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POV: Edmyn Tully - The Ruins of Harrenhal
The air for miles around Harrenhal didn't smell of autumn. It smelled of scorched earth, sulfur, and something heavier that none of my men or the lords following could identify.
I rode at the head of my knights, with my fellow riverlords, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. We had come prepared for a siege. We had brought ladders, rams, and the fury of the Trident and its riverlords, ready to tear down the Ironborn and Harren the Black with his bastard sons and daughters from their hall stone by stone.
But as we crested the final rise, any words or expectations I thought I had died in my throat.
Harrenhal was changed. It was now wrong. The five towers, once so tall they seemed to challenge the gods, were now blackened, twisted stumps. They looked like half-melted candles in a drafty hall, the stone sagging and fused in grotesque, shimmering ripples. Even from here, the heat shimmered off the walls, distorting the horizon.
I stared at the scene, the monstrosity of a castle that almost two generations of my people had toiled and died to create was...gone.
I was so distracted by the sight and the sudden implications of the castle's state that I only noticed that the column of cavalry had come to a stop when the horses started to whine and try to buck.
I cursed under my breath as I got my horse under control, and I noticed I wasn't the only one whose horse was acting strangely.
"What in the seven hells has gotten into them?" Wendal Blackwood asks, annoyed as the stallion he rides bucks and tries to turn away.
"What's wrong, Blackwood can't control your horse?" Addam Bracken laughs mockingly, but his laughter is cut off as his horse rears back, causing the man to curse.
I gave Wendal a look, and he kept his mouth shut, only for me to watch his eyes widen and his mouth to fall open.
"What is..." I began to say, only for my words to get caught in my throat.
A statue made entirely of the blackest stone I've ever seen sits just outside Harrenhall, shaped in the unmistakable shape of a legendary creature, yet even from this distance, I can tell whoever sculpted it was a master with a team of steady-handed workers.
"How in the smith's name did they get that statue here and why?" I asked, but my question wasn't answered by anyone but the statue itself, as I watched with growing dread as it moved its long, thick, scaled neck, turned, and brought a head that was so big I could barely comprehend it.
But I didn't start fearing for my safety until I stared into its two burning red eyes.
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POV: Orys Baratheon - Stormlands
I stood upon the crest of the hill, my boots sinking into the wet, grasping mud of the Stormlands. Below me, the host my brother had entrusted to my command was a sea of damp wool and flickering campfires. I watched a pair of knights sparring, the ring of blunted steel muffled by the heavy, humid air, while nearby, a group of sellswords sat on upturned crates. They were obsessively counting their coin and scratching figures into grease-stained ledgers, as if the gold would matter once the sky broke open.
I kept my face a mask of stone. I wasn't nervous about the command; I had been raised to be the sword in Aegon's hand and the shield for my sisters. I had managed men and ships since I was old enough to hold a quill. Death was a risk I had accepted long before we left the shores of Dragonstone.
No, what made my pulse thrum with a dull, persistent anxiety was my brother's last words to me.
...
The council chamber had emptied, the heavy thud of the door echoing in the silence. Aegon had called for me to stay behind. Rhaenys and Visenya had paused, their violet eyes darting between the two of us with a look of surprise and suspicion I've rarely seen on their faces. Aegon gave them a silent, heavy look—one we all recognized immediately. They nodded and left, though not without casting a lingering glance at me before the door closed.
"What is this about, brother?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral. But as Aegon turned to look at me, those deep violet eyes told me he already saw the nervousness I was trying to hide.
"Why ask a question you already know the answer to?" Aegon asked. He smiled softly, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes.
I sighed, nodding resignedly. "Very well... what did you dream, brother?"
Aegon let out a long, shuddering breath, as if releasing a physical weight from his shoulders. I had seen him like this before. With his back straight like a spear and his legs spread in a warrior's stance, he looked like a man trying to hold the sky aloft. Every time I saw him this way, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and take that weight from him.
"I dreamed of you," Aegon said, his voice controlled, though his hands gripped the arms of his chair with enough force to make the wood groan. "I saw you facing a storm, sword in hand. Then, a white dragon breathed its flames, cutting a path for you to the eye of the tempest. And there, you faced a black stag... a crown around its neck and golden antlers reaching for the sky."
Since we were children, Aegon's gift—the "Dragon Dreams" inherited from Daenys the Dreamer—had only grown clearer, more symbolic, and more burdensome. Since he had bonded with Balerion, the visions were no longer echoes; they were truths. He hated them, but he never ignored them.
"So, I am to face Argilac himself," I said, interpreting the symbols in my mind that we had spent decades deciphering such dreams together, along with our sisters. "And Rhaenys will clear the path with Meraxes."
Aegon nodded once. He wasn't upset by the dream, but by the reality it dictated: that he wouldn't be by our side.
"Fuck the dream," Aegon said with a rare, sudden intensity. "Once I am done with the Ironborn, Balerion and I can be by your side in days."
I stepped forward and clapped his shoulder tenderly. He looked at me, startled by the gesture. I gave him the soft smile I usually reserved for the women of our house.
"I'll be fine, little brother," I said.
Aegon's eyes widened ever so slightly. For a fleeting second, I thought the new High King of Westeros, my little brother, might shed a tear. Something he hadn't done since fathers death. He quickly composed himself, taking a deep breath that seemed to settle the very air in the room.
"I know," Aegon whispered. "Big brother."
For just a heartbeat, we weren't kings and commanders. We were boys on the sands of Dragonstone, swinging wooden swords and commanding imaginary dragons across a sea of pebbles.
...
The rhythmic thrum of massive wings snapped Orys back to the present. Meraxes descended through the grey clouds, her silver scales looking like dull lead in the dying light.
Rhaenys was off the dragon's back before the beast had even finished settling. She strode toward Orys with that familiar, cocky smile—a look that had already become legendary among the lords who had knelt. Orys raised a single eyebrow, his face remaining a neutral mask. He inwardly wished any man luck who thought they could woo his sister; they would have a better chance of taming Meraxes.
"Argilac has sallied from Storm's End," she said, her stride confident, though her voice carried a sliver of uncharacteristic worry. "He rides at the head of an army twice our size. Worse, Orys... a storm is gathering. I've never seen it's like. If he attacks when the heavens break, I won't be able to fly Meraxes through the heavy wind and rain."
So, the dream becomes reality, Orys thought. The white dragon—the silver Meraxes—would be grounded by the gale but make a path for me towards Argilac himself.
"Rhaenys," I said, my voice calm and steady as the hill beneath me. "He isn't just riding into a storm. He's riding into his grave for our brother has seen my fate in his dream."
Without wasting another second, I turned toward my captains. "Sound the horns. Get the men in formation. We move now to the Hills of Brozegate defensive positions!"
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POV: Visenya Targaryen - Rook's Rest
The air in the keep of Rook's Rest was thick with the scent of old damp stone and the sour sweat of men who had spent their lives hiding in the bogs. I sat in a high-backed chair of carved oak that creaked slightly under the weight of my valyrian steel armor. It was black as the night sky, barely drinking in the light of the flickering torches and warm hearth as if they weren't worthy, my fingers tracing the cold ripples of the Valyrian steel hilt of Dark Sister.
Before me, the last of the Lords of Crackclaw Point— men with hands stained and salted by their fields and woods and the narrow sea— lowered their heads until their knees bent in submission under me and the three-headed dragon banner behind me.
"We will serve and recognize Aegon Targaryen, High King of the Seven Kingdoms," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "From this day until the end of all days. We swear it by the Old Gods and the New."
"Good, my brother will be pleased," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a winter wind and dissmising the with a casual gesture of my hand.
One by one, they filed out. Lords Brune, Crabb, and Boggs—men of mud and salt who had realized that their stone and thickets offered no protection against the fire I rode. They had all agreed: men for the vanguard, grain for the storehouses, and a 'generous' tithe of coin to be sent directly to the Aegonfort. They called it a gift of loyalty; I knew it for what it was—the price of not being burned alive, but I was more than happy to allow them to keep some semblance of choice.
I watched them go, my mind already drifting to more important things, the next move on the map of conquest. The Point was secured, and with it, Blackwater Bay was now fully in their hands.
And I do not doubt that Aegon, Rhaenys, and Orys will succeed in their conquests, meaning that leaves five kingdoms left to conquer.
"Should I ride back to the Aegonfort or maybe—" I began to say to myself when the oak doors burst open.
A runner, his face pale and slick with sea salt and sweat, stumbled into the chamber. I recognized him as one of Uncle Daemon's men. He didn't wait for permission to speak. He didn't even bow.
"My queen!" he gasped, his lungs burning. "The fleet... the fleet is under attack! The enemy flies blue falcon on white, the banners of House Arryn."
I was already moving my hand tightly on the hilt of Dark Sister. "Report." I glared at the sputtering runner, who quickly caught his breath and spoke quickly, yet his flushed face drained of color under my gaze.
"Our scout vessels spotted them two days ago, in the Cape of Runes, but the Arryn fleet was not comparable to ours until yesterday, when they were spotted again, but this time supported by Braavosi war galleons," he reported evenly, yet I kept my face neutral even at the surprising news of Braavosi ships supporting the mountain and vale.
'Has Braavos chosen to intervene in our conquest?' I thought to myself, but shook my head; I needed to act, not think. If the Braavosi want to face dragonfire alone with the Westerosi, so be it.
I moved towards the Rooks Rest train yard as I pulled on the bond between Vhagar and me. I felt the bond warm and full of power yet dormant. I felt Vhagar; she was not far, eating a large bull.
māzīs ynot (Come to me)
That simple command ignited the bound power surged through it like fire catching on dry grass, and I felt Vhagar react, leaping into the air, her wings catching the wind as she broke the tops of trees, her feelings and mood rushing into my very being.
'Hungry.... Annoyed... Rider... Fly... Happy...'
I almost smiled as I interpreted the meanings and came to the conclusion that Vhagar was annoyed, leaving behind a kill, but happy I was going to fly with her.
'That's right, Vhagar, we fly... this time into battle...' I thought, and I could feel Vhagar's excitement grow, and I did smile this time.