HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Aegon Targaryen stood upon the rocky outcrop, gazing down at the formidable walls of Nightsong. The ancient castle, the seat of House Caron, loomed in the moonlight, its battlements manned by grim-faced defenders who knew that dawn might never come for them. He was prepared for this moment all his life under the careful tutelage of Ser Jon and supported by his experiences of the blood-drenched sands of the Disputed Lands.
Behind Aegon, the Dornish host stretched out into the hills, their campfires flickering like fallen stars against the darkness. The banners of House Martell, Fowler and Allyrion fluttered in the cool night wind, their golden suns and spears a stark contrast to the black sky above.
The Marches had always been contested land, a bitter battleground between the Stormlands and Dorne. The conflict between the Dornish lords and the Marcher lords had been ongoing for a long time before the arrival of the Targaryens. Therefore, it felt fitting to start his campaign from the Dornish Marches, where centuries of conflict had enriched the ground with the bloodletting of Stormlanders and Dornishmen. It was not just Nightsong that was under assault of the Dornish army.
House Dondarrion of Blackhaven was under siege by Houses Wyl, Uller, and Yronwood, with Prince Quentyn Martell leading the attack. Another host was being gathered by Ser Connington and Prince Doran to capture Harvest Hall of House Selmy and Stonehelm of House Swann.
The siege of Nightsong had lasted for days, with skirmishes and probing assaults herding the defenders into the castle. The Dornish army had the castle surrounded, and Prince Oberyn's archers ensured no ravens flew from the castle. So far, House Caron had managed to hold on to their castle. But tonight would be different. Tonight, Nightsong would fall.
The Targaryen banner was absent amongst all the fluttering banners of Dorne. He had yet to reveal himself before the Dornish lords. He wanted to, but Prince Doran insisted the time was not yet right. Even Ser Jon concurred with his uncle that secrecy was the best course of action. Uncle Doran proposed using this time to ingratiate himself with the lords and knights of Dorne under Prince Oberyn's command.
As the squire of Prince Oberyn, he was offered the chance to serve beside some of the best knights and accompany his uncle in leading skirmishes against House Caron. This helped him build comradery with Ser Ryon Allyrion, Daemon Sand and Lord Franklin Fowler.
"Bryce Caron is a brave man, but bravery won't let him survive the full might of Dorne. "We strike before the moon reaches its peak," Oberyn said, gazing at the castle walls.
"The western wall is the weakest. Our scouts report gaps in the patrols, my prince." Daemon Sand reported.
"Then we send the best of our men up the wall, silent as shadows. Ser Ryon will lead some men to the eastern side of the wall and create a distraction while Daemon leads the men to scale the western wall."
"I'll need some of the best crossbow men, my prince." Daemon requested.
"I shall assign my best men." said Oberyn before turning his attention to Aegon. "Once they take the wall and open the gates, we send in the main force. I shall lead the charge with Young Griff by my side."
"I have fifty men trained for this task. They are trained to scale the walls, slit throats, and throw open the gates before the alarm can be sounded. I shall lend them to you, Ser Daemon." Ser Ryon offered.
"That'll make my efforts easier." Daemon nodded in appreciation.
"And the storm?" Aegon asked, glancing at the rolling clouds on the horizon.
Thunder rumbled distantly in the night sky, accompanied by flashes of lightning tearing across the dark clouds.
"The gods send us their blessing," Oberyn said, a fierce grin touching his lips. "A storm will mask our advance and shroud us in darkness. We attack under the cover of wind and rain."
As the clouds thickened and the first droplets of rain kissed the stone, the assault began. Ser Daemon led his men, clad in blackened mail and boiled leather, moved like wraiths through the night. They scaled the cliffs, gripping the rough stone with practiced ease. Lightning flashed, illuminating their forms for a brief moment before darkness enveloped them once more. Silent as the grave, they reached the parapets. Daggers slid into throats, muffled gasps drowned by the roar of the rising storm. Crossbow bolts punched through the necks and exposed kinks in the armour of the enemy.
Lord Bryce Caron's men on the western wall never stood a chance as Ser Ryon's men managed to distract the bulk of the guards with a visible assault on the eastern part of the castle. The battle raged on, and Ser Daemon and his men cut a bloody path through the guards to the castle gates.
The gates of Nightsong groaned open, which was the cue for Aegon.
Aegon and his men surged forward like a tide of steel and fury alongside Prince Oberyn. The clash of swords and the screams of dying men shattered the night's peace. Dornish spearmen poured through the breach, their curved blades gleaming as they cut down the defenders. House Caron's men fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and outflanked. Aegon charged through the outer bailey on his horse, his sword a blur of death. He cut through a knight in blue and gold, then another, his blade singing as it found flesh. He felled a couple of spearmen and then clashed steel with a man bearing an axe.
Prince Oberyn Martell and his men secured the entrance to the keep, dispatching any who stood in their way.
"Burn it all down." Oberyn shouted as a Stormlander choked on blood at the end of his spear.
Flames rose as the Dornishmen set fire to the barracks and granaries, the orange glow painting the night with golden light. Screams arose anew as people who were resting or wounded found themselves at the mercy of the spreading fire. The defenders, now leaderless and without a stable formation, fell back to the final tower.
Lord Caron himself, a young but inexperienced warrior, stood at the top of the stairs, his greatsword resting across his knees.
"You'll not take my home you Dornish scum." Lord Bryce Caron shouted with defiance in his eyes, sword raised at the ready.
"I already did." Oberyn said, raising his spear in challenge.
The two warriors ran each other, and Oberyn ducked in the nick of time to escape a slash and smacked Lord Bryce on his back with his spear. The man stumbled forward, but Oberyn was forced not to take advantage of this opening when two guards engaged him. Aegon dismounted his horse, and with a swift motion, he brought down his blade, meeting Lord Caron's strike with all his strength. Steel clashed, sparks flying as the two warriors battled on the narrow stairwell. Caron fought with the desperation of a man who knew death was near, but Aegon was faster and well-rested. A well-placed thrust slipped past Caron's guard, burying deep into his side.
The Lord of Nightsong fell to his knees, blood spilling over the stone. Aegon pulled his blade free, watching the Lord of Nightsong collapse lifelessly onto the ground. Soon after that, the last of the resistance crumbled.
When dawn broke over a silent Nightsong, the clashes of steel and screams of men were no longer disturbing the land. The Dornish banners flew above its walls, the storm having passed. Aegon stood atop the ramparts, surveying the battlefield below. Then his eyes traced the greener lands further to the north where his future lay. It was a strange feeling to see the lands that were supposed to be his to rule. It was one thing to learn about his heritage, but to see it with his own eyes was something else.
'To think that I was content to live out the rest of my days as a sailor sailing up and down the Rhoyne.' Aegon thought with a fond smile, reminiscing of his time in Essos.
"Boy!"
Aegon blinked away his memories and returned to the present, where one of the knights in service to Lord Allyrion was calling for his attention.
"Prince Oberyn summons you." the knight said shortly before taking his leave.
Aegon cast one last glance at the lands outside the castle before retreating from the tower. The hall of Nightsong was alight with flickering torches and brimming with the assembled lords and knights of Dorne. Banners bearing the sun and spear of House Martell lined the great pillars, their golden hues glowing in the candlelight. At the centre of the hall stood Prince Oberyn Martell, clad in robes of deep crimson and gold, his sun-kissed skin gleaming under the torchlight.
On each side of the hall stood the lords and knights of Dorne, waiting for the Red Viper to speak. Just like the Northern winters, the Dornish desert was unyielding, giving rise to men of great strength. The Red Viper was one such man whose fame as a warrior was proven in Westerosi and Essosi soil. But Aegon called him uncle because the man was his mother's blood, the same blood that ran in his veins. Although he didn't know his mother at all, he believed she was a woman of unyielding strength, like her kin.
Standing before his uncle, he couldn't help but feel some righteous anger at the fact that he didn't know this man. The injustice his mother and sister suffered at the hands of Lannister men, combined with the cruelty of Robert Baratheon, ensured he never learned of his family. Even though Ser Jon had done his best to educate him about his Targaryen heritage, Aegon knew he was woefully ignorant of his mother's family.
His eyes strayed to the banner of sun and spear, the standard of House Nymeros Martell. It was the banner that refused to dip even before the Conqueror's dragons.
"Kneel." Oberyn said, his devoid of any emotion while staring at Aegon, who came to a stop at the centre of the hall.
Aegon took a knee and waited patiently as footsteps drew closer to him.
Oberyn stepped forward, the spear in his hands glinting ominously as he raised it high.
"You have fought with courage and honour by my side and fulfilled your duties as a squire. In single combat, you proved your worth by slaying Ser Bryce Caron. For these reasons, you shall be recognised among the greatest warriors of the realm."
He placed the shaft of his spear against Aegon's shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.
In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.
In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.
Arise, Ser Aegon of House Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
A hush fell over the hall. The lords of Dorne, their faces a mix of intrigue and solemnity, exchanged glances. The name had been spoken. Aegon. Not Young Griff. Not a mere sellsword's son raised in shadow. No. Oberyn Martell had named him Aegon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, the true heir to the Iron Throne.
Aegon was the most surprised by his uncle's actions. It was decided to keep his identity a secret for a while, but that was no longer the case. The gathered lords, knights, squires, and common soldiers exchanged baffled looks at the implications. Murmurs started to fill the hall as they deduced the identity of Aegon.
Oberyn turned to face the gathering.
"For years, Dorne has waited for justice. For years, we have suffered under the weight of the crimes committed against our blood!" His voice rang with righteous fury. "Elia Martell, my sister, was butchered alongside her daughter! House Targaryen was cast down, its rightful heirs hunted like dogs. But no more. No more shall Dorne stand idly by while the usurpers sit upon the throne, standing over the blood of my kin!"
"I stand before you tonight to proclaim that Dorne shall rise and reclaim its honour on the battlefield!" Oberyn declared, his voice unwavering. "We shall raise our banners not for the usurper's house, nor for any pretender, but for Aegon Targaryen, the son of our beloved Elia, the true king of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"Aegon!" they shouted. "Aegon! Aegon!"
Aegon stared wide-eyed at the support he was shown by the Dornish lords. It was a strange but good feeling to feel the support of his mother's family and their bannermen. But he couldn't help but wonder what Ser Jon would feel once he learned about all of this.
******
Jon Connington stood at one of the towers of House Caron's castle, breathing in the arid air of the Marches. As a loyalist to the House of Dragon, nothing brought him more satisfaction than seeing the Targaryen banner flying proudly from the top of a castle after more than a decade of exile. But now, it only brought righteous anger in his heart.
The Dornish courtiers moved like vibrant specks in the castle, oblivious to the weight of the decision that had been made days ago. Aegon had been declared a true Targaryen before the gathered lords of Dorne, knighted by Prince Oberyn Martell himself. The cheers of the Dornish had echoed through the halls, but in Jon's mind, all he heard was the silence that came before calamity.
Oberyn Martell approached him with a self-assured stride, his flowing red and gold robes billowing in the warm air. The Red Viper's smile was in place, sharp and knowing, which set Jon on edge. He had feared the unpredictability of the Dornishmen to shatter the plans long set in motion, and his fears were coming true. The Martells proved once more they were unreliable allies, too taken by emotions and showed a persistent lack of discipline.
"You are brooding, Lord Connington," Oberyn observed, his voice rich with amusement. "I expected a man whose cause has just been embraced to celebrate, not sulk."
"I wonder if you understand what you have done." Jon glared at the Dornish prince with the intensity of a thousand suns.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"I have done what should have been done years ago. The Martells have always been loyal to the rightful blood of the dragon. Why hesitate now?"
"Because now the game has changed," Jon said, his voice low and firm. "Announcing Aegon's identity to the Dornish lords is one thing, but word will spread. Westeros will hear of it, and our enemies will move against us before we are ready."
Oberyn's expression did not waver.
"They were always going to come for us, Ser. Did you think we could sneak Aegon onto the throne like a thief in the night?"
Jon ignored the snide comment and focused on the matter at hand after taking a deep breath to calm his fraying nerves.
"Timing is everything, Prince Oberyn. We had control over it before. Now, we do not. The moment that word reaches King's Landing, about Aegon's presence in the Marches, Stannis Baratheon will gather his banners in the Stormlands and march against us."
"The Baratheons will not move their banners so easily." Oberyn scoffed derisively. "They are tangled in their own webs, and need I remind you we are not without allies. House Tyrell stands ready to march against the Florents."
Jon's jaw tightened at the silly expectations of any allies coming to help them out of loyalty in Westeros.
"Allies? The Stormlands are not yet secured. Half the Reach will be against us, and the other half will be indifferent. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands and the Westerlands are filled with traitors."
"If Dorne stands alone in this fight, Aegon's cause will die before it begins." said Oberyn.
"Dorne is not alone in this fight. As we speak, the Golden Company sails from Lys to fight for Aegon." Jon argued heatedly.
"You seem to put a lot of confidence in a sellsword company that has known only defeat in their many attempts to invade Westeros, Ser Jon."
"Because this time, the Golden Company won't be alone. The plan was for them to land in the Stormlands while we swiftly pushed through the Marches and met up in the middle."
"Plans change in wars, Ser Jon, as you well know." Oberyn said, crossing his arms.
"What possible reason was there to change the plans we had agreed on beforehand?" Jon asked sceptically.
"The North has declared its independence from the Iron Throne."
"What!" Jon stared at the Dornish prince with wide eyes, hoping he had misheard about North going independent from the Seven Kingdoms.
"You heard it true, Ser. The North has declared itself independent with Eddard Stark crowned as King in the North."
"But… you said you had brought the North to the fold with a betrothal between Princess Arianne and Harrion Stark." Jon spluttered as the shock of the North going independent settled into his being.
The North was the largest of the kingdoms in Westeros. To lose the North meant reducing the Iron Throne's halfing influence over the continent. The implications of the North's actions would create in the future brought a jolt of fear in him. The chance that the Riverlands and the Vale would follow the same path as the North was unthinkable but a possible outcome if the situation was not handled properly.
"You should not worry so, Ser Jon." said Oberyn, breaking Jon out of his musings. "My brother has made inquiries to Eddard Stark. The sooner we learn the reason for such drastic actions, the sooner we can resolve any issue before Aegon's formal ascension to the throne."
"What about the betrothal?" Jon asked earnestly.
The one good thing he wholeheartedly supported was the betrothal between Princess Arianne and Harrion Stark. It was not because he was hopeful that an alliance would form between Aegon's family and House Stark. The betrothal ensures that Princess Arianne remains promised to the Starks, which conveniently leaves Aegon free to marry the Rose of Highgarden. In the absence of a betrothal, Jon feared that Prince Doran would pressure Aegon into marrying Arianne.
"We intend to see its completion as soon as possible. My brother has sent a raven to that effect. We hope to hold the marriage ceremony in Sunspear next month and…"
Jon didn't hear the rest because he was far too relieved to know that Aegon would be free to choose a proper southern wife as his queen. The gravest mistake his dear friend Rhaegar made was marrying Elia Martell, leaving the Targaryen dynasty vulnerable. After all, no one liked the Dornishmen in Westeros.
'I don't want the son to suffer the same disadvantages as the father.' Jon mused.
AN:
To read ahead of the update schedule; pat(r) eon. C (O) M/Dragonspectre.
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