The Necromancer King (A Game Of Thrones)

Weights Heavier Than Mountains

Robert was smashing his way past several armed Ironborn at a time, treating them as no more than cattle to his bloodthirsty warhammer. Even Aerion stood back and watched him go at it for a moment.

While his Kingsguard were slaughtering everyone in front of them, Aerion found himself lacking an opponent.

"Spare all who bend and are unarmed." He called upon a soul dragon of great size and descended onto the roof of the main hold. Once he descended, several Ironborn ran up to the top to face him.

"It's... it's a dragon!"

Aerion dispersed the soul dragon and smiled. "I am, indeed."

"Stormcaller... why? We fought the Usurper for you-"

"For me?" Aerion chuckled, finding that statement quite amusing. "Where is all that gold you lowly pirates stole from my lands?"

"We..."

'Now burn.'

Vermithor roared, releasing three waves of scarlet flames which turned the Ironborn into ash. Then the dragon descended beside Aerion and lowered its heads a bit. The three-headed black dragon had grown quite large since it had been hatched, almost large enough to be ridden by Aerion. But in terms of combat, it was no doubt as deadly as an adult dragon... if not more. This was, of course, because of its unique characteristic; the three heads instead of one.

Aerion proudly pet all three heads. "That's my boy."

Because of his understanding of blood magic, Aerion was able to more or less communicate with his dragon like a person. Well... more like a person. It was still a dragon, in the end. Though with the ever-growing magic of the Known World, perhaps even dragons could one day speak.

"Don't burn down any buildings, alright?"

After that, Aerion descended the steps of the main tower. Several more Ironborn stood in his path but he cut through all of them with ease.

"He's just one man-- eugh."

Eventually, Aerion had made his way to the main hall where Balon sat with a worried expression. All of the remaining men guarding the Great Keep stood in the main hall, numbering half a hundred or so.

"A great fireblast is looking like the spell to use. Then again... this main hall wouldn't look pretty after that."

"Why..." Balon inquired. "We had the same enemy, Stormcaller..."

"And now we don't," Aerion replied simply. "Fighting for your independence, that I could understand. But you relished your little raids... didn't you? I did not recall you adding your banner to the royalists, either. You only fought for yourself and your reaving men."

The runes on Ambition glowed emerald, leading to all of the men who had slain by it to rise as greater undead. They slowly entered the room, evening out the odds a little into Aerion's favour... in terms of number. He alone was worth a hundred thousand men.

"You may kill me... but I beg of you, Your Grace, spare my daughter." Balon pleaded.

"Your daughter?" Aerion pondered. "She might have some use."

'Changing the way of the remaining Ironborn would be easier with someone respected supporting the act...'

"Might fancy me a rock wife," Aerion jested.

"I would never marry a treacherous bastard like you!"

"That's your daughter?" Aerion chuckled, observing Yasha for a moment. "She almost looks like a man."