and knights for wishing to reside in the warm walls of the castle instead of the cold camp. He slept there too, after all. But Aegon made an effort to appear in the camp frequently, regardless. He was reminded of the songs and stories about his uncle. His commitment to the common soldier was legendary, and they apparently adored him for it. Aegon wanted to emulate him if he could.

Aegon strode through the main gates of Raventree Hall, the carved stone standing vigilantly against the biting cold and the previous assault by the faithful forces. The keep’s ancient stone halls were warmer than the outside, but only just. Servants bowed as he passed, and a few Blackwood guards stood straighter at his approach.

He made for the solar of his host without fanfare. Moving the winding halls of the castle with ease, as he moved to reunite with the commander of his army. Aegon was still technically at the head, but after his blunder in King’s Landing, he was mostly letting Ser Raymont hold the reins.

The door was opened by one of the guards standing outside, letting him in as they announced his presence. At the corner, brought closer to the hearth, Ser Raymont Baratheon stood with a map rolled out before him, gesturing to positions in the Riverlands. Lord Blackwood sat nearby, wine in hand, his sharp eyes flicking to Aegon immediately.

“My prince,” Ser Raymont said, nodding. “I suppose that means that you did not find the traitors?”

Aegon shed his cotton and leather gloves and let them fall to the table, moving to warm his hands by the fire. “I found no sign of the Faith’s remnants. Not even smoke. We’ll need a new strategy.”

The silence stretched until Ser Raymont cleared his throat and gestured to the map. “We will have to investigate the villages then. Force them out,” he said, resignation clear in his voice. Everyone at the table knew exactly how searching entire villages in the cold and snow would go for the already exhausted army. 

“How will you identify them?” Lord Blackwood smartly asked. Aegon was about to say the same thing. It was one thing when a member of the Warrior’s Sons was found. What with their glittering armor and shiny capes. But poor fellows could hardly be distinguished from normal smallfolk. It was a dangerous situation to be in. 

Aegon clenched his fists in frustration. This was nothing like the glorious campaigns of his grandfather and uncle that he so adored reading. There were no colossal armies to quash, no more openly rebellious lords to burn, and even no glory to be earned. He was sitting in a castle, desperately chasing ghosts. Even his uncle had a better time facing the Faceless Men. 

He tuned out his Kingsguard escort and Lord Blackwood as he continued thinking. His army was nowhere near large enough to properly scour the Riverlands, especially in the poor weather. It would be one thing if he commanded an army like his Grandfather had at the Field of Fire or his Uncle commanded on the Little Rhoyne against the Dothraki. But he barely had seven thousand men after the casualties he sustained securing King’s Landing.

He had Balerion, of course, so he had all the firepower he could ever need to destroy actual field armies. But none would face him. Balerion was of little help when dealing with bandits hiding in the woods and caves or traitors hiding amongst loyalists. Burning a village on rumor alone was foolish, as not only would it would likely kill just as many loyalists as traitors, but he wanted to rule a proper Kingdom one day, not a Kingdom of ashes. 

He exhaled sharply and turned back to the others. “We change our approach,” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. “If the Poor Fellows and Warrior’s Sons won’t meet us in battle, then we will strangle them in the dark. Choke off their food, their coin, their hiding places.”

Lord Blackwood raised an eyebrow. “And how do you intend to do that, my prince?”

Aegon stepped up to the map and jabbed a finger toward the center of the Riverlands. “We begin with policy. First, no man who calls himself of the Faith may bear arms. No Septon, smallfolk, or knight. Every sept in the Riverlands will be inspected. Any arms found will be considered proof of rebellion. Their carriers executed,” Aegon said, the words all too familiar to him.

He had already instituted a similar policy in King’s Landing before he left. Granted, there were not many members of the Faith left in the city after his soldiers finished their work atop Rhaenys’s Hill. But Aegon could imagine that it would be less effective to enforce it out in the countryside. Still, he had to try.

“Then, we make coin do what our soldiers and dragons cannot,” Aegon began bitterly. The idea of placing bounties irked him just as much as it had for his uncle and father. The two of them had decided against such measures. Citing the potential innocents caught in the crossfire and the drain on the treasury. But Aegon was left with little choice. He could not flush them out conventionally, so he would turn the populace against them. 

“A gold dragon for the scalp of a Warrior’s Son. And a Silver Stag for the scalp of a Poor Fellow,” Aegon said, trying his best to ignore the shocked look on Ser Raymont and Lord Blackwood. 

“My Prince,” Ser Raymont began, hesitation clear as day on his tongue. “How can we make certain that the scalps received are truly that of the Faith Militant?” his loyal knight asked. 

Aegon did not answer immediately. He stared down at the map, fingers gripping its edge tightly as memories of the last letter sent by his wife flashed in his mind. It was a fair question, one that had haunted his thoughts since the idea first floated in the letters shared between him and his uncle. But fairness had little place left in war.

Under ideal scenarios, such a measure would be unnecessary. But they were not living under ideal scenarios. They needed to erode the trust and favor the Faith held within the populace. Gold could be recuperated later with new taxes and mines. But this war could not be won so long as the populace supported the Faith. 

Why should he, a Targaryen, be wary of his own subjects? If he had to watch for knives in the dark, so too should the traitors. Some innocents may be caught in the crossfire. Some gold might end up being wasted. But if the goal was accomplished, it was simply a price to pay for the ultimate victory. 

“We can’t,” Aegon said at last, voice like stone. “Not always. Some innocents will suffer, I know that. And when this war is won, their sacrifice will be appreciated.” He looked up, meeting Ser Raymont’s gaze unflinchingly. “But the Faith Militant hides among the innocent. They’ve chosen this way of war, not me. And I will not lose my kingdom because I was afraid to make hard decisions,” he spoke resolutely, like how he imagined his grandfather might have. 

Lord Blackwood folded his arms, skeptical. “And if the smallfolk come to see you not as their protector, but as a butcher? If the songs speak not of Aegon the Peaceful, but Aegon the Cruel?”

“I’d rather be feared and victorious than loved and overthrown,” Aegon replied, images of his pathetic father flashing in his mind. His uncle had apparently spurred him into action, but Aegon still had his doubts. It was why he ignored most of his father’s letters. 

Besides, he could always earn back the smallfolks' love once the Faith was defeated. Gifts, tax reductions, and friendly laws should be more than enough to earn back their trust. 

There was a long pause. The fire crackled in the hearth. A chill from the storm outside whispered through the shuttered windows.

“I will not drain Raventree Hall’s stores further,” Aegon continued, changing the subject with the suddenness of command. “Tomorrow, we will march for Harrenhal,” he said, pointing to the Gods Eye on the map laid before him. “From there, it will be easier to deploy our troops across the Riverlands. Plus I can strike faster, farther, and without burdening my allies.”

Lord Blackwood’s lips twitched slightly. “I take it, you still count me among them?”

“For now,” Aegon said, too weary to veil the threat. “So long as you continue to serve the crown, you will be duly rewarded,” he promised easily. He knew that any member of the Faith of the Seven was questionable under his command, liable to betray at really any moment. House Blackwood was not of the Faith, however. They followed the same tree gods of the North. 

He had learned to never trust anyone fully. But he trusted Lord Blackwood farther than he could throw him, at least. Which was more than he could say about some people. 

Aegon’s gut twisted in his stomach, remembering that wretched letter. Joy and anger all wrapped up into one painful series of hastily scribbled words. He tightened his fist again, uncertain about the future. 

Blackwood bowed stiffly. “As you say, my prince. But I ask, what of the lords who gave shelter and gold to the Faith? Will they go unpunished while we hang septons and hunt barefoot beggars?”

Aegon’s face darkened, new fears coming to the forefront of his mind. “Do you know who they are?” he asked curiously. He had burned all the unfaithful lords he knew about on his way here. Houses Blanetree, Terrick, Deddings, Lychester, and Wayne, but did Lord Blackwood know more? 

Blackwood didn’t flinch, though a lesser man might have. “Some,” he said plainly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly

“Not all. But I know which ones are loud in their prayers and are oh so secretive. Which ones opened their gates to wandering brothers with swords on their backs. Which ones left food and coin behind when the Poor Fellows passed through.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’ve burned a few, aye. But not the worst.”

Aegon’s mouth shut tightly. He had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud soured his stomach further. ‘So many mouths, so many lies,’ he thought. How many were feigning their loyalty or neutrality? Supporting the Faith under the cover of darkness and perceived neutrality.

“Names,” Aegon demanded flatly.

Blackwood gave a shallow nod. “I will give them to you. But, my prince, I caution you…some are great lords. Old houses with old ties. If you burn them, the Riverlands may break for good. The Tullys can barely keep it together as is.”

“Then let it break,” Aegon snapped. “If the cost of peace is coddling traitors and kneeling before pious liars, then let the Riverlands burn. I will rebuild it, stone by stone, under the banner of the three-headed dragon,” Aegon said, his patience running thin.

Blackwood inclined his head again, this time more slowly. “As you say, my prince.”

He cleared his throat before beginning, both he and Ser Raymont in rapt attention. 

“I know of only a few for certain. House Grell, Charlton, Ryger, and Bracken, I have confirmed with my informants,” the older man began. Aegon noted the particular spite with which the man spoke of the last house. He was glad that House Blackwood held such disdain for traitors as himself. 

“Are there any others?” Aegon queried. This haul would be useful and these houses would pay dearly for their disloyalty. But he needed to know if there were more. 

“I suspect my liege lord, House Tully, as well. But I cannot confirm it, my prince,” Lord Blackwood said with a humble bow. 

Aegon’s eyes narrowed heavily, shrinking down to mere slits. If House Tully was truly rebellious, it was a bad sign. Thankfully, all of the Lord Paramounts and Wardens had remained at least vocally loyal so far. But if House Tully was plotting, he would have to change that. 

He resolved to deal with the Tullys at a later date. He would begin his own search and monitoring of the potentially rebellious high lords. But for now, he had a list of confirmed traitors, and he would make them pay. 

…

Balerion rumbled gleefully beneath him as they swooped over the Red Fork. Aegon could not help but revel in his dragon’s joy. Their emotions mixed together like a troubling stew in a red-hot cauldron. He had been convinced to rest for the night before heading out to punish the traitors. But now it was time to exact just revenge on the foolish Andals. 

The castle came into view quickly. The proud and stout castle Stone Hedge, home to none other than House Bracken, the longtime enemies of House Blackwood. It was truly convenient how they had chosen to rebel, their lands were much coveted by House Blackwood and Aegon had every intention of giving it to them. 

Allies needed to be rewarded, after all. House Blackwood was stalwart in their backing of his house, where so many other traitors were not. Their loyalty needed to be rewarded, so that all other nobles would know. Loyalty would be met with gifts and honors. While betrayal would earn them nothing but fire and blood. 

‘Loyalty…’ The word betrayal momentarily knocked Aegon out of his stupor. His gut twisted painfully as memories assaulted his mind unbidden. He tried to lose himself in his dragon, as he had been doing for the last few moons. But ever since that damnable letter arrived, he had found little success. 

Rhaena’s hastily scribbled words and atrocious calligraphy were seared into his mind. Her sloppy script spoke of joy, of the child she carried. And yet beneath each hopeful word, Aegon felt a terrible mix of triumph and agony fill his mind. 

He clenched his teeth, his fingers tightening on Balerion’s reins as he felt his dragon try to comfort him from the other side of his bond. Balerion’s anger and excitement did their best to subdue him, but his mind wandered nonetheless.

A child. His child. His and Rhaena’s child. The thought should have made his heart soar higher than any dragon ever had. And in truth, it had…at first. 

He had roared in celebration when he first received the letter. His triumph was confirmed and his future secured. His wife was pregnant with his child. He would soon have his own heir. Her promise to him kept. 

Yet his celebration did not last long. The cruel thoughts that had plagued his mind ever since that fateful day almost three years before did not abate at the news. No, instead the doubt only grew stronger with each scouting flight atop Balerion.

Regardless of the life that was growing in her womb. She had still betrayed him. He had let himself fall into a sort of happy delusion on Dragonstone. Where he and Rhaena pretended that all was well and her betrayal had never happened. 

The memories of that time were bitterly painful. Oh, how he longed for it again, yet his blood boiled remembering it still. How he caved so easily to her touch. Her loving glances and alluring form drew him in helplessly. It irked him more than he could understand. 

He told her he would give her a chance. A chance to prove her loyalty. ‘Has she not already?’ he wondered once more. She was carrying his child now. A little prince or princess who would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms. She had loved him as any wife should on Dragonstone. Yet he could not help but doubt, troubling thoughts licking at the back of his mind. 

He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.

“Dracarys,” Aegon said quietly. His previous joy and excitement had been snuffed out. But the job had to be done all the same. 

Aegon let Balerion take control as Aegon leaned back into his saddle. Screams of the dead and dying mixed with the cracks and thunderous booms of the castle being reduced to rubble. But it was in one ear and out the other for Aegon. The only thing on his mind was Rhaena.

____________________________________________________________________________

Aenys XIV

11th Moon, 39AC

Aenys hugged his cloak tightly around him as he made for the large tent. He really ought to be getting to sleep, given that the storm was supposed to clear by the next day, and then the battle would begin. But he wished to speak with his uncle more. 

The tent flaps were opened by the vigilant soldiers standing outside. Shivering in the freezing rain even more than he was as they valiantly braved the cold in their fine steel mail. “Your Grace,” one muttered respectfully through chattering teeth.

Aenys gave a quick nod and stepped inside, letting the warmth and flickering light from the lanterns embrace him like an old friend. The scent of spiced wine filled the air as he shed his wet wool cloak and made for the hearth in the tent, along with his Kingsguard escort. 

Orys looked up from the map table as the flap closed behind them. His expression, so often grim of late, broke into something close to amusement.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, straightening up and stretching his broad shoulders. Despite his age, he looked every bit the warrior. 

“Didn’t try,” Aenys admitted, crouching by the fire. “Rain makes too much noise.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t expect too much from you,” Orys said, walking over and handing him a cup of wine without asking.

Aenys sighed heavily as he drank from the warm glass. The spiced wine was soothing on his tongue as he remembered just how pathetic he had been. He had let the situation get worse and worse while he hid on Dragonstone. It was disgraceful. 

“Expect as much as you want. I will meet all expectations,” Aenys swore, his purple eyes resolute. He would make the traitors pay. He would not endanger more of his children, he had already lost one. He would not lose more. 

Orys arched a brow at the intensity in Aenys’s voice, though a flicker of pride softened his stern features. “Is that so?” he said, lowering himself onto a nearby stool. “You need to be careful with vows like that. The gods love making fools of us.”

“I’ve already played the fool,” Aenys said, setting his cup down with more force than necessary. “Now I mean to be the king.”

Orys snorted, though not unkindly, and leaned back with his cup, eyeing Aenys over the rim. “Well, it’s about damn time.” He took a long sip. “I doubt Aegon would believe his eyes,” he said after lowering his cup once more, a wistful smile on his face

“Probably not, huh,” Aenys said, a sad smile on his face. His father was probably spinning in his urn at the sad state of affairs. He entrusted his legacy to Aenys, and he had let it all fall into ruin. 

His uncle’s low laugh and smile disappeared after that. It was replaced with a hard stare as his dark purple eyes peeked through his grey hair. The dim light from the torches danced over his features, sharper now, more defined than when he'd arrived in the Stormlands moons ago. The softness was still there, but so too was something harder beneath it, something earned.

“I still don’t think I am doing this right,” he said quietly. “But I’m doing it. That has to count for something… right?” he asked. He was loath to lean on his uncle in this way, but he felt he had no choice. 

His brother had been correct when he opened Aenys’s eyes to just how weak he was. He could feel it in his bones. He had chosen to act, but parts of him still questioned his actions. Not whether or not he should take them, but if they were the correct ones to take. Just yesterday, he had misspoken during a war meeting, requiring his uncle to correct him. 

Orys nodded slowly, swirling the wine in his cup. “It does count for something, Aenys. You’re listening, thinking, acting. That is what a wise king will do. You do not need to be your father, just a king that people will follow. A figure for them to believe in.”

Aenys looked over at him, his eyes stern. “Do you believe, Uncle?”

There was no hesitation. “I do,” he began, earning a sigh of relief from Aenys before his uncle continued. “I didn’t when you first landed. I was hoping that it would be my sister supporting my army. I thought I’d be the one propping you up until your dragon did all the work. But here you are, earnestly trying to be the King your father wanted you to be.”

Aenys felt the weight of his uncle’s words settle in his chest, both heavy and oddly comforting. The brief flicker of doubt he had carried since his arrival seemed to ebb, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. His Uncle’s faith in him, despite the rocky start, despite the uncertainties, was a gift Aenys hadn’t realized he needed so desperately.

“Thank you,” Aenys said, his voice lower now, filled with the sincerity he seldom allowed himself to express. “It’s harder than I imagined. But... I can’t fail. Not again.”

“You won’t,” Orys said firmly, taking another sip of wine before setting his cup down on the table. His voice softened a touch, a rare vulnerability creeping in. “You’ve got it in you. The fire, the blood.” He grinned, a flash of pride showing through his usual stoic exterior. “You have more work to do. But I can see it now.”

Aenys smiled at that. Validation worked to replace the doubt that continued to cloud him. His resolve was iron now. It was not only his brother who believed in him, but his uncle too. He could be better, and he would be better. 

Finally, Orys cleared his throat. “Enough of that. We’ve got a war to win.” He waved his hand as though dismissing the solemn mood. “Tomorrow, this damnable storm should clear, and we can destroy the damnable peasants,” he said, oozing confidence. 

Aenys’s smile returned, less guarded now, a shadow of the confidence he was starting to build. “Right, we strike. And we’ll make them remember why it is my house that reigns above all Seven Kingdoms.” 

Orys’s eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and approval. “That’s the spirit.”

Aenys got to his feet then. Waving over his Kinsguard escort toward the table strewn with maps. “I think we ought to go over our strategy again, so we can attack the traitors as soon as your forces are ready,” 

Orys nodded, his gaze not leaving his nephew. “Sounds good to me,” he said as Sers Corlys and Gregor Goode moved to join him and his uncle around the table. 

Aenys felt a strong temptation to defer to his uncle and the Kingsguard in this. He was not a general. He was not his brother. He could not boast of military victories over all sorts of enemies, from pirates, to Dothraki, or magical assassins. But he also needed to make his presence known, so he decided he would begin and then let them largely lead the discussion. 

Aenys stood at the head of the table, looking down at the spread of maps that littered it, the flickering light of the hearth casting long shadows over the weathered parchment. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but he forced himself to stand tall. This was his command, he had to show them he could lead, even if it was a step into the unknown.

“Very well,” Aenys began, his voice steady though there was an edge of tension that not even he could completely hide. “How long will it take to muster the troops and ready them for battle?” he asked first, looking toward his uncle. 

It shouldn’t take longer than an hour or two. Most of the men are resting due to the weather but Stormlanders are tough and disciplined. We will need some time to arm them and organize the shield wall but we should have more than enough time,” his uncle explained, earning a series of nods from all the heads around the table. 

“Very well…” Aenys began, thinking of what else to say. 

“Ser Corlys, I would have you lead the right flank with Davos,” he said, turning to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. His Lord Commander was aging fast, but despite his grey hair, he was still formidable on a horse. 

Ser Corlys gave a short, respectful bow of his head. “It would be my honor, Your Grace,” he said, his voice rough like gravel but unwavering. “Ser Davos is a good man. He’ll hold fast beside me.”

“I know he will,” Aenys replied, giving a small smile toward his uncle, who looked quite pleased with himself. “Break their left and hem, in their center. Once we envelop them, they will be doomed.”

Ser Corlys nodded once more and leaned over the map, his eyes scanning the relatively flat ground they were blessed with. “Very well, but we must ensure that they do not flee back across the bridge,” he said, pointing to the titular stone bridge of Stonebridge. 

Aenys’s brow furrowed at the mention of the bridge. He hadn’t forgotten about it, but it had slipped from his immediate concerns. The stone bridge, a crucial crossing over the Mander, was the one line of retreat the enemy had. If they allowed their foes to escape back across it, they would have to chase them further into the Reach.

“We cannot let them pass that bridge,” Aenys said firmly. “Once we have them surrounded, we crush them. If they even think they can retreat, we’ll pin them in.”

Ser Corlys nodded, his hand still resting on the map. “It is imperative then that the left flank defeats the enemy as well. If both of our flanks win the day, then the center of the faith’s forces will be crushed.”

“Ser Gregor Goode, I would have you lead the left with Rogar then,” Aenys said, turning to his other Kingsguard. Considerably younger than Corlys but still a veteran of combat. 

Aenys felt his chest tighten with the weight of it all. He’d made this decision. His mind still reeled with the uncertainty of it. Had he made the right move? Assigned the leaders in the correct positions? He would have to live with his choice, regardless, he just hoped he made the right one. 

Orys spoke up then, his voice calm and certain. “Blocking their retreat is imperative. I will give my best horsemen to Rogar and the left. The enemy will no doubt strengthen their right flank, and our best men will be there to meet them. Meanwhile, I propose we send a detachment further upriver to ford the Mander. Then have them come back around to occupy the other side of the bridge. Then, regardless of the outcomes on the flanks, the faith forces will be trapped against the Mander.” 

Aenys could only stare in awe as his uncle detailed his plans. His previous feelings of inadequacy only surged in strength as his two Kingsguard nodded rapidly, both of them leaning over and discussing the best possible route and who to assign to lead the force. 

Before Aenys could speak up again, and probe his uncle’s mind for more of his precious wisdom. A harrowing sound filled his ears. 

A trumpet blared loudly in the night. Followed by several others as shouting erupted from the camp. Most concerningly of all, he felt a strong pulse of distress from his bond with Quicksilver. 

“An attack?! In this weather?!” His uncle shouted quickly, grabbing his sword as he ran for the exit of the tent. Aenys merely stared at his back for a moment before shaking himself awake and following him. 

He drew Blackfyre from his hip to protect himself as he called out to his dragon. ‘To me, Quicksilver!’ he thought, commanding his dragon more surely than he had ever done before. 

“UP! UP! GET ALL THE MEN OUT!” He heard his uncle roar as he ran toward the outer edge of the camp. Meanwhile, Aenys waited for his dragon to arrive. 

The unfamiliar roar of his dragon soon replaced the loud patter of the biting cold rain pelting his face as his dragon roared into the night. No doubt waking up all the soldiers who were just getting to bed. Aenys did not care, however. If they were truly under attack, then they needed to wake up. In the meantime, Aenys sent his two Kingsguard to fight, as he would not need them atop Quicksilver. 

In no time at all, his gorgeous silver dragon, beautiful even in the dark, rainy night landed in front of him. Her claws dug deep furrows into the muddy, half-frozen ground as Aenys sheathed his blade and clambered up the ropes dangling off her sides. 

He resisted the urge to hug his dragon close to stave off the freezing cold as he strapped himself in the saddle. Observing the commotion in the camp as thousands of men ran from their tents in all different states of undress. The horns kept blaring as Aenys turned his gaze out toward where he knew the faith’s forces to be, even if he could not see them in the dim light and with the freezing rain pelting his face. 

Aenys tightened the reins, his breath misting in the cold wet air as Quicksilver's colossal muscles flexed beneath him. The dragon was restless as her wings beat rapidly, trying to knock off the freezing cold water that had covered them. Aenys could feel her anticipation building, the bond between them tightening as they prepared for her first real battle. He adjusted his tunic in the bitter cold, in his haste he had forgotten his cloak, but he could not dwell on that now. It was time for battle. 

“Soves!” he roared above the commotion of the camp and the loud drumming of the rain as his dragon leapt into the air. 

The rain beat down in a relentless torrent as Quicksilver climbed into the air, making it nearly impossible for Aenys to see more than a few feet ahead. The wind howled through the night, carrying with it the sting of icy droplets that struck like hot coals against his skin. His tunic and pants clung to him, wet and heavy, and the cold seeped into his bones, despite the heat of Quicksilver's body still surging beneath him.

Aenys squinted through the darkness, trying to make out where the camp ended and the enemy forces began, but the visibility was so poor that he could barely discern the shapes of men at all. It did not even look like their attackers were using torches or lanterns. 

“Dracarys!” Aenys ordered, aiming his dragon’s mouth into the sky as she released a torrent of white hot flame. He felt the heat first, a wave of fiery heat blasted across his whole body as if he had just walked into the dragonpit back on Dragonstone. But then, he heard the freezing rain become steam immediately as the camp was lit momentarily with a false sun, but it did not last for long. 

Much to Aenys’s dismay, his dragon’s fires were quickly snuffed out by the endless rain. The stream of fire decreased and decreased in size and brightness before the camp was shrouded in darkness again, only broken up by the occasional torch bravely fighting in the rain and the odd lantern the wealthier nobles could afford.

Aenys turned his attention back to Quicksilver. Her wings beat through the air with precision, but even she seemed uncertain in the storm. She was hesitant, like a ship lost at sea. The bond between them was strong, but in a battle like this, where the senses were dulled by the weather and the very world seemed determined to resist them, it was difficult for Aenys to focus.

The sounds of battle quickly filled his ears from below as sword met sword and spear met shield. Despite it all, the torrential rain never let up. Quicksilver’s wings beat through the storm with precision, yet her movements were erratic, as if even she struggled to fight the weight of the wind and the downpour. Aenys cursed under his breath, frustrated with the forces of nature conspiring against them.

“Steady, Quicksilver,” he murmured, making sure to send the command through his bond as well. The wind and rain were so ferocious that he could hardly hear himself think, let alone speak. The storm was as much an enemy as the men below.

Aenys ordered his dragon to breathe fire a few more times. If only to warm himself up and to light the sky a little so he could get a better view, but the sight he saw troubled him. The chaos below was a far cry from the well-organized, disciplined battles Aenys had been training for. 

The Faith’s forces, desperate and disorganized, were clashing with the Stormlanders in a tangle of bodies, weapons, and confusion. The cold rain made the ground slick and treacherous, and every step seemed to be a battle against the elements as much as against the enemy.

Aenys could see soldiers slipping in the mud, struggling to maintain their footing as they tried to fight. Resolving to do something, he ordered Quicksilver to fly low, hoping to maintain some level of stability in the harsh winds as his she-dragon swooped low over the clash of men. 

“Dracarys!” Aenys roared again above the wind. His dragon obliged him faithfully as she rained down another stream of her white flames. The screams of men grew louder, but he was once again dismayed to find that the flames were already shrinking before they hit the ground. 

Aenys clenched his jaw, frustration building in his chest. The weather had already given them a disadvantage, and now the battle was turning into something they couldn’t control. There was no strategy to this, it was just two groups of men pushing against each other in the cold mud.

A sudden thought struck Aenys then, remembering what he and his uncle had discussed within the tent. "Angos, Quicksilver!" he commanded, his voice sharp despite the howling wind. His dragon responded with a powerful beat of her wings, veering toward the side of the battle, where he knew a problem was about to appear. Aenys adjusted his position, keeping his eyes on the melee below as he tried to get a clearer picture of the situation.

Then, just as he suspected, a group of horsemen appeared through the darkness just as he brought his dragon to the ground. Quicksilver let out a thunderous roar as she engaged the Warrior’s Sons and traitorous knights of the Reach with tooth, fire, and claw. 

Aenys's heart raced as the chaos unfolded around him. Quicksilver’s fury was unrelenting, a raging beast that cut through the storm like a living weapon. Aenys held tight to her saddle as she twisted and tore through the ranks of horsemen, her fiery breath scorching the earth beneath her. The shrieks of men and horses, the clash of steel, and the sound of bone cracking under the weight of her claws filled the air.

For a moment, he lost himself in the carnage. The battle around him felt distant, as though he was watching it unfold through a fog. Quicksilver’s every movement was a blur of fire and destruction, and Aenys was barely able to grasp the full extent of what was happening. There was no plan, no strategy to speak of, just raw, brutal violence.

After indulging in the bloodlust of his dragon for what felt like hours. Aenys was finally able to pull himself out of the stupor. He heard a great number of shouts and yells from the soldiers behind him as he snapped Quicksilver’s reins.

“Soves!” he commanded once more. His bond with his beloved she-dragon momentarily ending Quicksilver’s insatiable bloodlust as she finished swallowing half of a horse. With a dissatisfied chirp followed by a guttural roar, she took to the skies as Aenys strained his eyes in the darkness.

With more fire spewing from Quicksilver’s maw, he was able to see that the loyalists had pushed the traitors out of the camp and back down the low hill that Orys had chosen for the location of their encampment. Aenys’s eyes scanned the battlefield before a realization struck him. 

‘The bridge,’ he thought. They had planned to seal off their escape by seizing control of the bridge. 

With one fluid motion, Aenys deftly tugged on his dragon’s wings as he guided toward the lanterns in the distance. Perhaps a few hundred meters at most. As he neared the lights, the stone bridge was made clear to him as he brought Quicksilver back around. 

Aenys steadied his breath as he tugged on the reins hard, ordering his dragon to land on the bridge as the entire stone structure shook with fury. Aenys steeled himself as he awaited the fleeing soldiers, as the Stormlanders’s shouts continued to fill the air. It was not long before the first stragglers reached the bridge. 

“Dracarys!” Aenys roared as Quicksilver turned the fleeing men into ash. The cold wind and freezing rain did little to help them at point-blank range. 

The rest of the battle unraveled in a blur of screams and death. Aenys remained on the bridge, Quicksilver coiled like a snake, ready to strike, her molten gold eyes glowing in the darkness. The last of the traitors who tried to flee met only flame and death. The stench of burnt flesh clung to the air, the rain failing to wash it out. 

At some point, the noise began to fade. The clash of steel disappeared, and the shouts of warriors gave way to the barked orders of commanders, familiar voices, ones Aenys recognized. Men he had trained with, marched beside, and drank with. Lords sworn to the crown. It was over. They had won.

And yet, as he looked down at the mangled remains on the bridge, Aenys felt no triumph. Only exhaustion and a gnawing unease that refused to leave him. It wasn't supposed to have gone down like that. It was hardly a battle, it was just a brawl. 

…

Aenys stared out at the rising sun with a blinding rage. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle of Blackfyre with all of his might. The stench of blood and death filled the morning air as the rain finally departed with the sun’s arrival. Yet the brightness only served to anger Aenys further. 

With a huff, he turned on his heel and made for the pavilion that he had momentarily stepped outside of. Aenys ducked beneath the canvas flap, entering the pavilion against his greater judgement. Four men lay before him, two still, one barely clinging to life, and one unharmed.

Rogar Baratheon sat motionless at his father’s side, head bowed, blood smeared across his cheeks. He hadn’t moved since the maesters laid Lord Davos on the cot. The older man’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rattling breaths, a great stain spreading beneath the bindings wrapped hurriedly around his torso.

Aenys walked up to his cousin somberly. He had been around death before, recently at that too. But losing more family was the last thing that he had wanted. 

Davos let out a shallow cough, blood sputtering from his mouth as he clutched at his roughly bandaged stomach. The Maester told him that the gash was deep and fatal, having pierced the stomach. The Maesters told him that he would be dead by morning. But Davos Baratheon, ever stubborn, still clung to life.

“Y-your…” Davos began, speaking between coughs before Aenys raised a hand to silence him. 

“Do not speak, reserve your strength,” Aenys said, dropping to a knee beside him, trying his best to avoid looking over at the other two bodies in the room lest he vomit up the water he had foolishly decided to drink. 

“N-no…p-point,” he muttered, turning his head to stare Aenys in the eye. 

“Father… please… listen to His Grace,” Rogar pleaded, speaking up for the first time since Aenys had heard the horrific news. 

“Y-your… G-grace… M-might I have a word with my son?” Davos groaned out, clutching at his stomach as he continued to cough up more blood. 

“Very well,” Aenys said, rising back to his feet, unfortunately turning the wrong way as he tried to give them some space. Catching sight of the two bodies, he did not want to see. 

His uncle had run out into the battle without his helm. Desperate to form the line and repulse the enemy, he had rushed to the forefront, only to receive a spear tip to the throat. 

Gone. Just like that. Taken from him no less suddenly than his daughter Vaella. Aenys’s blood bubbled as he stared at the pale face of his uncle, devoid of life and the joy that he had just a scant few hours before. Every part of Aenys burned with a righteous fury that he had never felt before, but there was more to be had.

Aenys’s eyes drifted left after that, catching glance of another body that he did not want to see. A body clad in white armor, caked in blood from head to toe. Ser Corlys Velaryon had fallen in battle. According to testimony, he had rallied a group of soldiers to repulse the other cavalry charge that the Faith had prepared. The horsemen were forced to flee, but he had given his life in the effort. 

‘Damn it all,’ Aenys thought again, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down upon the dead. His hands trembled at his sides, bloodied knuckles still clenched, his fingernails biting into flesh. The price of his reign was already too high, and he feared it would not end here.

He had not asked for war. He did not want glory and conquest. He had only wanted to rule in peace, to honor his father’s legacy, to see his children grow up in peace just as he had. 

But the Faith had decided that was unacceptable. 

He turned away sharply, refusing to let any more tears fall. He had cried enough for Vaella as is. His uncle would want him to be strong. A king must be strong. Even now, no, especially now.

A low, rasping cough broke the silence once more.

Aenys turned just as Rogar called out, voice cracking, “Your Grace…”

He moved back over to the cot, to where his cousin lay dying. Davos’s eyes were open, glazed but defiant, and his hand was reaching weakly toward the tent’s ceiling, as though grasping for something that had already passed beyond his reach.

Aenys lowered himself again beside the dying man, taking the hand he offered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You should not have had to bleed for me. Not like this.”

Davos’s mouth twitched, something like a smile, something like defiance. “I’d bleed… a hundred times… for my family. But promise me… Rogar… will have a place.”

“He will,” Aenys said firmly, voice sharp now with steel and certainty. “He’ll have a place of honor. He’s proven himself worthy a hundredfold.” Aenys swore it with all his heart. Rogar had fought with distinction with Ser Goode, and Aenys would see that he was sufficiently honored. 

A final breath rattled in Davos’s throat. He looked at Rogar, and then at Aenys one last time, before his chest rose, and did not fall again.

The hand in Aenys’s tightened once, a final bit of strength, then it went limp.

Rogar didn’t cry. He simply bowed his head again, shoulders shaking ever so slightly as he sat in silence beside the father he had followed to the end.

Aenys stood slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle over him like a funeral shroud. He said nothing more, there were no words that could patch over this kind of grief, he knew that well. Instead, he placed a hand on Rogar’s shoulder, gently but firmly.

“I will return shortly,” he said.

He stepped out of the pavilion, the morning sun having risen fully now, casting long shadows of broken banners and bloodied corpses. The battlefield still reeked of blood. So much of it had been spilled that the water of the mander was an ugly, dark red.

He needed to find some way to honor House Baratheon’s sacrifice. A seat on the council? Something more… permanent. A marriage to a high-standing house, perhaps, a Velaryon most likely. Something that would show Rogar and the realm that loyalty like this would never go unrewarded.

He didn’t have long to linger on the thought as a rider approached. His cloak had mud and blood spattered across it much like the rest of the army. The man dismounted roughly, breathless as he reached Aenys.

“Your Grace,” the rider said, bowing quickly. “Wat the Hewer… the scouts say they found him,” the man bowed before Aenys grabbed him by the shoulders. 

“Where?!” he demanded, rattling the soldier standing where he was. 

“He is with the rest of the prisoners, Your Grace,” the man said quickly, but Aenys did not care. He let go of the man and ran for the place where they were keeping the soldiers, his hand already on Blackfyre. 

Aenys stormed through the camp like a tempest, scattering squires and wounded men in his wake. Mud splashed up his boots, blood caked the grass underfoot, but he did not slow. His eyes were fixed on one thing alone.

Wat the Hewer. A detestable man and the mastermind behind the battle that had just been fought. The very same battle that had taken more of Aenys’s family from him. A battle that did not need to happen. 

The prisoner pens were ringed by guards, their spears lowered as they made way for the king. Aenys didn’t wait for introductions. He pushed past them, his cloak trailing behind him like a banner of vengeance.

Inside, filthy, half-dead soldiers huddled together, some missing limbs, others chained at the wrists or neck. But one stood tall in the center of it all, arms bound but face twisted in a triumphant sneer. His cheeks were bruised, his lip split, one eye swelling shut, but the man stood proud, like a martyr in waiting.

“Your Grace,” Wat said with a mocking bow of his head. “I hoped we would be meeting under different circumstances.”

Aenys stared, saying nothing, eyes narrowed. His hand tightened around the grip of Blackfyre, knuckles whitening once more.

Wat grinned wider, teeth stained red. “You think this is over? You think killing me stops what’s coming? All of Westeros will rise against your twisted line. We'll fight to the last man to see your family wiped out. Every last dragon.”

He spat at the ground, blood flecking the dirt. “You’re an abomination,” he growled. “A stain on the gods. And the gods will have their justice.”

Aenys stepped forward slowly, still silent. He drew Blackfyre in one smooth motion, the Valyrian steel glinting in the sunlight that poured between the canvas and wood above.

Wat did not flinch. If anything, the madman stood straighter.

“The gods’ justice?” Aenys began, steadying Blackfyre in his hands. “Well, here's mine.” He raised the blade. Wat opened his mouth again, whether to curse or laugh would never be known.

Aenys brought Blackfyre down in a single, clean stroke. The Valyrian Steel sliced through bone and sinew like parchment, and Wat’s head split in two with a terrible gush. His body collapsed as he was split in half down to the neck, blood pouring out of his body like a faucet. 

Aenys stared down at the corpse, his face calm. There was no satisfaction in the kill, no triumph, no weight lifted from his shoulders. There was only silence. 

He turned and walked away without a word, Blackfyre dripping red in his hand. 

Wat the Hewer was dead and his army was defeated.

But the war was only just beginning.