The Grey Dragon [ASOIAF]

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter

 

[ketan1578]

Seagard, The Riverlands

Daeron, mounted atop his horse, made his way through the streets of Seagard as the smallfolk watched him with awe, curiosity, and admiration. But all of that changed the moment Caraxes soared overhead. Fear and horror replaced wonder on their faces—some even fled toward their homes. Daeron shook his head and continued toward the keep of House Mallister.

After accepting the surrender of the Frey men, he ordered them to personally release Lord Mallister and his heir before Daeron reached the keep. He also sent a Vale lord with them, to ensure Lord Mallister didn't start a brawl or draw steel upon seeing the very men who had held him captive in his own ancestral seat.

"Well, I certainly didn't expect this warm welcome—or such a swift surrender," remarked Lady Mormont, eyeing the smallfolk who stared back at her with a mix of recognition and doubt. Daeron noticed a faint smile on her lips as she observed their expressions.

"Surprising, for sure. But not unwelcome," Daeron replied, earning nods of agreement from those around him. Then he turned to one of his Kingsguard. "Why the sour face, Ser Arthur? Still not ready to let go of old grudges?"

"Nothing, Your Grace," Arthur replied. "I'm simply waiting to see how Lord Jason expresses his gratitude—for freeing him and his heir, and for sparing his people from further looting, presumably at the hands of House Frey." Arthur's voice was calm, but Daeron knew better. The knight was still bitter that they had saved men responsible for the deaths of three of the late Silver Prince's bannermen. Arthur was no doubt eager to see Lord Mallister bend the knee once more to the House of the Dragon.

"It was only to be expected," muttered Lord Glover, his eyes fixed on the keep. "Those dead weasels may have amassed a small fortune from tolls, but they were nowhere near as wealthy as the lions of the West or the roses of the Reach. And yet, look at these men—armored well, some even better than the Lannister armor I saw back in the war."

Daeron had noted the same when he met the Frey men, but his focus turned when he saw men entering the keep clad in chainmail, boiled leather, and even full armor. He didn't miss the silver eagle emblazoned on some of their breastplates.

"It seems House Mallister still has loyal men within the walls of Seagard," said Lady Mormont.

"What use is loyalty when it can't even free their lord from his own hall?" Arthur muttered, shaking his head in disappointment.

"There may be reasons, Ser Arthur. Let's not judge them too harshly before hearing their side of the tale," Daeron said as he dismounted, handing his stallion to a stableboy. "Besides, they didn't do nothing—if I recall, it was one of them who sent word of Lord Mallister's captivity in the first place."

"Welcome to Seagard, Your Grace," came a voice from the gate. "I beg your pardon for not greeting you sooner—I was in no state to do so. And I thank you, deeply, for freeing me from my captivity."

Daeron turned toward the speaker and assumed—correctly—it was Lord Jason Mallister. The man had once-dark hair now streaked with white, and sharp blue-grey eyes that showed both gratitude and smoldering anger. Beside him stood his heir.

Both men knelt.

"Rise, Lord Mallister," Daeron said warmly. "No need to apologize, my lord. We only just arrived."

The sky was darkening, and the sun was setting. Daeron had the pleasure of watching it from Lord Mallister's solar, where the fading light bled into the dark waters of the sea. The Sunset Sea, they called it. Daeron snorted—no fanciful name, just a self-explanatory one. That was something he appreciated about the people of this world.

Lord Mallister and his heir, Patrek Mallister, were with him.

The day had passed in a rush, as time always does. Lord Mallister had spent it punishing and hanging members of his household who had betrayed him. By Daeron's order, he had not laid hands on the men who had held him captive—but Daeron had made no such promises regarding the Mallister men who had betrayed their lord to save their own skins. Those Frey men, on the other hand, were now in the dungeons, awaiting trial on the morrow.

That was also why he was here. Lord Jason and some others had summoned him once again—likely for the umpteenth time—to demand the heads of the men who had imprisoned them. Daeron didn't blame them for asking, but he had given the Frey men his word, and he intended to keep it. Not out of fondness for them—far from it—but because a man must keep his word. A man who does not follow through on his promises is no man at all, merely a coward and a greedy soul who will find himself friendless, as no one will trust or ally with a man whose word is wind.

"I beg of you once more, Your Grace—sentence them to death, by all means—but allow me the honor of taking their heads myself. I cannot sleep knowing those men might leave Seagard alive," said Lord Jason Mallister. His expression was a blend of frustration and pleading, but Daeron could smell the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Jason Mallister was a puissant knight, seasoned in war and renowned in tourneys. For a man like him to be humiliated on his own lands was a deep wound, one that might never fully heal.

"And I tell you once again, my lord," Daeron said with a sigh, "I gave my word. My hands were tied. Either I risked your life and your heir's, or I offered them a promise—that once you were free, I would not allow you to execute them."

"But what of what they've done—"

"Lord Mallister," Daeron cut him off, his tone sharper now, "I respect you for your service, for your loyalty to my cousin Robb Stark. But don't mistake my respect for weakness. I said I gave them my word, and I intend to keep it. And I don't understand your stubbornness. I never said I'd let them go unpunished. I only promised that I would judge them personally."

Daeron's angry stare pinned Lord Jason in place, and the older man finally held his tongue. Too stubborn for his own good.

"Then at least tell us what punishment you've decided on," said Patrek Mallister, his tone calm and measured. "They are guilty. That's beyond dispute. Command or not, they held the lord of the keep hostage in his own hall. And with the cause they fought for now dead, such men are usually hanged or beheaded."

Daeron gave the young man a nod. He'll make a fine lord one day.

"That I can do," Daeron said. "I intend to give them two choices: the Wall… or exile."

"Your Grace, in both cases, they live. That would be an insult to House Mallister," Lord Jason said, his anger reaching its limit. Daeron could sense the man's frustration rising—but his eyes were on Patrek, who wore a more calculating expression.

"It's a test," Patrek said, not disappointing him. "If they choose the Wall over exile, it means they truly are honorable—or at least not acting out of pure greed, and were just following commands, like they claim."

"You've been blessed with a wise heir, Lord Mallister," Daeron said, smiling faintly. "Yes, Patrek, I want to see what they choose. Truth be told, I want them dead as well. But the Wall needs men—good men. Not those who flaunt power and privilege, but those who go to the Wall repenting their crimes, to serve in that ancient, honorable order. The Night's Watch, whose purpose is—if you ask me—more noble than even the Kingsguard's. Now more than ever."

"What if they choose exile, Your Grace?" Lord Jason asked.

"I will honor my word," Daeron said. "They will be exiled. I—and mine—will not hunt them. But that doesn't include Caraxes. Even I cannot stop a hungry, bloodthirsty dragon when he sets his eyes on prey he wishes to fill his belly with."

He shrugged, and Patrek smiled. Lord Jason allowed himself a look of grim satisfaction.

"Then I will pray to the Seven that those men choose exile, Your Grace. Winter is nearly upon us, and even Essos won't be as warm as a dragon's belly," Lord Jason said with a grin.

Line Break

Daeron was in a room that had been provided to him in Seagard. He had just eaten his supper, and after some brief conversation with the lords and Lady Mormont, he decided to retire for the night. The morrow would bring a trial, followed by a small feast held in his honor by Lord Mallister—an undoubtedly hectic day ahead.

Daeron lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and quickly drifted off to sleep. But that sleep was soon interrupted by a dream—the same one he had been having ever since he crossed the Neck.

In the dream, men and women with hair that shimmered in shades between silver and blond spoke quietly among themselves in a room filled with strange, floating objects—candles that burned without melting, orbs that glowed and drifted through the air as if they had minds of their own.

Daeron, in his previous world, had seen scenes like this in Harry Potter films, but the people here were dressed in garments reminiscent of the medieval world. He tried to peer through the room's only window, but outside, a thick veil of mist obscured everything. As usual, he ignored the idle chatter of these figures and focused on what he always did in these dreams—observing, trying to decipher the language carved into strange surfaces or reading the titles of old leather-bound books.

"Someone is here."

Daeron turned his head sharply, startled. Could one hallucinate in a dream? The voice belonged to a man with white-gold hair and deep indigo eyes. He was staring directly at Daeron, and in that moment, Daeron felt as if his soul had been laid bare—vulnerable and exposed to this man's gaze.

"Magic strong enough to pierce the enchantments we've woven here. And with my own ability, no less. Interesting… very interesting," the man said again, excitement—and something unsettling—flickering in his expression.

"A descendant, perhaps?" came the voice of a woman with tanned skin, silver-gold hair, and onyx eyes. Her voice sent a tingling sensation down Daeron's spine, despite the fact he wasn't physically present.

One by one, the others in the room turned toward him, curiosity and intrigue sparking in their eyes.

"Ah, yes. A descendant. A very distant descendant," the man mused, a mysterious and satisfied smile spreading across his face. "One we've hoped for, planned for, and bent fate itself to ensure would one day be born."

What surprised Daeron was not the man's words—but his next.

"But why did I not foresee this encounter?" he continued, almost giddy. "Ah, the joy of something unexpected. I had nearly forgotten how fate delights in hiding some threads, even from my sight. And I imagine his thread must sit at the very top of that hidden weave."

The man stepped forward slightly, his voice now reverent.

"The song the world was aching to sing has finally graced us with his presence. The Song of Ice and Fire… I welcome you, bearer of that name, to the greatest empire the world has ever known—and ever will. No matter how much time has passed. The Empire of the Dawn, and the Order of Sorcerers, are honored to have you among us."

Line Break

Empire of the Dawn

"Quite a bold claim, Valyros. Did you forget the great empires that came before us? There were many and more," asked the only woman in the room.

"Well, if they were so great, why haven't their origins and records survived the centuries? Since the Empire of the Dawn came into existence, we've maintained records of everything—within and beyond our borders. And Rhosana, did you forget the divine law? Not to speak of those accursed empires in the capital?" Valyros replied. Rhosana merely scoffed and gave a sultry, inviting smile to Daeron, who couldn't help but blush. The woman was stunningly beautiful, and every time she smiled at him like that, Daeron lost his composure against his will.

He shook himself free from such thoughts and sighed. He had a strong suspicion—these dreams of his were glimpses into some ancient magical empire lost to time. Back in his old world, he remembered reading on Reddit that Daenerys Targaryen had seen a dream much like his. He'd concluded that these people were from Valyria—never in his wildest imagination did he think they were from the Order of Sorcerers of the Empire of the Dawn. Heck, Daeron hadn't even known there was an Order of Sorcerers in the first place. But what troubled him more was that if Valyros's words were any indication, this empire had been preparing for the birth of the Promised Prince. The legendary empire had been working to ensure that Jon Snow, or Daeron Targaryen, would be born.

And now he had taken the promised prince's place. The Song of Ice and Fire. Which meant whatever trouble these people had foreseen… it was his to face. Daeron groaned.

When he returned his focus to the dream, he found Valyros and Rhosana in the midst of a heated argument, glaring at each other.

"Enough, the both of you," said a man with dark skin—one of several in the room—with wiry, greasy hair and a perpetual frown etched into his features. His voice was marked by a low growl, every word laced with disapproval. "You two barbarians, acting like common brawlers. Act like the blood of the gods should. The emperor would be ashamed of you both."

Daeron turned his gaze to the man. His presence was imposing, and yet his words rang with restraint. But what struck Daeron even more was the language they were speaking.

How could he understand them?

They weren't speaking the common tongue, nor High Valyrian—not quite. Some words echoed the harsh cadences of High Valyrian, but this was different. Not musical, not soothing, like High Valyrian. Cruder. And yet Daeron understood it completely. He even felt he could speak it fluently. It should have surprised him more, but it was barely anything compared to traveling ten thousand years back in time.

"Zoghis, ever as stiff as the swords you seem to prefer," Rhosana said with a mock-innocent smile. "Valyros and I are not as formal as the rest of our kin, but that does not mean you will speak to us in that tone. Mind your tongue, and do not take liberties of speaking to us like that ever again in your life. My brother and I will act as we please. As you said, we are the blood of gods—we are above your petty rules and discipline. Save your lectures for your legions. And the next time you raise your voice to me, you'll find yourself cockless like the men you command."

Her onyx eyes flared, even as her face wore a serene smile. Daeron couldn't help but notice how she had, despite their quarrel, referred to Valyros as "my brother." A fact Valyros clearly noticed too, for a faint smile curved his lips.

"And you, dreaming baboon," Rhosana continued, turning her attention to her brother, "you stand there silent while this lesser man insults us? Where is your fire? Your temper? Your magic that could melt stone?"

Valyros raised an eyebrow. "Very well. The things I do for love." He sighed dramatically, then turned to Zoghis. His deep purple eyes glinted as he spoke: "Thūr'ax."

Daeron winced. The word was spoken like it had been torn from Valyros's throat, pulled from the depths of his soul.

And then came the flame—white as starlight. It erupted around Zoghis.

And just like that, he was gone.

Daeron blinked. Twice. Where a man had once sat, there was now only a neat pile of ash. The sorcerer of the Empire of the Dawn had vanished—burned out of existence by pure white fire.

"The army will need a new legion commander," muttered the white-bearded man, as though noting an increase in his workload. "He was also very good with sound music," the man added under his breath.

"The Family of Zo has thousands like him. By the evening, we would have a new legion commander," Rhosana said airily. "But do be kind and explain to his kin why he died—so they might teach the next one how to behave. And if our father asks, tell him it was my brother who did it. Not me."

"Afraid, are we?" Valyros smirked.

"Sadly, some of us aren't born with all the gifts of the bloodline that make us Father's golden son," Rhosana murmured. Daeron couldn't tell whether there was envy in her voice.

Valyros opened his mouth to respond, but the white-bearded man spoke again.

"The lad won't be here forever, Prince. Princess."

"Ah, we nearly forgot about you," Valyros said, his attention now fully on Daeron. "Tell us your name."

The man's gaze—those same deep-purple eyes Daeron had often seen reflected in his own—was fixed upon him.

"Daeron Targaryen," Daeron introduced himself. But to his surprise, every face in the room fell with disappointment. Surely his name wasn't that bad?

"We couldn't hear his voice. I should have known better," Valyros said, clearing up Daeron's misunderstanding.

Well, there went his chances of asking them to teach him the old magics they used. Daeron still couldn't interact with anything in this dream, so writing down his name was also out of the question.

"But you've spoken to others in your dreams, my prince. Why is he unable to?" asked the white-bearded man respectfully.

"Come now, old man," Rhosana scoffed. "He might be the Song of Ice and Fire, but Valyros is the strongest sorcerer in the recorded history of the Dawn Empire."

"Forgive me, my princess. I shouldn't have asked," the old man chuckled, brushing off the rebuke. "The sudden appearance of the lad and the death of Zoghis… it's too much for my old mind today." Then, turning to Daeron with the same thoughtful gaze Valyros had given earlier, he added, "Though the lad has the potential to reach the crown prince's current power. But I don't believe he'll live long enough to achieve it. Yes, my prince?"

"You're right on both counts, Sigorn," Valyros replied. "He has potential... but a mortal's short lifespan."

"So now what?" Rhosana asked.

"Well, we might not be able to hear him, but he can still nod or shake his head, can't he?" Valyros said, turning to Daeron. "Tell me, lad—do you possess a red sword?"

The room's mood shifted. Valyros's expression turned serious, all the amusement draining away.

Daeron tilted his head. A red sword? Was he talking about Valyrian steel? But most Valyrian steel was dark, not red. Even Oathkeeper didn't qualify as red. Then the realization hit Daeron like a shipwreck in Shipbreaker Bay.

Lightbringer.

He jabbed a finger toward the window—the only source of light in the room. Confusion rippled across the faces of the sorcerers.

"Yes, one that could fly. Do you have it? Was our empire successful?" Valyros asked eagerly.

Daeron tilted his head again. Since when could a sword fly? And then it clicked: they weren't talking about a sword. They were speaking in metaphor. The red sword was a dragon. Lightbringer. The flying, fire-breathing weapon of legend. Had the Dawn Empire been trying to create or tame dragons all along? Was Septon Barth right?

Daeron spread his arms like wings and mimed breathing fire, pointing toward the burning candles on the table. It took a few heartbeats, but the Dawn sorcerers caught on. They looked to him, nodding in eager anticipation.

"Yes! Flying and breathing fire! Do you have it?" Rhosana asked, her eyes gleaming with hope and excitement.

Daeron nodded, then spread his arms wide again to indicate its size.

"Is it big?" Valyros asked, a mad gleam in his eyes. Daeron hesitated a moment—slightly spooked—but nodded again.

Valyros began to laugh, wild and unrestrained. The others smiled with joy.

"We must inform Father. He will be most pleased," said Rhosana.

Valyros nodded, but Daeron's confusion must have shown, because the prince turned back to him.

"You seem confused, lad. You're wondering how a sorcerer as powerful as I—one who can even speak through dreams, unlike you, who can't—doesn't already know about the red sword's future existence?" Valyros paused, reading Daeron's face. Daeron could only nod and smile awkwardly at the vain prince.

"As I said, there are things fate hides from even my vision. I believed I had foreseen all that would happen in this century. But I hadn't seen this encounter. Nor had I foreseen Zoghis's death. Neither was ever meant to happen in this era. And now they have. That alone will change the course of events—ripples that may be felt for thousands of years. Though not by you, I suppose. You are far too distant from our time to be affected."

But before Valyros could finish his thought, Daeron vanished from the dream.

"Hm. He's gone. Must've woken up," Valyros muttered.

Seagard, The Riverlands

Daeron awoke to the cawing of a raven outside his window.

Wake up. Wake up.

He rubbed his eyes, groggy and disoriented, but for a fleeting second, he could have sworn the raven had a third eye on its forehead.

Many hours later,

The Riverlands

"It does not work like that," Wood said with a tired sigh.

"Why not?" Daeron asked, almost childishly. "I've seen it. Magic does work like that. There's something we're missing, Wood," he added, more to himself than to the Earthsinger before him.

Once his headache had passed—and after eating enough to feed three grown men for breakfast—Daeron rode to the Earthsingers. Well, not exactly rode alone; he and his white shadow, Ser Arthur, went there on horseback. The dream, though as confusing as hell, had given him one crucial piece of information: magic could be done by mere words—no focus, no wand, no ritual. Just words. Even if those words sounded like the screaming soul of the caster being ripped apart.

Not that Daeron should complain about eerie sounds—his Parseltongue already crept Arthur out on a regular basis.

The power that man—Valyros—wielded still boggled Daeron's mind. It didn't help that Daeron was convinced that kind of magic would've served him well against the diminished version of the Long Night looming on the horizon. He discarded any thoughts of how to control or repeat the dream; all he could do now was hope it would come again. He was sure the Order of Sorcerers would be able to see him again, if his dream took him to the past once more.

Burning a man to ash in seconds with one word—and they had mentioned ensuring he would be born. Why? It was a question Daeron couldn't answer. Nor could anyone else. Another mystery was their mention of his mortal lifespan and their supposed immortality, though he decided not to dwell on that. He'd cross that bridge once he was over fifty and had done his duty to end the Long Night. Now was not the time to worry about his mortal coil.

"Where? If someone has that kind of power, how haven't we heard of him?" Patch asked, eyeing Daeron with suspicion and curiosity.

"I saw it in a dream. His name was Valyros. He reduced a man to ash—no bones left—in the blink of an eye. A heartbeat, Patch. That's all it took. A word and a heartbeat. And the heat… I felt it, even though I wasn't there in my physical body." Daeron's voice was filled with awe. "He said he was a sorcerer of the Dawn Empire."

"You could speak with others in your dreams?"

"Dawn Empire!"

Two voices cut in—Patch in shock, Wood in anger. Daeron wasn't sure which startled him more. The former made sense, but the latter?

Daeron could understand shock, but why did the mention of the Dawn Empire anger Wood? He had never thought Earthsingers capable of rage, envy, or greed—at least not without great provocation. Even then, they had forgiven the race of men in the past, with a well-done apology and a pact signed by both races. Maybe that was why his ancestors called them children, and not only because of their appearance.

"Aye, they could see me, and I could hear them. But they couldn't hear my voice," Daeron answered Patch, who was still visibly stunned.

"That is… extraordinary," Patch murmured. "Not even Bloodraven managed such a thing."

"Did you not hear 'Dawn Empire,' Patch?" Wood asked sharply. And this time, the anger was unmistakable.

"I heard. But they're gone—buried and forgotten by time," Patch replied gently. "Did you forget what Leaf taught us? We are Earthsingers. It was emotions like rage and hate that led our people to extinction. The gods of the forest and rivers teach only love and peace. Leave hatred to the race of men."

Patch's tone was calm and patient, and Wood deflated almost immediately. His anger faded into guilt.

"You're talking about my race in front of me, you know," Daeron said, though his tone held no heat. He wasn't offended. Patch hadn't spoken a lie.

"If I've offended you, King of Men, I ask forgiveness," Patch said with a slight bow of his head. "But I only spoke the truth."

Daeron waved off the apology.

"Now," Patch continued, "if you could share your dream in full, I would like to hear all of it."

Daeron nodded eagerly and recounted the entire dream—the room, the sorcerers, the ash, the fire, and the recognition shining in their faces upon hearing the term "blood of gods."

Patch's face shifted into deep thought. After a few minutes, she finally spoke.

"It must be your two bloodlines… or perhaps your magic, which is growing at an unprecedented rate. But even then, I'm shocked they could see you—even though they didn't hear you."

"Well, it surprised me too," Daeron admitted. "But it would be helpful if it weren't a one-time thing. If I meet them again, then I can learn even a little from them…"

Patch and Wood both looked troubled. They remained silent, but Daeron noticed. There was history between the Earthsingers and the Dawn Empire—a dark one, if Wood's earlier reaction was any clue. Still, Daeron chose not to press. He doubted they would tell him, and pressuring them would only see their budding acquaintance turn to ash. It would be of no use to him anyway—as Patch had said, the Dawn Empire was gone.

What he wanted to know was why he couldn't cast magic like Valyros.

"So," Daeron asked, "you still haven't answered my question. Why can't I use magic like that man—Valyros?"

If anyone could answer, it was Patch—the thousand-year-old child of a different race who had seen more than most ever would, and could tell it.

Patch sighed but nodded, finally ready to explain.

Daeron leaned in, eyes sharp, not wanting to miss a single word.

"Magic was not a gift given to your race, King. It was a gift bestowed only upon the Elder Races by the gods. But as with all things in nature, balance was not wholly tipped in favor of the Elder Races either. Though we possessed great power, we were not without flaws—flaws the gods themselves chose to bestow upon us. Power we had in spades, but not numbers. That gift—the ability to multiply, quickly at that—was given to the race of men.

"Your race bred like flies. And though peaceful, ignorant, and powerless at first, mankind did not remain as such for long. It began when one among the Elder Races grew envious of your people's fertility, and for that reason alone, the first blood was drawn. Most Elder Races, though not particularly tolerant of one another, did not wage war among themselves. The world was young, and peace held sway—no blood had been spilled. Magic flourished then, used only to nurture, never to kill.

"But that changed. The race that killed the first human was not like us, the Earthsingers. Though the first death came from an unknowing burst of anger, it soon morphed into something else—a game. They began hunting the weakest race that walked the land. And to them, it was amusing."

The golden-brown eyes of the Earthsinger stared at Daeron, but Daeron was sure they weren't truly looking at him. They gazed past him—so far and deep into time that he dared not follow, lest he come face to face with how insignificant the race of men once was.

"Being hunted merely for existing led men to fight back—but they had no weapons. Only sharpened stones, useless against magic that could reshape the land itself. So they fled. They hid. But it did not save them. Their hiding only excited their hunters further. Eventually, with no hope for salvation, the chieftains of men turned to the other Elder Races, begging for aid.

"None agreed—save one. A race that abhorred bloodshed and longed for peace. That was our race, King. That was the first interaction between Earthsingers and men. We tried to end it peacefully, to stop the hunts without war. But they turned their weapons on us in response. And so the first war between the two Elder Races began.

"I was never told the full tale—how much blood was spilled, what horrors were unleashed. I was only told that we Earthsingers won… but not without steep cost."

Patch stopped. Daeron thought it was to catch her breath, but then he noticed her eyes were not on him. They were fixed over his shoulder. He turned to see Ser Arthur, his Kingsguard, standing hesitantly at a distance, eyes wary.

"What is it, Ser?" Daeron asked, trying to keep the irritation from his tone.

"Your Grace, it's time for the midday meal. The sun is high—we should return to Seagard."

Arthur, as always, maintained a respectful but cautious distance from the Earthsingers. It was Daeron's own order. He disliked how Arthur watched them with such suspicion.

"I've no appetite, Ser. You may go if you're hungry. I'll summon Caraxes to stand guard in your stead. Don't deny yourself food—"

"I've no appetite either, Your Grace. I'll return to my post." With that, Arthur moved off without another word or glance.

"He fears us," Wood muttered. "And doesn't like us, either."

"He'll come around," Daeron replied. "Ser Arthur is a knight of the South—an excellent one, but a Southern one. They've been told tales of your race. Bad tales. That you sacrifice humans to trees and wield dark magic."

His voice was neutral, distracted by the story. He was too deep in history now, Patch's voice like a song pulling him through the past. He turned back to her eagerly.

"Forget him. Please, continue."

Patch smiled softly and resumed.

"I should mention, we were not alone in that first war. Your people helped us. United under one man, the race of men joined us. Despite their long oppression, their numbers were vast. Together we triumphed—but the price was steep. Both our peoples were reduced to a few thousand.

"It was only thanks to the gods of the woods and rivers that the other Elder Races did not follow the example of those accursed watery demons and attack us. Peace returned. Men did not forget what we did for them. They gave what help they could. It was a time of mutual respect."

Patch's voice softened, almost smiling—but then it faded, her expression darkening.

"My race forgave those demons. We vowed never to trouble them, and to end their kind only if they ended this bloodshed and returned to peaceful ways. Men, however… men did not forgive. Rage and vengeance burned in their hearts. But they were powerless. Even few in number, those watery demons could have wiped out all mankind if we had not protected them. So men hid their fury and returned to their lives.

"But the world did not know something vital at that time: the race of men does not forget. And it certainly does not forgive. They kept their heads low, because the gods had made them weak—born without magic, unlike the Elder Races. Their only gift was their fertility and their numbers… or so we thought.

"But there were other gifts. Hidden. Unknown even to your race and ours—until he came. He was called an abomination. A child born of two races. A mistake, some said. An event deemed a mistake that should never have happened. Yet it did. And with him, the world discovered that men were no longer powerless.

"He chose his mother's race—mankind—over the Elder blood of his father. All the Elder Races, who believed themselves superior to mankind because men lacked magic, were stunned. And rightly so. The sheer power that child wielded shook them. Mankind crowned him their First King after he had grown into manhood, as your kind like to claim. Till then, their First King was a god to them, a god in mortal flesh. Mankind revered the very ground he walked on, and he loved mankind no less than his mother's race loved him. And at their behest, he unleashed his wrath upon their former enemies.

"What wrath it was… enough to make the Elder Races tremble. Some began to view men not as prey, but as breeding stock—to beget powerful offspring. And that fear, that desire, birthed the second war. A war far more bloody than the first. For this time there were more than two elder races that partook in it."

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter

 

[Thiccc Shaedy]

That was some interesting lore. I wonder what happened next.

 

[ketan1578]

The Riverlands

"Who was this First King? Can you tell me his name? And did all the Elder Races become extinct in the Second War?" Daeron asked, excitement and curiosity gleaming in his voice. The existence of Elder Races before men—and their mastery of magic—was fascinating. A revelation that made his heart a little lighter. Because it meant this world was more than just a creation of some author back in his own reality. It was real. More real than him, bleeding and breathing in it. But still, seeing these people think and act the same way he'd read about them doing made Daeron uneasy, made him doubt his own existence. But no more.

Patch averted her golden-brown eyes from Daeron and replied in a low, mournful voice, "Leaf didn't tell us." Wood nodded solemnly beside his sister, sadness and frustration on both their faces.

"Although she did say," Patch continued, "that the Second War was not the end. Many more wars followed—until men proved they were not lesser than the Elder Races. In victory, they took brides from each race. And from those brides were born sons more powerful than the last. Though still not greater than the First King himself—who, Leaf said, never stopped growing in power. His children, too, were mighty, surpassing even the mixed-blood children of men and Elder Races."

Patch and Wood looked at Daeron then, as if trying to tell him something unspoken.

A moment later, Daeron realized what they were implying.

"You mean to say… I'm a descendant of the First King?" he asked, incredulous.

"Aye, that I know for sure," said Wood. "The First King's bloodline split in two. One branch came to Westeros thousands of years ago, long after my kind had settled here to escape the bloodshed in the Summer Lands. The other settled near the banks of the Jade Sea, where the sun rises. Bloodraven told us that land is now called the Shadow Lands."

Wood stared at Daeron unblinkingly. "And you, King, are a convergence of that bloodline—both branches united in you. You are not the first; Bloodraven bore the same blood. But your circumstances are different from the former Three-Eyed Raven's."

"How?" Daeron asked. "What makes me different from the others who bore both bloodlines? Why isn't theirs the Song of Ice and Fire?"

Though he would never admit it out loud, the constant murmurs of destiny—of saviorhood—were beginning to feel more like chains than prophecy. A burden he bore alone, unwillingly.

"It's simple," Patch said softly. "However much others meddled—whether to hasten or delay the Song—fate had already chosen when it would be sung. And you, Daeron Targaryen, were the one chosen by fate. Your rising from death, without losing any part of yourself, was proof enough."

"There are many who were brought back from the cold grip of death," Daeron said quietly, "but that proves nothing."

"Aye," Patch agreed. "But returning someone with blood as powerful as yours—whole and unbroken—is not something that servant of the Red Demon could have done alone. It was fate that helped her, that allowed your soul to return without cracks or scars."

Patch's golden eyes narrowed.

"And death's embrace, Daeron Targaryen, is not cold. It is warm—like a mother's arms welcoming back her long-lost child. Do not fear death. But pray to the gods of the woods and rivers that the Others do not disturb your eternal rest and raise you to serve them and their slumbering master."

Her voice dropped grimly, and she and Wood turned to retreat into the caves.

"Wait—I want more answers!" Daeron called after them.

"You will get them," Patch's voice echoed faintly, "but not now—and certainly not from us."

Then silence. They were gone.

Line Break

Arthur and Daeron rode toward Seagard on horseback, the clatter of hooves on stone echoing beneath them. Daeron's mind was a storm of thoughts as he absentmindedly guided his steed. Arthur, ever watchful, noted his king's furrowed brow but said nothing. They entered the keep, and Daeron confined himself to his chambers, lost in brooding contemplation—torn between the path ahead and the history he had unearthed.

Days passed in a blur—feasts, sparring matches, and long consultations with Aether about which ritual to attempt next. Lord Mallister proved a gracious host, if a vengeful one. When a group of Frey men begged for exile, the Lord of Seagard subtly suggested Daeron deliver justice—final and fiery.

Distracted and preoccupied, Daeron merely waved his hand in dismissal and sent a mental summons to Caraxes, instructing him to hunt. Moments later, Lord Mallister stood atop Seagard's curtain wall and watched as Frey ships burned—Caraxes soaring above, plucking men from the decks with his claws and swallowing them whole before returning to his rest.

Half a moon later, ravens began to arrive one after the other, bearing confirmation of objectives completed. Lords of the Riverlands sent their thanks, joining the Vale and Northern banners in their march to Harrenhal, pledging allegiance to Daeron. With momentum building, Daeron ordered Lord Mallister to ready his forces—they could not delay their march south any longer.

The day of departure arrived. Daeron and Lord Mallister stood beside their horses, men armored and assembled. But before they could mount, the sharp, urgent tolling of Seagard's great bronze bell rang through the air.

Jason Mallister's face twisted with rage.

"Ironborn," he spat, venom thick in his voice.

Well, a little fire might clear my head, Daeron mused. He said aloud, "Lord Jason, Lord Glover—I trust you'll deal with any Ironborn who leave their beloved sea and take to the land. I'll take to the skies." The two men nodded and turned swiftly to rouse their men, already bracing for battle.

Daeron pulled the reins of his horse and rode swiftly beyond the city walls, where Caraxes rested atop a rocky outcrop. The Blood Wyrm was already rising, irritated by the ringing bell. His guttural growls rumbled like thunder as he stretched his wings, blood-red eyes locked on the sea.

The smallfolk had begun to abandon their work, rushing indoors, bolting doors, clutching children. Daeron spared them only a glance. His focus was on calming and directing Caraxes's wrath. Their bond had changed since his dreams—deepened, perhaps mutated. He could now sense Caraxes's emotions even from afar, similar to how he felt Ghost's mind while warging. But he had not dared attempt to skinchange into Caraxes. Not yet.

Every time he considered it, instinct screamed not ready. And if there was one lesson Daeron had learned in this treacherous world, it was this—trust instincts, not people.

"He-yaa!" Daeron spurred his steed into a gallop. Caraxes was a league away, already on his feet. Daeron dismounted swiftly and struck the horse's flank to send it running—better it fled than become a snack.

The dragon growled low and lowered his forelimb. Daeron climbed into the saddle, strapped in tightly, and gave the command to ascend. With a thunderous beat of wings, they soared skyward.

From above, Daeron spotted the longships—dozens—creeping toward the coast, grey sails fluttering like carrion banners.

He let his intent flood through the bond and cracked his whip leftward—not to strike, but to signal. Caraxes banked sharply, bringing them behind the fleet.

"Dracarys," Daeron murmured.

The response was immediate. A torrent of blood-red fire spilled forth, engulfing the nearest ships. Wood shrieked and split as flames curled up rigging and sails alike, the tar-caulked hulls catching fast. Screaming Ironborn jumped overboard, desperate to escape, but the sea offered no safety—men in mail sank fast, and those who stayed afloat found the water itself burning where the fire had spread across spilled pitch.

Daeron watched Mallister's men flooding the harbor—long spears in hand, shields ready, grim smiles on their faces. They stood poised, a wall of steel and discipline, waiting to welcome any raiders who reached the shore.

High above, Daeron smiled.

"Come now, Caraxes," he said softly. "You see that? We can't let them have all the fun. You love to burn, don't you?"

Caraxes rumbled deep in his throat, and another wave of fire swept over the scrambling Ironborn, catching a knot of them still trying to right a swamped longboat, the wood hissing and popping beneath them before it gave way entirely. Flames danced, men screamed, and the sea boiled.

The battle didn't last long. The Ironborn had not expected resistance so swift or brutal. Many drowned, casting themselves into the sea rather than face dragonfire. They chose the watery halls of their god over death at the hands of Daeron's host.

But death claimed them all the same.

The Riverlands

Daeron had landed Caraxes just outside the city walls and made himself comfortable beneath a tree, waiting for Lord Mallister and his own and Mallister's forces to march out. Time passed slowly, and Daeron grew bored watching Caraxes, who lay contentedly in the sun. The Blood Wyrm disliked the cold night winds, and so, with daylight upon them, he preferred to bask in the open, soaking up the heat.

And what better time to enjoy the sun—after roasting a few hundred Ironborn? Daeron snorted at the thought and glanced up toward the sky. Luna, his eagle, was soaring high above the clouds, scouting the land below. With nothing better to do, Daeron decided to skinchange into her.

He leaned back against the tree trunk, closed his eyes, and soon he was seeing through Luna's eyes. She greeted his presence with a sharp, whistling cry. Caraxes raised his head, watching Luna for a moment with his golden eyes, then turned back to rest, snorting a puff of smoke.

Daeron was content to let Luna guide him, drifting on wind currents, wings outstretched. But as they neared the Blue Fork, something caught Daeron's eye through Luna's vision. With a mental command, he made Luna dive, and at the same time he pulled out of her mind—only to dive into another.

There, grazing peacefully, was a black stallion. Daeron entered the horse's mind just as Luna swooped low overhead. The stallion spooked violently at Daeron's sudden presence, trying to kick him out. But the beast was no match for a skinchanger of Daeron's strength. It took him a few moments to wrestle control, calm the panicked mind, and assert dominance. Within minutes, he had the horse galloping toward his body beneath the tree.

Skinchanging into a horse was… novel. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against earth, the wind rushing past—there was a freedom in it Daeron hadn't expected. Seeing the world from different species was something Daeron decided he enjoyed very much. He guided the stallion—now named Shadow—through the clearing, weaving left and right before heading straight toward the familiar scent of dragon.

Shadow spooked again. Daeron saw through the horse's eyes what he already suspected: Caraxes staring at them, unblinking and wary.

But the dragon knew. Daeron was sure Caraxes sensed his presence in the stallion's mind. Slowly and carefully, Daeron coaxed Shadow forward, toward the motionless form of his own body propped against the tree. Shadow hesitated, but Daeron's will overrode the animal's instincts.

Caraxes watched, smoke curling from his nostrils, his golden eyes tracking every step. As Shadow came near, Daeron slipped free of the horse's mind and immediately took the reins. It was a good thing—Shadow nearly bolted the instant Daeron left his thoughts. He mounted quickly, calming the horse with a pat on the neck.

Half an hour later, Daeron spotted Lord Mallister riding toward him with the rest of the army. He gave up on trying to befriend Shadow to Caraxes—who still hadn't decided whether the horse should be spared or eaten—and steered his new mount toward the approaching men. With a pull on the reins, Shadow galloped across the grass toward the army's vanguard.

At its head rode Lord Mallister, Ser Arthur, Lord Glover, Lady Mormont, and even Chief Tormund—Daeron chuckled inwardly at the thought—along with other Free Folk chieftains. All were mounted and armed, ready for the march.

"What took you so long?" Daeron asked as he pulled Shadow up beside Lord Mallister.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," Lord Mallister replied, bowing slightly in the saddle. "I was giving final instructions and assigning command to men I trust to hold the keep during my absence."

Daeron waved off the apology. "As I expected. Don't worry, Lord Mallister. If the Ironborn ever attempt to return again, you'll have my full support in sending them back to their gods' watery halls. Once I'm done in the South, the first thing I'll do is cleanse the seas of their filth."

"A noble thought, Your Grace. And one long overdue," Jason Mallister said, his voice steeped in rage. "There's no redemption for those scum. Even after your ancestors gave them a second chance, they clung to their old ways. It's in their blood—reaving, pillaging. Madmen, the whole lot of them."

Daeron looked to the Northern lords, who nodded in agreement. A Vale lord followed suit, while the Free Folk chieftains merely shrugged, glancing at Mallister before returning their attention to Daeron.

"Well then," Daeron said with a small smile, "let's make haste for Harrenhal. Once the South is settled, I'll return and end the Ironborn, to silence that bronze bell for good. Caraxes didn't like the sound of that bell, either."

Lord Mallister's expression shifted slightly as he cast a wary look at the lounging Blood Wyrm, then gave the order to advance.

Their plan was to ride for the Twins, cross the Green Fork, and follow the King's Road to Harrenhal. There were other paths, but Daeron preferred the directness and relative ease of the main road. The alternative—marching through the marshes of the Blue Fork—held little appeal.

"What were you doing, Your Grace?" Arthur asked, curiosity breaking through his usual calm.

"I was trying to get Shadow here to befriend Caraxes," Daeron replied, patting the horse. "This here is Shadow."

Arthur shook his head, lips twitching in exasperation. Daeron scoffed, amused. He'd simply been bored—with nothing else to do, making prey befriend predator seemed like good entertainment to him.

Dragonstone, The Crownlands

Dragonstone, once the seat of the heir to the Iron Throne before the Baratheons took the reins of the realm from House Targaryen, remained a grim place—always would, for those who were not dragonlords or their mounts. Dark architecture in the shape of dragons adorned every corner of the ancient castle. The Great Hall itself was carved to resemble a colossal dragon lying on its belly, its heavy red doors set within the maw. Those who entered passed through the creature's gaping jaws beneath a row of obsidian teeth.

Since Stannis had left Dragonstone after raising his banner to take the Throne, the keep had been left almost undefended—just a few guardsmen and two archers keeping half-hearted watch. It was no different than in the days of the Targaryens, when they had dragons, save for one vital difference: the Baratheons had no crowned stag to protect them from the fury of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.

It took little effort for her to reclaim her ancestral seat. The red three-headed dragon once more flew from the castle walls, the banner restored after so many years. A week had passed, and Daenerys still visited the Great Hall every day, sitting upon the throne her ancestor Aegon had used both before and after he conquered the Seven Kingdoms. She whispered to herself that she was home—the home Viserys always spoke of. But her brother wasn't here with her. And perhaps that was for the best.

Her violet eyes turned toward the red doors of the Great Hall as they opened slowly, so like the home she remembered in Braavos—the one with the red door and the lemon tree. She had already given orders to plant lemon trees in Aegon's Garden. Dragonstone would become the perfect home, eventually.

Tyrion Lannister entered with small, unhurried steps. The Lannister dwarf never rushed—he knew moving quickly would only amuse others, not make him faster.

"Your Grace," he greeted.

Daenerys inclined her head. "Lord Tyrion."

Ser Barristan, standing like a statue at the foot of the throne, gave a respectful nod.

"As you commanded, I spoke with the Red Priestess," Tyrion began. "She was reluctant at first, demanding your presence—but when I suggested Grey Worm escort her out from Dragonstone, she found her voice, though she never stopped glaring at me during the entire conversation." He smiled faintly, his mismatched eyes gleaming.

"And?" Daenerys arched a brow. "What did she say? Why is she here?"

"She came to declare that Aegon—Young Griff—is a Black Dragon. She claims to have seen it in a vision. She also believes Daeron, one whom I have known as Jon Snow, is Azor Ahai reborn, and urged you to ally with him instead. Apparently, she was sent by Daeron himself to arrange a meeting with you, Your Grace."

Daenerys rubbed her temple, wearied by what her House had become. Only three people now claimed the Targaryen name—two of them accusing each other of bastardy. Aegon had sent a raven just the day before, insisting Daeron was a bastard and not her brother's trueborn son.

"I intend to meet with both of them before choosing whom to ally with—or whether I will ally with either of them," she said.

Ser Barristan nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her choice. But Tyrion looked like he had something more to say.

"Speak freely," she told him. "You disagree?"

"I think you should not just sit here on Dragonstone and do nothing, Your Grace," Tyrion replied. "And I would also not recommend waiting here for them to come to you. You came to Westeros to claim the Iron Throne. Most of the realm has already chosen sides—Daeron holds three kingdoms, Aegon has two, and with Euron Greyjoy absent despite his brother's assurances, I suspect he intends to follow in Balon's footsteps. The Crownlands are fractured and offer little, but still the best hope for your support. You should send ravens there. As for the Reach—had it not been for Daeron's dragon, you might have secured it by marrying Willas Tyrell."

Daenerys had considered that. Marrying Willas would cost her the chance to ally with Daeron, who possessed three kingdoms, their armies, and a dragon larger than Drogon.

"Then what do you propose?" asked Ser Barristan, intrigued.

"Take King's Landing," Tyrion said plainly. "The city offers little but problems, true—but sitting on the Iron Throne while others come to you gives you the strongest position. It gives you time—time to rule, time to negotiate, time to be seen as queen."

Daenerys liked the idea. At least for a while, she could rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—even with only one kingdom behind her. And when Aegon or Daeron came to claim it, she would not meet them as a foreign aunt they'd never known, or as the best political marriage available to them.

No, Daenerys Targaryen would be queen, ruling in her own right alongside her nephew—not as his consort. She hadn't crossed the sea and left behind the cities she had conquered in Essos just to kneel before another man. Not when she had armies of her own. And not when she had dragons.

Inn at the Crossroads, Kingsroad

Daeron was astride Shadow as they made their way toward the Ruby Ford under the full moon. The night wasn't too dark—moonlight bathed the path in silver—and both Arthur and Daeron could see the road ahead. It had been four days since they left the Twins, and they had now reached the Inn at the Crossroads. They'd decided to rest here for the night.

Daeron could have chosen to stop at Castle Darry, which wasn't much farther, but he decided against it. Castle Darry was said to be under the control of Lannister men. It could've been a mere rumor, something overheard at the inn, but Daeron wasn't one to take unnecessary risks. His men were tired from marching dawn till dusk, and in no shape to lay siege or defend themselves if attacked in their sleep.

He had hoped the bastard cousin of House Darry—who was said to be staking a claim—might appear before him. If the man was who he claimed to be, Daeron would have handed over the castle willingly. But it seemed either the bastard was dead, or word hadn't yet reached him of Daeron's presence nearby. Unlikely, Daeron thought, since the innkeeper had been preparing for their arrival since the day they left the Twins. Not to mention, farmers' sons and scattered men-at-arms had begun joining their march along the Kingsroad, drawn by fury and vengeance. All eager to strike back at the Lannisters.

And Daeron understood their rage. Looking west of the Kingsroad toward the Green Fork, the land was scorched—fields burnt, holdfasts and homes razed. Nothing had been spared. The brutality of the Lannisters left him disgusted, though not surprised. He could only sigh, weary and resigned. Such was the world he now lived in.

By the time they reached the Trident's crossing—the one called Ruby Ford, the place where Daeron's biological father had fallen to the so-called Demon of the Trident—the hour of the bat had come. Daeron dismounted and walked to the riverbank, gazing out over the water. Emotion stirred in his chest, though he couldn't quite name it. And that struck him as almost funny, in a dark sort of way—that he, who could smell the emotions of other people, could not identify his own.

"Your father, though gifted with the sword, never gave it the same devotion he gave his books," Arthur said softly, standing just a step behind him, his gaze fixed on the muddied current of the Trident. "I dream of that day often, you know. That accursed day. I wonder what might've been if Rhaegar had listened to me and let me come with him. The Lord Commander and Ser Oswell were guarding the Queen. They would've protected her and you with their lives, as was their duty. By the Old Gods and the New, I would've made sure this place was called End of Rebellious Stag… not Ruby Ford."

Daeron could practically smell Arthur's regret and anger clinging to him like a heavy, damp cloak.

"Drunkard and whoremonger he may have been, but Robert was a puissant warrior—unmatched with a hammer in hand, and strength to back it. You truly believe you could have made the difference? Ser Barristan was there too, and even he could do nothing," Daeron muttered absently.

"Dawn has drunk the blood of warriors more skilled than Robert, when it was in my hand," Arthur replied without pause. "And Ser Barristan—with all his honor and skill—was too rigid. He either underestimated Robert's fury or overestimated the Prince's chances. Likely because of Connington's earlier victory over Robert. And their numbers were greater. He may have thought the battle already won. Too much victory can do that to a man. Still… I blame him for failing to protect the Prince."

"It was war, Arthur. You can't place that burden on him. Robert wasn't alone. Many fought with him. Others could have intercepted him, bought time. It wasn't all on Ser Barristan."

"But I can blame him," Arthur said stubbornly, "for bending the knee to that drunkard and usurper."

Daeron shook his head, eyes fixed on the silver-lit waters. He didn't share Arthur's bitterness. He didn't blame Barristan. The man was old, his hopes broken. After Rhaegar's death, who was left? Viserys was just a child—madness in his blood, no allies, no strength. The realm had never followed Aerys; they had followed the Last Dragon. And when Rhaegar fell, so did everything else. Barristan's surrender was just one of many.

"I want to practice my singing. In Parseltongue," Daeron said after a pause.

Arthur frowned but did not object.

"I won't leave this time," he said after a long breath. "I'll stand here. I want to hear it."

Daeron raised an eyebrow. Arthur had never stayed to listen before. Usually, he gave Daeron privacy when he practiced the serpentine tongue. Daeron often wondered if Parseltongue had any real mystical power when sung aloud near humans; the snakes simply enjoyed hearing him speak. So whenever he asked them their opinion of his voice, their reply was always the same: "Ssspeaker ssing good. Sspeaker ssing more." Wood and Patch—and the Earthsingers—had been avoiding him since their talk about the past. With no human to judge the language's effect, Daeron lacked confirmation.

So Arthur staying? That was valuable. Like a curious rat, willing to endure the experiment.

Daeron cleared his throat, not intending to waste much time. Arthur remained silent, his face unreadable. Daeron began:

"Sssummon the gentle ebb of light,

Ssoothe each wound with ssilver might,

Ssspin the threadsss of flesh and bone,

Ssend them whole where oncce they're torn,

Sssuckle life from hidden ssprings,

Sssing the tide that healing brings,

Sshield the heart with coils of care,

Ssanctify all hurt laid bare."

Daeron stopped abruptly when he heard the sound of someone grunting in relief beside him. He turned to Arthur, eyes widening in shock. There was little doubt left now—singing in Parseltongue, even with whatever half-written verse he'd composed, did have effects on others. Aether had told him as much. But this?

It was Arthur.

The sounds of relief came from the white knight himself, and the sheer look of bliss on Arthur's face unsettled Daeron enough to take a cautious step back.

"Arthur," Daeron called quietly, not wanting to spook him. When the knight remained dazed, Daeron raised his voice. "Arthur."

Arthur jolted upright, back ramrod straight, his hand flying to the pommel of his sword with such speed that Daeron hadn't seen the motion until it was done. The knight looked around sharply, then locked eyes with Daeron, realization dawning.

He flushed—an awkward blend of embarrassment and elation. "It is… wonderful, Your Grace. Your voice, I mean. I never thought a song could heal someone. Aye, you might not have noticed, since you weren't affected the same way, but… slowly, your singing made me feel lighter. The pain in my body faded. I felt as if, even if I were cut open, the wound would heal in seconds. I wouldn't feel a thing—not so long as I could hear your voice. The shivers and unease I had when you hissed before… they turned into warmth. Peace. Something like this, I've never felt in my entire life." Arthur's words came with genuine joy.

"Daeron the Bard King," Daeron quipped. "That's how history will remember me. Or perhaps… Daeron the Hisser." He chuckled, and Arthur joined in, both sharing a rare moment of levity. Though Daeron does not doubt that Arthur is thinking as much as him what to do with this new ability.

But then Arthur furrowed his brow, glancing curiously at Daeron. "What if you sang a sad song, like your father Rhaegar, Your Grace? Would you make our enemies weep and—?"

He stopped mid-thought, his gaze shifting past Daeron's shoulder. Daeron turned as well.

Smoke—thick and dark—rose into the star-lit sky to the south of the Trident.

Daeron's eyes immediately scanned the skies, searching. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

"Catch my body, Ser."

Before Arthur could respond, Daeron's mind surged upward—into the owl flying high above. The owl was headed north, likely fleeing the smoke, but Daeron wrested control with practiced ease.

He would have appreciated the night vision in other circumstances. Now it simply served its purpose.

He steered the owl southward. The bird hooted in protest, afraid, its mind flooded with instinctive terror at the sight of fire. But Daeron pressed forward. What lay ahead had to be seen.

Castle Darry was ablaze.

From the owl's sharp eyes, Daeron watched people scatter—some fleeing in terror, others desperately trying to douse the flames with buckets from afar. Futile.

The message was clear for anyone with a mind to see. The fire was no accident.

Daeron pulled himself free from the owl's mind. He staggered slightly as he returned to his body, leaning against Arthur for balance.

"What is that fire, Your Grace?" Arthur asked.

Daeron's voice was low and bitter. "It seems the Lannisters of this age enjoy burning things just as much as my dear grandsire did. The Targaryen one."

This time his humor rang hollow.

House Darry had stood by House Targaryen through every rebellion, every war. As if extinguishing their line hadn't been cruel enough, now the Lannister men had burned their ancestral seat as well. Such cruelty… would not go unanswered.

Daeron's eyes glinted cold in the moonlight.

He had decided not to burn the keeps and extinguish old lines.

But the Westerlands? Their cruelty made Daeron decide that exceptions needed to be made. And Daeron decided then and there, watching the smoke rise from the south:

The Westerlands would learn the true meaning of Fire and Blood.

 

[Thiccc Shaedy]

Dude. You just reposted the last chapter.

 

[NumenLikeWater]

I think you posted and threadmarked the same chapter twice, unless this is a glitch.

 

[ketan1578]

Dude. You just reposted the last chapter.

Click to shrink...

Yeah, sorry for that; I was too sleepy when I posted it.

 

[ketan1578]

I think you posted and threadmarked the same chapter twice, unless this is a glitch.

Click to shrink...

It wasn't a glitch; it was a mistake on my side.

 

[Thiccc Shaedy]

Yeah, sorry for that; I was too sleepy when I posted it.

Click to shrink...

No problem, babes. Mistakes happen. Anyway, just finished the chapter! It was absolutely perfect!