ASOIAF/GOT The Empire of the Black Dragons (An ASOIAF AU)

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

Crossposting with permission of the two primary authors, who were adamant that this could be thrown up anywhere except SB.

I present to you probably one of the boldest, trippiest, and downright 80's/90's fantasy-inspired AU's in the ASOIAF setting.

In the second decade of the second century since Aegon's Conquest, his Grace King Matarys Targaryen First of his Name and Prince Daemon Blackfyre were assassinated at a banquet in Tyrosh.

Having no living heirs, the King's Uncle Aerys Targaryen succeeded him to the Throne.

His Grace called the banners.

The Realm did a thing not seen since the early days of the Andal Conquest and the Hungry Wolf.

The power of the Seven Kingdoms fell upon Tyrosh with the Warrior's Wrath and the Father's Judgement and Tyrosh and the Stepstones fell.

Essos fell into chaos.

And the Seven Kingdoms entered into an age of wonder....

And change..

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

A.C 257


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*********​

Today had been a good day; hells, the fourth moon of the year had been a good one in general. Mother was less acrimonious to Aunt Jenny and even danced with Uncle Duncan during her twelfth name-day feast. A tourney was organized for her; Bonifer had won the squire's melee carrying her favor and was Knighted for his skill by Ser Barristan himself. She sighed wistfully; there were two Knights who possessed the beauty of those bronze sculptures made in Myr and the grace of the Maiden and all the skill of the Warrior. Barristan, above all… Ser Aelyx, the Master at Arms of the Red Keep, even said there was a chance he might Ser Gaemon of House Tully in a duel soon.



That was hard to believe; the Lord of Harrenhal was called "The Blade of the Warrior." For a reason, even at one and forty, he could cast down Knights half his age with practiced ease; only Ser Duncan and the two-headed Ser Maelys were stronger, and Quellon Greyjoy. She liked him; he was wise and canny despite looking like a brute and had such a remarkable sense of humor. He was no equal to them in skill of arms but in wrestling matches, and he flung them around as if they were dolls made of rags. Only Rickard matches him… Her cheeks pinked at the thought. Ser Bonnifer was seven and ten, a common Knight, and he was sweet to her, but she liked the heir to Winterfell's deep, rich voice, his wildness, and the fact that he was one of the few people who could make Tywin listen. Aerys has also been nicer to me since he came to the Capital.



Kind even, the other day, he called her an idiot, and her eyes welled with tears, and he hugged her and begged forgiveness. To the world, her brother and betrothed was an eccentric, energetic, but ultimately radiant boy who was at ease with anyone. From peasant to High Lord, he could talk to anyone and jape with anyone; generosity and impulsive goodwill flowed from him, and high compliments, while not particularly brilliant, he was cunning and attentive. He hated the fact that many of his future vassals were naturally more talented than he, so he made up for that by listening and absorbing their knowledge and later repeating it as if it was his own (admittedly with his own unique spin.) what he lacked in aptitude he made up for in dogged persistence, repeating every move with a blade or every word of a text until it became second nature to him.



Ser Barristan said he had the makings of a fine swordsman, but only when he wasn't in one of his fits of boredom. For that was the flaw of her elder brother; all his zeal and vest could evaporate, and his interest in a thing would fade, and he would move on to the next. And he liked bittercane too much. At three and ten, he used half as much as most grown men did when they were ill. It made him cruel, making the serpent in him come out, that part of his nature that only she encountered. He used her as a vent for his darker impulses, raging at her, insulting her, belittling her betwixt bouts of sorrow, contrition, and joy in her presence. As children, they were inseparable and had been betrothed to each other as a result; while Rhaella was at first happy, Aerys reacted with disgust. "Why her? Give me one of Uncle Duncan's daughters, they might be half peasant, but at least they're interesting." Father had struck him when he called her dull and stupid, and Aerys blamed her for it and remained angry for a fortnight. It was all a ruse, I didn't mean it, I was trying to make Father break off the betrothal, but you had to wail! If it had been a ruse, surely her sobs would have sold it better.



Aerys, the whole world sees you as the second coming of Jaehaerys the Wise, but you're closer to Rhaenyra Targaryen than that. Rhaenyra had been gallant, bold, and fearless, a Dragonrider at eight and a veteran of aerial battles by three and ten. But as the Renegade Queen, she had been a monster worse than Maegor. Though Aerys had been kinder to her of late, raging at her less and taking her along with his friends more often, Rhaella didn't miss the looks he'd give her at times. Today she'd been invited to attend him when he was training with Ser Barristan, who'd stayed in the Capital until Rickard returned North on business. Tiny fingers traced her braid. Would Aerys still be kind to her when the Direwolf was away from the Red Keep? At least Aerys, Tywin, and Joanna would depart Northwards a fortnight after. The thought of being alone with Aerys here without her protectors frightened her.



The Northrons didn't hold Tourneys in the same sense as the South, the Grand Master had told her. "They hold grand games of a similar kind to the ancient blood sports of the warring Kingdoms of the First Men ere the Andals crossed the sea. Feats of strength, contests of arms, stamina, and endurance, and their horse races are legendary." Their prizes were distinct as well; no gold or silver was paid out to the winner in honor of the hardships their ancestors endured ere the coming of the Sea Dragons and their supplication to House Stark; the payouts were always grain, silks, linens, armor made by the best smiths in the world. Although fortunes were won and lost in the gambling that went on in the spectator stands.



Ser Barristan had won eighty thousand dragons betting on Lord Osric of the Barrow Starks in a horse race against a Knight of House Martell, and Tywin had won three times that off Lord Luthor when he bet his brother Garth could outwrestle Quellon. Rhaella was disappointed that she again would miss the chance to see what a Northron Tourney looked like away from her books; there was something mysterious about the North and the Starks who held it. Many people feel the same way about us. Rhaella thought as she passed through a colonnade leading into the Red Keep courtyard, with its blue and purple flowers vines that glowed at night. They exist now only in Lannisport, Oldtown, and Dragonton—remnants of the Valyrian Peninsula, of a dead world.

**********​

Warm wind hugged her dress about her, the shadow making her giggle as it seemed as though she had wings. She dreamt of dragons once and a terrible fire, but she never had the dreams of Mother or Jenny's Albino friend who'd become a staple of the Court and whose dreams and prognostications were sought by all save the Hand Lord Aenar and the King himself. Father says that Grandsire and the Lord Commander saw real magic in Yi Ti and Mussovy. And he mistrusted the kind of wanton magic she represented for the same reason he exiled Bloodraven to the wall, or so Father said—that and breaking Guest Rights and kinslaying that grandson of Bittersteel. A cry of exertion filled the air and shook her from her thoughts to focus on a voice she'd know blindfolded.



Ser Gaemon of the Harrenhal Tullys had the red hair of House Lothston, but his eyes were the lilac of his grandsire, a Targaryen bastard who had taken the name of his mother's House. Gaemon's daughter was wed to Hoster, the new Lord of Riverrun and a member of the Lord's Council. She liked Hoster; he was a Forwardist (whatever that meant, but Mother and Grandsire liked them.), and he was always so elegant and handsome; his little brother was a terror with a blade and loved the color black. She admired Brynden's rebellious spirit, wishing she had more of it.


"Not bad, your Grace! I do believe you lasted six moves that time." Lord Gaemon spoke with his voice that sounded ever so proud.



Aerys was on the ground, in nothing but trousers and his boots; his silky silver and gold hair was clinging to his shoulders, and mud stains streaked his bangs and covered his cheek. There was a fierceness in his eyes, something terrible there but not cruel or malicious, just the raw determination he was capable of and resentment at his mediocrity. But not towards Ser Gaemon. Why was he always resentful of her?

"Six moves are two more than yesterday, your Grace." The strong, remarkably powerful voice of the Heir to Casterly Rock echoed.

Tywin was seated at the base of a column in a red silk robe fashioned after the styles of Moraq, which had become all the rage. There were lions of gold devouring lions of a darker shade of scarlet there as well; apart from the lower-born yet skilled Valyrians who migrated to Lannisport, House Lannister's trade with Yi Ti meant there were a few thousand of the amber-eyed men of the Golden Empire dwelling there. Their silkworms, or perhaps alchemy, weaves Lannister Gold into Yi Ti's prized silk. Between them, Dorne and a Free City she couldn't remember, they held a monopoly on it. But only House Lannister and the Sunfyre's of Lannisport made "golden weave silk."



"I suppose so! But I cannot be idle with a blade and must be good! Else how can I give Ser Barristan a fight when Ser Maelys, Dunk, and Gaemon here get too bloody old!" Answered her mercurial brother with a defiant smile. It's half a mummery again…Yet she didn't feel nervous.



Gaemon barked a laugh as he helped the Prince up. "Ah, Princess Rhaella! "Welcome to our little tourney!" Gaemon said, bowing with a mummer's flurry, causing her to giggle. "Tourney?" she queried. I see no lances…"

"Indeed, and Ser Grandison would make for a dreadful horse," Aerys said, nodding sagely as he gestured toward the eternally bemused Knight of the Kingsguard. He was in one of his better moods today, and it seemed mayhap his latest scheme to breach their marriage proposal had worked. He likes Princess Rohanne anyway. After the end of the first Marcher Revolt, King Daeron had (To spite those who accused him of appeasing the Dornish nevertheless.) created a new domain and elevated Daemon Blackfyre to the status of a Prince in the same vein as the Martells. All his children were Princes, but their many dozens, if not hundreds of descendants were Lords.



Save for the line of Blackfyres of Tyrosh and Dragonstone; the ones descended directly from Aegon Blackfyre on one side and Haegon, Aenys, and Daemon the younger on the other. Princess Rohanne was the sister of Prince Valarr, the other inseparable friend of Tywin and Aerys, and Prince Valarr was Daemon's (The Fourth's?) elder son and heir. He'll be married to my sister soon. Three stillborn and three living children, and Rhaella was hardly close with her eldest sibling, Aelora, who was six and ten and had been living on Dragonstone for half of Rhaella's life. She left me with Aerys… Rohanne was a gentle girl of eleven, but behind that gentleness was as cold and remote as Aerys was unpredictable. Whatever became of Aerys' infatuation, she hoped her future husband would be on the other side of the continent.

And Aelora, Seven save House Blackfyre from her bitterness.



"Aerys is in a good mood because the dwarf had another vision." This from Joanna Lannister, who was resting on Tywin's shoulder, fanning herself lazily in the sun. Winter was ending, a short one, and the Maester's said the Spring would be long, as long as Jonna's beautiful hair of spun gold and her eyes seemed more like two emeralds framed in gold. She, too, wore a silk surcoat over a gown.



"Lady Jenny's witch," Tywin muttered with a frown, spitting the word Lady out as if it were a rotten piece of fruit. "The Hand has the right of it, magic is a fuel much like coal or whale oil, and when mistreated, it can burn your Keep or forge to the ground."

Joanna giggled at the comment, for she knew what Aerys would say next, and sure enough, her brother laughed.

"This from the man whose oldest friend is a sorceress from Carcosa?"


Tywin gave an indifferent shrug. "Zhan Fei isn't some feral albino who lived in ruins…Lady Jenny is…" Tywin's jaw set in a way that did remind her of the wild lions she saw once in the Westerlands, that his Lord Father had foolishly bred with Hrakkar's from the Dothraki Sea. "Tolerable, she at least has the blood of House Mudd in her veins; however small the droplets, that woman looks as though she were spawned on a Dothraki lemur."



"Ah, so you mistrust magic unless the practitioner of the Higher Mysteries is of good breeding?" Queried Aerys with a lazy smile; he was the only person in the whole of the world that Tywin would allow to beard him so. There were times Rhaella wondered if they weren't like Uncle Daeron was said to have been, but then she remembered her brother had already sired three bastards, and Tywin was obsessed with Joanna Lannister.


"Good breeding or proper training, I would no sooner trust a self-taught Blacksmith who wasn't riddled in burn scars as the proof of his attainment as I would some half-feral savage who sleeps under Weirwoods. Even Rickard believes her visions are dangerous and Northrons are accustomed to all manner of queerness." Tywin responded, dusting his shoulder with a look of utter boredom in his cold green and gold eyes.



"Giants and mammoths." Shuddered Ser Harlan, making the sign of the Seven.





Aerys walked to a barrel of water and dunked his head inside, coming up and shaking the water off. Her brother eyed the rest quizzically, brows furrowing in consternation. "What does it matter, as long as I'm not forced to marry my own sister!" he paused and then regarded her with eyes that made Rhaella want to hide between one of the red marble columns. "I'm sure you'll make someone a perfect husband, but I'd rather wed a Farwynd or a Frey than you."


That shouldn't hurt as much as it does. "The feeling is mutual, brother…" Rhaella whispered.


Aerys eyes blazed for a second before they softened, and he laughed. "There! See! Even she can see it!"



"Rhae…" both siblings snapped to attention as Tywin and Joanna rose, and Gaemon bowed. "Your grace." was on the tongue of all.


Their mother was tall, not as tall as Grandmother had been, but taller than Tywin. Her hair was a Valyrian silver save for streaks of black that belied her Blackwood heritage. Black Betha, they called the Queen when she was young. Although she had died from a seizure of the heart when Rhaella was eight, she never forgot the tall, slender Queen. Her eyes flickered to Aerys. "Go to your rooms and await me there." Mother is not happy. A pang of guilt washed over her; had she thwarted Aerys' plans? The withering look she'd given her elder brother made Rhaella panic slightly. He'll be wroth with me…I shall have to live with him for all my days, Gods.





"Come, my love." Mother intoned, looking at Rhaella ere she turned, causing a black and red gown to spin so that it caused the sewn dragons along the mantle of her gown to appear as though they were truly moving in the midday sun. Mother coughed into her dagged sleeve softly as they moved from the columns; Ser Gerold Hightower, an ever-present shadow beside her, gave a soft smile.



It did little to quell Rhaella's pounding heart

​

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

**********​

When they arrived at one of the many rooms the King used as an informal meeting hall, Rhaella noted Oswell Whent, the newest and youngest member of the Kingsguard, standing outside as a statue. A hand set on her shoulder, and Mother looked down, gazing into her eyes hard and kindly all at once. "Do you not think I know my own son? Do you think either of you or your happiness is greater than the song?"


Rhaella swallowed hard, eying her mother, her heart pounding. "Song? M-Mother?"



The door opened, and Ser Dunk came out, tall as ever, with his straw blond hair turning gray and silver, and a neatly trimmed beard framed his mighty face. "The King will see her Grace now." When Mother began to move, he waved her off. "Alone." Mother's face might have been stone, but Rhaella could see her pain as she bowed and departed, her white-cloaked shadow following behind her.


"Don't be afraid, girl; Egg just wants to talk, is all." Only Ser Duncan can call him that without it being a great breach of propriety. Propriety, her grandsire, hated.


"I'm not nervous because of King Egg!" Rhaella beamed. I'm nervous because he'll have punished Father or else thwarted Aerys. Once inside, Rhaella smiled at the room, warm and welcoming, the smell of incense burning that cast an odor of orange blossoms about her.

Father's belly was acting up again; he'd been in bed for most of the sennight, so it surprised her to see him here, his face gaunt and skeletal but with lovingly warm eyes, seated on a sofa, one hand clasping his ever aching belly, the other with a drako of rolled fyreleaf in hand.

Rhaella felt a pang of grief, for her father looked ever so tired.

Grandsire was leaning upon his own desk; Grandsire was called Aegon The Unlikely but, in her mind, the kindest King in the history of the realm. Grandsire whose hands were calloused like a peasant, whose skin was burnt almost copper by the sun as a youth, and whose silver hair still had faded gold threads. "Little Rhae!"



"Grandsire!" she positively beamed as he opened his arms for her; a warm embrace followed, and she turned and did the same for her father, who held her loosely.

"My little Rhae, do you know why Aerys is with your Mother?" Father asked her, his voice soft, yet strong! That was a good sign! It must be one of his better days!


Rhaella gave a swallow and slowly nodded. "Because of the Prince that was promised?"

Father and Grandsire exchanged a look yet silence reigned and then after a heartbeat.



"Are you ready to do your duty for your family? For your Kingdom, for your King?" Grandsire asked, his voice deep and rich, the Kingly voice he adorned himself in when making a heavy proclamation.


Oh Gods, I'm doomed… She swallowed, remembering that she was of the blood of the Dragon, and it wasn't in her to fear or despair as other girls did. Straightening, she turned and curtsied, concealing the creeping resignation. If we spend our lives together, he'll kill me one day, not with his fists, but little by little with words until nothing's left of me. Please, Grandsire, see this! "What does my King command?"





The King took out a scrolled parchment; the seal upon it was all red ink with the dragons of House Targaryen resplendent in the wax. "This was a marriage contract between you and Prince Aerys." He rose and walked to a brazier burning near a stained-glass window depicting the wedding of Jocelyn Baratheon and Aemon Targaryen, distant kin whose only daughter perished in a devastating war over a century ago. To her eternal joy, he set the scroll in the brazier. "Your Father and I agree, at long last, that while prophecy has been a guiding force in the history of our realm and our blood. It does not always hurt to confirm visions with more than one oracle."

Rhaella nearly wept, but she held herself firm; it was uncharitable to be so elated at being severed from kin. Only for uncertainty to triumph over the elation. Oh Gods, who am I to be given to now?!


"You will wed, though, and in doing so, fulfill a promise made one hundred and sixteen years before you were born." Grandsire responded. Something akin to mischief glinted in his eyes.



She quirked her head, blinking. "Your Grace?" What was this in reference to? A promise? Which promise?


Aegon laughed. "Forgive me, I suppose you haven't learned about that yet? Tell me, what do you know of the heir to Winterfell?"


Rhaella's heart was in her throat. "I know that he earned the rank of Sachamar, which is to the First Men what Knighthood is to us. but loathes being called as such. I know he is immensely strong and that Ty... Your squire."

"Ser Tywin, I mean to Knight him at the Smith's Day feast," Grandsire noted absent-mindedly.

She blushed and nodded. "That my brother and Ser Tywin Lannister admire him and are friends." Lord of the third wealthiest House in the Realm, as rich as the Tyrells, commanding the third largest army in the Realm. Only the Blackfyres and Lannisters were richer, only the Tyrells more puissant; it was a match many a maiden dreamed of, a match she prayed for.


"He's also four and twenty, with two bastard daughters." Remarked her father, his voice stern.

Gentle father, protecting me now, yet not from Aerys.


"If bastardry were still a mark against a man's character, my Grandsire would not have made Daemon Blackfyre Prince of the Narrow Sea, nor would my uncle have given his family Tyrosh and the Stepstones, yet they rule those islands as Princes and brought them into the Seven Kingdoms." King Aegon shrugged indifferently. That Daemon and so many of King Aegon's other great bastards remained true had done much to remove the taint of bastardry in the eyes of Gods and Men. Still, not every House was as Libertine as the Tullys, or the Starks, Redwynes, or Targaryens, all of whom seemed content to staff their Keeps, offices, and posts with their baseborn progeny as her Septa said often when she thought Rhaella wasn't listening. And not every woman liked being saddled with her husband's firstborn. Either way, it wasn't as bad as Lord Edwyle, who had no less than fourteen bastards, eight girls, and six boys, and one of them, Theon Snow, had been gotten on a warg in the service of House Umber.

And then there were all the Skagosi with gray eyes.

The rape of Skagos...to say nothing of all his dead sons, his brothers who came before him in the line of succession..whose demise was all purely accidental and tragic, mother says. And the she wolves.....

Aerys had told her of their supposed fate once; she hadn't slept well for days after.


Rhaella didn't mind wargs; there were four in the City Watch, including its Captain, a boy of six and ten and seven feet in height named Roundtree, who was said to be able to control two and ten score beasts. Rhaella didn't know if that was true, but he had four ferocious badgers called "Bear Wolves," they were the terror of the City, slaying curs that walked on two legs and four. It was said that House Aetheryon had bred the Wargs and placed them in the service of House Stark and the crown, but no one knew how and why.


Roundtree was always kind to her, but in the stories, she heard of Theon Snow and his rats, were not but horror. Rhaella shuddered. She didn't sleep well for a sennight after Aerys told her half the rumors; he'd heard about what the Captain of Winterton's City Watch liked to do to criminals. Roark, the elder brother of Roundtree, was now the Master of the Office of Whispers, relieving the stricken Aelyx Blackfyre. Roark terrified Rhaella: the near seven-foot Wildling-descended man was far too nimble and elegantly spoken, but his eyes were filled with either a frightening emptiness or hunger.

And then there was Edwyle Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Monster of the North more like...

Rhaella suppressed a shudder; the only fault in marriage to Rickard Stark was that any who wed him would count the man many called "The Demon of Winterfell" as a Goodfather.


As if sensing her thoughts, her grandsire set his hand on her shoulder. "Edwyle Stark means to abdicate and retire to the Stark Castle of Solstice in the North of their principal Domains...." The King stated with a sense of honesty in his violet eyes. "Besides, he has by all accounts been a kind man to his remaining son...If not all others."



"The Black Cells would suit him better and I've said it for years," Ser Duncan groused. "We interceded in the succession matters in Winterfell, and he put those she-wolves to shame…" He did more than that, so Aerys tells me when he wants me to have nightmares.


"But the father isn't the son..." The King finished hastily.



It hit Rhaella then, like a wave crashing into her chest, tying her tummy into knots, and flipping her heart upside down. I see… "Am I…Are you betrothing me to Rickard Stark?" she asked suddenly. Father answered,


"Yes, that is your future daughter, not to be Queen but Lady of Winterfell."



Rhaella swallowed, a deluge of emotions buffeting her mind. "I see, thank you...Your Grace, Father." she curtsied again, a mix of relief and concern warring within her. They pull me from my brother and toss me to a man old enough to be an uncle. True, she had admired him in the training yards, and he'd always made her laugh, but he was..... And yet something else was present besides the fear and uncertainty and the shock at the age of the man, a sense of awe and of excitement. The North was a place of wonder, mystery, intrigue, and home to a people old when the Freehold was young.


In the North, there would be doors opened to her that there might not necessarily be in the South save for the Westerlands, Vale, and Stormlands, who had a history of women warriors on account of the Horrors of House Hoare, and a Lady might rule in equal standing in her husband's place, rule beside her sons if they valued her council. Rhaella had always been a better rider than Aerys, but she had to hide that.



In the North, she could ride in a Ryswell or Barrowton race and earn coin and glory for her Houses. I could challenge Ser Barristan to a horse race! Hells, the Mormonts, the Moat Cailin Starks, and the Reeds all fielded women who competed in feats of endurance as her Baratheon cousins did.



To be the wife of the Lord of Winterfell meant that she would be able to ply everything she'd learned about ruling these last two years without a jealous King fulminating at her intercessions. And more, no doubt I shall get a lecture on all of the bounties offered to me in the North by Septa Urella tonight. Of course, I would have to endure wicked old Lord Edwyle, Theon Snow, and his legion of rats.

I would have to survive Edwyle Stark only til he sojourns to Solstice, and when he dies, I can have that Castle abandoned entirely.

Rhaella closed her eyes, suddenly feeling like she'd been cast from the pan to the cauldron, yet no longer afraid of the heat. "Thank you, Grandsire, Father, I know Aerys, and I must seem dreadful and ungrateful."

Father let out a pained laugh and shook his head. "Hardly. Prophecies are subject to interpretation, and Ser Duncan is right; the two of you would mix as well as oil and water."

She turned and looked at her sweet giant of a Kingsguard, who looked away innocently. Seven Preserve him. I owe him a debt I can never repay, Aerys too. Of course, there was something no one was telling her, something about the Dwarf's visions or mayhap council from the Hand. Hand to who, I wonder? My Father or Lord Edwyle?


Lord Aenar was as steeped in the higher mysteries as Leyton Hightower was, or Twyin's purported Sorceress. "Besides." The King, her wondrous grandsire, continued. "The Princes of the Narrow Sea are the blood of the Dragon; through Daena the Defiant, they've a smattering of Hightower blood as well. It's high time we reforge our blood ties, and House Stark should be brought into the fold."



There's more at work here, then.



The door opened then, young Roundtree in his silver armor and gold cloak bent to one knee. "Your Grace, Lord Aenar and Lord Jon have returned to the City, along with the…guests.". Grandsire waved a hand, and he rose and departed. "Well, now, off with you, little one! Ser Gerold, take her back to her friends!"

Lord Jon? Does he mean Jon Arryn? Though not especially wealthy House Arryn had become a power in the realm, centered around two men. The honorable and unrelentingly just Jon Arryn and his clever nephew and heir the young Ser Elbert. Does my betrothal have anything to do with his coming? Something was happening here and she couldn't see it.

She did not have time to think about it; it could wait; she was to be the Lady of Winterfell!

As she was escorted out, Rhaella felt her heart pounding, though less with dread now and more with a sense of wonder and elation.

Whatever was to come, it would not be boring nor sorrowful.

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

Alright, first couple chapters out...more to come as the crew dolls 'em out.

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

I should have some more up tomorrow.

In the mean time, a bit on this AU - here are some of the factions of the North

House Aetheryon: Rules the western coast of the North from Cape Kraken and the border with the Riverlands in the South to the Shadow Tower in the North. House Aetheryon arrived thirteen centuries before Aegon's Conquest driven out of Valyria after a failed attempt to conquer Volantis and set themselves up as monarchs. They came with incredibly obese and lazy dragons, a huge fleet, and countless exiles. Led by Aurys the Giant (Called so ironically, he was a dwarf.) they expelled a nascent Ironborn Kingdom in the west and stopped their expansion just short of the traditional borders of the Domains of House Stark.

Though they were first bitter rivals Winterfell conquered them not through force of arms but marriage and mutual and bitter enemies. Namely the Ironborn.

Creepy, wealthy, they export bittercane which the Authors have confirmed is essentially Planetosi Cocaine. Where do they get it? No one really knows; they rule over one of the largest populations of Valyrians in the Seven Kingdoms and have traditionally drawn their power from commerce, espionage, and the sea. Though they boast a rather large host, they tend to prefer subterfuge and assassins.

They also breed wargs.

Aegon the First cited the Aetheryon Conquest of the western shores as precedent when defending his invasion.

Despite being the only other living clan of Dragonlord-descended Valyrians left, they've only ever-married women from House Targaryen twice. Saera Targaryen (Who was brought back from Lys at great expense.) and Gwenys Rivers.

House Ryswell, being their largest vassal, chafes at the notion of being under the dominion of a Valyrian House rather than one of their own. Centuries of acrimony as First Men were either displaced or intermingled further galls their pride. The Flints, Glovers, and Wulls have never seemed to care, as the knowledge of Valyria helped keep them from dying like flies during the harsher winters.

That Bear Island was traded back to Winterfell in the year 220 B.C and they were not, is a slight they never forgotten.

Seat: Sea Dragon Keep, whose Castle Town Dragonton is second only to White Harbor in size.

House Words: From The Depths, We Rise.

House Stark of Barrowton: After a failed rebellion by House Dustin, the former Kings of the Barrows were reduced to a handful of cousins and two women from the main line. Married off to Starks, the name Dustin perished, but the Starks born in the Barrowlands are said to be gaunt and dark-haired, favoring their Dustin ancestors more than their Stark ones.

Barrowton became a sprawling city during the reign of the Hungry Wolf, with many an exiled warrior of First Man heritage seeking a safe haven from Andal Conquests. Many a fallen Lord of the Reach and even Dorne found their way so far as Barrowton and, with them, their horses.

Over the centuries, Barrowton has become widely known for breeding some of the finest horses in the realm. This eventually gave rise to a grand racing tourney that has become one of the finest spectacles in the Known World.

The Grand Racing Grounds at Barrowton are renowned the world over for their immensity and the sheer amount of coin that changes hands in the spectator seats. Gambling, it is said, has made them as rich as some of the more modest Houses of the Westerlands, but it has also created one of the most notorious Thieves Guilds in the Seven Kingdoms.

Despite this, the Black Riders and the Knights of the Barrows are some of the most respected in the Seven Kingdoms. Eschewing the title of Ser, the Knights of the Barrows retain the ancient First Man equivalent, the rank of Sachamar a title no longer in use anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms.

Though ambitious, it can be said that House Stark of the Barrows has never risen in rebellion against Winterfell nor ever plotted against them, recalling well the fate of House Dustin.

Seat: Barrow Hall on the great hill in the center of Barrowton

House Stark of Moat Cailin: Owing both to the unprecedented expansion of House Hoare and the Ironborn in the centuries before Aegon's Conquest and the sheer aggression of the Andal invaders, King Jon Stark (Known as Jon the Valiant.), fourth of his name initiated a great project.

Moat Cailin, he said, would be rebuilt not solely as a bastion but as a center of trade.

It was a dream neither he nor any other King of the North would see to fruition. Though they had rebuilt much of the Moat, it would not be until the reign of Jaehaerys the First, who, perhaps sensing the troubles to come, spent the final decade of his life overseeing the culmination of House Stark's dream.

A legitimized bastard would sit in the allegedly Children's Tower as the first Lord of Moat Cailin and preside over a burgeoning trade town that has seen much wealth flow into the Neck and their overlords in Greywater Watch and through them Winterfell.

Today, it is often said that the Starks of the Moat are said to be more Titan than Wolf, for its new Lord Tymon Stark is the son of one Sea Lord's daughter and the grandson of two others through his own mother.

Great allies of House Mallister, House Tully, House Reed, and oft bitter rivals with House Frey over the right to levy taxes at tolls along the road leading into the Neck. At the dawn of the Second Century A.C., House Stark of the Moat engaged in one of the more disreputable acts of the Skagosi rebellion (which lasted from A.C. 190 to A.C 245), burning the towns and newly established settlements in Skane and killing every Skagosi they could find within the Island of Skane itself.

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

Here's a map for you and everyone, this is what we envision the Seven Kingdoms looking like roughly eight centuries before Aegon's Conquest when the Empire of House Hoare is at its absolute nastiest.

some of the realm names are slightly changed, like how The North is "The Kingdom of The North and The Western Seas" and the Hoare's have their own name. The Kingdom of the Rock and Storm got into some deep shit and were pressed really hard and the Velaryon's carved out their own domain.

And Dragonstone didn't start out as a Targaryen holding OTL, we envisioned it being a military base, sort of the Freehold's version of a frontier outpost. Sometimes there'd be Dragonriders stationed there, most of the time not, but we figured Aenar could have bought it off the Freehold as they likely would have seen it as an unimportant island chain where those silly Velaryons get rich hustling those backwards Sunset dudes and the Celtigars do, Celtigar things and occasionally bored sons and daughters of the 40 families go to "get some experience" before moving onto better assignments etc etc.

House Aetheryon, at this point, was a vassal of the Kingdom of Winter, but the integration that started two centuries prior hadn't fully been completed, but they were joining up with House Manderly, and they were fusing Andal, First Men, and Valyrian architecture together and running around building shit.

The Kingdom of the Rock was in bad fucking shape, owing to a Lannister King being a little insane and starting a few civil wars which the Hoare's pounced on their lands with relish scooping up domains too exhausted from civil war to fight back.

And House Greyjoy and House Drumm would be using this chaos to get rid of some mouthy cousins with pesky novel ideas...which we'll get into next Gen Info update!

tldr: the continent's a damn mess.

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

A.C 257

​

The wind had begun to blow hot ash by the time he'd made his way up to the immense temple constructed to the Smith, to Xen-Kayanago, the God of metallurgy in Moraq, and Leng and Jhurong, the God of the Forge in the Golden Empire, and a hundred other heathen deities of metallurgy, of smithing, of iron works and the forge and bellows from all the known world. The temple itself was a monument to New-Valyrian style architecture, a fusion of the classic smooth, almost lifelike designs preferred by their ancestors in the Freehold and Andalic architecture with its militaristic grandeur. Though the knowledge of how to make dragonstone had been rediscovered, the lack of dragons bred to be not but builders (and lack of Dragons in general.) inhibited its construction.



The Westerlands, however, provided a solution. "Kaement," they called it, liquid stone, is what it was known as in the Riverlands, where it helped canal projects connect trade from the South and West to the center and East. It was called seament in the Vale, though he knew not why. The substance was ingenuous. However, it had allowed for the creation of something, if not truly made by Dragons, a testament to the ingenuity of the "Bastard House.". Of course, he didn't know the specifics; he'd fallen asleep during history lessons; much as he loved the subject, the Grand Maester was dreadfully boring, and none of his acolytes possessed a passion for history. They call us eccentrics for this. It didn't matter to the prince as he pulled himself up a boulder, swinging from one to another, abstaining from taking the easy route up. It was the people inside who mattered, for they were going to become a source of unparalleled wealth for House Blackfyre.



And a source of influence.



Motivated by a discussion he'd had with Baelor Targaryen, the King Who Should Have Been, Daemon the Younger had put out a call to the greatest smiths in the known world. From every corner of Westeros, they came, from all over the world, exiles too radical for their guilds, too mad for even the cult of the Black Goat, they too came. Under the tutelage of Li Zei, a master smith of the Golden Empire, they tinkered. Amidst the bones of dead dragons and petrified eggs, they worked their secrets with aid from the alchemist guild. Qohor condemned the exodus, the Smith Guilds in Westeros were tepid in their endorsement, and the cities of Slavers Bay threatened a war they could not hope to fight so far from home in honor of their "Loss of smiths!" as if they had any right to men who were free.



They'd become known as "Sage-Smiths." And after three score years, they had begun to form their own almost religion. Though they were members of no guild, they did not bar their initiates who reached the higher levels from joining Guilds or seeking profit so long as they paid a tithe to the Temple and a tribute to House Blackfyre. However, most of those who passed through their secret trials and initiations seldom chose to live as anything other than hermit smiths here in the temple, for they seemed to love the pursuit of knowledge more than gold. As a boy, he and Aerys visited them frequently, which prompted Aerys to attempt to learn the higher mysteries. Over the last ten years, they'd begun to produce armor so magnificent men paid ten times what a normal smith might get, with a portion of the coin flowing back to Dragonstone.



Today, Prince Valarr, heir to House Blackfyre, couldn't explain why Father had summoned him and Aerys to the Temple of the Forge Gods. Septons dedicated to the Smith were up there. He could hear their chanting in the wind, joined by the rich howling-like chorus of those of Xen-Kayanago. There were Summer Islanders up there, and he could hear their prayers both to the Drowned God and to their Gods (owing to a conquest of the Summer Isles a thousand years ago by House Greyjoy and its most puissant vassals.) of the Crucible. Once he finally reached the Temple's base, he pulled the linen scarf from his mouth. In the distance, he could see Ser Harlan Grandison and Cousin Maelys, whose voice was as deep as a bear's growl. Cousin Maelys with his elegant gray beard and his mute, second head that rose like a tiny apple from his neck.



The monstrous some called him, though not solely for his head, once to save King Aegon from being killed, he twisted a bandit's head clean off then lifted the King's fallen horse up over his shoulders wherein he flung the creature bodily almost three feet. Ser Duncan had been the only one ever to defeat him in a duel, for though there were Knights of greater skill in the realm, none were as strong or durable save the Lord Commander. "Boooyyy!" Maelys boomed, and Valarr could have sworn he saw the lilac eyes on his second head swivel.


"Peace, Ser Maelys! I come!" Though a cousin in that he was the son of his grandsire's brother, Maelys was older than his father.


Prince Aerys strode forward, meeting him halfway and embracing him. "Cousin! I think the old maniacs cracked it at long last!"



Can it be?



"Just in time as well; I meant to find a proper Name Day gift for Ty, well, for next year anyway," Aerys spoke, the long black cloak he wore billowing in the hot wind; the Dragonmont had gone to sleep they said when the last dragon died Someone should tell the Mont that. Of late it had smoked and billowed like The Smith's Heavenly Forge.


The Crown Prince's armor, black as onyx and polished to the point of reflection, glimmered in the sun; as they walked, Aerys slapped his back, and the two approached his father, Ser Harlan, and Maelys. Father was named Daemon, the fourth so named to rule as Prince of the Narrow Sea. He served the Iron Throne as a bulwark against piracy and the increasingly hostile powers of Essos.

A tall, stern man with all the classical Valyrian features, pale violet eyes, and hair of spun silver and gold. But years of service to his King and the Lord Admiral had left him missing an eye from a mishap with rigging as a boy, and as of six years ago, he was sans a hand. In its place was false hand-made mammoth ivory framed in platinum and gold, with garnets and rubies studded "rings" on a clenched fist. While aboard the ship, he replaced the ornate false hand with one that was the head of a harpoon.

On Maelys hip was slung Blackfyre, the sword that made his dynasty. Dark Sister was on Aerys hip; slender was its blade and elegant, dragon's wings curved to form a quillon similar to those used by Braavosi Water Dancers.



Valarr carried the Valyrian Steel long sword Truth, taken from the Rogare family in the war that saw his grandsires made Lords of Tyrosh. House Targaryen had been without a primary blade for the ruling monarch since the Unworthy had gifted Blackfyre to Daemon the True, and King Daeron the Good had refused to take it back.



Father had lost a foot due to a poison-tipped arrow from a reaver out of the Summer Islands the year Valarr's younger sister had been born. Though you wouldn't notice it for how practiced he was with his wooden one. A testament to his convictions, loyalty, and strength of resolve that Valarr didn't think he possessed.

Two young men rushed out, one wearing an ungodly amount of purple and the other a cotehardie of grey linen with white direwolves. Ah this must be Mikken… He'd earned a name for himself in King's Landing arbitrating a dispute between the Guild of Smiths in the Capital and Duskendale, which grew so far out of hand that wildfire illicitly purloined from the royal armory was used to blast a forge to kindling.

Valarr grimaced at the memory and the myriad heads of so many Guildmasters on spikes.

***********​

"Your Graces!" the one all in purple spoke eagerly, bowing. He was a bald lad around Valarr's age with a black goatee and a prominent Qohorik accent. "Forgive us for our tardiness, but Forge Master Marq had us completing a task that required us to bathe afterward."

Aerys let out a perfumed laugh, ringing like bells it did. It was his genuine laugh, not the harsher one of false courtesy he'd affect when he was in one of his moods. "Oh, tis quite fine, Journeyman. I've been admiring the Mont and.." He gestured with a gloved hand towards the immense black bones shining in the morning sun. "I didn't think dragons got that large; I've seen Balerion's ribs, and even that giant wasn't so massive."


Gods, how did I not see that before? But Aerys is right! Those are immense! And what were they doing being hauled by oxen towards the entrance to the sub-levels of the temple?


"I wonder how that beast flew," Father remarked with an eyebrow raised over his blind eye. Funny that…



"We think they flew only short distances my Prince and were borne about either by massive barges along the Rhoyne or carts of steel larger than some keeps. And they were likely immense and fat!" Mikken responded enthusiastically. "But we don't believe they were battle dragons."



Maelys nodded, a grunt of agreement with the assessment as Ser Harlan made the sign the seven.

"Labor dragons, then? Perhaps for forging dragonstone?" Queried Aerys, his eyes widened at the possibilities. "You took this from the great cavemouth at the summit, did you not?" Father and Maelys both looked astonished; even Aerys did. No one goes there. That place was not made by the Targaryens but by the original Valyrian garrison who built Dragonstone for the Freehold.



Aenar the exile had purchased the Island and all its dependents from the Freehold. However, they had not built Dragonstone's monstrous Keep itself, and there were still parts of the Island, caves, long abandoned dragonstone warrens and hatcheries where neither red nor black dragon dared to tread. But these mad men did!



"His Grace is wise; we did indeed, Prince Aerys." Answered the Qohorik, who introduced himself as Tobho Mott. "And we believe, as you just guessed, that the flames of this monster wrought House Blackfyre's Castle."



"Our Castle once," Aerys added, a hint of venom hidden well below the affable tone he effected. It was moments like that which made Valarr cast a wary eye on the distant cousin he'd grown up beside. My future Goodbrother as well, Rohanne and Aelora, a bride for a bride.

"Lead the way, Journeyman Mott!" the two had, traversing the temple entrance, two enormous doors made of who knew how many planks of ironwood each, and reinforced with iron and bronze and forty feet tall. Both were flanked by sixty-foot statues of the Smith, the native God of crafting and shaping. "United by a belief that knowledge belonged to no single People or Kingdom," Father whispered when they crossed the threshold—within men of the realm and all manner of foreigners or men born of foreign blood walked about, carrying tools or wearing the thick leather aprons of their craft. Some prayed for their morning services, and others whose services called for an afternoon ritual were busy at work.



The air smelled of sweat, soot, blood, and flame.

**********​

They were brought before the highest pinnacle, where the last of the first of the Sage Smiths, a giant Valeman who was one-part Septon, one-part blacksmith, smiled fondly. It was hard to believe he was one and ninety, for he stood near as tall as Steffon Baratheon, and like their dear friend, he was all muscle. Completing his physique was a bald head with jagged ax scars from a battle against Mountain tribes long ago and a braided and laced beard that reached his knees.

"Ahhhh!" Master Marq spoke, a voice strong and deep and commanding. Aerys once said he sounds like a King; I see what he means. Aerys spent more time in this place than any of the Blackfyres who lived here, fascinated by the fires, the lore, and the arcana. "For the longest time, we could never pierce the riddle of Valyrian steel, only reforging it. Much of that had to do with the metal in its makeup."



Aerys was the first to grasp it all, nodding excitedly. "Too light to be common steel, never losing its edge or rusting, none of this is natural; I know my Grandsire the King suspects it was merely steel forged by dragonfire."



The old one bobbed his head "Mmhmm," he growled in agreement. "would that it were, we could just use wildfire to replicate it then! Alas, nay, tis a very complex alloy, in Qohor they use blood magic to reforge it, blood is the catalyst we suspect, what binds it all, but the source of Valyria's steel was the lightweight mystical properties of the iron in the bones of dead dragons."

Well, that explains the bones outside and why Valyrian steel was so expensive.


"Dragonbone and?" Aerys queried, "you said it was an alloy, Master." He seemed almost frantic.

The elder nodded, "Indeed, your Grace, a small amount of platinum and the metal found in this." He muttered, tossing Ser Harlan a pitted rock. "I know these; we've them all over Grandview, often found with the false rubies my House trades in."



"Yes indeed, extracting metal from that is not easy. The acolytes and novices wish to call it Dornish iron for its orange color, but Master Shien Tong wishes to name it something I can't quite pronounce; the Valyrian name has been lost to time, sadly." Here, the aged Master frowned. "absent dragons? Well, blood and wildfire are the only things that can bind these three components together, we've duplicated the Valyrian spells and spells inspired by the Runes of House Royce and from Yi Ti, but alas, without blood, we cannot forge Valyrian steel."



"Blood magic." Hissed Ser Grandison.



"Our ancestors did not need this?" Father asked.



The old master shook his head. "No, my Prince, in fact, I believe it was the one product of Valyria that did not require mass murder to create, the power inherent within dragons was sufficient." And why it was so scarce even then.


"Would our product be a mere forgery then? Should we resort to obscenity to forge our steel?" Father asked, his tone a mix of dread and consideration.

"Not a forgery, your Grace. The metal would have the same properties, and you know how these Qohoriks are with their dyes; our steel would look different. But be of kind in form and function, its mystical properties would be the same, or similar enough as to make no nevermind." Answered Master Marq stroking his long beard. "I would say that what we've achieved here is perhaps a more crude variant of the steel, the "Dragonsteel" that is told of in accounts of the Long Night, mayhap?"


Which, of course, the Sagesmiths would compensate for by making it gaudy, a clear demarcation between the true and the well..Blackfyre forged. Valarr frowned, wondering if that made them little more than forgers and confidence men.


"And you're certain you cannot achieve this without murder?"



Aerys stepped forward; something queer was in his eyes. "Do you have a sample I might compare to Dark Sister?"


"Indeed, my Prince..."

You what?! Father growled.


"Your grace!"


"Peace, Ser Harlan, Prince Daemon, you know my Grandsire supports this endeavor," Aerys whispered, his voice in a trance.


Ah, yes, we're paying for the mistakes of the Unlikely. Valarr thought dejectedly, had his Grace, perhaps been more restrained in the reforms he forced through the Lords Council, had he not alienated so many High Lords. Had our forebears not killed all our dragons...



"Granted, your Grace." Father began, "Yet I am forced to agree with Ser Harlan if we must resort to blasphemy and butchery."



"Is it butchery?" Valarr found himself asking no one in particular. Gods forgive me, But this was leverage, both economic and political, that couldn't be ignored, and while the great experiment hadn't been a waste in that it yielded a greater understanding of smithing and metallurgy, this was a golden opportunity to advance House Blackfyre. "If we use only criminals and give them a choice, say goods or coin to their families in exchange for their lives? The same way the Night's Watch pays a stipend to the families of those it convinces to join?"



"Our taxes pay that." Snorted Father, but his eyes had begun to soften; he too could see it even if Aerys only saw the glory of the blades. "Yet I see your point. However, the honor and the glory of our House is on the line, not to mention our very souls." But Valarr could see it in his face, the gnawing doubt. In Volantis, a member of House Vaenaryx with support from, the Maegyrs was amassing more and more power and vowing to expel the "Andal trash and their Dragonlord masters from the shadow of Essos.". The legendary band of Seven met in the ruins of Sar Mel, their leader, an exiled Prince of the Golden Empire. House Blackfyre would be at the forefront of defending the realm against them; it would be the Stepstones and Tyrosh that likely bled first, and even the sale of a single Valyrian Steel blade could make fortifying their Southern domains in the Narrow Sea easier.



"Must they be alive when they're given over the flames?" Prince Aerys asked, soundingly Kingly as ever when he did so, his features calm as if the horror of the dilemma hadn't touched him.

The ancient Master shook his head, "No, your Grace, I personally made two daggers using both, and the outcome is the same whether a throat is slit before or after..I used dying men, men whose wives we paid handsomely." Master Marq added hastily, too hastily.



"There you have it, Prince Daemon. A quick death with a blade is more than most Lords will give to these murderers and fiends. Why, I witnessed House Celtigar draw and quarter a tax embezzler when we feasted on Claw Isle earlier this year." Aerys gave a shake of his head, it was irate, and the fire blazing in his violet eyes matched his mislike of it. "Justice far too often becomes a spectacle for my liking, and for all my Grandsire's love of the peasant, he seems to have no issue with disembowelments to induce a public confession or public scourgings before a hanging."

Or Crow cages, Valarr thought with a shudder; he'd ended up locked into one on accident while climbing as a boy, and the experience left him haunted even now.

"And if the choice is given to them, then it is hardly ritual sacrifice." Aerys continued as Valarr felt a chill run down his spine at the sudden look in Aerys eyes; gone was the moral outrage, replaced with obsession. He swallowed down the doubt and fear. This is what must be done. It was the game played, even amongst allies; if they could succeed, then this would raise House Blackfyre's status to more than just the wealthy kennel masters of Essos, as the Tyrells were so fond of disparagingly calling them.



It's all about finding the right pretext in the end. Valarr thought sadly; this was still an obscene rite that mayhap the revival of such a curio would not be worth. Yet Valarr couldn't help but defend it; at least we're more merciful than our ancestors.



"We are all that's left of the Freehold, us and the Aetheryon's who have known this secret and never shared it, never tried to find a way around it, and merely accepted that without dragons, there was no hope; think of it. Your Grace, we will accomplish what Aenar and Bloodraven failed."


Maybe because they realize the Freehold was destroyed by blood magic in the end. A nagging voice in the back of Valarr's mind whispered.



After a few moments, Prince Daemon lowered his head and gave the ascent.



"Your Grace…I must o-"

Aerys raised his hand, silencing the Kingsguard Knight with a gesture, and with a flick of his wrist, he drew Dark Sister with one hand and then pulled his glove off the other with his teeth, spitting the glove out onto a nearby table he ran the palm of his hand lightly along its blade, staining it red with blood. "Let us make a blood oath, 'pon our Swords, with the Gods as our witness, to never speak of the method. Never and Master Marq, I expect the same."



"I have already forsworn my initiates; though it violates the tenant of our mandate, I believe the risk is enough to warrant it." Because once it's rediscovered, it can be duplicated by other masters of the forge and their Lords might be less discriminating about who is used as fuel. The Father forbid House Blackfyre lose its monopoly as well.



Ser Maelys strode forward, the two-headed giant having remained silent for the entire exchange. He drew Blackfyre and held it aloft for his Prince; after a moment's further hesitation, Daemon made the same gesture, staining it with blood. "May The Gods help us all."



Valarr was the last.

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

This isn't dead, I'll be crossposting as soon as AH is back up.

Since no backup of the chapters there exist

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

I can dump some maps and sigils but as with everything these guys and to a lesser extent I do, it seems the character work is what is preferred.

For that I gotta wait.

 

[The Immortal Watch Dog]

The shit hits the fan as King Aegon moves to ensure nothing interrupts his plans...And Aerys is Aerys.

Siege ​

"How many thousands of years of knowledge...I wonder." Prince Valarr asked astride black destrier that was a hand and a half taller than lord Tywin's. At four and ten, the youth was only a year the Lannister lord's junior, but he possessed discerning eyes that would usually be ascribed to someone who'd seen ten more name days than that. He's still too kind, mayhap Steffon, and I can cure him of that. It was an odd thing, Lord Lannister thought. To have friends that wanted nothing from you save your company. And Valarr Blackfyre, son of Prince Daemon Blackfyre, wanted for nothing, Houses Targaryen, Blackfyre, Velaryon, and Martell were said to have extracted so much plunder Tyrosh forty years ago that even with the subsequent wars by Volantis and Lys that their treasuries were still overflowing. But that wasn't entirely true; his craven father had issued enough loans to the royal treasury for the construction of more roads and a failed attempt to bridge the neck with a canal that the crown came calling at the least. The Narrow Sea paramountcy was a different matter; it traded heavily with the Town around Starfall, Gulltown, and White Harbor and was close to the Iron Bank as though they were allies. Frugal as well, given that they were sired by the bastard son of a wastrel King. It was rare, but every now and again, someone could escape the bonds of their breeding.

Despite their rather base origins, Tywin had found himself making easy friends with the Narrow Sea Prince, who was his opposite in many ways. He, Steffon, and Aerys had begun to form a sort of cadre of youth that represented the future powers of the Seven Kingdoms, though of a different generation Rickard Stark, Heir to Winterfell, joined them, and together, they made for quite the faction at Court. And well placed too. One the King's former cupbearer and newly made Knight, the other the heir to the Iron Throne, the other nephew to the Lord Seneschal and son to the Lord of Winterfell, Steffon was the son of the Lord High Justice (Which replaced the Master of Laws during the reign of Jaehaerys the wise) Valarr Blackfyre the son of the one of the wealthier and more martial Lords and a powerful voice on the Lord's Council.

Yes, Tywin thought, he'd chosen his friends well, and it wasn't because he found in Aerys a companion or in Steffon, a brother or in Valarr a source of laughter and font of knowledge, nor in Rickard someone older than him who wasn't an utter weakling.

And he certainly didn't march his personal guard all the way to the Reach as part of the King's army because his friends bid him join in their adventure.

"It was treason," Steffon stated with an indifferent shrug; he let his thick black hair grow wild, and it fell about his bronze-colored armor like streams of black ink running down a page. In the light of the fires, the yellow-colored tourmalines crowning the onyx stag 'upon his cuirass glowed like embers in hearth fire, reflecting in the polished gold lion on his scarlet-colored cuirass. "My Father signed off on the order, and" he gestured down to the army; Prince Duncan and Rickard Stark were barking orders that rose above the rain. ahead of them, Moryn Tyrell and his City Watch of Oldtown stood like great pine sentries guarding the King who was a rubied center in a heart of white. The Citadel had sealed itself off when the troops came, all but confirming their treason and the fact that several hundred men at arms had joined them all but confirmed what Tywin suspected the grey rats were truly up too.

Yet neither the King nor the Hand had disclosed the nature of their treason, and that vexed him greatly.

It vexed Aerys as well; Tywin could feel the annoyance radiating off him.

"A treason, the nature of which my royal grandfather has been quite silent on. He'll only say that Lord Aenar and Lord Edwyle submitted compelling proof of some complot to treat the Lords of the Realm as animals to be selectively bred to some nefarious purpose and of mass poisonings and dead dragons" Aerys shrugged, his black cloak mud stained after he'd waded into a canal during the battle of Oldtown to pull Brynden Tully who'd been the squire of Ser Aghorro the Grim. The son of a deposed Dothraki khal turned slave and pit fighter who'd been rescued by Daemon Blackfyre. The Barbarian claimed to have found the Seven and was Knighted by Ser Gerold Hightower himself two years ago and was now one of the more famous Knights of the realm. Among these "new men," the gossips speak of. The youth he'd saved from drowning was some half-mad son of the Lord of Riverrun, Brynden, or Brandon or something. Tywin couldn't have cared less; Hoster Tully was one step removed from being a River Pirate and souteneur. Fool nearly gets himself killed for a river otter in ringmail. Aerys had all the makings of a great King, but only if Tywin and the others could get his head on straight.



And by the Seven was Aerys prone to fits of foolishness; a year ago, Aerys, Valarr, and Steffon snuck out of the Red Keep and set out for the wall. It was pure folly and utter stupidity as if the heir of the future king could simply vanish without a stir. Yet somehow, they'd succeeded, and his grace King Aegon had charged Tywin with the duty of ascertaining their location and retrieving them. Tywin was livid; that was an embarrassment towards themselves on par with anything his father had done. But on some level, he admired Aerys for his ability to convince those around him to embark on absurd ventures or perform feats of daring that made them better men. There was a cruel streak to him; one only need look at the youngster of three and ten and how he treated Princess Rhaella, mocking her betrothal to the much older Rickard Stark (Though never to the Northerner's face, and he suspected there was some jealously there.) yet he had the makings of a truly great King, one that swore would rule the realm with Tywin by his side as Lord Hand.



The reason behind the breaking of the marriage between Aerys and Rhaella had been one of the court secrets that the King allowed him to be present for that Tywin wished he had remained ignorant of. The Targaryens forged the Seven Kingdoms an empire in all but name, vested with the immense and almost boundless power of the Iron Throne, checked only but obligations and the feudal contract and that asinine Lord's Council, yet they put stock in such nonsense as prophecy? Zhan Fei had said once that prophecy was a riddle gifted by the Gods to those too cowardly to seek their destiny on their own. To forge their own destiny, and it is an excuse for the weak. Tywin thought with a sense of bitterness; his father had once tried to use prophecy as justification for why he kept whores in his mother's bed chambers.



"Ours is but to obey," Steffon said, pulling a wineskin from his saddle bag and drinking greedily, shaking Tywin from his black humor. But, before Tywin's incredulous glare could affix the lord of Storm's End, Steffon raised a hand and waved it pleadingly. "In times such as these."



"the sons of Lords, such as our fathers, are still owed an explanation," Tywin remarked in a cold voice. Under the reign of Aegon Targaryen, the Lords Paramount gained a great deal of centralized authority within their domains, but then that power was placed at the Crown's feet. So far, the arrangement hadn't led to the dissolution of the feudal pact, but in a century? A lord had to consider such things. Below them, on the streets leading to the Citadel, Lords Hightower and Stark were yelling. Something was happening within the besieged Citadel and Tywin was made aware that the Hand was not present, though he was a moment ago. I mislike this. "We are placing a dangerous amount of trust in the Lord of Sea Dragon Point on this matter. Should he prove wrong, a purge of the leadership of the Citadel and bloodshed on the streets of Oldtown may result in infamy and rebellion."





"My Grandsire is a romantic, but he trusts that old snake less than you do.." Aerys said, waving a hand dismissively and taking the offered wineskin. "Yet when he ascended the Throne, his Grace did not remove Lord Aenar from the Handship." countered Tywin earning a lazy shrug from Aerys. "I'd like to know how they obtained this, proof of conspiracy," Prince Valarr cut in, his tone sardonic and skeptical. "Magic probably," Aerys answered again, this time a maddeningly lopsided smile formed on the Prince's face.



Tywin Lannister's jaw set. "House Targaryen's infatuation with the Higher Mysteries shall unmake us all one day if you aren't careful, my prince." Magic, quicksilver, bittercane, and poppy; three substances, one unknown, and all four had restorative powers but, when misused, poisoned the body worse than any affliction. Sorcery and slavery had built the Valyrian Freehold, and Sorcery and hubris had been its executioners. Sorcery kept the Dragons alive, if the charges against the Maesters turned out not to be nonsense, then sorcery had aided in their demise, but half-mad pride ran in their veins, and the line of Viserys the Second always held onto a fool's hope that Dragons would return.



"Mayhap! Maaayhap there will come a day!" Aerys spurred his horse and began riding around them, Dark Sister proudly in hand. Tywin wanted to roll his eyes, but he controlled himself. Reciting the speech King Mern the last in one of the strongholds of Reach, where Aegon was crowned, was a level of effrontery only Aerys Targaryen would commit to and why Tywin Lannister enjoyed him. "A day when fell sorcery and dragon fire descends upon our green lands! When spears shatter, and armor melts when bones and ash litter our wheat fields! When the strength of the blood of Garth Greenhand fails! When our castles crumble, and the last rose of Highgarden sheds its last petal! But it is not this day! For I look in your eyes and see the same fear that would take the heart of me!" he roared as he positioned his horse before the trio. "But I go willingly and go forward! To face the dragon and his meager host! With my brothers and my sons and grandsons! My line will stand with me, and the seven-pointed star and the green hand doth guide me! So, Stand! MEN OF THE SOUTH!"



Aerys backed his stallion "It is not this day! But ten days from now, when Rhaenys, Visenya, and Aegon the conqueror will roast my boney ass in my armor and turn me into a lump of slag a local blacksmith no doubt made a rather fetching set of horseshoes from!"



The absurdity of that, at that moment. Delivered in such a light voice with his sword drawn, poised like a hero of old. Armor glimmering in the light made the corner of Tywin's lips twitch slightly.



Below them, the doors swung open, and a dozen beasts crawled out first, then their masters. The Hand's Wargs....

The King shouted an order, dismounted, and drew his sword.

The world was silent.

His Grace advanced.

And all his men with him.