Chapter 43
BAELOR TARGARYEN
Baelor was no stranger to war or rebellion. He had put one down years ago, but now the pretenders were back once more. His father had spent decades trying to right the wrongs of his own father, King Aegon the Fourth, or as he was called by the people, Aegon the Unworthy.
Yet even now, decades after his passing, Baelor found himself suffering at the hands of his mistakes. King Aegon had laid the foundation for this when he had legitimized many of his bastards on his deathbed, and thousands would suffer because of his ill judgment.
"Lord Bloodraven has taken Whitheall," and this was the first good news he had heard in several moons, but he should have expected nothing less of Brynden Rivers.
With both Valarr and Brynden busy with the war, Daeron had taken over their duties. Valarr had been his hand, but with him holding back Lyonel at the Wendwater, Daeron had taken his place.
His late brother's eldest son had changed much in the years since the Trial at Ashford. He was still haunted by his dreams, but he no longer relied on wine and ale to dull his senses.
"They were able to take the castle with minimal losses, and Daemon Blackfyre was slain during the sack," and in that moment, he felt relief fill his entire being, as he realized that the pretender had been slain.
This was not Daemon Blackfyre himself. No. This was his, Daemon the Younger, and he was the linchpin of this entire rebellion.
"For all intents and purposes, the war is over," Baelor repeated, but Daeron did not seem convinced.
"I would like to hope so," he agreed, even though his tone seemed rather doubtful.
"You seem doubtful," he pointed out, and Daeron realized that he had been caught.
"I apologize, I should not..."
"Speak your mind, Daeron," Baelor encouraged, for he knew that his brother's son was more than just the drunkard Maekar had thought him to be. He was a young boy haunted by the burden of prophetic dreams, the very dreams that had once saved their family from the Doom of Valyria.
His nephew was hesitant still, and Baelor's eyes narrowed.
"Is it another dream?" he asked, and the way he perked up at the words told him that he was right in his guess.
"Yes," Daeron answered after much hesitation, and so he encouraged him to speak his mind.
"What did you see?" he asked, and the boy hesitated before he finally opened his mouth.
"Fire," he answered, and that was nothing strange.
"A simple fire?" Baelor asked again, as he sat there in his solar, as Daeron shook his head.
"No. This fire was different," his nephew added, and he was nervous. As if he did not think that anyone would believe in him.
"The fire. It was not a regular fire. It was a fire fuelled by rage. I saw it engulfing the entire field, littered with charred bones and carcasses of all kinds," and this was vague. Vaguer than he had hoped.
"A fire fuelled by rage, and a field of charred remains," he repeated, as he rubbed his chin.
"This dream. It has been haunting me for some time now," his nephew spoke weakly now, his words a mere murmur, and he could see his troubled expression.
"Could it just be a dream?" Baelor wondered, and Daeron shook his head.
"I am afraid not," and the boy would know better.
"It has been years since I last had such a dream," he began, and he had told him about the ones he had seen before the tourney at Ashford.
"After Ashford, they stopped. But these dreams, they feel different. They feel heavier," and the records lacked much information about the Dreamers and their powers. He knew that Daenys had been one, and her visions had saved their House from decimation.
"This is not a regular dream," and while the war had been violent, it was not the fiery destruction that Daeron spoke of.
"Do you have any idea what this means?" he asked, and Daeron's face sank as he shook his head.
"I am afraid that interpreting these dreams is not a power I possess," and what a shame that was.
"A fire fuelled by rage," Baelor repeated, and he did not know what to think of it.
"Well, it seems like dreams won't save us this time," and Baelor believed that Daeron's dreams were a symbol of their House's dire condition. Each time House Targaryen faced an existential threat, the Gods sent them a dreamer to save their lives.
In this era, the burden had fallen on Daeron's shoulders.
"We will just have to rely on steel and blood then," he added encouragingly, and despite the fears, Brynden had just slain the flag bearer of the rebellion. Without Daemon the Younger, the Blackfyre flag had no one to rally behind.
The lords who were supporting him would soon stop bickering, and the alliance of the Black Dragon would break up.
"With Daemon gone, we must now turn our gazes South," and the greatest threat to their House in this war was not the Blackfyres. No. Daemon the younger may be the claimant, but he was a naive young man.
No. This entire war was planned by someone else. Someone far more sinister.
"Aegor Rivers," Daeron spoke that name with guttural resentment, and Baelor's blood began to boil as he was reminded of the Great Bastard who held his good daughter a hostage.
The man had somehow managed to convince the Stormlands into turning against them, and now Lyonel Baratheon stood on the Southern side of Wendwater with fifteen thousand men, as Valarr fought tooth and nail to hold him back from laying siege to the capital.
The man had been the first to strike and had captured Lady Shiera and Valarr's wife while they were heading back to the capital from Summer Hall. They had fought hard to save them, but the man had managed to slip past their armies to reach Storm's End.
"Have Brynden ride South now, and settle the skirmishes along Bittenbridge and the Rose Road," and he intended for him to lay siege to Summer Hall.
"He will attack the army laying siege to Summer Hall, and then we will have Baratheon surrounded from both sides," and the marcher lords did not favor him for his Dornish descent, and his overt inclination towards them.
Most of them had joined the Blackfyres, along with much of the Riverlands. But now with the rebellion in the Riverlands subdued, he could turn his attention towards the rebellion in the Stormlands and the Reach, and see it finished.
"I will have the missives sent," Daeron answered dutifully, before he hesitantly asked.
"Has there been any word from Matarys?" and the mention of his second son ached his heart, and it had been nearly half a year since he had last heard from him.
He was a Prince of the realm, one who had spent a considerable time fighting its wars and battles. He was a seasoned warrior and commander, and the Crown had great need of him in this moment.
But his son needed him more. Aemon, Maekar's third eldest son, had found a lead in the annals at the Citadel some five moons ago. It was a ray of hope, one that Matarys had clung to with sheer desperation to save his son's life.
"No. Not yet," Baelor answered, but with the war going on around them, they could not spare him a great retinue. The journey would have him travel through contested lands rife with battles and skirmishes, and so the boy had left with his son and his most trusted knight so that he could slip through those war-ridden lands without catching their enemies' attention.
"I worry for him," Daeron added, and so did he.
"So do I," Baelor countered, but he trusted Matarys.
He believed in him.
"He was the only one who could ever make some sense of my dreams," Daeron added with a frown, and Baelor perked up at that.
"Matarys?" he questioned sharply, and Daeron nodded.
"Yes," Daeron answered back.
"Not entirely, of course, but he could understand parts of them," and that was news to him, but Matarys was not here. They could not burden him with this, not when he had his own battles to win and fight.
"I believe it is impossible to reach him right now," and Daeron nodded.
"There are reports that Aegor Rivers has assembled for himself a second host at Storm's End," and due to Bloodraven's affliction, the whispers and tales of afar were slow to reach them now.
"We do not yet know what he intends to do with the Hose, but they say that the ports of Shipbreaker bay are full of war galleys for some reason," and that made little sense to him, for if he already had a host, he should have joined Lyonel by now to push through the Wendwater already.
He could have swum across the sea to support Daemon at Whitehall. After his initial strike, Rivers had been happy to stay back at Storm's End and enjoy his victory, whereas he should have been on the frontlines fighting the battles.
Why?
It did not make sense to him.
Yet just as he was thinking over this, the doors to his solar were pushed open.
"Your grace! Your grace!" A servant rushed in, barely holding himself together, and he felt his heart sink in that moment as he saw the man's pale face.
"How dare you..." he stopped Daeron from admonishing the man with a raised hand.
"Speak," he ordered, and the man slowly walked forward and offered Daeron a missive.
"The Blackfyres, they have taken Dragonstone," and it took his mind a second to understand the implication of those words.
"How!" Daeron roared in alarm.
"We just slew Daemon in Whitheall!" and the man hesitated before he answered the question.
"It was a sell sword company, my Prince. They attacked the island along with a small fleet from the Stormlands, and cut through our defensive formations," and so this was Aegor's intention all along, for with Dragonstone in his hands, the man held a dagger to their throats.
"They broke through the defenses and landed on the shore. Prince Rhaegel tried to push them back, but he was slain, and the pretenders hung his children after they took over the castle," and he drew in a sharp breath at the mention of his brother, and Rhaegel was no warrior.
His younger brother lacked Maekar's mettle and Aerys's wisdom. He was a kind man, but one who was unfit for duty or war. He had a child's mind, and so he had sent him to Dragonstone so that he would be spared the troubles of this war.
But now he realized that he may have just sent him to his death.
"That is not all," the man added, as rage and pain filled his entire being.
"Aegor Rivers led the attack himself, and once he had captured Dragonstone, he crowned Haegon Blackfyre as the King," and this was no coincidence.
No.
This had been his plan from the beginning. Daemon Blacfyre had just been a distraction, and Aegor had always intended to crown Haegon as the King. The man had played them for a fool.
Now, with a new pretender to lead them, the lords would gather around him once more, and they would fight hard. With Dragonstone in his hands, he now held a dagger to their neck and backs.
He was saddened by the loss of his brother and wondered for a moment how this might be the end of their House.
"What are your orders, your grace?" the servant asked, and Baelor could not waste time in mourning. Not when the very existence of their House was under threat.
"Send reinforcements to Valarr in the South...," he answered, and it took strength to steady his voice as he reeled from the pain of his brother's demise.
"...and have the city prepare for a Siege!"
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A/N: Do check out my new fic, it's a Showbiz SI that is based on the Euphoria world. It's a very unique idea, though it only has one chapter. I will upload a second one tonight if possible.