Return of Valyria (ASOIAF AU)
- Thread starter Jaenera Targaryen
- Start date
Knowledgeispower
Ah I love the smell of missile spam in the morning
So all things considered what level of tech do you lot think is needed to bear Valyria in a protracted war. I'd say WWI because that's when such things as the Autocannon AA guns get invented
Buba
A total creep
Please, no!
This will bring out all the fanbois!
And will inevitably degenerate into pissing contests over the superiority of pistol round X versus pistol round Y!
Ask that in the general ASOAIF thread!
Please!
Pretty please!
PLEEZ!
BWAHAHAHA/evil laugh/ too late,mortal!
Chapter 4
Jaenera Targaryen
Well-known member
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.
As it was, it took about a month for Volantis to finish its preparations for war to reclaim its ancestral holdings. Given their primacy on the Rhoyne Front, with the Freehold providing assistance and support to their Volantene allies in that theater of the war, the Freehold similarly held off on offensive operations in this region. For the most part: dragonriders and horsemen probed north, up the valley of the Rhoyne, and west, into the Disputed Lands. Spies and informants gathered as much information as they could, and in the small, faint hope that order could be restored to Essos without unnecessary bloodshed, messages had been sent to the other Free Cities, proclaiming the return of the Valyrian Freehold, and calling on them all to peacefully submit to Valyrian hegemony once more, and for a peaceful arbitration of the issues that had divided and turned the Free Cities against each other.
The hope was in vain. Most of the Free Cities derided Volantis' claims – as they saw it – of Valyria's return as propaganda, a façade for a second attempt by Volantis to gain hegemony over Essos as it once attempted to do over three hundred years ago.
Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr immediately cut off all trade with Volantis, with any and all shipping flying their cities' flags heading east and west through the Summer Sea being instructed to avoid Volantis. Warnings were also sent to Volantis, threatening the destruction of their fleet and a blockade of the city should Volantis attempt to force the issue.
These warnings and the embargo were backed by Braavos, which even blamed Volantene agents for starting the civil wars tearing apart Norvos and Qohor. Braavosi money poured into anti-Volantene factions in the civil wars, with Braavosi delegates serving as impartial arbitrators to allow those same factions to form unified coalitions to restore order to their cities, and provide steadfast leadership aimed at maintaining their domains' independence from what they and Braavos condemned as Volantene tyranny.
Pentos was silent: as a Braavosi client, they simply decided to follow their hegemon's lead in all things.
Lorath for its part declared neutrality, citing the distance between itself and Volantis, and its own limited resources compared to the other Free Cities. For the time being, such was accepted with no question by the belligerents of the war that would soon set Essos ablaze.
"This is intolerable." Tychano snapped as he sat with his fellow Triarchs. "The embargo imposed by all five western Free Cities is costing us millions per day, to say nothing of northern trade drying up thanks to the civil wars in Qohor and Norvos. And while Lorath is willing to continue trading with us…considering the distance and Lorath's own status as the smallest of the Daughters of Valyria, it's not worth much at all."
"You exaggerate the situation, my friend." Vargano said. "Yes, we lose millions due to the embargo, but much of that is steadily being rectified as trade with the Freehold grows. Indeed, as trade with the west dries up, trade with the Freehold increases, as merchants unable to make money in the west turn east, to Mother Valyria. And we have much to offer to her merchants, and her own merchants to us."
"And once the war really begins," Aerarro said. "The need to ship supplies and men up the Rhoyne will provide a non-insignificant source of income for us as well. And it's not like Ghiscar and Qarth have stopped trading with us, and the same goes for Yi Ti and Asshai."
"So you say," Tychano conceded. "But you mentioned Ghiscar, did you not? Are not Valyrian armies marching on Meereen even as we speak? As the fighting escalates there, trade with the east will begin to dry up as well."
"What?" Aerarro asked. "Once Ghiscar falls, then the Freehold will have plenty of land and property, to say nothing of slaves, that will need to be rebuilt and put to productive work. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities for our eastern trade then, and much easier for us to do business in than is currently the case with New Ghis."
Tychano was silent at that, and Vargano nodded slowly. "In any case," he began. "The Freehold has no intentions within the foreseeable future to go against Qarth or Asshai, so trade with those lands should not be affected."
"And following up on what I said just now," Aerarro said. "As we advance north, up the Rhoyne, there will also be plenty of land for us to put to good use. The building of fortifications in the hinterland will also present opportunities for considerable profit. And once both Norvos and Qohor are brought to heel, together with our control of the Rhoyne…"
"Then the embargos will essentially become meaningless." Vargano said before narrowing his eyes. "And in any case, it's not as though the western cities aren't hurting their own economies with this embargo of theirs. And they have less options than we do. For instance, once the Freehold has once again regained Ghiscar, then we and the Freehold can embargo the west. Let's see how long they can hold out then, without access to most of the eastern and the entire Rhoyne markets."
Aerarro nodded in approval, while Tychano looked unhappy, though he remained silent. "Any word from Westeros?" Vargano asked after a moment.
"None," Aerarro said. "Or at least they don't seem to be reacting actively or openly in response to our and the Freehold's proclamations of the latter's return. No doubt though, their spies are already hard at work trying to find out as much as they can. Sooner or later, there will be a reaction."
Vargano made a sound indicative of interest. "And how do you think the Usurper would react?" he asked.
Aerarro shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "It all depends I guess, on whether or not and how far his hatred of the Targaryens extends to other Valyrians, or to other dragonlords in particular. And whether or not cooler heads among his confederates can restrain him from rash action. That deputy of his, Arryn if I remember correctly, he's a sharp and composed one from what I know."
Vargano nodded. "True," he admitted. "I suppose we will find out soon enough."
"Indeed."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Saying the Valyrian Army was marching on Meereen and the rest of the Slaver Cities would be true…generally-speaking. Details-wise, the Valyrian Army was busy taking control of the northern coast of Slavers' Bay, dotted as it was with a number of villages and small towns. At the same time, fortifications were being built inland, stout keeps of stone boasting a tall signal tower, surrounded by a curtain wall sporting battlements and towers.
In addition to Slavers' Bay's northern coast, the passes over the Painted Mountains were being fortified, with the Freehold planning to assign a full legion and an equivalent number of auxiliaries to hold the passes. All in all, they would number approximately ten thousand men, and while normally at a disadvantage against the expected enemy – the Dothraki – on the open, in the rugged terrain of the mountains and supported by dragons, they would be enough.
Currently, the First Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion, titled the 'Pyramid Breakers' for their achievements during the Fifth Ghiscari-Valyrian War over four thousand years ago, was preparing to camp for the night outside and around a small coastal town which had surrendered earlier during the afternoon. By order of Triarch Laemar Lennareon, the settlements of Slavers' Bay would be offered a choice: surrender, and their lives, freedom, and property would be spared and guaranteed under Valyrian law. They would pay taxes to the Freehold, and follow its laws, and in return the Freehold would provide protection and other public services.
Refuse to submit, and their freedom, property, and if need be, their lives, would be forfeit. A number of settlements had foolishly chosen this option, and were now naught by burned ruins. Their militiamen or sellswords slain, their properties divided by lot among the soldiers and officers which had taken their settlement…
...but as for the inhabitants themselves…the men would likely end up being put to work in mines, factories, or plantations for the rest of their lives, though the stronger, and more fit among them might get a chance at freedom by fighting in the gladiatorial arenas. The older women would likely be sold off as house servants, the younger ones to brothels or to rich men with a taste for bed slaves, and the children to serve as companions to other children, and who actually had a very good chance at eventually regaining their freedom: it was customary for a young man or woman of good social standing to free their companions upon reaching adulthood.
Going back to the First Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion, Legion Commander Galaerys was standing in his tent, looking over a map of the surrounding area spread over a large table. Colored markers indicated the locations of the other cohorts of the Fifteenth Legion, along with their auxiliaries. Other markers showed the locations of the Fifth Legion and their auxiliaries, and who were in fact taking point for the expedition.
Within a month…
…no, less than that, assuming the Ghiscari weren't completely incompetent, the Meereenese would respond, and likely probe the Valyrian vanguard as it approached the Skahazadhan river. And when that happened…
Movement drew the Valyrian officer's attention, First Captain Gaemar saluting just past the tent entrance. "Commander," the man said as Galaerys returned the salute. "Reporting that fortification of the camp is complete, and our men are settling down for the night."
"Very good, captain." Galaerys said with a nod, before indicating the map in front of him. "Take a look at this."
"Sir?" the man said as he stepped closer, and Galaerys began to indicate dots on the map where the Valyrian Army was building forts and other fortifications across the hinterland.
"We're digging in across the entire hinterland," Galaerys said. "While at the same time we're advancing towards Meereen. Put another way, our troops are spread thin across the entire region. If we're not careful, any enemy that manages to get past or around the frontline will wreak havoc on our rear echelons."
"Yes, sir." Gaemar agreed. "At least until the fortification of the hinterland is complete."
"Perhaps," Galaerys mused. "Against an enemy that fights properly, like the Ghiscari, they would be enough. Maybe enough that there'd be no need for dragonriders like what's going to be stationed here…here…and here. Against enemies that don't fight properly though…"
"Dothraki and rebels…" Gaemar muttered, and Galaerys nodded.
"Quite," Galaerys said. "It'll be quite the hunt on the ground for us, and if our men aren't careful, they could just be led into a trap. Dragonriders would be very helpful in such a case…once the fortification of the hinterland is done, at least."
"Yes sir, as you say."
Galaerys nodded. "We're getting close to Meereen." He said. "We could encounter the enemy at any time. I want double lookouts at night, and double scouts while on the march."
"It will put a strain on our supply train." Gaemar warned. "I'll have to arrange things with the quartermasters to keep things going smoothly."
"Do so." Galaerys said. "A little difficulty for us now is preferable to big trouble later on."
"Yes, sir. It will be done." Gaemar said with a nod.
"Also," Galaerys said before the first captain could leave. "I'll need a messenger ready by first light."
"To where or who, sir?"
"To Legion Commander Vamar of the Fifth Legion, of course." Galaerys said with a sigh. "We need to tighten our lines. As things stand, our forces aren't just spread too thin, we can barely support each other…if at all."
"I understand, sir. The messenger will be ready at first light, as ordered."
Galaerys nodded, and with a salute, the first captain departed, and left the legion commander alone to his worries.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The fleet assigned by the Valyrian Navy to cover and support the Valyrian Army's march along the northern coast of Slavers' Bay was anchored offshore along a sheltered stretch of coastline. Numbering some two hundred ships strong, it was composed largely of two-mast galleys with thirty oars on either side and three men for every oar, on top of the ship's officers and additional men for actual combat, whether boarding or missile and artillery crews with composite bows and traction trebuchets. Unlike the ships sent to Volantis in the previous month, these ships didn't carry ballistae, which were in fact in the middle of being phased out by the Valyrian military as a whole, considered to be too cost-inefficient compared to simpler but more effective weapons such as traction or counterweight trebuchets.
In addition to war galleys, there were also dromons, two-banked and two-mast affairs with sixty oars per side, and in addition to traction trebuchets and archers, carried the deadliest weapon in use in naval warfare. And which according to information provided by Volantis had been lost if not outright forgotten in the four centuries since. If so, then it would be a most unpleasant surprise for the Freehold's enemies when the time came.
Fires burned on great braziers on the decks of the ships on the outside of the fleet's formation at nighttime rest, their crews using large disks of polished bronze to reflect the light out to sea, and in so doing be able to see potential enemies on approach. On the dromon Eternal Star, Admiral Vigarys was poring over two maps of Slavers' Bay.
One was from four hundred years ago, and another was of the present day, provided courtesy of Volantis. "We should be thankful Elyria remains as it should be," the admiral said. "That is, it's our Elyria, and not some Ghiscari bastardization."
"As you say, sir." Captain Vagar said.
"In any case," Vigarys continued. "Any word from Valyx just yet?"
"There has been some delay," Vagar began with an air of apology. "However, Admiral Valyx will be setting sail in two days for the Isle of Cedars, while the Grand Fleet under Grand Admiral Rhaegar will be setting out as well, to cover Admiral Valyx's right flank in the eventuality that New Ghis launches its fleet to oppose the latter's sortie."
"…I see." Vigarys said with a slow now. "And the nature of the delay?"
"The sorcerers apparently needed more time to prepare."
"Sorcerers? Whatever for?"
"According to the report from Admiral Valyx, the scouts sent to the Isle of Cedars reported back that something…wasn't right, about the island." Vagar said. "As such, Triarch Laemar has decided to take prudent measures, and attached sorcerers to Admiral Valyx's command for this sortie."
"Glass candles need slaves to work." Vigarys muttered. "Or rather their blood…lots of it, if there's something off with the whole island. Still, I see the Triarch's point, and while I don't like it, it does seem to be the right course of action."
"Yes, sir."
"Of course," Vigarys began while looking down at his maps again. "This will delay our own plans yet again, forcing us to continue to hug the coast until Valyx can close the whole bay off. And until then, we can't strike and take Yaros, much less have the positioning we need to completely blockade Yunkai and Astapor. What a pain."
"Unfortunately that does seem to be the case, sir."
Vigarys sighed. "In any case," he said, marking down notes on the maps and on a clean leaf of papyrus. "Such is war. Even the best plans don't always go smoothly. That's just the way things are."
"Sir."
Vigarys nodded. "Well, thank you for that report, captain." He said. "Dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
The captain saluted, and then leaving the admiral's cabin, left the man alone to his work.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As Legion Commander Galaerys predicted, Meereen took action before too long. Barely a week after the former had sent to the Fifth Legion's commander of the need to contract and tighten the Freehold's lines, outriders of the Fifth Legion brought back word that an army of ten thousand had crossed the Skahazadhan river and were marching west, to challenge the Valyrian Army to battle.
Legion Commander Vamar immediately recalled his cohorts and auxiliaries, consolidating his forces into a matching force to that of the enemy. Approximately two days' march west of the Skahazadhan, the Valyrians and the Meereenese faced each other across the battlefield.
The Valyrians and the Meereenese were in stark contrast to each other. The Valyrians were a uniform force, flying the same banners and holding the same standards: red banners with golden dragons, or crimson standards bearing in gold the numerical glyph for the number five, the latter topped with gilded figures of a hand raised in defiance beneath a dragon similarly snarling in defiance.
The Meereenese forces flew an eclectic mix of banners and standards, and indeed, their forces appeared hodgepodge and ramshackle, lacking standardization between them. It was most…surprising, as Meereen was supposed to be a tributary of the New Ghiscari Empire, just as it once was to Old Ghis. Had the Ghiscari somehow forgotten how to raise and maintain lockstep legions?
If so, then there was a brutal and delightful irony there. For slavery was not the only thing which Valyria had learned from and adapted during its wars with Old Ghis, for indeed, the legions of the Valyrian Army had been modeled on and trained to fight against the lockstep legions of Old Ghis.
For New Ghis to have forgotten their ancestors' admittedly-impressive ability to wage war where Valyria had not and indeed, had adapted it for its own…
Horns sounded and a white banner was raised among the Meereenese lines. "They signal for a parley, commander." First Captain Jaeron remarked.
"So it seems." Legion Commander Vamar said with a nod. "Let's humor them, shall we? Sound a response, and get a white banner up."
"Yes, sir."
The Valyrians sounded their own horns and raised their own white banners, and in minutes two parties from opposing sides were riding to meet each other between their armies. "Greetings," Vamar said in Volantene as he came within earshot. "I am Legion Commander Vamar of the Fifth Legion. What brings you so far west?"
"Hello to you too, legion commander." The opposing commander returned the greeting. "I am Captain-Commander Joror Aenoyor of the Horde of Blood and Iron. As to your question, it's rather obvious, isn't it?"
"It is?" Vamar asked.
"My employers over at the city yonder aren't exactly too enthusiastic about you marching on their lands." Joror answered.
"Employers, you say?" Vamar asked. "I take it you're not a citizen-soldier or anything of the sort of Meereen or the Ghiscari, are you?"
Joror laughed. "No, commander, I am not." He said. "Just your usual free company leader. That said, I'd also say you make for a very…unusual-looking, leader for a free company. And your men are rather too disciplined and uniform for it too…"
"You assume much, sellsword." Vamar said coldly, unamused at being seen as a sellsword himself.
"Not really," Joror said with a shrug. "But the Great Masters do."
Vamar raised an eyebrow at the contemptuous tone Joror used to refer to Meereen's aristocratic rulers. It didn't go unnoticed. "That bunch sitting in their pyramids sipping bad wine and fattening themselves on sweetmeats are too far up their own asses to be able to see more than what's on the surface." Joror said. "Me and mine, though? We see and hear a lot of things."
"Such as?"
"They say the Doom is gone." Joror said with a smile. "That Valyria has returned from the grave, that dragons fly once again over Essos, and that Volantis is about to go to war to rebuild the Freehold again."
Vamar smiled cryptically. "And what of it?" he asked.
Joror looked at his captains. They nodded at him. "I'd say a lot of it is bull." He said. "Except the bit about Volantis, that is. What's dead is dead after all, and nothing ever comes back from over that line. Least of all Valyria, which dug too deep and cracked hell's roof and ended getting burned for it. I don't know how you Volantenes managed to raise an army as big as you have behind you, much less send it all the way here without getting noticed, but hey, I'm just a sellsword. It doesn't matter to me."
"Hmm…and what would?"
"Well," Joror began. "We could fight it out, like my employers would prefer, and me and mine would chase you lot off back to your ships – wherever they are – after which you lot can go fuck off back to Volantis. Or…we can come to an arrangement."
"An arrangement, you say?"
"Come now," Joror said with a grasping gesture. "You know how this works, Volantene. The Great Masters paid us to chase you off and keep you bunch from their city…but if you can give us a better offer, then we can all take our fair share of Meereen. What do you say?"
Vamar's face twisted in disgust. "Greedy and dishonorable scum," he spat in High Valyrian. "A sellsword you might be, but I'd have hoped for a little bit of honor, professional pride in keeping to your given word as set down in your contract! And you would tell me that for a little more gold your word and signature are worth as much as the paper it's on? And that I would bargain with the likes of you?"
"Commander," the sergeant major said cautiously. "You're speaking in High Valyrian. I don't think these lowlifes can understand it."
The sellswords bristled at that. "Watch your tongue, little man." One sellsword captain said. "Or we'll cut it out for you."
The sergeant major reached for his sword, but was stopped by a hand on his arm, courtesy of the legion commander. "We are at parley." Vamar said. "We will not draw weapons."
"Yes, sir." The man said, relaxing and pulling his hand back. "My apologies."
Vamar nodded, and then turned back to the sellswords with a cold expression on his face. "Here is my offer." He said just as coldly. "Either you surrender here and now, at which point you'll be interned until after we finish our campaign in this theater, or you can stand and fight. Here and now, or retreat to Meereen and fight there when the time comes, it doesn't matter. Know that if you fight though, only death, or a slave's chains await you, sellsword."
Joror and his captains' faces turned ugly. "Big words, Volantene…" one of the latter began, only to be interrupted.
"Wrong!" Vamar snarled. "I am no Volantene. I speak their language for your sake, but I am Valyrian. So are all my men, and my superiors. Submit before the Freehold here and now, and receive mercy later. Defy us, and suffer for it. Choose, sellsword!"
The sellswords laughed mockingly before turning to leave. "It takes more than dragon banners and strong words to revive the Freehold, Volantene." Joror said mockingly. "Or should I say 'Valyrian'? No matter…you should have remembered the Century of Blood, Valyrian. Don't worry: we'll remind you of how it ended in a way you'll never forget."
Vamar sneered as the sellswords rode away, and then turning back rode towards his army. "What should we do, commander?" the first captain asked, riding out to meet the legion commander.
"Keep the foot auxiliaries to the rear," Vamar ordered. "When the opportunity comes, have them attack the enemy foot's flanks."
"And our cavalry?"
Vamar turned to look at the sellswords in the distance, shouting and roaring out war cries and taunts. "We'll put them in reserve," he said. "Until our enemy makes a move with their cavalry."
"Yes, sir."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
For hours, the two armies stared each other down, enduring the scorching heat of the Sun in the dry lands around Slavers' Bay. The Valyrians stood in stoic silence, save for the barked orders and shouted encouragement of their officers. In contrast, the sellswords grew increasingly agitated as the hours passed, shouting taunts and insults at the Valyrians to try and get them to make the first move, and present opportunities, mistakes, and weaknesses to exploit…to no avail. Superior Valyrian discipline kept their troops, no matter how insulted, from acting without orders.
As noon came however, the endurance of both sides reached the breaking point, and by unspoken agreement both armies withdrew to their camps, for water and a chance to get out from under the scorching Sun. Within hours however, as the temperature dropped, and the Sun began to sink towards the horizon, both armies marched out to confront each other again.
Again, the Valyrians stood silent and stoic for the most part, while the sellswords chomped at their bits, eager to spill blood and the chance to loot and spoil their fallen enemies in death. Ultimately, it was the sellswords who gave way first, their captains fearing their men turning on them if they refused to give battle now, and dispatched their cavalry to try and flank the Valyrian Army.
"Deploy our cavalry." Vamar said. "Keep them from flanking us, but do not charge until the enemy does."
"And if they do?" the sergeant major asked.
"Rout them."
"By the Fourteen, it will be done."
Soon, almost a thousand horsemen were moving away and around the Valyrian foot, running past at a medium trot and keeping pace with the sellsword cavalry. The sellswords attempted to draw the Valyrians off and outflank them, but despite their best efforts, were unable to shake or outflank the Valyrian cavalry.
Annoyed, the sellswords' cavalry commander decided to charge and break the Valyrian cavalry. Orders were given and the formation shifted from a marching column to a wedge aimed at the Valyrians, and with the roaring of horns, the sellswords charged.
The Valyrians picked up the pace, speeding up to a fast trot, but maintaining a broad line facing the sellswords. The wan light of the afternoon Sun shone off mail hauberks that reached to the riders' wrists and knees, and off the bronze scales which armored their horses. Purple eyes looked through narrow slits cut through enclosing helms, and then raising bows made from wood, bone, and sinew, the Valyrians fired disciplined, mass volleys of steel-tipped arrows against the sellswords in a demonstration of skill in mounted archery rarely seen outside of the Dothraki khalasars. And then the front rank peeled off, turning to the flanks to allow the next rank to bring their bows and arrows to bear, and then peeling off, repeated for the next line.
A difference quickly became apparent, however. Valyrian mounted archers fired at a slower pace compared to the Dothraki, but did so by pulling their bowstrings further back, adding more power to their shots, allowing them greater chances to punch through mail and even padded leather. And against the sellswords' unarmored horses, where the fast-paced volleys of arrows launched by Dothraki would only cause painful but otherwise non-serious cuts and punctures, the Valyrians' more powerful volleys could incapacitate or even kill. Even more so, as the Valyrians took the time to properly aim before firing.
The sellswords' charge buckled and then melted, struggling to stay together even as the Valyrian formation shifted from a line to a wedge, the last rank of mounted archers peeling away as lancers lowered their lances. War horns sounded the charge, and the Valyrians kicked their horses to full gallop.
To their credit, the sellswords managed to partially reform their ranks quickly enough once the arrows stopped falling, but with their charge broken and no time to pick up speed once more, they found themselves at a major disadvantage. No less than two ranks were crushed by the Valyrian charge, with the third buckling in many places.
By then the Valyrians' first rank was drawing swords and maces, while those behind them joined in with weapons already drawn, turning the battlefield into a bloody melee that was a fairer fight, though Valyrian mounted archers continued to launch wave after wave of arrows into the sellswords' ranks. And once their arrows ran out, they too drew their weapons and charged in to join the melee.
Elsewhere Valyrian foot was closing in on the sellsword foot, the Valyrians presenting a wall of pikes before the enemy while archers of both sides rained arrows down on their enemies. The sellswords wavered but held, marching forward to close the range, crossbowmen advancing to open fire. Steel bolts punched through Valyrian shields, mail, and padded leather with terrifying ease, and the sellswords alternated their crossbowmen in three ranks. The first rank fired, then stepped back to reload, while the second rank advanced to fire and then stepped back to reload, while the third rank fired and then stepped back to reload while the first rank advanced once more to fight.
Rinse and repeat…before long, the Valyrian wall of pikes had collapsed, and with a roaring of horns both sides charged. Clashing head to head, the Valyrians quickly and surprisingly - for the sellswords - gained a minor advantage, their legionaries' superior discipline allowing them to maintain the line even in the heat of battle, and preventing them from being pushed back. But the sellswords fought with impressive fury, and the Valyrian commander ordered his reserves pushed into battle.
Foot auxiliaries advanced from the Valyrian rear to either side, raining down arrows as they closed on the sellswords' flanks. The sellswords' formation buckled but held, prolonging the melee for nearly three hours…
…and may have held for longer had the Valyrian cavalry not finally routed their enemies. Captain-Commander Joror sounded the retreat, the sellsword cavalry retreating as best it could to the east. They left behind nearly six hundred of their own dead including the rearguard, with nearly two hundred more escaping in the direction of Meereen.
Despite their exhaustion after having fought a hard battle already, the Valyrian cavalry reformed, and charged the sellsword foot from the rear. Surrounded on all sides and with no chance to retreat or escape, the sellswords held out for as long as they could.
But as the Sun began to dip beneath the horizon, the survivors surrendered. Out of just over nine thousand sellsword infantry, over four thousand were dead, and nearly five thousand were marched disarmed and in chains, to the slavers waiting behind Valyrian lines.
The Valyrian Army's Fifth Legion, along with its attached auxiliaries, would lose some five hundred men out of nearly a thousand horsemen, along with nearly two thousand out of over nine thousand footmen.
Despite such losses however, victory for this battle clearly belonged to the Freehold. And the road to Meereen was now open.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
What, did you expect Valyria to depend solely on dragons? Just like Rome, the Valyrians adopted and adapted for their own use/preferences those aspects of their enemies which they found useful. Slavery for instance, and the lockstep legions for another, from the Ghiscari.
Return of Valyria
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
As it was, it took about a month for Volantis to finish its preparations for war to reclaim its ancestral holdings. Given their primacy on the Rhoyne Front, with the Freehold providing assistance and support to their Volantene allies in that theater of the war, the Freehold similarly held off on offensive operations in this region. For the most part: dragonriders and horsemen probed north, up the valley of the Rhoyne, and west, into the Disputed Lands. Spies and informants gathered as much information as they could, and in the small, faint hope that order could be restored to Essos without unnecessary bloodshed, messages had been sent to the other Free Cities, proclaiming the return of the Valyrian Freehold, and calling on them all to peacefully submit to Valyrian hegemony once more, and for a peaceful arbitration of the issues that had divided and turned the Free Cities against each other.
The hope was in vain. Most of the Free Cities derided Volantis' claims – as they saw it – of Valyria's return as propaganda, a façade for a second attempt by Volantis to gain hegemony over Essos as it once attempted to do over three hundred years ago.
Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr immediately cut off all trade with Volantis, with any and all shipping flying their cities' flags heading east and west through the Summer Sea being instructed to avoid Volantis. Warnings were also sent to Volantis, threatening the destruction of their fleet and a blockade of the city should Volantis attempt to force the issue.
These warnings and the embargo were backed by Braavos, which even blamed Volantene agents for starting the civil wars tearing apart Norvos and Qohor. Braavosi money poured into anti-Volantene factions in the civil wars, with Braavosi delegates serving as impartial arbitrators to allow those same factions to form unified coalitions to restore order to their cities, and provide steadfast leadership aimed at maintaining their domains' independence from what they and Braavos condemned as Volantene tyranny.
Pentos was silent: as a Braavosi client, they simply decided to follow their hegemon's lead in all things.
Lorath for its part declared neutrality, citing the distance between itself and Volantis, and its own limited resources compared to the other Free Cities. For the time being, such was accepted with no question by the belligerents of the war that would soon set Essos ablaze.
"This is intolerable." Tychano snapped as he sat with his fellow Triarchs. "The embargo imposed by all five western Free Cities is costing us millions per day, to say nothing of northern trade drying up thanks to the civil wars in Qohor and Norvos. And while Lorath is willing to continue trading with us…considering the distance and Lorath's own status as the smallest of the Daughters of Valyria, it's not worth much at all."
"You exaggerate the situation, my friend." Vargano said. "Yes, we lose millions due to the embargo, but much of that is steadily being rectified as trade with the Freehold grows. Indeed, as trade with the west dries up, trade with the Freehold increases, as merchants unable to make money in the west turn east, to Mother Valyria. And we have much to offer to her merchants, and her own merchants to us."
"And once the war really begins," Aerarro said. "The need to ship supplies and men up the Rhoyne will provide a non-insignificant source of income for us as well. And it's not like Ghiscar and Qarth have stopped trading with us, and the same goes for Yi Ti and Asshai."
"So you say," Tychano conceded. "But you mentioned Ghiscar, did you not? Are not Valyrian armies marching on Meereen even as we speak? As the fighting escalates there, trade with the east will begin to dry up as well."
"What?" Aerarro asked. "Once Ghiscar falls, then the Freehold will have plenty of land and property, to say nothing of slaves, that will need to be rebuilt and put to productive work. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities for our eastern trade then, and much easier for us to do business in than is currently the case with New Ghis."
Tychano was silent at that, and Vargano nodded slowly. "In any case," he began. "The Freehold has no intentions within the foreseeable future to go against Qarth or Asshai, so trade with those lands should not be affected."
"And following up on what I said just now," Aerarro said. "As we advance north, up the Rhoyne, there will also be plenty of land for us to put to good use. The building of fortifications in the hinterland will also present opportunities for considerable profit. And once both Norvos and Qohor are brought to heel, together with our control of the Rhoyne…"
"Then the embargos will essentially become meaningless." Vargano said before narrowing his eyes. "And in any case, it's not as though the western cities aren't hurting their own economies with this embargo of theirs. And they have less options than we do. For instance, once the Freehold has once again regained Ghiscar, then we and the Freehold can embargo the west. Let's see how long they can hold out then, without access to most of the eastern and the entire Rhoyne markets."
Aerarro nodded in approval, while Tychano looked unhappy, though he remained silent. "Any word from Westeros?" Vargano asked after a moment.
"None," Aerarro said. "Or at least they don't seem to be reacting actively or openly in response to our and the Freehold's proclamations of the latter's return. No doubt though, their spies are already hard at work trying to find out as much as they can. Sooner or later, there will be a reaction."
Vargano made a sound indicative of interest. "And how do you think the Usurper would react?" he asked.
Aerarro shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "It all depends I guess, on whether or not and how far his hatred of the Targaryens extends to other Valyrians, or to other dragonlords in particular. And whether or not cooler heads among his confederates can restrain him from rash action. That deputy of his, Arryn if I remember correctly, he's a sharp and composed one from what I know."
Vargano nodded. "True," he admitted. "I suppose we will find out soon enough."
"Indeed."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Saying the Valyrian Army was marching on Meereen and the rest of the Slaver Cities would be true…generally-speaking. Details-wise, the Valyrian Army was busy taking control of the northern coast of Slavers' Bay, dotted as it was with a number of villages and small towns. At the same time, fortifications were being built inland, stout keeps of stone boasting a tall signal tower, surrounded by a curtain wall sporting battlements and towers.
In addition to Slavers' Bay's northern coast, the passes over the Painted Mountains were being fortified, with the Freehold planning to assign a full legion and an equivalent number of auxiliaries to hold the passes. All in all, they would number approximately ten thousand men, and while normally at a disadvantage against the expected enemy – the Dothraki – on the open, in the rugged terrain of the mountains and supported by dragons, they would be enough.
Currently, the First Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion, titled the 'Pyramid Breakers' for their achievements during the Fifth Ghiscari-Valyrian War over four thousand years ago, was preparing to camp for the night outside and around a small coastal town which had surrendered earlier during the afternoon. By order of Triarch Laemar Lennareon, the settlements of Slavers' Bay would be offered a choice: surrender, and their lives, freedom, and property would be spared and guaranteed under Valyrian law. They would pay taxes to the Freehold, and follow its laws, and in return the Freehold would provide protection and other public services.
Refuse to submit, and their freedom, property, and if need be, their lives, would be forfeit. A number of settlements had foolishly chosen this option, and were now naught by burned ruins. Their militiamen or sellswords slain, their properties divided by lot among the soldiers and officers which had taken their settlement…
...but as for the inhabitants themselves…the men would likely end up being put to work in mines, factories, or plantations for the rest of their lives, though the stronger, and more fit among them might get a chance at freedom by fighting in the gladiatorial arenas. The older women would likely be sold off as house servants, the younger ones to brothels or to rich men with a taste for bed slaves, and the children to serve as companions to other children, and who actually had a very good chance at eventually regaining their freedom: it was customary for a young man or woman of good social standing to free their companions upon reaching adulthood.
Going back to the First Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion, Legion Commander Galaerys was standing in his tent, looking over a map of the surrounding area spread over a large table. Colored markers indicated the locations of the other cohorts of the Fifteenth Legion, along with their auxiliaries. Other markers showed the locations of the Fifth Legion and their auxiliaries, and who were in fact taking point for the expedition.
Within a month…
…no, less than that, assuming the Ghiscari weren't completely incompetent, the Meereenese would respond, and likely probe the Valyrian vanguard as it approached the Skahazadhan river. And when that happened…
Movement drew the Valyrian officer's attention, First Captain Gaemar saluting just past the tent entrance. "Commander," the man said as Galaerys returned the salute. "Reporting that fortification of the camp is complete, and our men are settling down for the night."
"Very good, captain." Galaerys said with a nod, before indicating the map in front of him. "Take a look at this."
"Sir?" the man said as he stepped closer, and Galaerys began to indicate dots on the map where the Valyrian Army was building forts and other fortifications across the hinterland.
"We're digging in across the entire hinterland," Galaerys said. "While at the same time we're advancing towards Meereen. Put another way, our troops are spread thin across the entire region. If we're not careful, any enemy that manages to get past or around the frontline will wreak havoc on our rear echelons."
"Yes, sir." Gaemar agreed. "At least until the fortification of the hinterland is complete."
"Perhaps," Galaerys mused. "Against an enemy that fights properly, like the Ghiscari, they would be enough. Maybe enough that there'd be no need for dragonriders like what's going to be stationed here…here…and here. Against enemies that don't fight properly though…"
"Dothraki and rebels…" Gaemar muttered, and Galaerys nodded.
"Quite," Galaerys said. "It'll be quite the hunt on the ground for us, and if our men aren't careful, they could just be led into a trap. Dragonriders would be very helpful in such a case…once the fortification of the hinterland is done, at least."
"Yes sir, as you say."
Galaerys nodded. "We're getting close to Meereen." He said. "We could encounter the enemy at any time. I want double lookouts at night, and double scouts while on the march."
"It will put a strain on our supply train." Gaemar warned. "I'll have to arrange things with the quartermasters to keep things going smoothly."
"Do so." Galaerys said. "A little difficulty for us now is preferable to big trouble later on."
"Yes, sir. It will be done." Gaemar said with a nod.
"Also," Galaerys said before the first captain could leave. "I'll need a messenger ready by first light."
"To where or who, sir?"
"To Legion Commander Vamar of the Fifth Legion, of course." Galaerys said with a sigh. "We need to tighten our lines. As things stand, our forces aren't just spread too thin, we can barely support each other…if at all."
"I understand, sir. The messenger will be ready at first light, as ordered."
Galaerys nodded, and with a salute, the first captain departed, and left the legion commander alone to his worries.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The fleet assigned by the Valyrian Navy to cover and support the Valyrian Army's march along the northern coast of Slavers' Bay was anchored offshore along a sheltered stretch of coastline. Numbering some two hundred ships strong, it was composed largely of two-mast galleys with thirty oars on either side and three men for every oar, on top of the ship's officers and additional men for actual combat, whether boarding or missile and artillery crews with composite bows and traction trebuchets. Unlike the ships sent to Volantis in the previous month, these ships didn't carry ballistae, which were in fact in the middle of being phased out by the Valyrian military as a whole, considered to be too cost-inefficient compared to simpler but more effective weapons such as traction or counterweight trebuchets.
In addition to war galleys, there were also dromons, two-banked and two-mast affairs with sixty oars per side, and in addition to traction trebuchets and archers, carried the deadliest weapon in use in naval warfare. And which according to information provided by Volantis had been lost if not outright forgotten in the four centuries since. If so, then it would be a most unpleasant surprise for the Freehold's enemies when the time came.
Fires burned on great braziers on the decks of the ships on the outside of the fleet's formation at nighttime rest, their crews using large disks of polished bronze to reflect the light out to sea, and in so doing be able to see potential enemies on approach. On the dromon Eternal Star, Admiral Vigarys was poring over two maps of Slavers' Bay.
One was from four hundred years ago, and another was of the present day, provided courtesy of Volantis. "We should be thankful Elyria remains as it should be," the admiral said. "That is, it's our Elyria, and not some Ghiscari bastardization."
"As you say, sir." Captain Vagar said.
"In any case," Vigarys continued. "Any word from Valyx just yet?"
"There has been some delay," Vagar began with an air of apology. "However, Admiral Valyx will be setting sail in two days for the Isle of Cedars, while the Grand Fleet under Grand Admiral Rhaegar will be setting out as well, to cover Admiral Valyx's right flank in the eventuality that New Ghis launches its fleet to oppose the latter's sortie."
"…I see." Vigarys said with a slow now. "And the nature of the delay?"
"The sorcerers apparently needed more time to prepare."
"Sorcerers? Whatever for?"
"According to the report from Admiral Valyx, the scouts sent to the Isle of Cedars reported back that something…wasn't right, about the island." Vagar said. "As such, Triarch Laemar has decided to take prudent measures, and attached sorcerers to Admiral Valyx's command for this sortie."
"Glass candles need slaves to work." Vigarys muttered. "Or rather their blood…lots of it, if there's something off with the whole island. Still, I see the Triarch's point, and while I don't like it, it does seem to be the right course of action."
"Yes, sir."
"Of course," Vigarys began while looking down at his maps again. "This will delay our own plans yet again, forcing us to continue to hug the coast until Valyx can close the whole bay off. And until then, we can't strike and take Yaros, much less have the positioning we need to completely blockade Yunkai and Astapor. What a pain."
"Unfortunately that does seem to be the case, sir."
Vigarys sighed. "In any case," he said, marking down notes on the maps and on a clean leaf of papyrus. "Such is war. Even the best plans don't always go smoothly. That's just the way things are."
"Sir."
Vigarys nodded. "Well, thank you for that report, captain." He said. "Dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
The captain saluted, and then leaving the admiral's cabin, left the man alone to his work.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As Legion Commander Galaerys predicted, Meereen took action before too long. Barely a week after the former had sent to the Fifth Legion's commander of the need to contract and tighten the Freehold's lines, outriders of the Fifth Legion brought back word that an army of ten thousand had crossed the Skahazadhan river and were marching west, to challenge the Valyrian Army to battle.
Legion Commander Vamar immediately recalled his cohorts and auxiliaries, consolidating his forces into a matching force to that of the enemy. Approximately two days' march west of the Skahazadhan, the Valyrians and the Meereenese faced each other across the battlefield.
The Valyrians and the Meereenese were in stark contrast to each other. The Valyrians were a uniform force, flying the same banners and holding the same standards: red banners with golden dragons, or crimson standards bearing in gold the numerical glyph for the number five, the latter topped with gilded figures of a hand raised in defiance beneath a dragon similarly snarling in defiance.
The Meereenese forces flew an eclectic mix of banners and standards, and indeed, their forces appeared hodgepodge and ramshackle, lacking standardization between them. It was most…surprising, as Meereen was supposed to be a tributary of the New Ghiscari Empire, just as it once was to Old Ghis. Had the Ghiscari somehow forgotten how to raise and maintain lockstep legions?
If so, then there was a brutal and delightful irony there. For slavery was not the only thing which Valyria had learned from and adapted during its wars with Old Ghis, for indeed, the legions of the Valyrian Army had been modeled on and trained to fight against the lockstep legions of Old Ghis.
For New Ghis to have forgotten their ancestors' admittedly-impressive ability to wage war where Valyria had not and indeed, had adapted it for its own…
Horns sounded and a white banner was raised among the Meereenese lines. "They signal for a parley, commander." First Captain Jaeron remarked.
"So it seems." Legion Commander Vamar said with a nod. "Let's humor them, shall we? Sound a response, and get a white banner up."
"Yes, sir."
The Valyrians sounded their own horns and raised their own white banners, and in minutes two parties from opposing sides were riding to meet each other between their armies. "Greetings," Vamar said in Volantene as he came within earshot. "I am Legion Commander Vamar of the Fifth Legion. What brings you so far west?"
"Hello to you too, legion commander." The opposing commander returned the greeting. "I am Captain-Commander Joror Aenoyor of the Horde of Blood and Iron. As to your question, it's rather obvious, isn't it?"
"It is?" Vamar asked.
"My employers over at the city yonder aren't exactly too enthusiastic about you marching on their lands." Joror answered.
"Employers, you say?" Vamar asked. "I take it you're not a citizen-soldier or anything of the sort of Meereen or the Ghiscari, are you?"
Joror laughed. "No, commander, I am not." He said. "Just your usual free company leader. That said, I'd also say you make for a very…unusual-looking, leader for a free company. And your men are rather too disciplined and uniform for it too…"
"You assume much, sellsword." Vamar said coldly, unamused at being seen as a sellsword himself.
"Not really," Joror said with a shrug. "But the Great Masters do."
Vamar raised an eyebrow at the contemptuous tone Joror used to refer to Meereen's aristocratic rulers. It didn't go unnoticed. "That bunch sitting in their pyramids sipping bad wine and fattening themselves on sweetmeats are too far up their own asses to be able to see more than what's on the surface." Joror said. "Me and mine, though? We see and hear a lot of things."
"Such as?"
"They say the Doom is gone." Joror said with a smile. "That Valyria has returned from the grave, that dragons fly once again over Essos, and that Volantis is about to go to war to rebuild the Freehold again."
Vamar smiled cryptically. "And what of it?" he asked.
Joror looked at his captains. They nodded at him. "I'd say a lot of it is bull." He said. "Except the bit about Volantis, that is. What's dead is dead after all, and nothing ever comes back from over that line. Least of all Valyria, which dug too deep and cracked hell's roof and ended getting burned for it. I don't know how you Volantenes managed to raise an army as big as you have behind you, much less send it all the way here without getting noticed, but hey, I'm just a sellsword. It doesn't matter to me."
"Hmm…and what would?"
"Well," Joror began. "We could fight it out, like my employers would prefer, and me and mine would chase you lot off back to your ships – wherever they are – after which you lot can go fuck off back to Volantis. Or…we can come to an arrangement."
"An arrangement, you say?"
"Come now," Joror said with a grasping gesture. "You know how this works, Volantene. The Great Masters paid us to chase you off and keep you bunch from their city…but if you can give us a better offer, then we can all take our fair share of Meereen. What do you say?"
Vamar's face twisted in disgust. "Greedy and dishonorable scum," he spat in High Valyrian. "A sellsword you might be, but I'd have hoped for a little bit of honor, professional pride in keeping to your given word as set down in your contract! And you would tell me that for a little more gold your word and signature are worth as much as the paper it's on? And that I would bargain with the likes of you?"
"Commander," the sergeant major said cautiously. "You're speaking in High Valyrian. I don't think these lowlifes can understand it."
The sellswords bristled at that. "Watch your tongue, little man." One sellsword captain said. "Or we'll cut it out for you."
The sergeant major reached for his sword, but was stopped by a hand on his arm, courtesy of the legion commander. "We are at parley." Vamar said. "We will not draw weapons."
"Yes, sir." The man said, relaxing and pulling his hand back. "My apologies."
Vamar nodded, and then turned back to the sellswords with a cold expression on his face. "Here is my offer." He said just as coldly. "Either you surrender here and now, at which point you'll be interned until after we finish our campaign in this theater, or you can stand and fight. Here and now, or retreat to Meereen and fight there when the time comes, it doesn't matter. Know that if you fight though, only death, or a slave's chains await you, sellsword."
Joror and his captains' faces turned ugly. "Big words, Volantene…" one of the latter began, only to be interrupted.
"Wrong!" Vamar snarled. "I am no Volantene. I speak their language for your sake, but I am Valyrian. So are all my men, and my superiors. Submit before the Freehold here and now, and receive mercy later. Defy us, and suffer for it. Choose, sellsword!"
The sellswords laughed mockingly before turning to leave. "It takes more than dragon banners and strong words to revive the Freehold, Volantene." Joror said mockingly. "Or should I say 'Valyrian'? No matter…you should have remembered the Century of Blood, Valyrian. Don't worry: we'll remind you of how it ended in a way you'll never forget."
Vamar sneered as the sellswords rode away, and then turning back rode towards his army. "What should we do, commander?" the first captain asked, riding out to meet the legion commander.
"Keep the foot auxiliaries to the rear," Vamar ordered. "When the opportunity comes, have them attack the enemy foot's flanks."
"And our cavalry?"
Vamar turned to look at the sellswords in the distance, shouting and roaring out war cries and taunts. "We'll put them in reserve," he said. "Until our enemy makes a move with their cavalry."
"Yes, sir."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
For hours, the two armies stared each other down, enduring the scorching heat of the Sun in the dry lands around Slavers' Bay. The Valyrians stood in stoic silence, save for the barked orders and shouted encouragement of their officers. In contrast, the sellswords grew increasingly agitated as the hours passed, shouting taunts and insults at the Valyrians to try and get them to make the first move, and present opportunities, mistakes, and weaknesses to exploit…to no avail. Superior Valyrian discipline kept their troops, no matter how insulted, from acting without orders.
As noon came however, the endurance of both sides reached the breaking point, and by unspoken agreement both armies withdrew to their camps, for water and a chance to get out from under the scorching Sun. Within hours however, as the temperature dropped, and the Sun began to sink towards the horizon, both armies marched out to confront each other again.
Again, the Valyrians stood silent and stoic for the most part, while the sellswords chomped at their bits, eager to spill blood and the chance to loot and spoil their fallen enemies in death. Ultimately, it was the sellswords who gave way first, their captains fearing their men turning on them if they refused to give battle now, and dispatched their cavalry to try and flank the Valyrian Army.
"Deploy our cavalry." Vamar said. "Keep them from flanking us, but do not charge until the enemy does."
"And if they do?" the sergeant major asked.
"Rout them."
"By the Fourteen, it will be done."
Soon, almost a thousand horsemen were moving away and around the Valyrian foot, running past at a medium trot and keeping pace with the sellsword cavalry. The sellswords attempted to draw the Valyrians off and outflank them, but despite their best efforts, were unable to shake or outflank the Valyrian cavalry.
Annoyed, the sellswords' cavalry commander decided to charge and break the Valyrian cavalry. Orders were given and the formation shifted from a marching column to a wedge aimed at the Valyrians, and with the roaring of horns, the sellswords charged.
The Valyrians picked up the pace, speeding up to a fast trot, but maintaining a broad line facing the sellswords. The wan light of the afternoon Sun shone off mail hauberks that reached to the riders' wrists and knees, and off the bronze scales which armored their horses. Purple eyes looked through narrow slits cut through enclosing helms, and then raising bows made from wood, bone, and sinew, the Valyrians fired disciplined, mass volleys of steel-tipped arrows against the sellswords in a demonstration of skill in mounted archery rarely seen outside of the Dothraki khalasars. And then the front rank peeled off, turning to the flanks to allow the next rank to bring their bows and arrows to bear, and then peeling off, repeated for the next line.
A difference quickly became apparent, however. Valyrian mounted archers fired at a slower pace compared to the Dothraki, but did so by pulling their bowstrings further back, adding more power to their shots, allowing them greater chances to punch through mail and even padded leather. And against the sellswords' unarmored horses, where the fast-paced volleys of arrows launched by Dothraki would only cause painful but otherwise non-serious cuts and punctures, the Valyrians' more powerful volleys could incapacitate or even kill. Even more so, as the Valyrians took the time to properly aim before firing.
The sellswords' charge buckled and then melted, struggling to stay together even as the Valyrian formation shifted from a line to a wedge, the last rank of mounted archers peeling away as lancers lowered their lances. War horns sounded the charge, and the Valyrians kicked their horses to full gallop.
To their credit, the sellswords managed to partially reform their ranks quickly enough once the arrows stopped falling, but with their charge broken and no time to pick up speed once more, they found themselves at a major disadvantage. No less than two ranks were crushed by the Valyrian charge, with the third buckling in many places.
By then the Valyrians' first rank was drawing swords and maces, while those behind them joined in with weapons already drawn, turning the battlefield into a bloody melee that was a fairer fight, though Valyrian mounted archers continued to launch wave after wave of arrows into the sellswords' ranks. And once their arrows ran out, they too drew their weapons and charged in to join the melee.
Elsewhere Valyrian foot was closing in on the sellsword foot, the Valyrians presenting a wall of pikes before the enemy while archers of both sides rained arrows down on their enemies. The sellswords wavered but held, marching forward to close the range, crossbowmen advancing to open fire. Steel bolts punched through Valyrian shields, mail, and padded leather with terrifying ease, and the sellswords alternated their crossbowmen in three ranks. The first rank fired, then stepped back to reload, while the second rank advanced to fire and then stepped back to reload, while the third rank fired and then stepped back to reload while the first rank advanced once more to fight.
Rinse and repeat…before long, the Valyrian wall of pikes had collapsed, and with a roaring of horns both sides charged. Clashing head to head, the Valyrians quickly and surprisingly - for the sellswords - gained a minor advantage, their legionaries' superior discipline allowing them to maintain the line even in the heat of battle, and preventing them from being pushed back. But the sellswords fought with impressive fury, and the Valyrian commander ordered his reserves pushed into battle.
Foot auxiliaries advanced from the Valyrian rear to either side, raining down arrows as they closed on the sellswords' flanks. The sellswords' formation buckled but held, prolonging the melee for nearly three hours…
…and may have held for longer had the Valyrian cavalry not finally routed their enemies. Captain-Commander Joror sounded the retreat, the sellsword cavalry retreating as best it could to the east. They left behind nearly six hundred of their own dead including the rearguard, with nearly two hundred more escaping in the direction of Meereen.
Despite their exhaustion after having fought a hard battle already, the Valyrian cavalry reformed, and charged the sellsword foot from the rear. Surrounded on all sides and with no chance to retreat or escape, the sellswords held out for as long as they could.
But as the Sun began to dip beneath the horizon, the survivors surrendered. Out of just over nine thousand sellsword infantry, over four thousand were dead, and nearly five thousand were marched disarmed and in chains, to the slavers waiting behind Valyrian lines.
The Valyrian Army's Fifth Legion, along with its attached auxiliaries, would lose some five hundred men out of nearly a thousand horsemen, along with nearly two thousand out of over nine thousand footmen.
Despite such losses however, victory for this battle clearly belonged to the Freehold. And the road to Meereen was now open.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
What, did you expect Valyria to depend solely on dragons? Just like Rome, the Valyrians adopted and adapted for their own use/preferences those aspects of their enemies which they found useful. Slavery for instance, and the lockstep legions for another, from the Ghiscari.
Jaenera Targaryen
Well-known member
Pretty much this, yes.
The Valyrians probably know about them already, if only in passing. They did have dealing with the North before, or rather, the Kingdom of Winter. House Stark did buy 'Ice' from Valyria. And while Andals in general and the maesters in particular have a tendency to dismiss the old stories about giants and the children among others as fairy tales, the Valyrians wouldn't. They're a civilization and society where magic is a fact of life.
Even if such...northern, lore seems to have an opposing theme to their own lore, it's still not something to be dismissed out of hand. Magic is magic, no matter what form it takes.
Chapter 5
Jaenera Targaryen
Well-known member
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.
The initial Volantene advance north up the Rhoyne beyond the Selhoru quickly turned disastrous.
Barely a month into the advance, at the ruined Rhoynar city of Chroyane, Captain Vargelos Ostohrin and the five thousand men he commanded were surrounded and forced to surrender, to fifteen thousand sellswords paid by Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. The captain was crucified and burned, his body left to rot amidst the ruins even as his men were marched by slavers west, into the Disputed Lands.
Similarly, a week later and Captain Irreo Vynonnis suffered a similar fate, again after being surrounded and forced to surrender. By this point the Volantenes had lost around ten thousand men, with only Captain Malaro Pahraan and five thousand men standing between the forces hired by Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, and the Volantene city of Selhorys.
Rather than attempting to engage the enemy head on, Malaro sent fast riders south for help, while retreating to a fort located approximately twenty miles north of Selhorys. The enemy commander, Captain Beloquo Maegelar predicted Malaro's movements, and moved to intercept before they could enter and dig in at the fort.
The sellswords managed to reach the Volantenes just as they arrived at the fort, and forcing Malaro to sacrifice his cavalry, numbering some five hundred horsemen, to allow the rest of his army to reach and close the fort. The sellswords, having dealt with the Volantene cavalry, now called for parley.
"Volantenes," the self-important sellsword carrying a white flag shouted up at Malaro and his men on the fort's walls. "Your army is defeated. There is no escape. Surrender now, and your lives will be spared."
"We will not be as slaves to be bartered with, sellsword!" Malaro shouted down in response. "And we are far from defeated, as you will soon learn! No surrender! No retreat! We will stand fast here, and await our allies' coming!"
"So be it then." The sellsword said before turning his horse, and riding back to his lines.
With the Volantenes refusing to surrender, the sellswords surrounded the fort, digging and piling up simple earthworks to reinforce the siege. The fort itself was formidable, with a thick, stone curtain wall rising high around the hill, its battlements manned by archers and other soldiers. The Volantenes might be outnumbered, but in a defensive position, so long as they were reinforced quickly enough, that wasn't as big a disadvantage as it would usually be.
There was only one gate through the curtain wall, with a square keep built around and over it. The main keep of the fort was located at the top of the hill, built like a square with thick walls and crowned with battlements. Blockhouses and the like crowded along the lower slopes of the hill, but the upper slopes were bare and somewhat sheer, adding to the defensive value of the main keep.
The sellswords had several options for a siege. They could starve the defenders out, but that would take time, even more so as the retreating Volantenes had not been so pressed that they had had to abandon their supply train. They had their own water sources in the fort, which meant that with rationing, the Volantenes could hold out for quite a long time.
Time the sellswords did not have: The Rhoyne was only a few miles away, and with ships Volantis could send reinforcements within a matter of weeks at most. More levies from their citizens, or other free companies.
Thus, starving out the fort was not an option. Another option was to storm the fort with scaling ladders, but the sellswords had no wood with which to make scaling ladders, and this far south trees weren't particularly common outside of small copses dotted far and wide across the land, or in orchards, none of which were particularly close. And this also removed the option of building other, heavier siege engines, such as trebuchets and siege towers.
Which left only one option: mining.
At daybreak on the following day, the sellswords began digging, tunneling down into the ground, and using the removed rock and soil to further strengthen their earthworks, steadily made their way underground towards the fort. From the walls, the Volantenes watched with growing apprehension, preparing themselves for the inevitable attack, while their commanders prayed their riders managed to reach safety and call for help, and for said help to arrive before it was too late.
Within a matter of days, one of the sections of the curtain wall began to buckle under its own weight, a sign that its foundation had been undermined. Malaro immediately evacuated that section of the wall, and had his men prepare for the inevitable attack. Likewise, within their lines the sellswords prepared to storm the fort.
It was in the middle of the morning of the following day that the sellswords finally succeeded in breaching the curtain wall. One moment, it stood deceptively high and strong, but in the next it began to totter, before seeming to fall in on itself.
The sound of breaking and falling stone echoed across the fort and the surrounding hills and plains, followed by the sounding of horns on both sides. Inside the fort, the Volantenes marshalled to repel the enemy attack, while behind their lines the sellswords formed up and marched out.
The sellswords attacked from two directions. One made for the breach in the curtain wall, the other for the gates, carrying with them an iron-headed battering ram. Volantene archers rained down arrows on the sellswords as they approached, the sellswords returning fire as they advanced with shields raised, until and even after they reached their destinations.
"BRACE!" the shout went up, scores of Volantene soldiers bracing the gates with their massed bodies as the sellswords brought up their battering ram. The ram struck the iron-banded wood, which shuddered at the impact and had the Volantenes staggering back momentarily, before they pressed forward again to brace the gates.
Above, archers and crossbowmen shot arrows and bolts into the close ranks of the sellswords, while others dropped stones into their ranks. The sellswords fired up with crossbows, while elsewhere on the walls, Volantene archers rained arrows down on sellswords trying to clamber over the ruined section of the curtain wall. The sellswords returned fire, lessening the onslaught somewhat, but as they crossed the broken pile of rubble, the first men through the breach faced more crossbowmen, forming the first rank of the Volantene lines within the fort.
"LOOSE!" the command was shouted, and steel bolts tore into the sellsword ranks. Those behind them roared in anger and charged, the Volantenes pulling back their crossbowmen as those behind them leveled spears.
The sellswords and the Volantene ranks met and clashed, the air inside the fort filling with angry shouts and yells, screams and cries of pain, pathetic whimpers and sickly gurgles, the sound of bodies falling, and the ringing of steel and iron striking against each other. Archers and crossbowmen on the walls continued to shoot until they ran out of ammunition, and then clambering down joined in on the fight, the sellswords continuing to clamber over the breach.
Elsewhere, the gates broke, sellswords firing crossbows into the Volantenes packed into the gatehouse. Men went down with cries of pain, and then sellswords were charging, quickly taking half the gatehouse before being stopped, the gatehouse turning into a charnel house as Volantenes and sellswords butchered each other in the close, darkened space.
Nevertheless, with the fort's defenses breached, and the Volantenes outnumbered, the outcome was clear: the sellswords, and their employers in the west, had won. All that was left was how many Malaro and his men would take with them to the grave.
That is, until a new sound filled the air: roaring. And not the roaring of a great mass of men rushing into battle, but a deep, growling roar that no Human throat or beast of the field and forest could ever make. No, it was a roar not heard in centuries.
Across the battlefield, men stopped fighting to look in its direction, up at the moderately-overcast skies. And then they broke through the clouds, six great beasts of scale and horn, armored figures mounted atop and chained to their saddles.
Eyes widened in shock and horror among the sellswords, while the Volantenes grinned and yelled in triumph. "DRAGONS!" a sellsword shouted.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jaenera leaned forward as she swooped down towards the fort, eyes narrowing as she noticed the breach and the bloody battlefield behind it. Sharing her thoughts with Aelarys on a subconscious level, the Lord Freeholder spoke a single word.
"Dracarys!"
Flames the color of steel and flecked with blue erupted from Aelarys' maw with a roar. Sellswords barely had time to scream before the flames reduced them to smoking husks in an instant, weapons and armor reduced to molten slag pooled on the ground, and as the dragons flew by, the force of the wind of their wings caused the husks to crumble into dust on the wind.
The sellswords broke, turning to run in blind panic, their officers and horsemen already galloping away in an attempt to escape. Every sellsword which had crossed the breach was already dead, killed either by Aelarys' flames or by Volantene blades, and yet there were still over ten thousand men outside.
"Dracarys!" Jaenera shouted again, Aelarys roaring as he belched flames and turned hundreds of men to ash in a single pass.
"Dracarys!" the other dragonriders in Jaenera's squadron followed, multicolored flames washing down to join the lord freeholder's dragon's own to put the sellswords down.
Some few sellswords tried to shoot down the dragons in desperation, but their shots either went wide, or just bounced harmlessly off dragon scales. They too barely had time to scream as dragonfire consumed them.
Realizing there was no escape, and only death otherwise awaited them, many sellswords threw their weapons down and raised their hands in surrender. Those the dragonriders ignored, focusing their wrath on the sellswords still trying to escape, and were rounded up and placed under guard by the Volantenes which were now sortieing from their fort.
By the time it was all over, over thirteen thousand sellswords were dead, and of those, only a thousand would have bodies. The rest were dust on the wind, or scattered along the banks of the Rhoyne.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Outside the fort, under the hot tropical Sun, over a thousand disarmed sellswords were made to kneel under the watchful eyes and drawn weapons of the Volantenes. Not that it was truly needed, what with six dragons landed before them, wisps of smoke gently drifting from their nostrils, each of them large enough to swallow a mounted and fully-armed and armored Westerosi knight whole.
The one at the lead had scales the color of dull steel, while its horns, crest, and wing bones were a rich blue. The rider dismounted, wearing a mail hauberk that reached down to their wrists and knees, their shins and forearms protected by steel greaves and vambraces enameled in green decorated with silver flourishes.
The rider removed their pointed cap of steel, and to the surprise of the sellswords, there standing before them was a woman, her gold-silver hair tied back into a ponytail. Violet eyes looked out hard at the sellswords, while her beautiful face was marred by an expression of contempt.
"I am Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen." She said, prompting gasps from many across the sellswords. The title of lord freeholder was largely obscure, after four hundred years, but the name…the family name especially…
…it was far from obscure.
"Who among you lowlifes do you consider as your leader, as well as their lieutenants?" Jaenera demanded. "Step forwards!"
For a few moments there was only muttering and glances across the sellswords, and then two men were stepping forward. "I am Ballylo Ostar," one of them said, a balding man with a bushy white beard. "And this is Vogicho Ostatis. The captain is dead, as are the other commanders."
"I see." Jaenera said with a nod. "I understand you are sellswords, yes? Who fight only for gold?"
"We are." Ballylo said with a nod.
"I see." Jaenera said with another nod. "If so, then you have no real conviction standing against my people and our allies. For you, this war is merely part of your occupation in life."
"…yes."
Jaenera nodded again. "Nevertheless," she said. "You stood against us, and that cannot be allowed to pass. Examples have to be made, but as per the authority granted to me by Triarch Laeraenar Aggaeron, I judge that mercy is called for here and now. Rest assured, your men shall be treated with even greater mercy than you shall be."
Jaenera paused, and stared at the men in their eyes. There was fear there, and resignation, but also resolve and surprisingly, composed calm. Men who knew they faced their deaths, and nothing they could do would prevent it from claiming them, and thus would meet it with what little pride and dignity they had left.
She could respect that.
"Aelarys, dracarys."
Aelarys let loose a blast of flame, and turned the two sellsword commanders to smoking husks that broke apart into smoking fragments and dust on the ground. Jaenera gestured, and the Volantenes began leading the terrified sellswords away.
All save for one.
"Your Grace…Your Grace…" one of the sellswords said, staggering out from among his fellow prisoners, only to be restrained and pulled away by three Volantene soldiers. "I beg you…please Your Grace…!"
Jaenera ignored him, instead turning back to her dragon. The beast lowered his head, sending a hot blast of air into his rider's face, Jaenera smiling fondly while she stroked Aelarys' snout.
"Your Grace! Please…I fought under your kin, Prince Rhaegar, at the Trident! Please, Your Grace!"
Jaenera whirled, eyes wide in surprise, and then narrowing she strode forward. "Hold!" she ordered the Volantenes. "Bring him here!"
The Volantenes made haste to comply, bringing the man before the lord freeholder. A man of average height but very well built, the sellsword sank to one knee. "Who are you?" Jaenera demanded.
"Your Grace," the man began. "I be Ser Davis Brickfist, a knight of Crackclaw Point. No, I was once a knight, now I be just a lowly sellsword."
"Never mind that," Jaenera impatiently said. "You claim to have fought under my kinsman, my distant nephew, Rhaegar Targaryen. Is this true?"
"Aye, Your Grace."
"Look at me."
The knight raised his head, dark eyes meeting amethyst ones. "Is it true?" Jaenera asked.
"Aye Your Grace."
Jaenera was silent for several moments, and then she nodded slowly. "So it is." She said. "It also seems to me that you have great loyalty to my kin…and yet you fought against my people, and our allies from Volantis. Even if it was for gold, and not out of personal conviction for the cause, you raised arms against us."
"Forgive me Your Grace," the man said. "But from where we stand, the idea of Valyria returned is…outlandish, very much so."
"And now?"
"There be no further doubt, when dragons fly once more."
"If only others thought so too." Jaenera said with a sigh. "And? It seems to me as though you no longer consider yourself as one of the lower orders of Andal nobility."
"Your Grace?"
"You mentioned earlier that you no longer considered yourself a knight."
The man lowered his head, his face twisted with bitterness. "We at Crackclaw Point only ever bent the knee before the Iron Throne." He said. "Dragons forged that throne, so we used to say 'we're all good dragon men, down Crackclaw Point'. But after the Usurper killed the Silver Prince on the Trident, and the Kingslayer killed King Aerys and the dogs of Tywin Lannister killed Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys…the choice was to bend the knee to a murderous brute defiling the Iron Throne, his bitch of a queen, and the whole pack of traitor dogs around them…or to come here. Exile, seeking fortune, or just death with what little honor there is left…"
"Too many words…" Jaenera said with a roll of her eyes, but after a moment, she gestured, and Ser Brickfist was lifted to his feet. "What would you do now, Ser Brickfist?"
"I would serve you and yours in any way I can, Your Grace." He said. "Whether to carry out your bidding, to protect you from your enemies, even to reclaim the Iron Throne…I would do it all."
"Indeed…we shall see. Hold him."
The Volantenes restrained the knight, and pulling out a dragonglass dagger and a small vial of crystal from her belt, Jaenera extracted some blood from the surprised knight. "Go to Volantis." Jaenera said while stoppering the vial and placing it back on her belt. "I will pass final judgment there. Know however, that there are no kings or queens in Valyria. Understand, and take measure. Furthermore, in the event of even the smallest betrayal…"
Jaenera paused and tapped her belt. "You will beg to die by Aelarys' flames." She said. "Release him."
The Volantenes released the knight, Jaenera already striding back to Aelarys. "If you wish to seek your fortune elsewhere," she said while replacing the chains on her saddle. "Then by all means, do so. That is the very least you deserve, for your loyalty to my kin."
Snapping and snarling, Aelarys and the other dragons stirred, stretching their wings before flying up into the sky.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Meereenese had fortified the crossings over the Skahazadhan river, to the east of their city. North of the river's mouth, opposite the city's walls, Valyrian soldiers had dug in, raising simple earthworks to protect themselves from sorties across the river.
To surround the city and thus force it to surrender one way or another, the Valyrian Army had to cross the Skahazadhan river, and the Meereenese knew it. Ten thousand sellswords had been bought by gold, reinforcing the Meereenese Army and bringing it up to thirty thousand men. Of those, ten thousand were in Meereen, manning the city's defenses, while the rest – including the sellswords – were holding the river crossings to the east.
It was nearly noon when the Valyrian Army appeared, though the Meereenese and their sellswords had had advance warning, outriders of the latter riding in hours earlier to warn of the Valyrians' coming. Captain Daario Foriros immediately ordered his men into formation, with the ten thousand sellswords forming the front of the center, and the Meereenese to the rear. What cavalry they had formed the wings.
Then they waited.
Slowly but steadily, the Valyrian Army arrived. Outriders first, who galloped back at the sight of the Meereenese. And then they came, solid ranks of men in mail and pointed caps, with swords, spears and round shields, and bows made from wood, bone, and sinew.
To the left and right of their infantry, the Valyrian cavalry rode, clad almost completely in mail, heads and faces hidden by enclosing helmets. The horses were armored in bronze scales, and lances were raised skyward, if lacking the pennants usually found on Westerosi lances, who were (grudgingly) admittedly the best lancers in the known world.
Over the hills they came, numbering in the tens of thousands. And yet…
…something was wrong.
The Valyrians made no move to shift from marching formation to battle formation, and instead continued to march towards the crossings seemingly without any concern for the enemies positioned protectively in front of or over the crossings. The Meereenese and the sellswords looked at each other with a mix of confusion and – to those with enough experience to feel it – apprehension.
Their commanders were equally confused. Did the Valyrians – or as they most likely were – Volantenes think they could just sweep them away? Or that they would break at the sight of the Volantene Army? If so, then they had another thing coming to them, but…
…it didn't seem to fit, however.
The answer came when roars could be heard from the sky to the east. Eyes and heads turned in its direction, and utter horror struck the Meereenese and their sellswords when dozens of dragons flew down from the sky.
"Dracarys!" Triarch Laemar Lennareon ordered, standing on his dragon's head, holding onto one of the dragon's crest bones.
The dragon roared, and unleashed a blast of red and gold flame. Men and horses were reduced to ash and molten slag in an instant, the gigantic dragon, at least as big as the legendary Balerion the Black, laying waste to the entire right wing of the Meereenese Army in a single pass.
The Meereenese and the sellswords broke, running in every direction, desperate to escape. Others jumped into the river, swimming beneath the dirty water and only surfacing to take gasping breaths before slipping beneath again, perhaps hoping the water would keep them safe from dragonfire.
If so, then it would be a costly mistake.
Great clouds of rank-smelling steam filled the air as multiple dragons bathed the river with their fire, flash-boiling the water on the surface, and bringing the water underneath to a boil. Men died horribly, unable to scream as they were literally boiled alive in the river, while ash drifted with the steam, all that was left of the men that had tried to hold the river.
The Valyrian Army continued to march, stopping only to camp for noon and for the river to cool and the steam to be blown away. Meanwhile, the dragonlords moved on, hunting down any stragglers and dealing with them thoroughly with dragonfire.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Even as the Meereenese Army was dying along the Skahazadhan river, on the waters of Slaver's Bay, their fleet was also dying. The Valyrian fleet and the Meereenese fleet had more or less the same number of ships, but the Valyrians had more galleys, and indeed it was the mainstay of their fleet. In contrast, galleys formed only the backbone of the Meereenese fleet, with the greater part of their ships composed of small and fast dhows.
To their credit, the Meereenese used them effectively. Swarming the bigger but slower Valyrian galleys, they outflanked the bigger ships, shooting fire arrows as they closed. They made no attempt to board, indeed, the Meereenese knew such would be an exercise in futility and with the small size of their dhows, put them at greater risk of being overwhelmed and counter-boarded by the larger numbers of men carried by Valyrian galleys.
The Meereenese galleys engaged normally however, raining down arrows and stones as they closed with the Valyrians, the pilots of both sides trying to steer their galleys and use their prow spurs to break their respective enemies' oars, and to avoid such being done to them. When they got to boarding range, boarding ramps were dropped, and both sides clashed in hand to hand.
Ships burned and men fought and died for hours, bodies and broken wood floating on the waters of Slaver's Bay as the two fleets fought. Unable to turn the Meereenese wings, Admiral Vigarys came to a decision.
"We'll give up on turning the enemy's wings." He ordered. "Signal the fleet, take a spindle formation, and break through the enemy center."
"Yes sir!"
Signal flags relayed the orders, and within thirty minutes the Valyrians were moving to attack and break through the Meereenese center, and scatter the survivors in the aftermath. Meereenese dhows took point, preparing to flank the Valyrian spearhead and set the dromons ablaze, but the Valyrians still had two aces up their sleeve.
One was used as the dhows charged in. Ports opened on the dromons' forecastles, tubular constructs shaped like roaring dragons extending outwards, carved from nothing less than dragonsteel. Only dragonsteel could endure what they were meant to channel after all, even with magic harnessing what was to come forth.
The dhows swooped in…
…and great plumes of green flame erupted from the dromons.
The dhows vanished. They literally blew apart and the fragments were consumed by the green flames, men, ships, and sails alike.
The Westerosi called it wildfire. The Valyrians called it soulless fire, for it was akin to dragonfire, sharing many of its properties, though lacking others due to its origin. Produced by means of alchemy and controlled by magic, the name was given by the Valyrians for how such potent flames were produced without the powerful and fiery spirits made flesh that were dragons, and indeed was theorized to be the reason why soulless fire shared some but not all the properties of actual dragonfire.
Glyphs burned cold on the dromons' hulls as they lumbered forward, soulless fire burning on the water licking away from their hulls, unable to catch any purchase. The Meereenese reeled at the unexpected development, with their commander, Admiral Izhil mo Nadhak gave the order to retreat, to reorganize the formation.
It was then that Valyria played its second trump card. Roaring in challenge, dozens of dragons swooped down from the clouds, and with great blast of multicolored flame set ships ablaze by the dozen.
Panic erupted across the Meereenese fleet, even more so as the flagship was among those first set ablaze by dragonfire. Admiral Izhil died screaming, wreathed in flames and already turning black before he cast himself from the burning wreck of the Harpy Sisters and into the waters below, death coming as a sweet release from pain as his armor dragged him beneath the waves.
The Meereenese fleet fell apart, ships trying to escape wherever and however they could. The Valyrians refused to let them escape, the Valyrian fleet spreading its wings to cut off the Meereenese's lines of retreat. The dromons pressed forward in the center, lashing out with soulless fire and blowing apart any ship, be it galley or dhow, that came within range. Arrows and stones and burning projectiles were fired at Meereenese ships by Valyrian artillery crews, and drawing up alongside boarded the Meereenese ships, fighting to kill everyone aboard.
And through it all, dragons kept swooping down again and again, burning ships and men without mercy.
It would take the better part of the day, but as the Sun touched the horizon, barring the few stragglers which managed to escape south, to Yunkai or Astapor or even Ghiscar and beyond, the Meereenese fleet was no more. Meereen was now all but defenseless on land or sea.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
Well, this took longer than expected. The Isle of Cedars POV will be for next chapter, along with some POVs from other factions.
Also, say hello to our first Westerosi character, who may or may not have a bigger role later on.
Return of Valyria
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
The initial Volantene advance north up the Rhoyne beyond the Selhoru quickly turned disastrous.
Barely a month into the advance, at the ruined Rhoynar city of Chroyane, Captain Vargelos Ostohrin and the five thousand men he commanded were surrounded and forced to surrender, to fifteen thousand sellswords paid by Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. The captain was crucified and burned, his body left to rot amidst the ruins even as his men were marched by slavers west, into the Disputed Lands.
Similarly, a week later and Captain Irreo Vynonnis suffered a similar fate, again after being surrounded and forced to surrender. By this point the Volantenes had lost around ten thousand men, with only Captain Malaro Pahraan and five thousand men standing between the forces hired by Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, and the Volantene city of Selhorys.
Rather than attempting to engage the enemy head on, Malaro sent fast riders south for help, while retreating to a fort located approximately twenty miles north of Selhorys. The enemy commander, Captain Beloquo Maegelar predicted Malaro's movements, and moved to intercept before they could enter and dig in at the fort.
The sellswords managed to reach the Volantenes just as they arrived at the fort, and forcing Malaro to sacrifice his cavalry, numbering some five hundred horsemen, to allow the rest of his army to reach and close the fort. The sellswords, having dealt with the Volantene cavalry, now called for parley.
"Volantenes," the self-important sellsword carrying a white flag shouted up at Malaro and his men on the fort's walls. "Your army is defeated. There is no escape. Surrender now, and your lives will be spared."
"We will not be as slaves to be bartered with, sellsword!" Malaro shouted down in response. "And we are far from defeated, as you will soon learn! No surrender! No retreat! We will stand fast here, and await our allies' coming!"
"So be it then." The sellsword said before turning his horse, and riding back to his lines.
With the Volantenes refusing to surrender, the sellswords surrounded the fort, digging and piling up simple earthworks to reinforce the siege. The fort itself was formidable, with a thick, stone curtain wall rising high around the hill, its battlements manned by archers and other soldiers. The Volantenes might be outnumbered, but in a defensive position, so long as they were reinforced quickly enough, that wasn't as big a disadvantage as it would usually be.
There was only one gate through the curtain wall, with a square keep built around and over it. The main keep of the fort was located at the top of the hill, built like a square with thick walls and crowned with battlements. Blockhouses and the like crowded along the lower slopes of the hill, but the upper slopes were bare and somewhat sheer, adding to the defensive value of the main keep.
The sellswords had several options for a siege. They could starve the defenders out, but that would take time, even more so as the retreating Volantenes had not been so pressed that they had had to abandon their supply train. They had their own water sources in the fort, which meant that with rationing, the Volantenes could hold out for quite a long time.
Time the sellswords did not have: The Rhoyne was only a few miles away, and with ships Volantis could send reinforcements within a matter of weeks at most. More levies from their citizens, or other free companies.
Thus, starving out the fort was not an option. Another option was to storm the fort with scaling ladders, but the sellswords had no wood with which to make scaling ladders, and this far south trees weren't particularly common outside of small copses dotted far and wide across the land, or in orchards, none of which were particularly close. And this also removed the option of building other, heavier siege engines, such as trebuchets and siege towers.
Which left only one option: mining.
At daybreak on the following day, the sellswords began digging, tunneling down into the ground, and using the removed rock and soil to further strengthen their earthworks, steadily made their way underground towards the fort. From the walls, the Volantenes watched with growing apprehension, preparing themselves for the inevitable attack, while their commanders prayed their riders managed to reach safety and call for help, and for said help to arrive before it was too late.
Within a matter of days, one of the sections of the curtain wall began to buckle under its own weight, a sign that its foundation had been undermined. Malaro immediately evacuated that section of the wall, and had his men prepare for the inevitable attack. Likewise, within their lines the sellswords prepared to storm the fort.
It was in the middle of the morning of the following day that the sellswords finally succeeded in breaching the curtain wall. One moment, it stood deceptively high and strong, but in the next it began to totter, before seeming to fall in on itself.
The sound of breaking and falling stone echoed across the fort and the surrounding hills and plains, followed by the sounding of horns on both sides. Inside the fort, the Volantenes marshalled to repel the enemy attack, while behind their lines the sellswords formed up and marched out.
The sellswords attacked from two directions. One made for the breach in the curtain wall, the other for the gates, carrying with them an iron-headed battering ram. Volantene archers rained down arrows on the sellswords as they approached, the sellswords returning fire as they advanced with shields raised, until and even after they reached their destinations.
"BRACE!" the shout went up, scores of Volantene soldiers bracing the gates with their massed bodies as the sellswords brought up their battering ram. The ram struck the iron-banded wood, which shuddered at the impact and had the Volantenes staggering back momentarily, before they pressed forward again to brace the gates.
Above, archers and crossbowmen shot arrows and bolts into the close ranks of the sellswords, while others dropped stones into their ranks. The sellswords fired up with crossbows, while elsewhere on the walls, Volantene archers rained arrows down on sellswords trying to clamber over the ruined section of the curtain wall. The sellswords returned fire, lessening the onslaught somewhat, but as they crossed the broken pile of rubble, the first men through the breach faced more crossbowmen, forming the first rank of the Volantene lines within the fort.
"LOOSE!" the command was shouted, and steel bolts tore into the sellsword ranks. Those behind them roared in anger and charged, the Volantenes pulling back their crossbowmen as those behind them leveled spears.
The sellswords and the Volantene ranks met and clashed, the air inside the fort filling with angry shouts and yells, screams and cries of pain, pathetic whimpers and sickly gurgles, the sound of bodies falling, and the ringing of steel and iron striking against each other. Archers and crossbowmen on the walls continued to shoot until they ran out of ammunition, and then clambering down joined in on the fight, the sellswords continuing to clamber over the breach.
Elsewhere, the gates broke, sellswords firing crossbows into the Volantenes packed into the gatehouse. Men went down with cries of pain, and then sellswords were charging, quickly taking half the gatehouse before being stopped, the gatehouse turning into a charnel house as Volantenes and sellswords butchered each other in the close, darkened space.
Nevertheless, with the fort's defenses breached, and the Volantenes outnumbered, the outcome was clear: the sellswords, and their employers in the west, had won. All that was left was how many Malaro and his men would take with them to the grave.
That is, until a new sound filled the air: roaring. And not the roaring of a great mass of men rushing into battle, but a deep, growling roar that no Human throat or beast of the field and forest could ever make. No, it was a roar not heard in centuries.
Across the battlefield, men stopped fighting to look in its direction, up at the moderately-overcast skies. And then they broke through the clouds, six great beasts of scale and horn, armored figures mounted atop and chained to their saddles.
Eyes widened in shock and horror among the sellswords, while the Volantenes grinned and yelled in triumph. "DRAGONS!" a sellsword shouted.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jaenera leaned forward as she swooped down towards the fort, eyes narrowing as she noticed the breach and the bloody battlefield behind it. Sharing her thoughts with Aelarys on a subconscious level, the Lord Freeholder spoke a single word.
"Dracarys!"
Flames the color of steel and flecked with blue erupted from Aelarys' maw with a roar. Sellswords barely had time to scream before the flames reduced them to smoking husks in an instant, weapons and armor reduced to molten slag pooled on the ground, and as the dragons flew by, the force of the wind of their wings caused the husks to crumble into dust on the wind.
The sellswords broke, turning to run in blind panic, their officers and horsemen already galloping away in an attempt to escape. Every sellsword which had crossed the breach was already dead, killed either by Aelarys' flames or by Volantene blades, and yet there were still over ten thousand men outside.
"Dracarys!" Jaenera shouted again, Aelarys roaring as he belched flames and turned hundreds of men to ash in a single pass.
"Dracarys!" the other dragonriders in Jaenera's squadron followed, multicolored flames washing down to join the lord freeholder's dragon's own to put the sellswords down.
Some few sellswords tried to shoot down the dragons in desperation, but their shots either went wide, or just bounced harmlessly off dragon scales. They too barely had time to scream as dragonfire consumed them.
Realizing there was no escape, and only death otherwise awaited them, many sellswords threw their weapons down and raised their hands in surrender. Those the dragonriders ignored, focusing their wrath on the sellswords still trying to escape, and were rounded up and placed under guard by the Volantenes which were now sortieing from their fort.
By the time it was all over, over thirteen thousand sellswords were dead, and of those, only a thousand would have bodies. The rest were dust on the wind, or scattered along the banks of the Rhoyne.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Outside the fort, under the hot tropical Sun, over a thousand disarmed sellswords were made to kneel under the watchful eyes and drawn weapons of the Volantenes. Not that it was truly needed, what with six dragons landed before them, wisps of smoke gently drifting from their nostrils, each of them large enough to swallow a mounted and fully-armed and armored Westerosi knight whole.
The one at the lead had scales the color of dull steel, while its horns, crest, and wing bones were a rich blue. The rider dismounted, wearing a mail hauberk that reached down to their wrists and knees, their shins and forearms protected by steel greaves and vambraces enameled in green decorated with silver flourishes.
The rider removed their pointed cap of steel, and to the surprise of the sellswords, there standing before them was a woman, her gold-silver hair tied back into a ponytail. Violet eyes looked out hard at the sellswords, while her beautiful face was marred by an expression of contempt.
"I am Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen." She said, prompting gasps from many across the sellswords. The title of lord freeholder was largely obscure, after four hundred years, but the name…the family name especially…
…it was far from obscure.
"Who among you lowlifes do you consider as your leader, as well as their lieutenants?" Jaenera demanded. "Step forwards!"
For a few moments there was only muttering and glances across the sellswords, and then two men were stepping forward. "I am Ballylo Ostar," one of them said, a balding man with a bushy white beard. "And this is Vogicho Ostatis. The captain is dead, as are the other commanders."
"I see." Jaenera said with a nod. "I understand you are sellswords, yes? Who fight only for gold?"
"We are." Ballylo said with a nod.
"I see." Jaenera said with another nod. "If so, then you have no real conviction standing against my people and our allies. For you, this war is merely part of your occupation in life."
"…yes."
Jaenera nodded again. "Nevertheless," she said. "You stood against us, and that cannot be allowed to pass. Examples have to be made, but as per the authority granted to me by Triarch Laeraenar Aggaeron, I judge that mercy is called for here and now. Rest assured, your men shall be treated with even greater mercy than you shall be."
Jaenera paused, and stared at the men in their eyes. There was fear there, and resignation, but also resolve and surprisingly, composed calm. Men who knew they faced their deaths, and nothing they could do would prevent it from claiming them, and thus would meet it with what little pride and dignity they had left.
She could respect that.
"Aelarys, dracarys."
Aelarys let loose a blast of flame, and turned the two sellsword commanders to smoking husks that broke apart into smoking fragments and dust on the ground. Jaenera gestured, and the Volantenes began leading the terrified sellswords away.
All save for one.
"Your Grace…Your Grace…" one of the sellswords said, staggering out from among his fellow prisoners, only to be restrained and pulled away by three Volantene soldiers. "I beg you…please Your Grace…!"
Jaenera ignored him, instead turning back to her dragon. The beast lowered his head, sending a hot blast of air into his rider's face, Jaenera smiling fondly while she stroked Aelarys' snout.
"Your Grace! Please…I fought under your kin, Prince Rhaegar, at the Trident! Please, Your Grace!"
Jaenera whirled, eyes wide in surprise, and then narrowing she strode forward. "Hold!" she ordered the Volantenes. "Bring him here!"
The Volantenes made haste to comply, bringing the man before the lord freeholder. A man of average height but very well built, the sellsword sank to one knee. "Who are you?" Jaenera demanded.
"Your Grace," the man began. "I be Ser Davis Brickfist, a knight of Crackclaw Point. No, I was once a knight, now I be just a lowly sellsword."
"Never mind that," Jaenera impatiently said. "You claim to have fought under my kinsman, my distant nephew, Rhaegar Targaryen. Is this true?"
"Aye, Your Grace."
"Look at me."
The knight raised his head, dark eyes meeting amethyst ones. "Is it true?" Jaenera asked.
"Aye Your Grace."
Jaenera was silent for several moments, and then she nodded slowly. "So it is." She said. "It also seems to me that you have great loyalty to my kin…and yet you fought against my people, and our allies from Volantis. Even if it was for gold, and not out of personal conviction for the cause, you raised arms against us."
"Forgive me Your Grace," the man said. "But from where we stand, the idea of Valyria returned is…outlandish, very much so."
"And now?"
"There be no further doubt, when dragons fly once more."
"If only others thought so too." Jaenera said with a sigh. "And? It seems to me as though you no longer consider yourself as one of the lower orders of Andal nobility."
"Your Grace?"
"You mentioned earlier that you no longer considered yourself a knight."
The man lowered his head, his face twisted with bitterness. "We at Crackclaw Point only ever bent the knee before the Iron Throne." He said. "Dragons forged that throne, so we used to say 'we're all good dragon men, down Crackclaw Point'. But after the Usurper killed the Silver Prince on the Trident, and the Kingslayer killed King Aerys and the dogs of Tywin Lannister killed Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys…the choice was to bend the knee to a murderous brute defiling the Iron Throne, his bitch of a queen, and the whole pack of traitor dogs around them…or to come here. Exile, seeking fortune, or just death with what little honor there is left…"
"Too many words…" Jaenera said with a roll of her eyes, but after a moment, she gestured, and Ser Brickfist was lifted to his feet. "What would you do now, Ser Brickfist?"
"I would serve you and yours in any way I can, Your Grace." He said. "Whether to carry out your bidding, to protect you from your enemies, even to reclaim the Iron Throne…I would do it all."
"Indeed…we shall see. Hold him."
The Volantenes restrained the knight, and pulling out a dragonglass dagger and a small vial of crystal from her belt, Jaenera extracted some blood from the surprised knight. "Go to Volantis." Jaenera said while stoppering the vial and placing it back on her belt. "I will pass final judgment there. Know however, that there are no kings or queens in Valyria. Understand, and take measure. Furthermore, in the event of even the smallest betrayal…"
Jaenera paused and tapped her belt. "You will beg to die by Aelarys' flames." She said. "Release him."
The Volantenes released the knight, Jaenera already striding back to Aelarys. "If you wish to seek your fortune elsewhere," she said while replacing the chains on her saddle. "Then by all means, do so. That is the very least you deserve, for your loyalty to my kin."
Snapping and snarling, Aelarys and the other dragons stirred, stretching their wings before flying up into the sky.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Meereenese had fortified the crossings over the Skahazadhan river, to the east of their city. North of the river's mouth, opposite the city's walls, Valyrian soldiers had dug in, raising simple earthworks to protect themselves from sorties across the river.
To surround the city and thus force it to surrender one way or another, the Valyrian Army had to cross the Skahazadhan river, and the Meereenese knew it. Ten thousand sellswords had been bought by gold, reinforcing the Meereenese Army and bringing it up to thirty thousand men. Of those, ten thousand were in Meereen, manning the city's defenses, while the rest – including the sellswords – were holding the river crossings to the east.
It was nearly noon when the Valyrian Army appeared, though the Meereenese and their sellswords had had advance warning, outriders of the latter riding in hours earlier to warn of the Valyrians' coming. Captain Daario Foriros immediately ordered his men into formation, with the ten thousand sellswords forming the front of the center, and the Meereenese to the rear. What cavalry they had formed the wings.
Then they waited.
Slowly but steadily, the Valyrian Army arrived. Outriders first, who galloped back at the sight of the Meereenese. And then they came, solid ranks of men in mail and pointed caps, with swords, spears and round shields, and bows made from wood, bone, and sinew.
To the left and right of their infantry, the Valyrian cavalry rode, clad almost completely in mail, heads and faces hidden by enclosing helmets. The horses were armored in bronze scales, and lances were raised skyward, if lacking the pennants usually found on Westerosi lances, who were (grudgingly) admittedly the best lancers in the known world.
Over the hills they came, numbering in the tens of thousands. And yet…
…something was wrong.
The Valyrians made no move to shift from marching formation to battle formation, and instead continued to march towards the crossings seemingly without any concern for the enemies positioned protectively in front of or over the crossings. The Meereenese and the sellswords looked at each other with a mix of confusion and – to those with enough experience to feel it – apprehension.
Their commanders were equally confused. Did the Valyrians – or as they most likely were – Volantenes think they could just sweep them away? Or that they would break at the sight of the Volantene Army? If so, then they had another thing coming to them, but…
…it didn't seem to fit, however.
The answer came when roars could be heard from the sky to the east. Eyes and heads turned in its direction, and utter horror struck the Meereenese and their sellswords when dozens of dragons flew down from the sky.
"Dracarys!" Triarch Laemar Lennareon ordered, standing on his dragon's head, holding onto one of the dragon's crest bones.
The dragon roared, and unleashed a blast of red and gold flame. Men and horses were reduced to ash and molten slag in an instant, the gigantic dragon, at least as big as the legendary Balerion the Black, laying waste to the entire right wing of the Meereenese Army in a single pass.
The Meereenese and the sellswords broke, running in every direction, desperate to escape. Others jumped into the river, swimming beneath the dirty water and only surfacing to take gasping breaths before slipping beneath again, perhaps hoping the water would keep them safe from dragonfire.
If so, then it would be a costly mistake.
Great clouds of rank-smelling steam filled the air as multiple dragons bathed the river with their fire, flash-boiling the water on the surface, and bringing the water underneath to a boil. Men died horribly, unable to scream as they were literally boiled alive in the river, while ash drifted with the steam, all that was left of the men that had tried to hold the river.
The Valyrian Army continued to march, stopping only to camp for noon and for the river to cool and the steam to be blown away. Meanwhile, the dragonlords moved on, hunting down any stragglers and dealing with them thoroughly with dragonfire.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Even as the Meereenese Army was dying along the Skahazadhan river, on the waters of Slaver's Bay, their fleet was also dying. The Valyrian fleet and the Meereenese fleet had more or less the same number of ships, but the Valyrians had more galleys, and indeed it was the mainstay of their fleet. In contrast, galleys formed only the backbone of the Meereenese fleet, with the greater part of their ships composed of small and fast dhows.
To their credit, the Meereenese used them effectively. Swarming the bigger but slower Valyrian galleys, they outflanked the bigger ships, shooting fire arrows as they closed. They made no attempt to board, indeed, the Meereenese knew such would be an exercise in futility and with the small size of their dhows, put them at greater risk of being overwhelmed and counter-boarded by the larger numbers of men carried by Valyrian galleys.
The Meereenese galleys engaged normally however, raining down arrows and stones as they closed with the Valyrians, the pilots of both sides trying to steer their galleys and use their prow spurs to break their respective enemies' oars, and to avoid such being done to them. When they got to boarding range, boarding ramps were dropped, and both sides clashed in hand to hand.
Ships burned and men fought and died for hours, bodies and broken wood floating on the waters of Slaver's Bay as the two fleets fought. Unable to turn the Meereenese wings, Admiral Vigarys came to a decision.
"We'll give up on turning the enemy's wings." He ordered. "Signal the fleet, take a spindle formation, and break through the enemy center."
"Yes sir!"
Signal flags relayed the orders, and within thirty minutes the Valyrians were moving to attack and break through the Meereenese center, and scatter the survivors in the aftermath. Meereenese dhows took point, preparing to flank the Valyrian spearhead and set the dromons ablaze, but the Valyrians still had two aces up their sleeve.
One was used as the dhows charged in. Ports opened on the dromons' forecastles, tubular constructs shaped like roaring dragons extending outwards, carved from nothing less than dragonsteel. Only dragonsteel could endure what they were meant to channel after all, even with magic harnessing what was to come forth.
The dhows swooped in…
…and great plumes of green flame erupted from the dromons.
The dhows vanished. They literally blew apart and the fragments were consumed by the green flames, men, ships, and sails alike.
The Westerosi called it wildfire. The Valyrians called it soulless fire, for it was akin to dragonfire, sharing many of its properties, though lacking others due to its origin. Produced by means of alchemy and controlled by magic, the name was given by the Valyrians for how such potent flames were produced without the powerful and fiery spirits made flesh that were dragons, and indeed was theorized to be the reason why soulless fire shared some but not all the properties of actual dragonfire.
Glyphs burned cold on the dromons' hulls as they lumbered forward, soulless fire burning on the water licking away from their hulls, unable to catch any purchase. The Meereenese reeled at the unexpected development, with their commander, Admiral Izhil mo Nadhak gave the order to retreat, to reorganize the formation.
It was then that Valyria played its second trump card. Roaring in challenge, dozens of dragons swooped down from the clouds, and with great blast of multicolored flame set ships ablaze by the dozen.
Panic erupted across the Meereenese fleet, even more so as the flagship was among those first set ablaze by dragonfire. Admiral Izhil died screaming, wreathed in flames and already turning black before he cast himself from the burning wreck of the Harpy Sisters and into the waters below, death coming as a sweet release from pain as his armor dragged him beneath the waves.
The Meereenese fleet fell apart, ships trying to escape wherever and however they could. The Valyrians refused to let them escape, the Valyrian fleet spreading its wings to cut off the Meereenese's lines of retreat. The dromons pressed forward in the center, lashing out with soulless fire and blowing apart any ship, be it galley or dhow, that came within range. Arrows and stones and burning projectiles were fired at Meereenese ships by Valyrian artillery crews, and drawing up alongside boarded the Meereenese ships, fighting to kill everyone aboard.
And through it all, dragons kept swooping down again and again, burning ships and men without mercy.
It would take the better part of the day, but as the Sun touched the horizon, barring the few stragglers which managed to escape south, to Yunkai or Astapor or even Ghiscar and beyond, the Meereenese fleet was no more. Meereen was now all but defenseless on land or sea.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
Well, this took longer than expected. The Isle of Cedars POV will be for next chapter, along with some POVs from other factions.
Also, say hello to our first Westerosi character, who may or may not have a bigger role later on.
And thus Janera gains her first Westerosi minion
Who will later be rewarded with land and found a House of his own, with "The First Of Many" as House Words
Indeed.I almost feel sorry for Lannisters.All they could do now is run to Asshai or other equally nice place.
Who would rule over Westeros ? Janera as regent till Viserys get older,i think.Poor girl,she would be bored to death,unless Others come to play.Althought let be frank - if they fall in canon to 3 dragons,fighting 300 would be...shorter war in history.
Unless they had icedragons.
If author want real fight,Others must be stronger.Maybe icedragons,icemagic and Drowned god as ally ?
LOL!
Throw in a Bloodthirster or a company of World Eaters led by the Kharne the Betrayer while you are at it
This will be heavily hinted at in subsequent chapters
To made Other chance better,i would add Vader,Smaug,and maybe Pinoccio.Wooden boy would be great against dragons,right ?
Chapter 6
Jaenera Targaryen
Well-known member
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.
The gates of Meereen hung open, allowing legion after legion to march into the city unchallenged. The Meereenese looked on with a mix of fear and resignation as rank after rank of red-cloaked soldiers in mail hauberks and pointed caps with aventails entered their city, their booted feet slamming into the pavements with uniform and disciplined regularity. Round shields proudly displayed legion emblems in Valyrian glyphs, as did banners and standards of red edged in gold.
And in the skies above, dragons danced in a great spiral centered on the Great Pyramid, on which roosted a mighty beast greater in size than even Aegon the Conqueror's Black Dread. There, standing on the shoulders of his mount, Laemar Lennareon, Triarch of the Valyrian Freehold, stared out over the city of Meereen, largest, greatest, most populous and richest and most powerful of the so-called Slaver Cities, which now lay prostate before the might of Valyria.
Their armies and fleet destroyed, and with the Valyrian Army tightening the noose and dragons ruling the skies unchallenged, the Great Masters had wisely chosen to surrender their city. In recognition of this fact, the Valyrian commanders had ordered their soldiers to simply occupy Meereen, and had strictly forbidden looting or indeed, any violence against Valyria's newest subjects without permission. Any who did so would be punished in accordance with the strictest discipline.
In accordance with those orders, the Valyrian Army was spreading out as they marched into the city. Some cohorts took control of the walls and the city's defenses, ordering sullen Meereenese soldiers back to their barracks to await further orders. Others set up cordons and checkpoints in the city's main thoroughfares and more important streets, while others were setting up rally points in the city, in case things took a turn for the worse and the Valyrian Army had to come down hard on the Meereenese.
Others swept the Great Pyramid and other pyramids of the city, or surrounded the homes of the city's rich and powerful. Others made certain to ensure what was left of the Meereenese Army would stand down, while others gathered and escorted the Great Masters to the Plaza of Purification, where they would meet with the Triarch and hear Valyria's terms.
The Sun was setting when all the Great Masters were gathered in the Plaza of Purification, and there many shook with impotent rage as they beheld the shattered remains of the great bronze harpy that had once graced the plaza. Rage turned to fear and terror as they heard a great roar, and brilliant fire lit up the sky.
Dozens of dragons let loose with dragonfire, aimed at the harpies crowning the pyramids of Meereen. Bronze and gold softened like wax, and flowed in molten rivers downs the steps of the pyramids. Grief and resignation followed fear and terror, and more than one Great Master collapsed to the ground sobbing at the sight, as the truth of their situation was driven in with unrelenting and unstoppable force.
Soon, the mightiest dragon present was winging across the skies of Meereen, and then swooping down with a snarl that had more than one Meereenese running for cover or loosening their bowels, descended on the plaza of purification. The dragon's landing shook the ground, and such was its size that its landing collapsed many of the surrounding buildings.
Terrified, the Great Masters fell to their knees. On his dragon, Triarch Laemar surveyed the Great Masters with judging eyes, having removed his Andal-styled helmet to allow his gold-silver hair to flow freely over his shoulders. Turning his head slowly, the Triarch swept the Great Masters with his amethyst gaze, not one daring to meet it.
In truth, the Triarch cared little for the Great Masters, and would gladly order his dragon to burn them to ash in an instant. But alas, needs must.
Yunkai and Astapor waited further south, and beyond them was the specter of the New Ghiscari Empire. Valyria's economy was also still on shaky legs, threatening to give out at any moment, and so for now it was necessary to make compromises to maximize the worth of any gains made during this stage of the Freehold's reclamation.
Allowing the Great Masters to continue to govern Meereen under the Freehold, and paying taxes productively would serve the Freehold better than sparking a revolt here and now when victory was at hand, and leaving the Freehold with naught but a burnt out husk of a city that would contribute little in the short term. And so, if the Meereenese would submit, then the Freehold would allow them a place.
"You have made a most wise decision." Triarch Laemar began. "Had you chosen to resist, all around you would be ash and dust. But as you have chosen wisely, that fate is averted, both for your city and yourselves."
The Triarch paused. "The Freehold's terms will be simple." He continued after a moment. "You and yours will swear allegiance as subjects of the Valyrian Freehold, and in return your property and the property of the citizens of this city will be respected. You will also be allowed to continue to govern the city, albeit in the Freehold's name henceforth. In recognition of this fact, an Archon will be appointed by the Lords Freeholder to oversee the city, and of course, annual taxes will be levied and will be expected to be paid in full and on time. Meereen shall also forfeit its fleet and army, with the defense of the city to be entrusted to the Valyrian Army and Navy. Households will continue to be allowed to hire their own guards within reason, however, and of course, you will be granted a say in any revisions of the city's laws when and where they do not conform with Gaenor's Code and the Fourteen Tablets. What say you?"
What followed was a confused chorus of agreement and oaths and assurance of loyalty, and which had the Triarch sneering. "One by one," he said loudly. "Come forward, and express your submission and swear allegiance."
The confused chorus died down, and one by one the Great Masters came forward and kneeling before the Triarch and his dragon, expressed their acceptance of the Freehold's terms and swearing allegiance. Once all were done, Triarch Laemar nodded and made to depart.
"Excellent," he said. "You are truly most wise. Return to your homes, and rejoice in your wisdom and what fruit it has allowed you to reap. Others are not so wise, and lack such privilege. Go, but know that come tomorrow, your presence will be required to place your signatures on the official documentation for Meereen's submission to the Valyrian Freehold."
And with those words and the thunder of titanic wings beating into the air, the Triarch soared up into the sky.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Located in the approximate middle of the straits which connect Slavers' Bay and the Gulf of Grief is the Isle of Cedars. Named for the cedar forests which grow on the island, it was also once known as the Isle of a Hundred Battles, calling back to the countless struggles for control of the island thousands of years ago during the wars between Valyria and Old Ghis.
Though the former inhabitants of the island were of Ghiscari stock, like much of their people they were forced to submit and adopt the language and many customs of the victorious Valyrians in the wake of those wars. Ghozai and Velos, the two cities on the island, grew rich from their control of shipping passing through the surrounding waters, but ultimately it would be those same waters which would bring their doom.
When the Doom of Valyria came, great waves hundreds of feet high drowned the cities. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, all the houses and hovels, the wall, pyramids, aqueducts, dragons and sphinxes…all of them were swept away by the waves, leaving naught but broken ruins that would ultimately be reclaimed by the land.
In the centuries since, many attempts have been made to reclaim the island. The Ghiscari first and foremost, even the Volantenes, and of course pirates and common slavers, among other such lowly ilk. All failed.
All the death and destruction unleashed on the island had seeded the ruins and their surroundings with dark and terrible echoes, which drove men mad and turned nature against them. So it had been for centuries, and though men of wealth, power, and lore scoffed at such tales, neither did they press too eagerly to reclaim the island, and in taverns along the surrounding waters, tales of horror and dread were whispered of the haunted ruins of the Isle of Cedars, where the animals grew fearless of man, so unknown was he to them.
So it had been for centuries…
…but with the return of Valyria, the dragonlords decreed that not even the echoes of their seeming doom wouldhold them back from reclaiming what was once part of their domain.
Ships surrounded the Isle of Cedars at a safe distance, having brought men – sorcerers, acolytes, slaves and servants – and what they needed with them. Now they waited and watched, as the adepts of the arcane sought to enact the dragonlords' will.
At fourteen points around the island, circles were cut into the ground. Twin, interlocking septagrams were then overlaid over the circles, and at the fourteen points produced by those septagrams fourteen glyphs were similarly inscribed into the ground. Sorcerers stood before each of those points, clad in red and gold, and holding aloft staves of gilded wood, topped with golden dragons wreathed in sorcerous flame.
Behind the sorcerers were arrayed a great choir of acolytes, clad in pure white, chanting in the background and kindling the faintest hint of…something, supernatural, earie, otherworldly, magical in the air. It was just something on the edge of comprehension, lurking in the back of a witness' mind, the exact word to describe it at the tip of one's tongue but could never be right, and marked by the faintest touch of acridity in the air.
The sorcerers stayed silent, merely tapping their staves against the ground in unison at timed intervals. Before each and every one of them, a slave knelt on the ground, stripped naked and with long, flowing scripts carved into their flesh, the glyphs bleeding happily and refusing to even so much as begin to heal, kept open by the power represented by each glyph and what they together meant.
And beyond the chanting acolytes, sworn servants of the sorcerers clad in black and masked in silver sacrificed more slaves by the hundred. A hundred slaves at fourteen points around the island, fourteen hundred lives taken and their blood and living energies fed to power the spells of the sorcerers.
Already the fetid energies were swirling around the sorcerers and their acolytes, the servants of the former standing in a great circle with their backs to their masters, silver masks staring into the growing darkness while blades of dragonglass were raised point upwards before them. The energies of death stirred, like calling to like, the veil thinning as the energies gathered by the sorcerers of Valyria hung heavy, like stones weighing it down and pulling it to the breaking point.
The monkeys and birds on the Isle of Cedars screamed and fled. The latter were fortunate in that they could fly, winging their way into the skies and vanishing into the distance. The former were not so fortunate, many seeking refuge in the deepening shadows of the forest, fleeing from what they could feel was coming.
None would return.
The shadows deepened, countless whispers echoing outwards to be joined by screams and the sound of roaring waves, breaking wood and rock, and the thunder of the land being drowned. In the ruins of Ghozai and Velos, translucent images shimmered into existence, superimposed over the broken ruins, of mighty walls that towered protectively over the houses and buildings behind. Stepped pyramids that reached up high into the sky, dragons of gilded bronze and sphinxes of marble with eyes of garnet, mansions and galleries of colored stone, cedar, and glass, trellises covered with vines, and gardens from which the sound of music could be heard.
And then the sky darkened, black clouds shot through with touches of angry red blotting out the Sun, lightning bolts crisscrossing the darkness and punctuated by blasts of thunder. The waters receded from the shores, beaching hundreds of boats and ships before the astonished eyes of those present, while others stared with apprehension at the angry red in the distant horizon.
And then the waters returned, great waves hundreds of feet high. Men and women and children turned and fled, desperate to get out of the cities and reach higher ground before it was too late. And too late it was, and the waves swept over the harbors, shattering the beached boats and ships into countless fragments and tearing apart the stone quays. They swept past, swallowing everything and everyone in its wake, countless dying in the darkness of the Doom of Valyria, whether broken by the waves or drowned in its waters…
…and now those ghastly shades screamed as their rest was disturbed, the veil tearing and spilling forth a tide of unquiet spirits. Their appearances echoed the violence of their deaths, many mangled beyond recognition as the waves smashed them against the ground or the broken ruins of their cities, while others were pale and rotting, having survived the initial violence only to be dragged out to sea as the waters receded, drowning and rotting in the deeps.
They screamed and wailed, ghastly cries and echoes that would have struck men dead in an instant, and reached out with grasping, half-real fingers and claws that would have stolen a living man's soul out of his body, or should he have the strength to hold fast, at least have a portion of his life taken as a price for his resistance, and thus aged prematurely as a result. But the sworn servants of the sorcerers, the men and women of the Obsidian Brotherhood stood fast, and as the wraiths threw themselves against their circle again and again to no effect, many among the wraiths began to hesitate. Something was getting through to them, an instant and an eternity of restless sleep unable to stop the faintest hint of comprehension returning, as the Obsidian Brothers and Sisters' unnatural…no, inhuman resistance, and with it came fear, fear as to what lay behind their silver masks, at the power imbued into their dragonglass blades, at the price paid to achieve such, and what chains the dragonlords laid upon them to keep them in check.
The sorcerers struck their staves against the ground in a single, ominous motion, and the acolytes stopped chanting. Ominous silence fell, even the wraiths struck silent by an impossible feeling of dread. And then as one, the sorcerers drew dragonglass daggers and struck the slaves before them dead.
Corpses fell and blood spilled…and the circles blazed with sorcerous fire, the sorcerers singing a spell as the acolytes chanted once more. As they sang the flames roared and grew and merging into one, fourteen dragons of sorcerous flame rising into the sky. As one they flew in great circles, before striking down, back to the ground.
As they struck, the sorcerers completed their spell on a rising note, and struck the ground with their staves as one.
The flames died. The wraiths vanished with a single, terrified scream. Every last animal on the island died. In distant Braavos, the faces in the House of Black and White opened their eyes and mouths.
And they laughed.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"And how are you today, my prince?"
Prince Viserys Targaryen of Dragonstone, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, gave his Myrish host an unreadable glance. The smug and self-assured magister didn't seem to register, and after a moment Viserys nodded and gave a polite smile. "Better," he said. "Much better, than when myself and my sister first arrived in this city and you took us in."
"I am glad to hear that, my prince." Magister Malan Sanios said with a nod. "Let it not be said that I am an ungenerous host."
The magister clapped his hands, and slaves appeared, serving spiced wine and iced water with sweetmeats and confectioneries. The magister took a seat opposite Viserys, and after a slave poured him some wine, the same slave poured for Viserys as well. Viserys raised his glass.
"To your health, magister." Viserys said.
The magister nodded. "And to yours." He said, the magister and the prince toasting each other before taking a drink.
For a few moments the magister and the prince drank in silence but for the soft fanning of the slaves, and then Malan placed his glass on the table between them. "Now then," he began. "Since it seems you've recovered from your previous travails shall we get down to business?"
Viserys paused mid-drink, and then finishing also placed his glass down. "Indeed," he said. "I'm not one for playing with words, magister, so I'll ask your pardon first if I seem…impolite, in our coming conversation."
"I find that hard to believe, my prince." Malan said with faint surprise. "As one of royal blood, I'd have assumed you would have been well-taught the importance of diplomacy, and how to conduct it."
"So I have," Viserys agreed. "But alas, with nearly half of my fourteen years of life spent in exile, and all the recent hardships…I confess myself…lacking, the stomach for games of words."
The magister sat back, thinking in silence for several moments. Finally, he gave several small nods. "True," he said. "And I suppose plain words will do much better in private company. Very well my prince, you have my pardon in advance for…uncouth, words."
"Then I shall take you at your word." Viserys said before his eyes and voice hardened. "Speaking frankly magister, what is it you seek to gain by harboring myself, my sister, and indeed, what does Myr seek to gain by harboring the refugees cast out by Braavos and Norvos, and turned away by Pentos?"
"Ah, I see." Malan said with a small smile, and nodding softly. "Very well then, answering in the reverse order you gave your questions in, I am certain you are well aware that all the refugees from the north are like yourself, those with strong strains of Valyrian blood?"
"I am aware." Viserys said bitterly. "I am also aware that is why we were cast out as well."
"And you are also aware that as of this moment, for the first time in nearly three hundred years," Malan continued. "Myr is in the middle of talks with Lys and Tyrosh to revive the Triarchy of the Three Daughters?"
Viserys blinked, and then nodding slowly sat back. "I see." He said. "So that's how it is."
"Valyrian blood runs strong in the people of Lys." Malan said with a nod of his own. "Universally so, in fact. And while there are those among the Tyroshi and even here in Myr who would like to act as the Braavosi and the Norvoshi have to those who can call themselves true-blooded children of Valyria…alas, doing so would likely doom our plan to revive our old alliance and with it a chance to stand against the reviving power of Valyria and Volantis. That would not go down well with just as many if not more, not just among the Three Daughters, but also in Braavos as well."
"Braavos?" Viserys echoed incredulously. "Surely you jest. Did not the Braavosi…"
"The Braavosi are a pragmatic lot." Malan interrupted. "They wanted you out of their city, but at the same time they know unity among the Free Cities is needed to stand against Valyria and Volantis. And they know they cannot push the issue of casting out those of true Valyrian descent here in the south, given the nature of Lys' populace. And ultimately, the ones who acted as they did in Braavos was merely the mob. The Sealord and his magisters and keyholders, never officially sanctioned their actions, and indeed, once the mob had sated its thirst for blood, did not hesitate to apply sanctions for damages incurred during the riots."
"And yet," Viserys countered. "Neither did they try to stop the mob."
"Indeed," Malan agreed. "They stood aside."
For several long moments there was silence, and then Viserys leaned forward. "That answers my second question," he began. "And the first?"
"Tell me Prince Viserys," Malan said softly. "Do you honest think we can stand against Valyria and Volantis both? Not just their fleets and armies, but their dragons as well?"
Viserys was silent for a long time. "Dragons are not invincible." He finally ventured. "The death of Queen Rhaenys during the First Dornish War proves that, as did the deaths of numerous dragons during the Dance of Dragons."
"Her Grace was but one rider, admittedly the most skilled among her siblings and on a mount worthy of the Freehold both of old and returned," Malan said. "But just one rider for all that still. And those which were felled during the Dance of Dragons fell at the fangs and claws of their own, or if felled by siege engines, they were by then pale shadows of the dragons of old."
"Which were not invincible either," Viserys said with narrowed eyes. "The Ghiscari held out for a thousand years, with many stories and legends coming from those times of…heroes, who slew Valyrian dragons in their empire's wars with the Freehold. And of course, there was the Second Spice War, wherein the Rhoynar slew three dragons."
"And brought down the wrath of hundreds more, turning the Rhoyne into an inferno."
Viserys sat back. "The Rhoynar aside," he continued with a calculating light in his eyes. "You do not believe in the example set by the Ghiscari?"
Malan laughed. "What did those wars accomplish for them?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that each and every war between Valyria and Old Ghis only taught the former more and more lessons, helped raise our people to greater heights, until in the end the harpy and its pyramids were cast down, and the dragon reigned triumphant. No, even if war with Valyria does not go the way of the Second Spice War, even if it ends with a stalemate like the First War between Valyria and Old Ghis, all it would do is teach Valyria how to defeat us when the next war comes."
"I don't imagine Braavos or others to appreciate such sentiments."
"Sentiment, you say?" Malan said with spread hands. "We would prefer to call it…calculation. Myr has long held the reputation of being the most advanced of the Free Cities, with some of the craftiest artisans and inventors, and innovative minds in the known world. And we can observe from the past patterns that can be used to predict the future. No…Braavos and the others are free to delude themselves into thinking they can defy and even triumph over Valyria. But we are not required to share in their delusions and fates of dying in dragonfire. Done right, we could reap great reward much like Volantis intends to by aiding Valyria. Whether covertly, or openly, one way or another, sooner or later."
Viserys tapped his finger against an armrest for several moments, and then leaning forward nodded. "What do you and your fellow magisters have in mind?" he asked.
Malan smiled.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Jon, I'm tired."
Jon Connington, former Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King sighed. "Just a little more, and we'll make camp." He said.
"And after?" Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms asked.
"It's almost the middle of the day, so we'll make camp for a few hours, wait for the heat to die down before continuing to march." Jon said. "It wouldn't do to push the men too much, and tire them out. If we did that and get attacked, then we'd be done for if we don't have the strength to fight back properly."
"Alright."
The eight-year old boy settled down on his pony, riding next to the former lord and surrounded by knights in ornately-decorated armor and golden surcoats and cloaks. A black pike from which hung several gilded skulls on chains was emblazoned on their surcoats and shields, the emblem of the famous Golden Company. The same Golden Company which now marched behind Jon, Aegon, and their knights.
"Hey," Aegon asked after a few moments.
"What?"
"Will it really go well?" Aegon asked. "I mean…will the Valyrians really help us get what we need?"
"They will." Jon asked. "Or at least as long as we don't pick a fight against them, they'll at least be willing to talk to us. And while your family never were among the most powerful dragonlords, you were still dragonlords. Once the Valyrians hear about what the Usurper and his pet lions did to the rest of your family…well, you already know the story of Garin the Great, don't you?"
Aegon nodded, his eyes hard. "They'll kill them all." He said with utter hatred. "Lions, stags, wolves, falcons, and fishes…traitors all of them…they'll burn in dragonfire or drown in their blood. Fire and blood…those are my family's words, right?"
"It is, Aegon." Jon said with a nod. "Fire and blood…fire and blood…"
And then looking forward, Jon stared with distant eyes at the horizon, at the memory of a silver-haired man in black armor decorated with rubies.
"For you, my silver prince," Jon thought to himself. "All, and always for you…"
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
Meereen surrendered…which is actually quite smart of them. If they didn't, well, Meereen would be a smoking ruin, and the survivors led away in chains as slaves.
Sorcery, such a nasty business. All the death though, and unquiet dead forcibly being given peace…small wonder the many-faced god is laughing.
Viserys seems too…collected? Nonsense…what people always seem to forget is that the insane Viserys of AC 297-298 was only that way after decades of exile, humiliation, and hardship. Dany does remember that at one point Viserys was a genuinely kind and loving brother, and while Ser Barristan does say that Viserys was Aerys' son, it must also be kept in mind that Aerys never started out as mad. He only became paranoid after the events of Duskendale, which is actually quite understandable, plus the repeated miscarriages and stillbirths of his wife, which would have a negative effect on his already shaky mental health.
And which may not have been the result of inbreeding either, given Pycelle's true loyalty to Tywin, and Tywin's own ambitions to have his daughter be Rhaegar's queen. Make of that what you will.
Aegon, Jon, and the Golden Company are on the move. Now then, what will this lead to, I wonder?
Return of Valyria
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
The gates of Meereen hung open, allowing legion after legion to march into the city unchallenged. The Meereenese looked on with a mix of fear and resignation as rank after rank of red-cloaked soldiers in mail hauberks and pointed caps with aventails entered their city, their booted feet slamming into the pavements with uniform and disciplined regularity. Round shields proudly displayed legion emblems in Valyrian glyphs, as did banners and standards of red edged in gold.
And in the skies above, dragons danced in a great spiral centered on the Great Pyramid, on which roosted a mighty beast greater in size than even Aegon the Conqueror's Black Dread. There, standing on the shoulders of his mount, Laemar Lennareon, Triarch of the Valyrian Freehold, stared out over the city of Meereen, largest, greatest, most populous and richest and most powerful of the so-called Slaver Cities, which now lay prostate before the might of Valyria.
Their armies and fleet destroyed, and with the Valyrian Army tightening the noose and dragons ruling the skies unchallenged, the Great Masters had wisely chosen to surrender their city. In recognition of this fact, the Valyrian commanders had ordered their soldiers to simply occupy Meereen, and had strictly forbidden looting or indeed, any violence against Valyria's newest subjects without permission. Any who did so would be punished in accordance with the strictest discipline.
In accordance with those orders, the Valyrian Army was spreading out as they marched into the city. Some cohorts took control of the walls and the city's defenses, ordering sullen Meereenese soldiers back to their barracks to await further orders. Others set up cordons and checkpoints in the city's main thoroughfares and more important streets, while others were setting up rally points in the city, in case things took a turn for the worse and the Valyrian Army had to come down hard on the Meereenese.
Others swept the Great Pyramid and other pyramids of the city, or surrounded the homes of the city's rich and powerful. Others made certain to ensure what was left of the Meereenese Army would stand down, while others gathered and escorted the Great Masters to the Plaza of Purification, where they would meet with the Triarch and hear Valyria's terms.
The Sun was setting when all the Great Masters were gathered in the Plaza of Purification, and there many shook with impotent rage as they beheld the shattered remains of the great bronze harpy that had once graced the plaza. Rage turned to fear and terror as they heard a great roar, and brilliant fire lit up the sky.
Dozens of dragons let loose with dragonfire, aimed at the harpies crowning the pyramids of Meereen. Bronze and gold softened like wax, and flowed in molten rivers downs the steps of the pyramids. Grief and resignation followed fear and terror, and more than one Great Master collapsed to the ground sobbing at the sight, as the truth of their situation was driven in with unrelenting and unstoppable force.
Soon, the mightiest dragon present was winging across the skies of Meereen, and then swooping down with a snarl that had more than one Meereenese running for cover or loosening their bowels, descended on the plaza of purification. The dragon's landing shook the ground, and such was its size that its landing collapsed many of the surrounding buildings.
Terrified, the Great Masters fell to their knees. On his dragon, Triarch Laemar surveyed the Great Masters with judging eyes, having removed his Andal-styled helmet to allow his gold-silver hair to flow freely over his shoulders. Turning his head slowly, the Triarch swept the Great Masters with his amethyst gaze, not one daring to meet it.
In truth, the Triarch cared little for the Great Masters, and would gladly order his dragon to burn them to ash in an instant. But alas, needs must.
Yunkai and Astapor waited further south, and beyond them was the specter of the New Ghiscari Empire. Valyria's economy was also still on shaky legs, threatening to give out at any moment, and so for now it was necessary to make compromises to maximize the worth of any gains made during this stage of the Freehold's reclamation.
Allowing the Great Masters to continue to govern Meereen under the Freehold, and paying taxes productively would serve the Freehold better than sparking a revolt here and now when victory was at hand, and leaving the Freehold with naught but a burnt out husk of a city that would contribute little in the short term. And so, if the Meereenese would submit, then the Freehold would allow them a place.
"You have made a most wise decision." Triarch Laemar began. "Had you chosen to resist, all around you would be ash and dust. But as you have chosen wisely, that fate is averted, both for your city and yourselves."
The Triarch paused. "The Freehold's terms will be simple." He continued after a moment. "You and yours will swear allegiance as subjects of the Valyrian Freehold, and in return your property and the property of the citizens of this city will be respected. You will also be allowed to continue to govern the city, albeit in the Freehold's name henceforth. In recognition of this fact, an Archon will be appointed by the Lords Freeholder to oversee the city, and of course, annual taxes will be levied and will be expected to be paid in full and on time. Meereen shall also forfeit its fleet and army, with the defense of the city to be entrusted to the Valyrian Army and Navy. Households will continue to be allowed to hire their own guards within reason, however, and of course, you will be granted a say in any revisions of the city's laws when and where they do not conform with Gaenor's Code and the Fourteen Tablets. What say you?"
What followed was a confused chorus of agreement and oaths and assurance of loyalty, and which had the Triarch sneering. "One by one," he said loudly. "Come forward, and express your submission and swear allegiance."
The confused chorus died down, and one by one the Great Masters came forward and kneeling before the Triarch and his dragon, expressed their acceptance of the Freehold's terms and swearing allegiance. Once all were done, Triarch Laemar nodded and made to depart.
"Excellent," he said. "You are truly most wise. Return to your homes, and rejoice in your wisdom and what fruit it has allowed you to reap. Others are not so wise, and lack such privilege. Go, but know that come tomorrow, your presence will be required to place your signatures on the official documentation for Meereen's submission to the Valyrian Freehold."
And with those words and the thunder of titanic wings beating into the air, the Triarch soared up into the sky.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Located in the approximate middle of the straits which connect Slavers' Bay and the Gulf of Grief is the Isle of Cedars. Named for the cedar forests which grow on the island, it was also once known as the Isle of a Hundred Battles, calling back to the countless struggles for control of the island thousands of years ago during the wars between Valyria and Old Ghis.
Though the former inhabitants of the island were of Ghiscari stock, like much of their people they were forced to submit and adopt the language and many customs of the victorious Valyrians in the wake of those wars. Ghozai and Velos, the two cities on the island, grew rich from their control of shipping passing through the surrounding waters, but ultimately it would be those same waters which would bring their doom.
When the Doom of Valyria came, great waves hundreds of feet high drowned the cities. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, all the houses and hovels, the wall, pyramids, aqueducts, dragons and sphinxes…all of them were swept away by the waves, leaving naught but broken ruins that would ultimately be reclaimed by the land.
In the centuries since, many attempts have been made to reclaim the island. The Ghiscari first and foremost, even the Volantenes, and of course pirates and common slavers, among other such lowly ilk. All failed.
All the death and destruction unleashed on the island had seeded the ruins and their surroundings with dark and terrible echoes, which drove men mad and turned nature against them. So it had been for centuries, and though men of wealth, power, and lore scoffed at such tales, neither did they press too eagerly to reclaim the island, and in taverns along the surrounding waters, tales of horror and dread were whispered of the haunted ruins of the Isle of Cedars, where the animals grew fearless of man, so unknown was he to them.
So it had been for centuries…
…but with the return of Valyria, the dragonlords decreed that not even the echoes of their seeming doom wouldhold them back from reclaiming what was once part of their domain.
Ships surrounded the Isle of Cedars at a safe distance, having brought men – sorcerers, acolytes, slaves and servants – and what they needed with them. Now they waited and watched, as the adepts of the arcane sought to enact the dragonlords' will.
At fourteen points around the island, circles were cut into the ground. Twin, interlocking septagrams were then overlaid over the circles, and at the fourteen points produced by those septagrams fourteen glyphs were similarly inscribed into the ground. Sorcerers stood before each of those points, clad in red and gold, and holding aloft staves of gilded wood, topped with golden dragons wreathed in sorcerous flame.
Behind the sorcerers were arrayed a great choir of acolytes, clad in pure white, chanting in the background and kindling the faintest hint of…something, supernatural, earie, otherworldly, magical in the air. It was just something on the edge of comprehension, lurking in the back of a witness' mind, the exact word to describe it at the tip of one's tongue but could never be right, and marked by the faintest touch of acridity in the air.
The sorcerers stayed silent, merely tapping their staves against the ground in unison at timed intervals. Before each and every one of them, a slave knelt on the ground, stripped naked and with long, flowing scripts carved into their flesh, the glyphs bleeding happily and refusing to even so much as begin to heal, kept open by the power represented by each glyph and what they together meant.
And beyond the chanting acolytes, sworn servants of the sorcerers clad in black and masked in silver sacrificed more slaves by the hundred. A hundred slaves at fourteen points around the island, fourteen hundred lives taken and their blood and living energies fed to power the spells of the sorcerers.
Already the fetid energies were swirling around the sorcerers and their acolytes, the servants of the former standing in a great circle with their backs to their masters, silver masks staring into the growing darkness while blades of dragonglass were raised point upwards before them. The energies of death stirred, like calling to like, the veil thinning as the energies gathered by the sorcerers of Valyria hung heavy, like stones weighing it down and pulling it to the breaking point.
The monkeys and birds on the Isle of Cedars screamed and fled. The latter were fortunate in that they could fly, winging their way into the skies and vanishing into the distance. The former were not so fortunate, many seeking refuge in the deepening shadows of the forest, fleeing from what they could feel was coming.
None would return.
The shadows deepened, countless whispers echoing outwards to be joined by screams and the sound of roaring waves, breaking wood and rock, and the thunder of the land being drowned. In the ruins of Ghozai and Velos, translucent images shimmered into existence, superimposed over the broken ruins, of mighty walls that towered protectively over the houses and buildings behind. Stepped pyramids that reached up high into the sky, dragons of gilded bronze and sphinxes of marble with eyes of garnet, mansions and galleries of colored stone, cedar, and glass, trellises covered with vines, and gardens from which the sound of music could be heard.
And then the sky darkened, black clouds shot through with touches of angry red blotting out the Sun, lightning bolts crisscrossing the darkness and punctuated by blasts of thunder. The waters receded from the shores, beaching hundreds of boats and ships before the astonished eyes of those present, while others stared with apprehension at the angry red in the distant horizon.
And then the waters returned, great waves hundreds of feet high. Men and women and children turned and fled, desperate to get out of the cities and reach higher ground before it was too late. And too late it was, and the waves swept over the harbors, shattering the beached boats and ships into countless fragments and tearing apart the stone quays. They swept past, swallowing everything and everyone in its wake, countless dying in the darkness of the Doom of Valyria, whether broken by the waves or drowned in its waters…
…and now those ghastly shades screamed as their rest was disturbed, the veil tearing and spilling forth a tide of unquiet spirits. Their appearances echoed the violence of their deaths, many mangled beyond recognition as the waves smashed them against the ground or the broken ruins of their cities, while others were pale and rotting, having survived the initial violence only to be dragged out to sea as the waters receded, drowning and rotting in the deeps.
They screamed and wailed, ghastly cries and echoes that would have struck men dead in an instant, and reached out with grasping, half-real fingers and claws that would have stolen a living man's soul out of his body, or should he have the strength to hold fast, at least have a portion of his life taken as a price for his resistance, and thus aged prematurely as a result. But the sworn servants of the sorcerers, the men and women of the Obsidian Brotherhood stood fast, and as the wraiths threw themselves against their circle again and again to no effect, many among the wraiths began to hesitate. Something was getting through to them, an instant and an eternity of restless sleep unable to stop the faintest hint of comprehension returning, as the Obsidian Brothers and Sisters' unnatural…no, inhuman resistance, and with it came fear, fear as to what lay behind their silver masks, at the power imbued into their dragonglass blades, at the price paid to achieve such, and what chains the dragonlords laid upon them to keep them in check.
The sorcerers struck their staves against the ground in a single, ominous motion, and the acolytes stopped chanting. Ominous silence fell, even the wraiths struck silent by an impossible feeling of dread. And then as one, the sorcerers drew dragonglass daggers and struck the slaves before them dead.
Corpses fell and blood spilled…and the circles blazed with sorcerous fire, the sorcerers singing a spell as the acolytes chanted once more. As they sang the flames roared and grew and merging into one, fourteen dragons of sorcerous flame rising into the sky. As one they flew in great circles, before striking down, back to the ground.
As they struck, the sorcerers completed their spell on a rising note, and struck the ground with their staves as one.
The flames died. The wraiths vanished with a single, terrified scream. Every last animal on the island died. In distant Braavos, the faces in the House of Black and White opened their eyes and mouths.
And they laughed.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"And how are you today, my prince?"
Prince Viserys Targaryen of Dragonstone, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, gave his Myrish host an unreadable glance. The smug and self-assured magister didn't seem to register, and after a moment Viserys nodded and gave a polite smile. "Better," he said. "Much better, than when myself and my sister first arrived in this city and you took us in."
"I am glad to hear that, my prince." Magister Malan Sanios said with a nod. "Let it not be said that I am an ungenerous host."
The magister clapped his hands, and slaves appeared, serving spiced wine and iced water with sweetmeats and confectioneries. The magister took a seat opposite Viserys, and after a slave poured him some wine, the same slave poured for Viserys as well. Viserys raised his glass.
"To your health, magister." Viserys said.
The magister nodded. "And to yours." He said, the magister and the prince toasting each other before taking a drink.
For a few moments the magister and the prince drank in silence but for the soft fanning of the slaves, and then Malan placed his glass on the table between them. "Now then," he began. "Since it seems you've recovered from your previous travails shall we get down to business?"
Viserys paused mid-drink, and then finishing also placed his glass down. "Indeed," he said. "I'm not one for playing with words, magister, so I'll ask your pardon first if I seem…impolite, in our coming conversation."
"I find that hard to believe, my prince." Malan said with faint surprise. "As one of royal blood, I'd have assumed you would have been well-taught the importance of diplomacy, and how to conduct it."
"So I have," Viserys agreed. "But alas, with nearly half of my fourteen years of life spent in exile, and all the recent hardships…I confess myself…lacking, the stomach for games of words."
The magister sat back, thinking in silence for several moments. Finally, he gave several small nods. "True," he said. "And I suppose plain words will do much better in private company. Very well my prince, you have my pardon in advance for…uncouth, words."
"Then I shall take you at your word." Viserys said before his eyes and voice hardened. "Speaking frankly magister, what is it you seek to gain by harboring myself, my sister, and indeed, what does Myr seek to gain by harboring the refugees cast out by Braavos and Norvos, and turned away by Pentos?"
"Ah, I see." Malan said with a small smile, and nodding softly. "Very well then, answering in the reverse order you gave your questions in, I am certain you are well aware that all the refugees from the north are like yourself, those with strong strains of Valyrian blood?"
"I am aware." Viserys said bitterly. "I am also aware that is why we were cast out as well."
"And you are also aware that as of this moment, for the first time in nearly three hundred years," Malan continued. "Myr is in the middle of talks with Lys and Tyrosh to revive the Triarchy of the Three Daughters?"
Viserys blinked, and then nodding slowly sat back. "I see." He said. "So that's how it is."
"Valyrian blood runs strong in the people of Lys." Malan said with a nod of his own. "Universally so, in fact. And while there are those among the Tyroshi and even here in Myr who would like to act as the Braavosi and the Norvoshi have to those who can call themselves true-blooded children of Valyria…alas, doing so would likely doom our plan to revive our old alliance and with it a chance to stand against the reviving power of Valyria and Volantis. That would not go down well with just as many if not more, not just among the Three Daughters, but also in Braavos as well."
"Braavos?" Viserys echoed incredulously. "Surely you jest. Did not the Braavosi…"
"The Braavosi are a pragmatic lot." Malan interrupted. "They wanted you out of their city, but at the same time they know unity among the Free Cities is needed to stand against Valyria and Volantis. And they know they cannot push the issue of casting out those of true Valyrian descent here in the south, given the nature of Lys' populace. And ultimately, the ones who acted as they did in Braavos was merely the mob. The Sealord and his magisters and keyholders, never officially sanctioned their actions, and indeed, once the mob had sated its thirst for blood, did not hesitate to apply sanctions for damages incurred during the riots."
"And yet," Viserys countered. "Neither did they try to stop the mob."
"Indeed," Malan agreed. "They stood aside."
For several long moments there was silence, and then Viserys leaned forward. "That answers my second question," he began. "And the first?"
"Tell me Prince Viserys," Malan said softly. "Do you honest think we can stand against Valyria and Volantis both? Not just their fleets and armies, but their dragons as well?"
Viserys was silent for a long time. "Dragons are not invincible." He finally ventured. "The death of Queen Rhaenys during the First Dornish War proves that, as did the deaths of numerous dragons during the Dance of Dragons."
"Her Grace was but one rider, admittedly the most skilled among her siblings and on a mount worthy of the Freehold both of old and returned," Malan said. "But just one rider for all that still. And those which were felled during the Dance of Dragons fell at the fangs and claws of their own, or if felled by siege engines, they were by then pale shadows of the dragons of old."
"Which were not invincible either," Viserys said with narrowed eyes. "The Ghiscari held out for a thousand years, with many stories and legends coming from those times of…heroes, who slew Valyrian dragons in their empire's wars with the Freehold. And of course, there was the Second Spice War, wherein the Rhoynar slew three dragons."
"And brought down the wrath of hundreds more, turning the Rhoyne into an inferno."
Viserys sat back. "The Rhoynar aside," he continued with a calculating light in his eyes. "You do not believe in the example set by the Ghiscari?"
Malan laughed. "What did those wars accomplish for them?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that each and every war between Valyria and Old Ghis only taught the former more and more lessons, helped raise our people to greater heights, until in the end the harpy and its pyramids were cast down, and the dragon reigned triumphant. No, even if war with Valyria does not go the way of the Second Spice War, even if it ends with a stalemate like the First War between Valyria and Old Ghis, all it would do is teach Valyria how to defeat us when the next war comes."
"I don't imagine Braavos or others to appreciate such sentiments."
"Sentiment, you say?" Malan said with spread hands. "We would prefer to call it…calculation. Myr has long held the reputation of being the most advanced of the Free Cities, with some of the craftiest artisans and inventors, and innovative minds in the known world. And we can observe from the past patterns that can be used to predict the future. No…Braavos and the others are free to delude themselves into thinking they can defy and even triumph over Valyria. But we are not required to share in their delusions and fates of dying in dragonfire. Done right, we could reap great reward much like Volantis intends to by aiding Valyria. Whether covertly, or openly, one way or another, sooner or later."
Viserys tapped his finger against an armrest for several moments, and then leaning forward nodded. "What do you and your fellow magisters have in mind?" he asked.
Malan smiled.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Jon, I'm tired."
Jon Connington, former Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King sighed. "Just a little more, and we'll make camp." He said.
"And after?" Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms asked.
"It's almost the middle of the day, so we'll make camp for a few hours, wait for the heat to die down before continuing to march." Jon said. "It wouldn't do to push the men too much, and tire them out. If we did that and get attacked, then we'd be done for if we don't have the strength to fight back properly."
"Alright."
The eight-year old boy settled down on his pony, riding next to the former lord and surrounded by knights in ornately-decorated armor and golden surcoats and cloaks. A black pike from which hung several gilded skulls on chains was emblazoned on their surcoats and shields, the emblem of the famous Golden Company. The same Golden Company which now marched behind Jon, Aegon, and their knights.
"Hey," Aegon asked after a few moments.
"What?"
"Will it really go well?" Aegon asked. "I mean…will the Valyrians really help us get what we need?"
"They will." Jon asked. "Or at least as long as we don't pick a fight against them, they'll at least be willing to talk to us. And while your family never were among the most powerful dragonlords, you were still dragonlords. Once the Valyrians hear about what the Usurper and his pet lions did to the rest of your family…well, you already know the story of Garin the Great, don't you?"
Aegon nodded, his eyes hard. "They'll kill them all." He said with utter hatred. "Lions, stags, wolves, falcons, and fishes…traitors all of them…they'll burn in dragonfire or drown in their blood. Fire and blood…those are my family's words, right?"
"It is, Aegon." Jon said with a nod. "Fire and blood…fire and blood…"
And then looking forward, Jon stared with distant eyes at the horizon, at the memory of a silver-haired man in black armor decorated with rubies.
"For you, my silver prince," Jon thought to himself. "All, and always for you…"
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
Meereen surrendered…which is actually quite smart of them. If they didn't, well, Meereen would be a smoking ruin, and the survivors led away in chains as slaves.
Sorcery, such a nasty business. All the death though, and unquiet dead forcibly being given peace…small wonder the many-faced god is laughing.
Viserys seems too…collected? Nonsense…what people always seem to forget is that the insane Viserys of AC 297-298 was only that way after decades of exile, humiliation, and hardship. Dany does remember that at one point Viserys was a genuinely kind and loving brother, and while Ser Barristan does say that Viserys was Aerys' son, it must also be kept in mind that Aerys never started out as mad. He only became paranoid after the events of Duskendale, which is actually quite understandable, plus the repeated miscarriages and stillbirths of his wife, which would have a negative effect on his already shaky mental health.
And which may not have been the result of inbreeding either, given Pycelle's true loyalty to Tywin, and Tywin's own ambitions to have his daughter be Rhaegar's queen. Make of that what you will.
Aegon, Jon, and the Golden Company are on the move. Now then, what will this lead to, I wonder?
Buba
A total creep
Crazy!Viserys can be partly attributed to Mastermind Prince Doran ...
As to Barristan - biased as hell - he is lying (to himself too) to justify his treason.
Smart Myrish.Braavos should join,too - they are to pragmatic to die for nothing.Althought current sealord probably must die.
About Meereen - it would be safest kill all wise masters and gave city to new families.Old blood would eventually do something stupid.
Is Varys Blackfyre here,or not?
P.S one of greek tyrants used to free slaves in captured cities,giving them local free woman as wives.It worked wery well,becouse he do not need garrison - they hold cities for him.Valyrians could use that.
About Meereen - it would be safest kill all wise masters and gave city to new families.Old blood would eventually do something stupid.
Is Varys Blackfyre here,or not?
P.S one of greek tyrants used to free slaves in captured cities,giving them local free woman as wives.It worked wery well,becouse he do not need garrison - they hold cities for him.Valyrians could use that.
Chapter 7
Jaenera Targaryen
Well-known member
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.
The bells of the Great Sept rang dolorous notes across the city of King's Landing, and while he didn't consider himself a particularly superstitious man, Jon Arryn wondered if such men had a point in their beliefs. Pinching his nose, the Defender of the Vale and the Hand of the King sat back in his seat at the Small Council, to the right of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
"So it's true, then." Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun said, the Master of Laws pale-faced and shaking. "They really have returned."
"Yes." Varys, Master of Whisperers, answered with an unusually serious tone. Hard to blame him, really, given the news he'd brought to the council's attention. "It's not a fanciful tale woven by Volantene orators to drum up support for yet another attempt at rebuilding the Freehold. No, the Freehold…Valyria, has returned."
"…how?" Hoster asked in a whisper.
"…magic." Varys said with veiled contempt. "I do not know the details, and my spies in Volantis and elsewhere have been unable to uncover them as well. Understandable, given I have not had the time to establish a network within Valyria itself, and the Valyrians did not share the details of their mysteries with the Volantenes…"
"How they came back is an academic question." Prince Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone and Master of Ships interrupted. "What matters is what exactly the Valyrians and their Volantene allies plan to do. No…we already know what they plan to do: to rebuild the Freehold. To that end, what have you uncovered, Varys?"
"Of the Freehold of old," Varys began. "Only the peninsula and nearby islands have returned. This perhaps, is fortunate, as the greater part of Valyria's armies remain lost."
"…but?"
"Their fleet is largely intact from what I've been told." Varys said. "And of course, the heart of Valyrian power and might is there. Not just magic…dragons."
"…the forty families." Hoster said fearfully, and earning himself a veiled glare from the Prince of Dragonstone.
"Thirty-nine, if I may say so, my lord." Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish, the newly-appointed Master of Coin said with a weak smile. "If I remember correctly, the Targaryens left Valyria long before the Doom, and if this is the Valyria from the Doom returned…well, there wouldn't be Targaryens among them."
"Not that it really matters when all is said and done," Stannis scoffed. "Though I imagine reducing the Valyrian dragonlords' numbers by any small fraction is a mercy we ought to be thankful for."
"At least," Littlefinger said with a small bow. "Until they find Viserys and Daenerys, of course. Then…who knows?"
"Yes…" Stannis said while narrowing his eyes. "Varys, have you any knowledge of their location?"
"Unfortunately," Varys apologetically began. "I lost track them during the chaos of the riots which engulfed Braavos. It is possible they were killed in said riots, along with plenty of others with Valyrian features, but it is also possible that they managed to escape…"
"Send word," Robert cut in, his face hard as stone and his eyes like ice. "A million dragons for whoever can bring me the heads of Viserys Targaryen and his sister."
"Robert…!" Jon protested.
"Gods damn it, Jon!" Robert thundered, slamming his fists against the table. "I will not allow those dragonspawn the chance to recover! Not when they have the chance to do so, by meeting with and perhaps gaining the aid of their misbegotten kin from Valyria! I will not have it!"
"This assumes the dragonlords of Valyria would even want to!" Jon snapped. "Have you forgotten their insane obsession with the purity of their blood? An obsession that led them to wed brother and sister for thousands of generations? Viserys and Daenerys, for all their appearance, are most definitely not pure. Not when they have the blood of Westerosi houses in them."
"And you assume the Valyrians will still not find a use for them, regardless." Stannis said. "…impure, their blood might be, but enough of it is of Valyrian descent that the dragonlords might still give them a place in their plans. Perhaps not in their homeland, but as…puppets, to place on the Iron Throne, to which they have a claim."
"Assuming of course, the Valyrians have an interest in Westeros." Jon said. "Even at the height of their power, despite having the means to come west, the Valyrians never did."
"Indeed," Stannis said, sitting back in his seat and narrowing his eyes. "And yet, there are Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Claw Isle. Stepping stones, one could imagine, the Valyrians never had time to use, for an expansion into Westeros."
"Prince Stannis has a point." Varys said, and Grand Maester Pycelle nodded.
"While what we know of the Freehold's intentions indicated that Dragonstone and its surrounding islands were established to control the center of the Narrow Sea," he added. "There is also no evidence that explicitly states the Valyrians had no interest in further expansion west."
"While it would be preferable to hope for the best," Varys continued. "We must also prepare for the worst."
Jon was silent for a long moment. "Perhaps you may be right," he conceded. "But to place a price on their heads…it might just provoke their kin to take action against us."
"Then what do you propose?" Stannis demanded. "That we do nothing? What if Viserys and Daenerys arrive at Volantis or Valyria, and gain aid from their kin? What then?"
"They are still rebuilding the Freehold, are they not?" Jon asked. "Even with dragons, it took them thousands of years to build their domain in the first place. A domain that even now, Volantis aside, opposes them. It is likely the Valyrians will have no time and resources to spare the Targaryen children."
"For how long?" Robert countered. "Today perhaps, and even tomorrow, the Valyrians have no interest in us. But the day after? And the day after that? Jon, you yourself taught me that if something needed doing here and now, and it was my duty to perform it, then I ought to do so, and not wait for someone else to do so in my place, much less to tarry and put it off until tomorrow. What's changed, Jon? Answer me, you owe me that much."
Jon was silent for another long moment, and then he sighed. "None who have opposed Valyria in its long history have succeeded in doing so." He said. "Ghiscar…the Rhoynar…they all fell and burned. I…I just don't want the same to happen to the Seven Kingdoms, to you, Robert."
There was silence, and then Robert sighed. "I see where you are, and I understand." He said softly. "But, you also see and understand, don't you?"
Jon sighed and nodded. "Yes, I do." He said, and Robert nodded.
"Good," he said before turning back to the rest of the council. "And it's not like we're completely without hope. The Dornish brought down a dragon once, and plenty of dragons were slain during the dance. And the Ghiscari…maester, how long were they able to contest the Freehold?"
"A thousand years by all accounts, Your Grace." Pycelle answered. "Fragmentary tales and songs exist from those days, of heroes who fought and slew dragons and their riders."
"Heroes indeed, to bring down those hellspawn and send their spirits back to whence they came." Robert agreed. "Perhaps we might pick up where they left off, and finish what they started. Succeed where everyone else failed, and bring Valyria down."
"With much of their armies lost to them, Valyria is also more vulnerable now than it might be in the past, and in time." Stannis mused. "Something of an opportunity, I daresay."
"Yes," Robert agreed with slow nods. "Though that opportunity might be slipping from us. Varys, what do you know of Valyria's plans, and where are they at now?"
"According to my spies the Valyrians have cast their reach in two directions, east and north." Varys replied, rising to spread a map of Essos over the table. "The greater part of Valyria's fleet and armies are moving east, along the shores of Slavers' Bay, towards Ghiscar and Qarth. Given the distance, it is entirely possible that even as we speak, the Slaver Cities may be under siege or may have already fallen."
"That is no surprise." Pycelle said. "Prior to the Doom, Ghiscar was part of the Valyrian Freehold, and while not their first conquest outside of the Valyrian Peninsula, among their proudest. To the Valyrians, the conquest of Ghiscar held great significance as it demonstrated beyond all doubt their victory over their Ghiscari rivals."
"And Qarth?" Jon asked.
"To my knowledge," Pycelle said after a moment's thought. "Qarth was a tributary of the Freehold, allowing ships and men to pass through their lands and waters, and annually contributing great sums to the Freehold."
"Somehow," Stannis sourly said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Qartheen might offer that arrangement, if only to avoid a war with the Freehold."
"Which isn't a good thing, as it would mean Valyria would have control over the trade routes leading to Asshai and Yi Ti." Robert growled. "Though…given the distance, there's nothing we can do about that. Gods damn it…gods damn those filthy dragonspawn…"
"As for the strike to the north," Varys resumed after a diffident cough. "Valyria has managed to gain Volantis' allegiance with surprising ease…or not, given the rulers of that city, the so-called 'Old Blood', prize their descent from the original Valyrian colonists and have slavishly modeled their government and society on that of the Freehold…anyway, more to the point, Volantis' allegiance allows Valyria indirect control of the mouths and the lower part of the Rhoyne."
"And…?" Jon pressed.
Varys blinked. "And from there," he continued. "My spies report Valyrian and Volantene ships and men are pushing north, along the Rhoyne, towards Dagger Lake. They also report that Volantis has been promised control of the river up until the lake, which will be placed under direct Valyrian rule."
Robert hummed while sitting back in his chair. "I imagine the other Free Cities aren't too happy about that." He said.
"Indeed not, Your Grace." Varys said. "Braavos is already attempting to broker an alliance among the other Free Cities, though I have reports that Lorath has declared neutrality, while both Norvos and Qohor are still engulfed in civil war."
"And what of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh?" Stannis asked.
"They are receptive, though distrust among them of each other is proving…difficult, for Braavos to overcome." Varys said.
"You'd think with the threat of Valyria looming overhead they'd set those differences aside…" Robert growled.
"Indeed, Your Grace." Varys said. "But alas, I can only, and indeed, must only report the facts. And such are the facts."
Robert grunted in response before turning back to the map. Reaching forward, he traced the line of the Rhoyne north from Dagger Lake, and then swept his hand out over its tributaries. "I see what they're up to." He said darkly. "If Volantis and the Freehold succeed, then they will have control over the best and quickest way to move men and cargo north and south in Essos, and control over the caravan route running east and west across northern Essos."
"In short," Jon said. "They'll have control over the interior, and cripple the economies of the other Free Cities."
"It does seem that way, my lord." Varys agreed. "And while the other Free Cities have imposed an embargo on Volantis at present, said embargo would become meaningless if not outright self-destructive in the event of Valyrian and Volantene victory. The Valyrians and Volantes would retaliate in kind, and completely cut the other Free Cities off from trade with the east…"
"…and force them to choose between submission or bankruptcy." Littlefinger said with a shake of his head. "It's a diabolical strategy."
"Of course it is." Robert said. "What did you expect from greedy and honorless scum?"
"That said, were it not to our detriment in success," Stannis softly said. "It can be admired as a brilliant one, regardless."
Robert and a few others shot Stannis glances, but he simply ignored them. "And?" he asked instead. "Now that we know all this, what do we do about it?"
"We can't allow Valyria and Volantis to win." Robert said. "If they do, they'll be right on our doorstep within a generation. And back to the mad dragon's spawn…if they're still alive then, then that's when they might become useful for their kin. Hence the need to be rid of them now."
"Agreed," Stannis said. "That would buy us time, a generation or two, perhaps, before the dragonlords turn west. After all, Ghiscar, Qarth, and the Free Cities are one matter. The Dothraki are another."
Eyes turned back to the map, and then Robert nodded slowly, eyes fixed on a large area in the middle of Essos, marked as the Dothraki Sea. "Yes," he said. "The Dothraki might just tie the Valyrians down for quite a while. Even with dragons, going by how big that land of theirs is, and how fast they are said to be able to move…"
"The Valyrians will hunt them all down in the end." Stannis said. "But that just might buy us the time we need to find ways to even the odds with the Valyrians."
"What did you have in mind, Stannis?" Robert asked.
In response, Stannis turned to Pycelle. "You maesters are called the Knights of the Mind, aren't you?" he asked. "I think it's time we put that to the test."
"Yes…" Robert said with narrowed eyes and a slow nod. "I see what you mean, Stannis."
"Your Grace?" Pycelle asked quizzically. "I apologize, I'm not sure I quite understand…"
"Then let me make it clear." Stannis interrupted. "Send word to your kind in the Citadel. Valyria holds an edge against us in knowledge of the world in general, and in magic and dragons in particular. Put your heads to use, and find a way to negate the latter, and at least close the gap in the former."
"I couldn't have put it better myself." Robert said approvingly before turning to Pycelle with an expression that brooked no disagreement. "Make it so, Grand Maester. Or is it beyond your capabilities?"
"N-no, Your Grace, it will be done." Pycelle stammered out with a bow.
"Good."
"…if we're set on buying time to gather our strength," Jon said after some thought. "And to remove the difference in…ability, between the Seven Kingdoms and the Freehold, then I might have some ideas in that regard."
"Finally," Robert said with a jovial tone. "You're on the same page as we are. Speak up, Jon. Let's hear what you've got."
"First of all, don't place a price on the heads of the Targaryen children."
"What?"
"If we want to be rid of them, then it should be done subtly, and in ways that can't be traced back to us." Jon said. "Otherwise, we just might be drawing unwanted attention to ourselves."
"…yes…there is that." Robert conceded.
"Assassins, then?" Stannis said with distaste. "Not the most honorable means to use, but…needs must."
"We would still need to locate the children, however." Varys pointed out. "No point in sending out assassins, when we don't even know where to send them to. I'll have my spies and little birds double their watch for Viserys and Daenerys."
"Or, we could just hire the Faceless Men to do it." Littlefinger suggested.
"Your tone suggests you're not too keen on the idea, however." Jon said.
"We've just finished putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion, my lord." Littlefinger said. "And the Faceless Men charge their fees on how…important, or valuable their quarries are. The fee for killing a mere merchant prince of the Free Cities would be enough to hire and feed an army for a year. How much more for a prince and princess of the Targaryen line?"
"Their claims are null and void." Stannis growled.
"Practically, yes." Littlefinger agreed. "But just the fact that they have a claim in the first place makes all the difference. And indeed, it's why we're seeking to be rid of them, isn't it so, my prince?"
"…so it is."
"Find them first." Jon said firmly. "And then keep an eye on them, while we decide who we send and how we deal with them before they become a threat."
"It will be done, Lord Arryn." Varys said with a bow.
"Moving on," Jon said. "Another way to buy time for ourselves, and to turn away potential Valyrian belligerence from ourselves, would be a diplomatic mission to the east."
"Extend a hand of friendship and peace, while arming the other, is it?" Robert said sourly. "I'm not too keen on it, however…"
"To protect the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps even end Valyria's power in the future," Jon said. "It's something that needs to be done, until we're ready."
"…true." Robert said. "But if so, then who shall lead this…mission…no, absolutely not."
Jon smiled. "You know as well as I do, Robert, that there's no one else you can trust to send into the dragon's den, and come out having deceived them into a sense of security." He said.
"Gods damn it, Jon." Robert growled. "You said it yourself, it's the dragon's den, and I'm not sending you into it. Not without an army and a fleet, and not without whatever craft the maesters cook up to remove the Valyrians' devilry and witchcraft."
"…a compromise, then?" Littlefinger suggested. "Instead of Valyria, the diplomatic mission could go to Volantis. Lord Arryn gets to speak with the Valyrians and their allies, and with it his chance to lull their perceptions, while not going so far into the dangers of the dragons' domain."
Robert scoffed. "Pretty words…don't think I can't see through them." He sneered. "No. I mean it, Jon. No. You will not be going east, and that is all I will say on the matter."
"Robert…"
"Speaking of going to Volantis, however," Varys diffidently began. "My little birds here in Westeros, and my spies in Essos have reported a disturbing trend developing."
"What trend?" Jon asked.
"Those who remained loyal to the former dynasty and were exiled to Essos," Varys answered. "And those who apparently remained loyal but bent knee to survive, are heading east and south, towards Volantis. My spies have yet to determine the details, but it seems…"
"They're rallying." Stannis finished with narrowed his eyes. "Could Viserys and Daenerys be in Volantis? Are we too late?"
"It is possible, my prince," Varys said. "Though as I said my spies are still ascertaining the truth. However, their other reports on this trend are even more disturbing, and again I have yet to find all the details. Even so, I pray they are wrong."
"And why is that?" Hoster asked.
"According to the spies which reported this," Varys said with an unusual expression of unease on his face. "They do not rally to one of the Targeryens of King's Landing. No, they rally to a Targaryen Dragonlord, one left behind in their homeland instead of accompanying their kin to Dragonstone before the Doom."
"No…"
"It can't be…"
"An actual Targaryen Dragonlord…"
As the Small Council devolved into exclamations of fear and disbelief, Robert stood silent, seething and grinding his teeth as he saw once more Rhaegar Targaryen's face, whether on the Trident in his draconic armor with dragons shaped from rubies, and at the tourney at Harrenhal, when he presented Lyanna with a crown of flowers. He remembered hearing of how Rhaegar had taken her away, and of the gruesome deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark at the hands of the Mad King.
He remembered how he had longed to see Lyanna once more, how certain he was that with the Mad King and his thrice-cursed son and his spawn dead they would be together at last, only for Ned to return from the south with that casket made of weirwood, carved with the wolf's head of House Stark.
And now…
…this news from the east…
…of a Targaryen with the power to undo everything he had done to take away that which they did not deserve, and which even now rallied those despicable fools who would lick at dragon boots…
With a roar that could be heard across the Red Keep, Robert upended the Small Council table in his rage.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Waves crashed against sand and stone, seabirds mournfully crying out as they flew along the coast, and over the stony expanse of Sunspear. It hugged the coast, while spreading out into the desert beyond, and around the winding walls of the castle that shared its name, the twin towers of the Sun and the Spear stabbing high into the sky and casting long shadows behind.
In a chamber that overlooked the sea, Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear sat on a chair, and looked out over the waves. He savored the crisp and salty scent of the sea, and then with a sigh, turned to where his brother stood, waiting for an answer.
"No matter what I say," Doran began. "Unless I actually place you in irons, you will still be on a ship headed for Volantis within a fortnight at most, won't you?"
"You know me well, brother." Prince Oberyn Martell said.
"Then why bother coming to me in the first place?"
"Courtesy, for one." Oberyn said with a shrug. "And for another thing, I am aware you have plans in motion. It's not my style, it takes too long and I get impatient too easily…but you are my brother. We have different methods, but we both want the same thing."
"Do we?" Doran asked, again looking out over the sea.
"…would you truly let our sister's death, and those of her children, slide?" Oberyn growled, his voice dripping with hate. "I have no love for Rhaegar and his father, but Elia…Aegon and Rhaenys…"
"Arryn returned their bodies…"
"And we made peace over it, yes." Oberyn interrupted. "But only because peace was needed to survive then. Now…things are changing, and the time for our revenge is almost at hand. They say the gods grant men the right to vengeance, and if the Usurper and his pet dogs had the right to vengeance for Rhaegar's kidnapping of that northern whore, then I daresay we have the right to vengeance as well. For our sister, and her children!"
Doran sighed, and he turned back to Oberyn. "It's not that simple." He said.
Oberyn stepped closer. "Why not?" he asked.
"Valyria has returned." Doran replied. "You know our history."
"Yes…Princess Nymeria and her fleet of a thousand ships, fleeing Essos after Garrin the Great brought down the wrath of Valyria." Oberyn said. "And yet…when they came here, Valyria never followed."
"…they might have, in time." Doran said. "Dragonstone…Driftmark…and Claw Isle…they might have heralded what might have come in time, if not for the Doom. Or…did it?"
"Perhaps…" Oberyn conceded. "But things are different now."
"Is it?"
"Daenerys Targaryen."
Doran narrowed his eyes. "Explain." He said.
"We are descended from the Targaryens." Oberyn said. "I'm…uncertain, if it's something to be proud of, but it can be used. A bargaining chip, so to speak, with our distant kin across the sea. I know what you're heard, Doran. An actual Targaryen Dragonlord…the last was in the days of Aegon III, wasn't it?"
"Yes…" Doran said. "Aenar the Exile's kin, if the reports from my spies in Volantis are correct."
"You're not confident?"
"It might be useful…or it might not."
"It will be useful." Oberyn said with a smirk. "Have I ever told you how I can come and go from Old Volantis at my leisure?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Doran began to laugh. "Why am I not surprised?" he said. "Oh very well, if you want to go Volantis and see if we can get help in taking down the Usurper, then go. But, be careful: I already have enough on my plate dealing with the games of the lords of Westeros. Let's not get dragged into the intrigues and rivalries of the dragonlords of Valyria."
"Yes, yes, I know." Oberyn said. "I'm not stupid."
"No, you are not." Doran agreed. "But by your own admission, you are impatient. And I would add impulsive to that, as well."
"True," Oberyn admitted. "Though I prefer to describe myself as simply…living in the moment."
Doran snorted and then laughed. "Indeed," he said. "But, do not go just yet. As you say, I have plans. Plans that must now take into account the momentous changes of the world."
"What did you have in mind, Doran?" Oberyn asked.
Doran did not reply at once, and again looked out to sea. "Nymeria's mother is of the Old Blood of Volantis, isn't she?" he asked.
"…are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
Doran smiled, and threw a smug look at Oberyn. "We'll need to make an impression," he said. "Both to the Old Blood and this, Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen. Nymeria Sand might not be too…impressive. Princess Nymeria Martell, on the other hand…"
"…I don't know whether to be impressed by your planning to use my daughters, or to shout at you."
Doran smiled wider, and without another word, turned back to the sea.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
I'm back.
This chapter should have been posted earlier today, but an exploding extension cord and multiple first and second-degree burns have caused a delay. We apologize for the inconvenience.
As you might expect, Robert and his Small Council aren't exactly excited at the prospect of an actual Targaryen dragonlord up and about. And also as you might expect, Oberyn's jumping at the chance of getting a really powerful ally to join in his vendetta against BLAST.
Return of Valyria
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The bells of the Great Sept rang dolorous notes across the city of King's Landing, and while he didn't consider himself a particularly superstitious man, Jon Arryn wondered if such men had a point in their beliefs. Pinching his nose, the Defender of the Vale and the Hand of the King sat back in his seat at the Small Council, to the right of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
"So it's true, then." Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun said, the Master of Laws pale-faced and shaking. "They really have returned."
"Yes." Varys, Master of Whisperers, answered with an unusually serious tone. Hard to blame him, really, given the news he'd brought to the council's attention. "It's not a fanciful tale woven by Volantene orators to drum up support for yet another attempt at rebuilding the Freehold. No, the Freehold…Valyria, has returned."
"…how?" Hoster asked in a whisper.
"…magic." Varys said with veiled contempt. "I do not know the details, and my spies in Volantis and elsewhere have been unable to uncover them as well. Understandable, given I have not had the time to establish a network within Valyria itself, and the Valyrians did not share the details of their mysteries with the Volantenes…"
"How they came back is an academic question." Prince Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone and Master of Ships interrupted. "What matters is what exactly the Valyrians and their Volantene allies plan to do. No…we already know what they plan to do: to rebuild the Freehold. To that end, what have you uncovered, Varys?"
"Of the Freehold of old," Varys began. "Only the peninsula and nearby islands have returned. This perhaps, is fortunate, as the greater part of Valyria's armies remain lost."
"…but?"
"Their fleet is largely intact from what I've been told." Varys said. "And of course, the heart of Valyrian power and might is there. Not just magic…dragons."
"…the forty families." Hoster said fearfully, and earning himself a veiled glare from the Prince of Dragonstone.
"Thirty-nine, if I may say so, my lord." Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish, the newly-appointed Master of Coin said with a weak smile. "If I remember correctly, the Targaryens left Valyria long before the Doom, and if this is the Valyria from the Doom returned…well, there wouldn't be Targaryens among them."
"Not that it really matters when all is said and done," Stannis scoffed. "Though I imagine reducing the Valyrian dragonlords' numbers by any small fraction is a mercy we ought to be thankful for."
"At least," Littlefinger said with a small bow. "Until they find Viserys and Daenerys, of course. Then…who knows?"
"Yes…" Stannis said while narrowing his eyes. "Varys, have you any knowledge of their location?"
"Unfortunately," Varys apologetically began. "I lost track them during the chaos of the riots which engulfed Braavos. It is possible they were killed in said riots, along with plenty of others with Valyrian features, but it is also possible that they managed to escape…"
"Send word," Robert cut in, his face hard as stone and his eyes like ice. "A million dragons for whoever can bring me the heads of Viserys Targaryen and his sister."
"Robert…!" Jon protested.
"Gods damn it, Jon!" Robert thundered, slamming his fists against the table. "I will not allow those dragonspawn the chance to recover! Not when they have the chance to do so, by meeting with and perhaps gaining the aid of their misbegotten kin from Valyria! I will not have it!"
"This assumes the dragonlords of Valyria would even want to!" Jon snapped. "Have you forgotten their insane obsession with the purity of their blood? An obsession that led them to wed brother and sister for thousands of generations? Viserys and Daenerys, for all their appearance, are most definitely not pure. Not when they have the blood of Westerosi houses in them."
"And you assume the Valyrians will still not find a use for them, regardless." Stannis said. "…impure, their blood might be, but enough of it is of Valyrian descent that the dragonlords might still give them a place in their plans. Perhaps not in their homeland, but as…puppets, to place on the Iron Throne, to which they have a claim."
"Assuming of course, the Valyrians have an interest in Westeros." Jon said. "Even at the height of their power, despite having the means to come west, the Valyrians never did."
"Indeed," Stannis said, sitting back in his seat and narrowing his eyes. "And yet, there are Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Claw Isle. Stepping stones, one could imagine, the Valyrians never had time to use, for an expansion into Westeros."
"Prince Stannis has a point." Varys said, and Grand Maester Pycelle nodded.
"While what we know of the Freehold's intentions indicated that Dragonstone and its surrounding islands were established to control the center of the Narrow Sea," he added. "There is also no evidence that explicitly states the Valyrians had no interest in further expansion west."
"While it would be preferable to hope for the best," Varys continued. "We must also prepare for the worst."
Jon was silent for a long moment. "Perhaps you may be right," he conceded. "But to place a price on their heads…it might just provoke their kin to take action against us."
"Then what do you propose?" Stannis demanded. "That we do nothing? What if Viserys and Daenerys arrive at Volantis or Valyria, and gain aid from their kin? What then?"
"They are still rebuilding the Freehold, are they not?" Jon asked. "Even with dragons, it took them thousands of years to build their domain in the first place. A domain that even now, Volantis aside, opposes them. It is likely the Valyrians will have no time and resources to spare the Targaryen children."
"For how long?" Robert countered. "Today perhaps, and even tomorrow, the Valyrians have no interest in us. But the day after? And the day after that? Jon, you yourself taught me that if something needed doing here and now, and it was my duty to perform it, then I ought to do so, and not wait for someone else to do so in my place, much less to tarry and put it off until tomorrow. What's changed, Jon? Answer me, you owe me that much."
Jon was silent for another long moment, and then he sighed. "None who have opposed Valyria in its long history have succeeded in doing so." He said. "Ghiscar…the Rhoynar…they all fell and burned. I…I just don't want the same to happen to the Seven Kingdoms, to you, Robert."
There was silence, and then Robert sighed. "I see where you are, and I understand." He said softly. "But, you also see and understand, don't you?"
Jon sighed and nodded. "Yes, I do." He said, and Robert nodded.
"Good," he said before turning back to the rest of the council. "And it's not like we're completely without hope. The Dornish brought down a dragon once, and plenty of dragons were slain during the dance. And the Ghiscari…maester, how long were they able to contest the Freehold?"
"A thousand years by all accounts, Your Grace." Pycelle answered. "Fragmentary tales and songs exist from those days, of heroes who fought and slew dragons and their riders."
"Heroes indeed, to bring down those hellspawn and send their spirits back to whence they came." Robert agreed. "Perhaps we might pick up where they left off, and finish what they started. Succeed where everyone else failed, and bring Valyria down."
"With much of their armies lost to them, Valyria is also more vulnerable now than it might be in the past, and in time." Stannis mused. "Something of an opportunity, I daresay."
"Yes," Robert agreed with slow nods. "Though that opportunity might be slipping from us. Varys, what do you know of Valyria's plans, and where are they at now?"
"According to my spies the Valyrians have cast their reach in two directions, east and north." Varys replied, rising to spread a map of Essos over the table. "The greater part of Valyria's fleet and armies are moving east, along the shores of Slavers' Bay, towards Ghiscar and Qarth. Given the distance, it is entirely possible that even as we speak, the Slaver Cities may be under siege or may have already fallen."
"That is no surprise." Pycelle said. "Prior to the Doom, Ghiscar was part of the Valyrian Freehold, and while not their first conquest outside of the Valyrian Peninsula, among their proudest. To the Valyrians, the conquest of Ghiscar held great significance as it demonstrated beyond all doubt their victory over their Ghiscari rivals."
"And Qarth?" Jon asked.
"To my knowledge," Pycelle said after a moment's thought. "Qarth was a tributary of the Freehold, allowing ships and men to pass through their lands and waters, and annually contributing great sums to the Freehold."
"Somehow," Stannis sourly said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Qartheen might offer that arrangement, if only to avoid a war with the Freehold."
"Which isn't a good thing, as it would mean Valyria would have control over the trade routes leading to Asshai and Yi Ti." Robert growled. "Though…given the distance, there's nothing we can do about that. Gods damn it…gods damn those filthy dragonspawn…"
"As for the strike to the north," Varys resumed after a diffident cough. "Valyria has managed to gain Volantis' allegiance with surprising ease…or not, given the rulers of that city, the so-called 'Old Blood', prize their descent from the original Valyrian colonists and have slavishly modeled their government and society on that of the Freehold…anyway, more to the point, Volantis' allegiance allows Valyria indirect control of the mouths and the lower part of the Rhoyne."
"And…?" Jon pressed.
Varys blinked. "And from there," he continued. "My spies report Valyrian and Volantene ships and men are pushing north, along the Rhoyne, towards Dagger Lake. They also report that Volantis has been promised control of the river up until the lake, which will be placed under direct Valyrian rule."
Robert hummed while sitting back in his chair. "I imagine the other Free Cities aren't too happy about that." He said.
"Indeed not, Your Grace." Varys said. "Braavos is already attempting to broker an alliance among the other Free Cities, though I have reports that Lorath has declared neutrality, while both Norvos and Qohor are still engulfed in civil war."
"And what of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh?" Stannis asked.
"They are receptive, though distrust among them of each other is proving…difficult, for Braavos to overcome." Varys said.
"You'd think with the threat of Valyria looming overhead they'd set those differences aside…" Robert growled.
"Indeed, Your Grace." Varys said. "But alas, I can only, and indeed, must only report the facts. And such are the facts."
Robert grunted in response before turning back to the map. Reaching forward, he traced the line of the Rhoyne north from Dagger Lake, and then swept his hand out over its tributaries. "I see what they're up to." He said darkly. "If Volantis and the Freehold succeed, then they will have control over the best and quickest way to move men and cargo north and south in Essos, and control over the caravan route running east and west across northern Essos."
"In short," Jon said. "They'll have control over the interior, and cripple the economies of the other Free Cities."
"It does seem that way, my lord." Varys agreed. "And while the other Free Cities have imposed an embargo on Volantis at present, said embargo would become meaningless if not outright self-destructive in the event of Valyrian and Volantene victory. The Valyrians and Volantes would retaliate in kind, and completely cut the other Free Cities off from trade with the east…"
"…and force them to choose between submission or bankruptcy." Littlefinger said with a shake of his head. "It's a diabolical strategy."
"Of course it is." Robert said. "What did you expect from greedy and honorless scum?"
"That said, were it not to our detriment in success," Stannis softly said. "It can be admired as a brilliant one, regardless."
Robert and a few others shot Stannis glances, but he simply ignored them. "And?" he asked instead. "Now that we know all this, what do we do about it?"
"We can't allow Valyria and Volantis to win." Robert said. "If they do, they'll be right on our doorstep within a generation. And back to the mad dragon's spawn…if they're still alive then, then that's when they might become useful for their kin. Hence the need to be rid of them now."
"Agreed," Stannis said. "That would buy us time, a generation or two, perhaps, before the dragonlords turn west. After all, Ghiscar, Qarth, and the Free Cities are one matter. The Dothraki are another."
Eyes turned back to the map, and then Robert nodded slowly, eyes fixed on a large area in the middle of Essos, marked as the Dothraki Sea. "Yes," he said. "The Dothraki might just tie the Valyrians down for quite a while. Even with dragons, going by how big that land of theirs is, and how fast they are said to be able to move…"
"The Valyrians will hunt them all down in the end." Stannis said. "But that just might buy us the time we need to find ways to even the odds with the Valyrians."
"What did you have in mind, Stannis?" Robert asked.
In response, Stannis turned to Pycelle. "You maesters are called the Knights of the Mind, aren't you?" he asked. "I think it's time we put that to the test."
"Yes…" Robert said with narrowed eyes and a slow nod. "I see what you mean, Stannis."
"Your Grace?" Pycelle asked quizzically. "I apologize, I'm not sure I quite understand…"
"Then let me make it clear." Stannis interrupted. "Send word to your kind in the Citadel. Valyria holds an edge against us in knowledge of the world in general, and in magic and dragons in particular. Put your heads to use, and find a way to negate the latter, and at least close the gap in the former."
"I couldn't have put it better myself." Robert said approvingly before turning to Pycelle with an expression that brooked no disagreement. "Make it so, Grand Maester. Or is it beyond your capabilities?"
"N-no, Your Grace, it will be done." Pycelle stammered out with a bow.
"Good."
"…if we're set on buying time to gather our strength," Jon said after some thought. "And to remove the difference in…ability, between the Seven Kingdoms and the Freehold, then I might have some ideas in that regard."
"Finally," Robert said with a jovial tone. "You're on the same page as we are. Speak up, Jon. Let's hear what you've got."
"First of all, don't place a price on the heads of the Targaryen children."
"What?"
"If we want to be rid of them, then it should be done subtly, and in ways that can't be traced back to us." Jon said. "Otherwise, we just might be drawing unwanted attention to ourselves."
"…yes…there is that." Robert conceded.
"Assassins, then?" Stannis said with distaste. "Not the most honorable means to use, but…needs must."
"We would still need to locate the children, however." Varys pointed out. "No point in sending out assassins, when we don't even know where to send them to. I'll have my spies and little birds double their watch for Viserys and Daenerys."
"Or, we could just hire the Faceless Men to do it." Littlefinger suggested.
"Your tone suggests you're not too keen on the idea, however." Jon said.
"We've just finished putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion, my lord." Littlefinger said. "And the Faceless Men charge their fees on how…important, or valuable their quarries are. The fee for killing a mere merchant prince of the Free Cities would be enough to hire and feed an army for a year. How much more for a prince and princess of the Targaryen line?"
"Their claims are null and void." Stannis growled.
"Practically, yes." Littlefinger agreed. "But just the fact that they have a claim in the first place makes all the difference. And indeed, it's why we're seeking to be rid of them, isn't it so, my prince?"
"…so it is."
"Find them first." Jon said firmly. "And then keep an eye on them, while we decide who we send and how we deal with them before they become a threat."
"It will be done, Lord Arryn." Varys said with a bow.
"Moving on," Jon said. "Another way to buy time for ourselves, and to turn away potential Valyrian belligerence from ourselves, would be a diplomatic mission to the east."
"Extend a hand of friendship and peace, while arming the other, is it?" Robert said sourly. "I'm not too keen on it, however…"
"To protect the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps even end Valyria's power in the future," Jon said. "It's something that needs to be done, until we're ready."
"…true." Robert said. "But if so, then who shall lead this…mission…no, absolutely not."
Jon smiled. "You know as well as I do, Robert, that there's no one else you can trust to send into the dragon's den, and come out having deceived them into a sense of security." He said.
"Gods damn it, Jon." Robert growled. "You said it yourself, it's the dragon's den, and I'm not sending you into it. Not without an army and a fleet, and not without whatever craft the maesters cook up to remove the Valyrians' devilry and witchcraft."
"…a compromise, then?" Littlefinger suggested. "Instead of Valyria, the diplomatic mission could go to Volantis. Lord Arryn gets to speak with the Valyrians and their allies, and with it his chance to lull their perceptions, while not going so far into the dangers of the dragons' domain."
Robert scoffed. "Pretty words…don't think I can't see through them." He sneered. "No. I mean it, Jon. No. You will not be going east, and that is all I will say on the matter."
"Robert…"
"Speaking of going to Volantis, however," Varys diffidently began. "My little birds here in Westeros, and my spies in Essos have reported a disturbing trend developing."
"What trend?" Jon asked.
"Those who remained loyal to the former dynasty and were exiled to Essos," Varys answered. "And those who apparently remained loyal but bent knee to survive, are heading east and south, towards Volantis. My spies have yet to determine the details, but it seems…"
"They're rallying." Stannis finished with narrowed his eyes. "Could Viserys and Daenerys be in Volantis? Are we too late?"
"It is possible, my prince," Varys said. "Though as I said my spies are still ascertaining the truth. However, their other reports on this trend are even more disturbing, and again I have yet to find all the details. Even so, I pray they are wrong."
"And why is that?" Hoster asked.
"According to the spies which reported this," Varys said with an unusual expression of unease on his face. "They do not rally to one of the Targeryens of King's Landing. No, they rally to a Targaryen Dragonlord, one left behind in their homeland instead of accompanying their kin to Dragonstone before the Doom."
"No…"
"It can't be…"
"An actual Targaryen Dragonlord…"
As the Small Council devolved into exclamations of fear and disbelief, Robert stood silent, seething and grinding his teeth as he saw once more Rhaegar Targaryen's face, whether on the Trident in his draconic armor with dragons shaped from rubies, and at the tourney at Harrenhal, when he presented Lyanna with a crown of flowers. He remembered hearing of how Rhaegar had taken her away, and of the gruesome deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark at the hands of the Mad King.
He remembered how he had longed to see Lyanna once more, how certain he was that with the Mad King and his thrice-cursed son and his spawn dead they would be together at last, only for Ned to return from the south with that casket made of weirwood, carved with the wolf's head of House Stark.
And now…
…this news from the east…
…of a Targaryen with the power to undo everything he had done to take away that which they did not deserve, and which even now rallied those despicable fools who would lick at dragon boots…
With a roar that could be heard across the Red Keep, Robert upended the Small Council table in his rage.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Waves crashed against sand and stone, seabirds mournfully crying out as they flew along the coast, and over the stony expanse of Sunspear. It hugged the coast, while spreading out into the desert beyond, and around the winding walls of the castle that shared its name, the twin towers of the Sun and the Spear stabbing high into the sky and casting long shadows behind.
In a chamber that overlooked the sea, Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear sat on a chair, and looked out over the waves. He savored the crisp and salty scent of the sea, and then with a sigh, turned to where his brother stood, waiting for an answer.
"No matter what I say," Doran began. "Unless I actually place you in irons, you will still be on a ship headed for Volantis within a fortnight at most, won't you?"
"You know me well, brother." Prince Oberyn Martell said.
"Then why bother coming to me in the first place?"
"Courtesy, for one." Oberyn said with a shrug. "And for another thing, I am aware you have plans in motion. It's not my style, it takes too long and I get impatient too easily…but you are my brother. We have different methods, but we both want the same thing."
"Do we?" Doran asked, again looking out over the sea.
"…would you truly let our sister's death, and those of her children, slide?" Oberyn growled, his voice dripping with hate. "I have no love for Rhaegar and his father, but Elia…Aegon and Rhaenys…"
"Arryn returned their bodies…"
"And we made peace over it, yes." Oberyn interrupted. "But only because peace was needed to survive then. Now…things are changing, and the time for our revenge is almost at hand. They say the gods grant men the right to vengeance, and if the Usurper and his pet dogs had the right to vengeance for Rhaegar's kidnapping of that northern whore, then I daresay we have the right to vengeance as well. For our sister, and her children!"
Doran sighed, and he turned back to Oberyn. "It's not that simple." He said.
Oberyn stepped closer. "Why not?" he asked.
"Valyria has returned." Doran replied. "You know our history."
"Yes…Princess Nymeria and her fleet of a thousand ships, fleeing Essos after Garrin the Great brought down the wrath of Valyria." Oberyn said. "And yet…when they came here, Valyria never followed."
"…they might have, in time." Doran said. "Dragonstone…Driftmark…and Claw Isle…they might have heralded what might have come in time, if not for the Doom. Or…did it?"
"Perhaps…" Oberyn conceded. "But things are different now."
"Is it?"
"Daenerys Targaryen."
Doran narrowed his eyes. "Explain." He said.
"We are descended from the Targaryens." Oberyn said. "I'm…uncertain, if it's something to be proud of, but it can be used. A bargaining chip, so to speak, with our distant kin across the sea. I know what you're heard, Doran. An actual Targaryen Dragonlord…the last was in the days of Aegon III, wasn't it?"
"Yes…" Doran said. "Aenar the Exile's kin, if the reports from my spies in Volantis are correct."
"You're not confident?"
"It might be useful…or it might not."
"It will be useful." Oberyn said with a smirk. "Have I ever told you how I can come and go from Old Volantis at my leisure?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Doran began to laugh. "Why am I not surprised?" he said. "Oh very well, if you want to go Volantis and see if we can get help in taking down the Usurper, then go. But, be careful: I already have enough on my plate dealing with the games of the lords of Westeros. Let's not get dragged into the intrigues and rivalries of the dragonlords of Valyria."
"Yes, yes, I know." Oberyn said. "I'm not stupid."
"No, you are not." Doran agreed. "But by your own admission, you are impatient. And I would add impulsive to that, as well."
"True," Oberyn admitted. "Though I prefer to describe myself as simply…living in the moment."
Doran snorted and then laughed. "Indeed," he said. "But, do not go just yet. As you say, I have plans. Plans that must now take into account the momentous changes of the world."
"What did you have in mind, Doran?" Oberyn asked.
Doran did not reply at once, and again looked out to sea. "Nymeria's mother is of the Old Blood of Volantis, isn't she?" he asked.
"…are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
Doran smiled, and threw a smug look at Oberyn. "We'll need to make an impression," he said. "Both to the Old Blood and this, Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen. Nymeria Sand might not be too…impressive. Princess Nymeria Martell, on the other hand…"
"…I don't know whether to be impressed by your planning to use my daughters, or to shout at you."
Doran smiled wider, and without another word, turned back to the sea.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N
I'm back.
This chapter should have been posted earlier today, but an exploding extension cord and multiple first and second-degree burns have caused a delay. We apologize for the inconvenience.
As you might expect, Robert and his Small Council aren't exactly excited at the prospect of an actual Targaryen dragonlord up and about. And also as you might expect, Oberyn's jumping at the chance of getting a really powerful ally to join in his vendetta against BLAST.
Robert,at least,would get better end then in canon.Maybe even duel with Jaenera ?
Others - Baelish would certainly try backstab Robert,question is what he get from it.
If i was in their shoes,i would shout how much i want fight - and made fleet for myself,family and retainers to sail West.
Others - Baelish would certainly try backstab Robert,question is what he get from it.
If i was in their shoes,i would shout how much i want fight - and made fleet for myself,family and retainers to sail West.
Jaenera Targaryen
Well-known member
Highly unlikely, all things considered.
Well, that much is a given. Littlefinger is Littlefinger. He's only in it for himself. If sticking with Robert ends with him becoming dragon fodder, he's going to bail as soon as he can get away with it.
I'm not sure High Medieval-tech levels of shipbuilding and navigation are up to the challenge of a trans-Pacific (assuming the Sunset Sea has similar dimensions as the Pacific Ocean) journey. Especially with no maps, not even general knowledge, or even a set goal beyond 'hopefully find a land across the sea to escape the Valyrians from'.
Minor lords have pretty high chances of cutting a deal with the Valyrians anyway.
Buba
A total creep
Indeed. Half Blackwood. Which alone - besides other Targ-Westerosi matches - means they are related to all First Men and Andal Houses of the Riverlands and neghbouring Realms. And likely to have Stark DNA as well - Starks took Blackwood brides, so there could very well be a traffic of brides in the other direction.
Yup, she'd have to be a moron to duel Robert.
Jaenera seems to be a normal sized girl, not Brienne Tarth, hence dueling a two metre tall bloke and a monster in melee is not a good idea.
Last edited:
1.True
2.Sorry for being unclear - i mean duel on their mounts.Robert on warhorse,Jaenera on dragon.Robert,at least,would not die from pig and poison.