Legacy of the Last Dragonlords

"So he actually broke Lord Glover's nose?" Tyrion looked up at Davos, newly shaved face incredulous.

Davos laughed, still remembering the moment. "Aye, it was marvelous." The two walked through the Unsullied portion of the camp, which by design joined that of the Free Folk in surrounding His Grace's tent. Both forces would literally die for the King. The lad was growing smarter and shrewder by the day, filling Davos with an almost fatherly pride. "Wanted to punch that cunt since he refused to support Jon and Sansa ahead of the Battle of the Bastards, though it was fitting for the King to do it."

Tyrion chuckled. "Aye, just wish I had been there to see it."

"You had more important things to do, Lord Tyrion. Will Lord Rykker commit his troops to us?"

A shrug formed on the Imp's shoulders. "He wants to give his support to the Targaryens, but not unless we cross the Dusken River and put Duskendale behind the lines. Trying to have it both ways." Recently, the former Hand had finally gotten enough kicks in the ass from Missandei. He had shaved off his beard and went on a whirlwind tour of the Crownlands lords. All wished to jump ship from Cersei, but aside from House Velaryon and House Massey, they professed what was in effect neutrality. "All of them… they would support a siege of King's Landing but nothing further."

Both of the councilmen were close to the King's tent. "Well, looks we've got all the troops we're gonna have," Davos sighed. "Valar Morghulis."

"You actually found it?" Pulling open the tent-flap, the two intruded on Jon and Sansa mid-conversation.

"Aye, just where Bran told us it would be." Hushed tones obviously indicating that they didn't think they would be disturbed for the moment. The Lady of Winterfell looked up at the King, clad in functional northern leathers and his hair pulled back - but with the Targaryen sigil on his chest. "Are you sure you don't want…"

"It isn't mine to wield. I have my own…" Tyrion cleared his throat before Davos did, belatedly signalling their arrival. The two siblings… cousins?... siblings jumped apart. Her head down and Jon's eyes wide. "Greetings, Lord Tyrion. Lord Hand. A bit early?"

Tyrion shrugged, deciding not to mention the conversation - relations between the King and his sister had been frosty since she arrived and the rumors indicated an explosive blowout. The fact they were conversing intimately… he wasn't going to judge. Not anymore, not after his failures. "We had nothing better to do, and the wine here is one step above horse piss anyway."

Davos chuckled. "I told you to try ale."

"That's watered down horse piss." Smiles upticked for all four of them, enjoying the japing.

The announced arrival of the other Lords and Council Members cut the enjoyment short. Watching them all file in, Jon truthfully only truly appreciated Missandei, Grey Worm, Lyanna Mormont, and Edric Dayne. The others were either bores like Edmure Tully, power climbers like Baelor Hightower, worms like Robett Glover, or… Lord Varys. His Master of Whisperers offered a wide smile, appreciative twinkle in his eyes. Jon trusted him even less.

"Alright, shall we begin?" Davos asked. As Hand of the King, he was entitled to speak - and he, Jon, and Tyrion had determined for the newly arrived Stormlords and the two thousand men they brought it would be best for him to take the lead here. "Harry Strickland is on the move, slowly but moving. He'll be at the Dusken by tomorrow."

Jon pursed his lips, scowling as each combat commander arranged their forces accordingly on the map. Grey Worm for the Unsullied, Rokharo for the Dothraki, Tormund for the Free Folk, Yohn Royce for the Vale, Larence Hornwood for the north, Edmure Tully for the Riverlands, Edric Dayne for the Dornish, Baelor Hightower for the Reach, and Arstan Selmy for the Stormlanders. "How many do we have?"

"Not enough," mumbled Larence Hornwood, a legitimized bastard and the leader of Jon's cavalry arm at the Battle of the Bastards - he had distinguished himself since to take full command of a third of the Targaryen Army. "Thirty-five thousand infantry, seven thousand cavalry. Strickland outnumbers us by around six thousand according to Lord Reed's scouts."

"There is no way the Golden Company is that large," scoffed Edric Dayne. "Cersei lost about a third of her men at the Goldroad, so that leaves twenty thousand of the Golden Company and twelve thousand Westermen of various houses."

Speculation ran rampant over where the remaining ten thousand came from. "Lords of the Crownlands reneging?" accused Manfred Trant, glaring at Aurane Waters, the bastard uncle of the underage Lord Velaryon.

"That is slander, Lord Trant," hissed the only Crownlands lord present.

A hand slammed on the table. "Enough!" Jon thundered, quieting all down. "Let's ask the scout himself."

Howland Reed cleared his throat. "My men spotted - in addition to the elephants of the Golden Company - further sellsword banners. Cersei must have hired all the sellswords in the Free Cities to face us, mostly cavalry."

Growls and snide remarks filled the tent. "A Queen of Westeros using a majority foreign sellsword army to maintain power," hissed Baelor Hightower. "Disgraceful."

"All Cersei has left are an iron will to win and gold," Tyrion mused. "Sellswords… fit that bill."

"Our Queen's men followed her because of her, not of money," Lord Royce stated, thumping his chest and gaining nods and murmurs of assent from around the table.

Sparing a glance at Missandei, Jon nodded as she gave him a small smile. Unity around him and Daenerys was finally being achieved. "The size disparity is large, but not insurmountable. We must cross the river and destroy them." No one could say their King lacked the boldness of Aegon the Conqueror or Daemon Blackfyre.

"The river is too wide to cross anywhere else close by but the bridge here," pointed out Lord Dayne. "We're going to have to force our way across and battle with Strickland… which guarantees our defeat unless his Grace uses his dragon."

Jon shook his head, keeping the figurine representing Rhaegal pulled back. "Considering what happened at Dragonstone, I do not wish to risk him going into a fully defended heavy nest. Our dragons are powerful but they are also priceless." It was all in his hands, that was for certain. While many of these men were brave warriors and strong commanders, they lacked edge. They lacked vision, the spark that distinguished an ordinary commander from a great one. Rhaegar Targaryen had been different, Robb Stark had been different - and now Aegon VI Targaryen would be different. Eyes drifting along lines and squiggles on the map, the pieces suddenly clicked in Jon's head.

"There." Eyes rapidly followed the King's outstretched hand, disclosing a small riverine island bisecting the Dusken over thirty miles from the battlefield. "Lord Aurane, tell me about this island."

Being the only person of the Crownlands here, Aurane Waters expected to be leaned on for geographic counsel. "Handmarsh Isle, your Grace. It's covered in trees and has thigh-deep marshes on the southern fork, while the northern fork is only slightly narrower than the rest of the river. Many locals believe it's a sacred relic of the Old Gods, so they don't disturb it."

The Old Gods wouldn't mind the Lightbringer intruding on them, I suppose. Jon allowed himself a rather crafty smile - the Targaryen in him. Each man and woman in the tent silent and awaiting what their King would say. "Alright, here's what we're going to do…"

"Another banner…" breathed Addam Marbrand. "This one of House Hunter."

"All the Vale houses are by the bridge then," Harry Strickland responded. "Good, we're facing their army."

Lyle Crakehall frowned. The Lords and Captains of the Golden Company were atop a bluff overlooking the floodplain of the Dusken. Sunlight shined brightly off their own men close ahead, not to mention the vast cluster of forces to the north of the river. "I don't see the Dothraki, or the Unsullied, or the Northerners for that matter?"

"Pfft," scoffed Black Balaq, the commander of the archers. "Westerosi never go to battle without heavy knights," he boomed in his Summer Islands accent. "They naked without men in suits of iron."

"Besides, those slave soldiers and horselords were probably cripplied up north fighting whatever the damn Stark Bastard was going on about. I'm not worried."

"Said bastard hasn't been spotted," warned Leo Lefford.

"I spotted Sansa Stark," Strickland replied back. "He wouldn't be anywhere without his sister. She's the brains of the outfit, according to the Queen."

If the optimism of the Golden Company irked the Westermen, the arrogance of the other sellswords infuriated them. "Royce's men have made frequent feints for the past morning every few hours," barked the 'Tattered Prince,' commander of the Windblown company. "They're obviously testing out our weaknesses, probing for a spot near the bridge to ferry across."

"And our scouts haven't found any sign of other forces for miles around us." Strickland slapped his thigh. "Trust me, that bastard is too stupid to give a fight other than right here."

Dozens of miles away, the scene was far different. The waters surrounding Handmarsh Isle were a flurry of activity. Horses neighed and whined as the Dothraki and Dornish led them into the river to swim across. Riders hanging onto woven sheepskins filled with hay to float them across the flowing current, soaked with the chilly waters but driven ever forward by their own discipline and determination. With the promise of a victorious battle to be sung to generations yet to be born for centuries.

On the riverbank, Larence Hornwood kept tight ranks among his northerners and the Free Folk. Lords, clan chiefs, and knights mingling with the men, keeping them in line and preventing many a brawl from breaking out among the excitable and boisterous warriors. Each waited their turn for a position on the coming boats. Everything was being used, from small rowboats to freight ferries pulled upstream from Duskendale - House Rykker eager to render his assistance in any way that did not involve providing troops. Targaryen commanders using the long, slender breadth of Handmarsh to disguise their movements from onlookers.

Not that Howland Reed or his Crannogmen scouts let any onlookers within a mile of the place.

Each hour brought thousands of bannermen to the riverine island. Forces disappearing into the cover of the trees as soon as disgorged upon the muddy bank. Reformed under the auspices of Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King. The Stormlanders were already close to formation, Brienne of Tarth at the head among her countrymen once more. Generously given the honor to lead the men of Tarth into battle by Sansa Stark, it would be only moments before she issued the order to wade through the marshes onto the south bank.

The Unsullied held the van, having been ferried to Handmarsh during the night. Only at half strength from when they marched to Winterfell, the lines of leather armor and forests of spears still proved a fearsome sight. Commander Grey Worm still walked along the bank, exhorting those forces still waist deep in the murky water of the marsh to pick up the pace. If by some disaster the cavalry of the Golden Company were to arrive, the nest of Unsullied would be the only thing stopping them from annihilating the Targaryen Army before it even formed up for battle.

And lastly was the solitary figure on his horse. The King himself, Aegon, Sixth of his Name. Faithful direwolf resting in the shade by his side. Clad in the armor plate of House Targaryen, gorget emblazoned with the direwolves of his mother's house, he watched silently as the army moved. Gauging their confidence in the cool breeze of a southern winter. In the distance, he could feel the presence of his faithful dragon - soaring high in the clouds.

Stay strong, father, Rhaegal seemed to tell him, their bond strong and unwavering. Remember, you are a dragon.

Be a dragon.

I love you.

It wasn't the first time that day - seven hells, that minute - that Jon didn't think of Daenerys. Didn't think of their babe growing inside of her. The family he now had, that he would bring fire and blood atop the winds of winter to anyone that would harm them. Anger surged inside of him, a burning dragonfire. The Golden Company stood in his way, blocking him from his beloved, and they would be destroyed if he had anything to say about it.

Let the dice fly high.

"Would you like to hear another, my darlings?" The babes nestled within her womb were too young to move. To give the flutter of life that heralded the halfpoint till their birth. But the Dragon Queen could tell, just as she had with their scaled brothers, that they were strong. Blood of the dragon and the wolf, just like their father… My Jon.

Aside from the terror of the interrogations, though Cersei hadn't come down here in days, silence predominated. Hours upon hours, days upon days of solitude broken only by meal deliveries. It gave Daenerys a lot of time to think. To plan and scheme on how she would rule upon Cersei's defeat. Upon how she would greet her beloved when they were finally reunited. And to speak to her little dragons. To tell them stories of their house, of the great dragonlords of old - but Daenerys could tell, they most desired stories of Jon. Of her true sun and stars and his adventures, the same ones he would tell her in bed onboard ship.

Smiling, thinking of those wonderful memories that brought her the gift of their babes, Dany spoke in her soft lilt. "Many years ago, there was a young dragon. He was raised in the north, among the wolves that were his loving kin. All his life, he wished to be someone to bring peace to the realm of men. The dragon decided to join the Night's Watch, a brotherhood of warriors dedicated to guarding all living beings of Westeros." A tear fell down her cheeks, imagining Jon north of the Wall. Alone, with no one to hold him or kiss him or love him. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

They had been alone at the same time. Struggling to live at the same time, and yet something - be it fate or gods - brought them together. When I am in his arms again, I will never let him go. I will tell him yes. This Daenerys swore upon all deities she knew.

"The Wall in the north, the largest structure ever built by man, it was a freezing cold. A cold so great it seeped through your very clothes. But still the dragon endured. Fighting monsters never before seen. Waging a great battle with the wildlings. The dragon was so skilled, so adept in the art of war, that he defeated even a great Magnar of the Thenns in single combat." Daenerys rubbed her belly, hoping for a son that looked just like Jon. Who could fight like the Targaryen King he would be. Hoping for a daughter strong and intelligent, adept at ruling but not hesitant to put on breeches and fight her brother.

Oh my little dragons, I love you so.

"Every day the dragon despaired. Every day he wept at his loneliness, but soldiered on. Bringing the Free Folk south of the wall to safety. Defeating the evil monsters that had burned his childhood home. Fighting and fighting until…" Her voice caught. "Until he heard and answered the call of the only other living dragon." A proud Queen, one that had brought fire and blood but also freedom and dignity, it felt empty unless her fearsome dragon was by her side. "Because you see, my darlings. Dragons deserve to be together. Only a dragon can truly understand another dragon. Such it was with your father and I…" She sobbed softly. "There is no greater man upon this earth than he, and I know he loves you so."

A gentle, serene silence fell upon the cell for several moments before the door swung open. Crashing against the wall behind it. Daenerys instinctively pushed herself against the wall. Shielding her babes from whatever vileness Cersei or the Mountain had planned for her, much as she had tried to protect herself from Viserys' rage and frustration - but here she wasn't a scared girl, but the rightful Queen. Strong and dignified, even in the blackest of the black cells.

But it wasn't the vileness of Cersei or the Mountain, or the welcome sight of Jaime Lannister - or the less welcome sight of Qyburn - but rather a… new figure. Not imposing outwardly, but with a sublime arrogance of a seasoned warrior. Bronzed hair wild and beard rugged in spite of his silk cloak and well-stitched doublet. Many a warrior earned their wealth in the chaos of the War of the Five Kings. "Well fuck me blind, I had to see it for mi'self."

Daenerys said not a word, looking this man over. He didn't seem familiar, but must have been someone Cersei trusted to be able to be both down here and wear such fine clothes.

Sensing her searching gaze, the man gave an exaggerated bow. "Allow me to introduce mi'self. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Hero of the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Beloved by maidens and the bane of brothel owners all over Westeros."

Suddenly she remembered him - the man who had wounded Drogon with a scorpion at the Battle of the Goldroad. Her blood boiled. "If you came to willingly bed me… I would sooner snap your neck."

Bronn laughed. "Normally I like feisty girls, but the ladies at Chataya's are enough for me at the moment." He smirked at her, one quite off putting - comically so, as if he were in a mummer's show. "I just wanted to see the dragon caged. Instead of flying free, weighed down by chains. Must have been a fun sight, seeing Euron bringing you to the Queen in chains."

Dany wanted to feed this man to Drogon. Her son finally getting revenge for his wound in battle. "Go away, sellsword. You won't get anything out of me."

Smirk still on his face, Bronn began to reach underneath his cloak."Only fitting, isn't it? The daughter of the Mad King finally gettin' what her father deserved for his treachery and barbarism." Out of his cloak, the sellsword turned soon-to-be Lord dumped a bundle on the cot. "May the Seven continue to bend the arc of justice or whatever the fuck a bloody septon would say." He motioned to the bundle.

Cocking an eyebrow, Dany nevertheless looked at what Bronn of the Blackwater had given her. A cloak… and riding breeches. "I don't understa…"

"Don't talk." She blinked at his harsh whisper, especially as he continued with his normal taunting. "Tell me, dragon whore. How does it feel to be the one in a cage awaiting death?"

"I…." Everything about this was confusing. "What are these clothes…"

He pleaded with his eyes. "Shut the fuck up!" Bronn stepped forward. "Speaking in riddles, eh? I'm not going to fall for your charms." He grasped her by her shoulders, leaning into her ear. "I'll be back. Put the clothes on, cause we're leaving." Snarling, he shoved her back. "I won't fall for your fucking witchcraft. Begone." With his cloak unfurling, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater was gone. Door slamming shut behind him.

Processing what happened, Daenerys sat down. Fingering the clothes - simple, homespun wool, that of a poorer merchant but one still of means. Probably one that would be spotted in the countryside.

A smile spread over her face. "My little dragons." Daenerys rubbed her stomach, full with her children. "We're going to see your father soon." I'm coming, Jon.

The fire crackled in the hearth, spreading the life-giving warmth into the solar. But it was not enough for Cersei Lannister. Long gone were her days at Casterly Rock. The constant winds hammering the cliffs did not rise to a northern winter's freeze but were quite chilling. However, years of comfort among the heat of Blackwater Rush led the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to be unaccustomed to the cold.

So there she was, shivering. Bones and muscles aching from the cold.

Only anger granting her any relief from her pain. "Where are my armies, Qyburn?!" Her roar shook the table she sat by. "The message went out over a week ago! Hayford is only a day's ride away, so Strickland has no excuses!"

"The Golden Company is as loyal as the gold we paid them, your Grace," replied the Hand, artfully concealing his inward smile. "Strickland might wish for a greater share of the spoils by attacking immediately." A thought came to mind. "Although, my little birds have been singing songs of discontent among your father's bannermen. How Lyle Crakehall is spreading discontent among the ranks, with one song singing about contact between him and the Spider. Lord Varys. I can't be sure, though."

Fists clenching, Cersei wished she had someone to kill. Seven Hells, there's always someone to kill. "Ser Arys!"

Arys Oakheart stepped from his position guarding the Queen. "Yes, your Grace?"

"Notify Ser Ilyn. Tell him to execute the captured prisoners from the thuggery last week."

"The ringleaders of that disturbance have already been executed, your Grace." Killing starving citizens that just wanted more food from the storerooms was disturbing to Qyburn, who had seen such actions by the same being who he had experimented with, now standing behind Cersei. He glanced at the Queen's table, littered with uneaten bread and sweets.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

The Queen tensed. Fear spiking through her. Pain stabbing through her. The bells of King's Landing, heralding sunset. Bells that heralded her wedding to Robert, each of her dead children. Bells that rang as she made her way nude from the Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep, citizens screaming and showering her with abuse and refuse. Bells that heralded every single painful moment of her life, stoking her with rage. Cersei stood, wildfire roaring in her vibrant green eyes. "No, not just the ringleaders. All of them!"

"All of them?" Over two thousand had been detained by the Goldcloaks, held in pens normally used for livestock. "We have done public executions before, but none of this magnitude…"

"Kill them all! They spoke in favor of the Dragon Bitch in the dungeons! Go, Ser Arys. Do it!" The Kingsguard bowed, leaving. Cersei still ranting. "They think they can foist the Dragonspawn on me! The sister of the cunt that rejected me. ME! For fucking Lyanna Stark! BOTH MEN I LOVED! They will all die!" Her face contorted into a demonic snarl, lost in her rage. "I will burn them all! I will burn… Ahhhh…!" A sudden pain spasmed out of her abdomen. Cersei clutching it in both hands, nearly falling over. The babe...

Racing to her side, Qyburn wrapped his arms around her, easing Cersei to a chair. "Fetch more Maesters and every midwife you can find!" he ordered a trembling servant girl. "The Queen is going into labor!" The girl ran off as fast as she could.

Cersei felt her heart thumping in her chest - for some reason, it stood out to her senses more than the stabbing pain from her abdomen. Quite surreal. "Qyburn… the prince… he must live…" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"Do not worry, your Grace," Qyburn said, giving her his skeletal smile. "I will take care of the young Lannister." He motioned for Ser Gregor. "Quick, she must be taken to bed!"

"Fuck… anyone…" Her world was spinning, pain beginning to overwhelm her. "Anyone who… isn't us… Jaime… where is… Jaime…" Such were her last words before she passed into unconsciousness.