Fire and Blood

Chapter 126: Second Battle of Tumbleton (Part 2)

The Riverlands ― South of the Gods Eye...

Aeonar stood tall with his arms firmly folded behind his back, observing the procession of Caltrop soldiers apprehended while attempting to escape. They were now presented before him, their bodies bound in chains, their faces etched with fear and resignation. As they were forced onto their knees, their fate rested solely in the Young Dragon's hands. His presence alone was enough to send shivers down the spines of those who dared to oppose him.

"I, Aeonar of House Targaryen, the First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die."

One by one, those who were loyal to the Blacks carried out the gruesome task of slitting the throats of the helpless captive Caltrops. Alysanne Blackwood and Sabitha Frey, witnessing the horrifying scene from a distance, were filled with shock and horror as the command for execution was issued, their desperate gasps for air silenced forever.

"Your Grace! They surrendered!" Alysanne exclaimed.

"There was no need for that," Sabitha protested.

Aeonar swiftly turned his head, his piercing crimson eyes fixated on Alysanne and Sabitha. The fire in his eyes mirrored the vengeful malice that fueled his every action. Alysanne and Sabitha, startled by his stare's sudden intensity, felt a shiver run down their spines. His dragon, Vaelor, had been devouring the bodies of the dead; with each crunch of bones and a gulp of flesh, he emitted a menacing growl, a clear cautionary signal that sent a chill through the air. It was a warning, urging anyone foolish enough to challenge them to back off.

The tense atmosphere was suddenly interrupted as a wounded scout appeared, gripping his left arm. "Y-Your Grace..." he gasped, exhaustion evident in his voice, filled with fear and uncertainty.

"What's all this noise about?" Aeonar demanded irritatingly.

"The Two Betrayers... set fire to Tumbleton. Th-They... surrounded Prince Lucerys a-and Prince Viserys, but..." He dropped to his hands and knees. "I-I'm so sorry, Your Grace. But... your son... he... he..."

After the scout finished recounting the details - the First Battle of Tumbleton, the mysterious sellsword army, the Blacks' forces in the Reach led by Lord Ormund Hightower and the Winter Wolves being utterly wiped out, Hugh Hammer and Ulf White arriving on Seasmoke, and Tessarion attacking Lucerys and Viserys - the most devastating news for Aeonar was the death of his son Viserys. Aeonar's body trembled, his eyes turning a deeper shade of crimson-blood red. His grip on reality slipped. Clenching his fists tightly, the sharp claws of his draconic gauntlets cut deep into his skin, blood dripping from his hands, staining the ground beneath him. Aeonar loses control, consumed by his burning thirst for vengeance. His anguished screams upon losing another son were a haunting sound that instilled fear in both his enemies and his own soldiers more than any battle drums could. The enemy would pay for what they had taken from him, and no one would be spared from his wrath. Despite attempts to calm their king, the Blacks kept their distance as Vaelor sensed Aeonar's intense emotions, for his wrath knows no bounds.

"*RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!*" Vaelor roared, spreading his wings; the Swiftrunner's call reverberated through the stormy skies.

Fueled by vengeance, Aeonar swiftly drew Blackfyre and turned around to strike down the messenger who had brought him the dreadful news. As the scout stood before him, trembling in fear, Aeonar's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. His heart had no room for mercy, only the insatiable hunger for retribution. In one swift motion, he swung Blackfyre with a force that seemed to defy the laws of nature. The scout's body was torn asunder, blood and entrails spilling onto the muddy ground. The thunder roared in approval, its deafening sound echoing Aeonar's fury. But it was not just his sword that reflected his wrath. Aeonar's eyes, once a gentle shade of pale lilac from his youthful days, now burned with an otherworldly intensity. They glowed with an unholy crimson as if the very essence of his soul had been tainted by the darkness that consumed him. The crimson shades grew more profound with each passing moment as if the demon that possessed him was slowly taking hold. The mystery remained whether the liquid streaming down his cheeks were tears of blood. The rain washed away the evidence of his pain, blending the red streaks with the water that cascaded down his cheeks. But there was no time for sorrow, no room for remorse. Aeonar's heart beat with a single purpose - revenge. With red streaks trickling down his face, Aeonar quickly headed towards his dragon, climbing up to Vaelor's saddle and securely fastening himself in.