ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
I'm back. Yes, I didn't die. I'm feeling much better now and am going to get back to the chapters. I didn't really like this one in particular because it was mostly just to wrap up previous plot points, and I wasn't a huge fan of the writing either. But anyway, I'll ease back into it; I'll try to improve the next chapter and get back to my usual rhythm. See you later.
Chapter 65: The Domain of Sunspear & The Marriage of the Far North
POV: Roderick Dustin (305 AC)
Life has a curious way of dragging us into situations that escape our control entirely.
Seated atop the back of my war stallion, I adjusted the leather reins and rested my gaze on the reddish outer walls of the Shadow City, the vast settlement surrounding the towers of Sunspear. Never in my life had I imagined seeing my mother's homeland for the first time in a situation like this: at the head of an army of liberation and conquest.
My mother, Elia Martell, had always spoken to me with warmth and nostalgia about her memories in Sunspear, the salty breeze of the Sea of Dorne, and the vibrant life of her youth. My sister Rhaenys carried those memories in her blood. And now, clad in dark steel runic armor bearing the crests of House Dustin and House Martell engraved on the breastplate, I stood there to take control of Dorne and deliver it by right to my sister.
I nudged my horse forward until I stopped a short distance from the main gates of the Shadow City, where my uncle Doran's guard maintained a tense defensive formation.
— In the name of the Northern Imperial Crown and the Iron Throne of the South, I demand the immediate surrender of the city and the laying down of arms! — I bellowed, letting my voice echo firmly across the desert.
At the edge of the wall's parapet, the Captain of the Guards of Dorne—the giant Norvoshi Areo Hotah, my uncle Doran's main protector—glared at me with his poleaxe resting on his shoulder and a severe expression.
— Dorne is not in the habit of surrendering to war-bringers, boy, — Areo Hotah replied in his deep, thick-accented voice. — You should know this. We are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.
I tilted my head slightly, letting out a patient sigh:
— But you will be completely broken and shattered if you choose to resist the Empire today, my good man.
— You do not know the fury of the desert, boy... And you are terribly far from home, — Hotah retorted, narrowing his eyes.
I let out a short laugh. I brought my right hand close to my chest and activated the arcana flowing through my veins.
— Blood is considerably thicker than water, Captain... — I said quietly.
In a fraction of a second, the moisture in the scorching desert air condensed violently in the palm of my hand, shaping and crystallizing into a spear of crystal-clear, highly pressurized water that spun with enough force to pierce the densest steel plate.
— I may have been raised in the unforgiving cold of the North, but the Rhoynar magic of my ancestors gives me every right to call this desert home, — I continued, dispelling the spell with a simple flex of my fingers. — Now go back to my foolish uncle and tell him that surrender is the wisest choice. Though, to be honest... he hasn't proven to be very wise lately, has he?
I turned my horse around and rode back toward our vanguard's camp.
Entering the large command tent, I took off my helmet and set it on the wooden table. My sister Rhaenys, who sat adjusting her silk tunic, looked up and asked:
— And so, brother... How did it go?
— Like shit, — I replied, grabbing a jug of water. — I am absolutely certain that stubborn old man will refuse to surrender.
— Yes... My father has always been absurdly stubborn and proud, — a melodious, bitter voice echoed from the other side of the room.
I turned and saw my cousin Arianne Martell leaning against one of the tent poles. Beside her, kept under strict guard, were the Sand Snakes and the other members of House Martell.
All of them maintained a posture of aristocratic pride, but it was painfully obvious that it was nothing more than an empty facade. All the power and arrogance of the lords of Dorne had been swept away by the weight of the Empire. Now, they were entirely at the mercy of others' goodwill—and, luckily for them, the fate of Dorne rested in the hands of Rhaenys, a woman who would bring no physical harm to her own family. (Their pride, on the other hand, would be thoroughly crushed).
Arianne stared at me, crossing her arms over her chest:
— I know very little about you, little cousin... Why don't you tell me a bit more about who you are?
I glared at her coldly:
— If you and Uncle Doran hadn't excluded Aegon and me throughout our entire childhood, treating us as dead or forgotten while we were in the North, you would know exactly who we are.
Arianne lowered her gaze, unable to counter the bitter truth of those words.
I looked through the tent opening toward the closed gates of the Shadow City and murmured:
— All of this is an unbelievable level of stupidity...
Rhaenys approached, placing a hand on my shoulder:
— What is it, Roderick?
— Our uncle is making one last desperate attempt to maintain control over something he has already lost, — I replied.
Rhaenys let out a long, heavy sigh, closing her eyes for a few moments before saying:
— Just resolve this once and for all, brother. Without unnecessary pain for the people.
— Right, — I nodded.
I left the command tent, put on my runic steel helmet, and began marching on foot toward the city gates. I hadn't taken three steps before I heard heavy, hurried footsteps beside me.
Great Jon Umber unslung his colossal greatsword, cracking his neck with a combat-hungry grin:
— So, Rod... How is this assault going to be?
— Fast, Jon, — I answered without slowing my pace.
The giant let out a thunderous laugh that made the nearby soldiers jump in fright:
— BWAHAHAHA! If it's going to be fast, then we can go all out at once!
— Yes... Clear a path for us, Jon, — I ordered with a side smile.
Great Jon broke into a frantic charge toward the ironwood and bronze gates of the Shadow City. As he charged, the giant drew upon his mystical skinchanger heritage and the superhuman strength honed in the North, increasing his density and muscle mass. He hit the gigantic gates exactly like a wild bull hitting a straw fence, shattering the oak wood, bronze hinges, and iron latches in a spectacular explosion of debris and dust!
I lowered the visor of my helmet, drew my runic war axe, and led the infantry into the breach.
The resistance of the Dornish guards was worthy of praise. Even realizing with absolute clarity that they didn't stand the slightest chance against the Empire's might, those men fought with fierce bravery. However, combining my Rhoynar water sorcery with the devastating precision of my war axe, Great Jon and I carved a bloody path through the courtyard straight to the entrance of the Old Palace.
Before the castle gates, standing as the last unbroken line of defense for Sunspear, was Areo Hotah alone, gripping his Norvoshi poleaxe with both hands.
Great Jon stopped a few paces from him, eyes gleefully alight:
— Leave that one to me, Roderick! You know, Hotah... I always wanted to test my strength against you in the tales of the South, but Rhaenys never let me! Now come and entertain me for real!
I saw tragic resolve on the Norvoshi captain's face. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that he was walking into an unwinnable battle, but his oath to the Lord of Sunspear spoke louder.
Hotah lunged forward with impressive speed, delivering a devastating downward strike with his poleaxe. However, Great Jon moved at a rhythm that defied physics itself.
It was a maneuver Emperor Arawyn used to call "frame skipping" in his bizarre expressions: in one microsecond Great Jon's greatsword was lowered, and in the next microsecond the blade had already crossed the air in an arc of pure destruction.
The giant's runic steel strike sliced Hotah's poleaxe in two and sheared straight through the captain's heavy armor. The legendary Norvoshi warrior fell lifeless onto the stone floor, bisected.
The few remaining guards, witnessing the tragic fall of their greatest champion, hesitated for a second. Before they could move, I projected a pressurized water spear through the air that impaled the vanguard against the wall.
The path to the Throne Room was completely clear.
I entered the grand hall of Sunspear with slow steps. The room was entirely deserted, save for the solitary figure of my uncle, Doran Martell, sitting quietly in his wheelchair in the center of the room.
I approached, sheathing my war axe at my waist:
— Hello, uncle... It's a true pleasure to finally meet you in person.
Doran raised his aged, weary face, staring at me with deep, observant eyes:
— You have a lot of the North in you, boy... A lot, in fact. But the blood of House Martell is also undeniable in your features... How is my sister Elia?
— My mother is well, happy, and finally at peace, — I answered in a calm voice. — Just a little sad... because she felt her own family turned their backs on her when she needed them most.
Doran let out a heavy sigh, looking up at the hall's ornate ceiling:
— Yes... Unfortunately, that is the dark path our choices led us down.
— Yes... But I really can't understand the reason behind all of this, uncle, — I asked, stepping closer. — Why align with a Blackfyre impostor and risk the destruction of your own people?
Doran gave a sad, faint smile:
— I always knew the probability of everything going wrong was practically a mathematical certainty, Roderick... But what choice does a traditional strategist have other than to try?
— Perhaps living in peace and caring for your people would have been an excellent idea, don't you think? — I commented.
— Yes... It would have been, — Doran agreed. — But now it's too late. And no, this rebellion wasn't some brilliant, meticulously planned grand scheme. The plain and simple truth is that I just didn't want to go on living in a world where I no longer had the slightest control over anything... A world where you, with your sorcery and your dragons, took absolute control from the hands of us, the thinkers and traditional politicians. But forget that. I lost the game. What sentence has your Emperor decreed for me?
— And shouldn't it be the sentence of your King on the Iron Throne? — I asked with a touch of irony.
Doran let out a weak, lifeless laugh:
— That little Baratheon king of the South is nothing more than another administrative puppet under your Emperor's shadow... Officially not, of course, but in practice everyone knows. But tell me: what is my sentence?
— I don't know, — I admitted. — The final decision regarding your life rests entirely with Rhaenys.
Doran shook his head slowly:
— Unfortunately, my niece Rhaenys will not choose the correct option.
— And what would the correct option be? — I inquired.
— A political enemy must be eliminated entirely, no matter who they are, — Doran said calmly. — But don't worry... I have already made that decision for her.
Doran raised his right hand. Resting between his trembling fingers was a small, empty glass vial.
Using my Rhoynar magical perception, I felt the signature of the substance he had ingested: it was not water, but a fast-acting, painless Dornish poison.
My uncle's skin began to go pale, and his breathing became weak and slow.
— I am a bit of a selfish man, am I not, nephew...? — Doran murmured, his eyes growing heavy. — Even in my final defeat... I insisted on choosing the exact way I would leave this world.
— Yes, uncle... A bit selfish, — I whispered in a respectful tone.
Doran stared at me one last time, his vision blurring rapidly:
— Apologize to Elia for me... tell her that her brother deeply regrets...
— I will carry your words to my mother, uncle, — I promised.
Seconds later, Doran Martell's head slumped softly to the side, and his breathing ceased entirely.
I turned to the door and ordered:
— Jon... Go get Rhaenys and the others.
In the hours that followed, the transition of power in Dorne took place with surprising ease. Doran had left an official letter in his own hand taking full responsibility for the rebellion's mistakes and sparing the people of Dorne from further punishment. With the massive loss of troops and the removal of the conspirators, the coronation of Rhaenys Targaryen as the new Princess and Lady of Sunspear was accepted without any attempt at obstruction by the great houses of the desert.
As for the other conspirators—such as Arianne Martell and the Sand Snakes—they were all formally stripped of any political power or administrative influence, kept under strict surveillance.
With the situation in Dorne perfectly sealed and pacified, I gathered my men and prepared for the long journey back to the North. After all, I had important royal weddings to attend... and the first of them would take place in the heart of the Far North.
POV: King Aemon Targaryen (305 AC)
Settled in the reinforced leather saddle on the back of the colossal Doomfyre, I watched the top of the legendary Ice Wall gradually shrink below us. The ancient three-hundred-meter structure, built by Brandon the Builder, shimmered under the pale winter light. The moment we crossed the line of the fortification, I felt the arcana web and ancient sorcery permeating the structure recognize my Stark blood, allowing the serene passage of my aerial entourage.
Right behind me, flying on the back of the imposing Drogon, came my betrothed, Daenerys Targaryen. And closing the formation in the skies, the cream dragon Viserion followed the group in perfect harmony.
After the tragic death of the fake Blackfyre bastard at Storm's End, Viserion had returned voluntarily to Daenerys's custody. Arawyn had explained to me later that, due to the miraculous ritual on the funeral pyres in Essos, Daenerys had established a unique spiritual bond with her three draconic children—allowing her to exercise a maternal command and authority over all of them, even if she could physically mount only one.
The flight across the frozen expanses of the Far North was absurdly fast on the backs of winged beasts. A few hours after crossing the Haunted Forest, the silhouette of my ancestral home emerged atop the steepest and most unforgiving peaks of the Frostfangs, near the Fist of the First Men.
Dawn's Keep.
Built entirely of magical white stone and perennial ice crystals through the joint labor of ancestral giants and the Children of the Forest, my castle reflected the sunlight like a gleaming beacon of purity in the middle of the frozen continent. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most spectacular fortress in Westeros.
I looked to the side and saw Daenerys's face contorted in a mix of shock and pure awe as she contemplated the grandiosity of the structure.
We landed our mounts in the vast inner courtyard of white stone. I dismounted Doomfyre deftly and waited for Daenerys to climb down from Drogon and join me.
The young queen approached, her violet eyes sweeping over the castle's gleaming towers, and said with a amused smile:
— Well... Rhaenys and Shiera strictly warned me not to praise the beauty of your castle under any circumstances, Aemon... But it's simply impossible to look at this structure and not be left breathless. So... congratulations on the fortress.
I let out a loud laugh and winked at her:
— Don't worry, my Queen... From today on, this fortress is yours as well. You will have every right to boast of its beauty to whomever you like in the South.
Daenerys looked at the craggy cliffs around the mountain and asked, curious:
— But tell me something... How does an ordinary person climb up to this castle without riding a dragon, if it sits isolated at the top of the peaks?
— There are dozens of underground passages, tunnels, and roads carved through the inside of the mountain, — I replied, offering her my arm. — But come... Let me show you every corner of our new home.
In the days that followed, the guests for our royal wedding began arriving at Dawn's Keep. Since the ceremony hadn't been kept a secret, the vast majority of lords and clan chiefs were already on their way to the Northern lands. The ones who took the longest to arrive were the military contingents from Essos brought by Daenerys: the Dothraki warriors and the Unsullied had to sail to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and, from there, march on horseback across the frozen territory.
It was a truly fascinating and unprecedented sight to see the Dothraki horsemen riding across the frozen plains of the Far North. Those wild warriors demonstrated exactly why they were so feared in Essos: they adapted with impressive speed to the inhospitable terrain and winter cold, proving that a Bloodrider is an incomparable force on any saddle.
Unexpectedly, the last guests to arrive at the fortress were Emperor Arawyn Stark himself and his Empresses, accompanied by Ros and the imperial entourage.
With the Emperor's arrival, preparations were concluded, and the wedding ceremony was performed without delay in the castle's grand Godswood of white weirwoods.
During the grand feast that followed in the main hall of white stone, I spent long hours greeting the nobles, Free Folk clan chiefs, and generals who came to congratulate us.
That was when I saw the figure of my young cousin, Prince Tommen Stark, enter the hall.
Tommen was a truly fascinating and peculiar figure in the Empire. Due to his absurd and terrifying talent as a Warg capable of controlling swarms of insects and deadly blights, the boy carried the dark reputation of "Prince of Pestilence," causing the vast majority of ignorant Southern lords to fear him as if he were the very incarnation of death.
Tommen approached our main table, wearing dark robes and a large hood over his head. He bowed slightly and said in a calm, polite voice:
— Congratulations on the marriage, Cousin Aemon... And it is a true pleasure to meet you in person, Queen Daenerys.
I looked at Daenerys beside me and noticed that my betrothed maintained a visibly cautious and apprehensive posture toward the boy.
Tommen, as if he could hear others' thoughts through his spiritual connection with the environment, gave a slight smile and pulled back the large hood covering his head.
Daenerys's reaction was simply priceless.
Beneath the dark hood, Prince Tommen sported the most unbelievably cute, soft, and squishable face in the entire Stark dynasty, with rosy cheeks and a gentle gaze that didn't match his terrifying reputation in the slightest.
I felt a laugh escape my throat and asked:
— What is it, Dany?
Daenerys blinked, completely caught off guard:
— Well... That was a huge surprise, to be honest! I definitely wasn't expecting...
Tommen let out a soft, gentle laugh:
— Someone considerably more terrifying and depressing, I imagine?
Daenerys laughed along, blushing lightly:
— Yes... That was definitely not the face I imagined for the legendary Prince of Pestilence!
At that moment, I saw young Missandei approach our table to pour more wine into Daenerys's goblet. I rested my hands on the table and introduced them:
— Tommen... This is young Missandei, my queen's main advisor and friend.
To my absolute amusement, I saw a subtle and unmistakable reddish blush cross the cheeks of my young cousin Tommen. He straightened his posture and greeted Missandei with an impeccable bow and adorable shyness.
I gave a sly smile and said:
— You were on an important mission for the Emperor recently, Tommen... Why don't you sit here beside me at the head table so we can celebrate?
Tommen looked out at the crowd of lords observing him with apprehension from afar and answered with a modest smile:
— I appreciate the invitation, cousin... But I prefer not to sit at the head table. My reputation would end up ruining the festive mood of the guests.
— Don't be foolish, boy, — I said, but Tommen merely bowed politely again and withdrew softly to the other side of the hall.
Daenerys followed the boy with her gaze and said in a reflective tone:
— You know... Before meeting him in person, I might have been against his presence at court. But he seems to be a terribly sweet and good young man.
— And he is, — I nodded with a serious tone. — If it were up to him, Tommen would have spent his whole life in peace in the North, ten