The Reach ― Dustonbury...
Daemon embarked on a journey to the south, riding on the back of his dragon, Caraxes. He had grown increasingly dissatisfied with the lack of action, but his spirits were lifted when he received a secret message from his nephew, King Aeonar. The Targaryen blood within him boiled with excitement, knowing that he was now taking the offensive. As part of their elaborate plan, the Rogue Prince willingly abandoned Harrenhal and spread false rumors, hoping to lure out Aemond and Criston Cole. With Aeonar on the move and his grandnephews and grandniece strategically positioned west in the Reach and east in the Stormlands, Daemon had effectively set the stage for a multi-pronged attack. The plan was to encircle House Peake from multiple directions, leaving them no room to escape or regroup. By dismantling the leadership of the Caltrops, Daemon aimed to bring House Peake to their knees and effectively decapitate the Caltrops' leadership.
"*Reeeeeeeeeh!*" Caraxes screeched.
Soon, we'll end this war in one fell swoop and have every fucking Caltrop head on a spike. Daemon tapped his dragon three times to begin their descent.
Dunstonbury, a once formidable castle of House Manderly, was situated in the Kingdom of the Reach, where House Manderly resided along the Mander. This was when the Reach was an independent realm, long before Aegon's Conquest. But when the Manderlys fled to the North, a millennium before Aegon the Conqueror launched his invasion, Dunstonbury was granted to their rivals, House Peake, by the kings of House Gardener.
As an experienced combat veteran, Daemon saw an opportunity to weaken House Peake, who had slighted House Targaryen through their involvement in the attempted coup in King's Landing. The ongoing civil war that had fragmented the House of the Dragon further fueled Daemon's desire to chip away at House Peake's power. To achieve this, he attacked Dunstonbury and claimed it for House Targaryen. But taking over Dunstonbury wouldn't be easy. Lord Unwin's son and heir, Ser Titus Peake, had been left in command of the castle's garrison in the event of an attempted siege. However, Titus was unprepared for an attack from the air, which proved to be House Targaryen's trump card.
As Daemon and his forces approached House Peake's stronghold, he could see the fear and panic in their eyes. Dustonbury had no defense against dragonfire; no castle in the Seven Kingdoms did. Aegon disproved that by unleashing Balerion's power against Harrenhal and eliminating House Hoare. The element of surprise was on his side, and he intended to use it to his advantage. With his dragon circling above, breathing fire and instilling terror in the hearts of his enemies, Daemon's troops charged forward, their swords gleaming in the sunlight.
"Idakōs! (Attack!)"
"*Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!*"
Amid the battlefield, the chaos and violence seemed endless. The air was filled with the sound of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded. Daemon fought with an intense ferocity that seemed to come from deep within his soul. His every move was fueled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he struck down his enemies with a deadly precision that left them reeling. Clearly, he was a force to be reckoned with, his skill and expertise on the battlefield unmatched by any of his foes. Despite the danger surrounding him, he fought with a determination that would not be broken.
"Dragon!" a Peake sentry shouted in alarm.
"Archers!" Titus shouted. "Get those arrows up!"
"Nock! Draw! Loose!"
The archers of the Peake garrison, their faces etched with determination, stood tall upon the battlements, their bows drawn taut and arrows ready to be unleashed. They released their deadly projectiles with practiced precision, each arrow soaring through the air with deadly intent. Each arrow, meticulously crafted and aimed, flew through the air with deadly intent, only to bounce harmlessly off Caraxes like raindrops against a mountain.
Caraxes, sensing the futile attempts of the humans to harm him, cast a shadow that seemed to swallow the entire battlefield. With a thunderous growl that shook the very earth beneath their feet he let out a thunderous growl that reverberated through the air. Burning with an ancient fire, his eyes locked onto the archers, daring them to continue their audacious assault. With a flick of his massive wings, Caraxes unleashed a gust of wind that sent the archers stumbling backward, their arrows falling short of their intended target. Undeterred by the Blood Wyrm's defiance, the archers regrouped, their determination unwavering. They knew that their lives depended on piercing the seemingly impenetrable scales of the mighty dragon. With renewed vigor, they unleashed another volley of arrows, their aim true and their hopes high. But their efforts were in vain once again, as the arrows merely glanced off Caraxes' scales, leaving no mark upon his majestic form.
"It's no use! We can't bring that beast down!"
"Shut up! Keep firing!" Titus ordered.
"Dracarys," Daemon commanded.
With a single breath, Caraxes unleashed a torrent of scorching dragonfire that engulfed the garrison line in an inferno of unimaginable heat. The archers, their bows now reduced to ashes, screamed in agony as the merciless flames consumed their bodies. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning flesh, and the once vibrant landscape was transformed into a desolate wasteland.
"Damn it!"
"They're too much!"
"My lord, for our house's sake, we must surrender!" one of the sentries urged.
"What?!" Titus said, appalled.
Daemon's lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. There was panic and dissent within the enemy ranks. The Peake garrison stationed at Dustonbury was now disorganized, consumed by chaos and disagreement. The air was tense as commanders bickered and soldiers questioned their orders. It was a scene of utter disarray, a perfect breeding ground for doubt and despair. Perfect. It was time to maintain the siege and further break down their spirits. This was precisely what Daemon had hoped for. He knew that a garrison besieged by a powerful army, already weakened by internal strife, would be far easier to conquer. Their morale, already teetering on the edge, would crumble under the weight of their own discord. And in that moment, Daemon saw his opportunity to strike. As the siege continued, Daemon's forces pressed forward, relentless in their pursuit of victory. They struck with precision and purpose, exploiting the enemy's confusion and disarray. Each blow landed with devastating effect, further eroding their already fragile morale. But Daemon was not content with a swift and decisive victory. No, he wanted to break them slowly, to watch as their hope dwindled and their will to fight crumbled. He understood that a defeated enemy was not just physically defeated but mentally defeated as well. And so, he continued to tighten the grip, gradually increasing the pressure, until their spirits were crushed beyond repair.
These weak men know they cannot win. "Listen up!" Daemon called out to them from above. "Resistance is futile! Further resistance will bring more deaths! Lay down your arms and surrender now, and I might be merciful! Refuse and continue to resist House Targaryen, however, and you will all die here!"
Ser Titus Peake groaned in frustration.
"My lord, please! I beg you! Please surrender!"
"You dare speak of surrender?!"
"We must conserve supplies and release all non-personnel within the castle."
"Silence! Know your place. My father's instructions were clear: we must hold off enemy forces long enough until we receive reinforcements from Prince Aemond and Ser Criston."
"Then why haven't they shown up?! Prince Daemon or King Aeonar might not show mercy, and neither the pretender Aegon nor Prince Aemond would be lenient in our plight either... but Prince Jaehaerys, he's shown mercy to those who surrender! It is you who are hurting us by throwing our lives away for a lost cause!"
"Silence!"
The aged sentinel cracked, ultimately shattered. "You have lost your grip! The Young Dragon has proven to be the better Targaryen!" he shouted desperately.
"I said SILENCE!!" Titus unsheathed his blade as it gleamed in the sunlight, starkly contrasting the darkness that had descended upon the garrison before swiftly executing the defiant Peake guardsman with a single stroke, silencing his cries of desperation forever. The remaining soldiers of the Caltrops garrison stared at Ser Titus in utter disbelief. They could not fathom that their future leader, the one who was meant to guide them through the storm, had chosen death and the loss of their lives over surrender. Their confusion and disbelief hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of blood and defeat.
Alysanne Blackwood stood below the towering walls of Dustonbury. The air was tense as she pulled her bowstring back, feeling the familiar resistance against her fingertips. Her heart pounded in her chest, matching the rhythm of the impending battle. From her vantage point, Alysanne surveyed the scene before her. The Dustonbury garrison now appeared weary and disheartened. Relentless attacks had worn down their defenses, and their spirits seemed to wane. With a swift motion, she released the bowstring, sending an arrow soaring through the air. It found its mark, striking a soldier in the shoulder, causing him to stumble and fall. Alysanne's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she witnessed the first sign of weakness in the garrison's ranks. But she didn't stop there. Alysanne was relentless in her assault, firing arrow after arrow with deadly accuracy. Each shot found its target, weakening the garrison's resolve and further eroding their defenses.
Daemon observed from atop his dragon. And there it is. They've lost all hope. His men don't have the morale to keep on fighting, and I'm sure a number of the Peake boy's own men will defect. "Do you see now, men of House Peake? Your lives mean absolutely nothing to them! Surrender now, and your lives will be spared... well, maybe some of you."
"*REEEEEEEEEE!!!*" Caraxes screeched menacingly.
"Help! Let us out! Help!" the soldiers scurried.
"Stay back, you dogs!" Titus warned.
The Dustonbury garrison was determined not to suffer the same fate as House Hoare and Harrenhal did during Aegon's Conquest more than a hundred years ago. They had heard tales of the brutal conquests of Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons, and they knew that resistance against the Targaryens would be futile. Instead, they revolted against Ser Titus Peake, refusing to be subdued. Despite Titus's protests and fierce resistance, he was eventually overwhelmed by the sheer number of rebels. In the midst of the chaos, Titus managed to take down four of his captors, but it was not enough to hold them off indefinitely. Eventually, his own men turned against him and quickly disarmed their lord. The Peake garrison, realizing their defeat was inevitable, raised a peace banner as a sign of surrender to the Blacks, the faction loyal to Aeonar Targaryen. As the gates of Dustonbury were opened, Ser Titus, now a defeated and humiliated man, was handed over to Prince Daemon, shackled. Bound in chains, Ser Titus was paraded through the streets of Dustonbury, his once proud and arrogant demeanor replaced by shame and defeat. The people, who had suffered greatly, jeered and spat at him as he passed by.
"We hereby surrender before you," Dustonbury's steward declared.
"Ngh! Traitors, the lot of you!" Titus strained against his bindings.
"Ser Titus Peake, you are bringing nothing but shame and dishonor to your house with your continued defiance," Alyssane chided him. "Even defeated officers have pride. You must keep your head held high until the very end."
"A woman dares to lecture me?!"
"Yet this woman who led the troops to Dustonbury's gates while Prince Daemon rides his dragon from the skies is what caused your downfall."
Ser Titus felt the weight of his defeat pressing down on him, both physically and mentally. The chains that bound his arms were unforgiving, digging into his flesh and restricting any hope of escape. The cold metal against his skin served as a constant reminder of his powerlessness at this moment. Every attempt to rise was met with a wall of deadly weapons poised to strike at his exposed visage. As he strained against his restraints, the glint of spears and blades caught his eye, their sharp edges gleaming in the sunlight. They were held by men who seemed to enjoy their menacing positions. Ser Titus knew that any sudden movement would result in a swift and painful end, so he remained still, his muscles tense with the effort of restraint.
Daemon dismounted from his dragon Caraxes, his presence commanding attention and respect. The Blood Wyrm's eyes bore into Ser Titus, exuding a primal presence that searched for a spark of defiance or strength. His snarls echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of the danger that lurked just inches away from him. Though defeated and at the mercy of his captor, the young heir to Starpike refused to bow his head in submission. His gaze met Daemon's with unwavering determination, a flicker of defiance burning within his eyes. As Daemon unsheathed the Valyrian steel longsword Dark Sister, the weight of its history hung heavy in the air. Dark Sister gleamed with a deadly beauty, its power unmatched by any ordinary weapon. Daemon's grip on the pommel was firm and unwavering, a testament to his skill and experience. He studied Ser Titus, his disappointment evident in the furrow of his brow and the shake of his head. At that moment, Daemon questioned whether the lack of challenge he faced resulted from the young warrior's inadequacy or his own weariness and boredom. Or was Ser Titus simply not worthy of his attention, a mere pawn in the grand game of power and conquest?
Regardless of the answer, Ser Titus refused to let his spirit be broken. He knew that true strength lay not only in the might of one's sword arm but also in the resilience of one's spirit. Even in the face of a dragon, he remained defiant, refusing to yield to the overwhelming odds stacked against him. The fire within him burned bright, a testament to his unwavering resolve.
"Hmph! So this is all you have, boy?" Daemon asked, looking down at Titus. "Have you forgotten who my brother Viserys named as his heir? It has been so long since you raised your banners in rebellion." He then turned to the surrendered garrison and asked, "And what about you? Did you not consider the consequences when your lords decided to turn their cloaks and break their allegiance to the Iron Throne? Do you recall who Viserys named as his heir?"
Each of the men, kneeling in submission, slowly rose their heads.
"It... It was Aeonar, my prince," one scout answered.
Daemon hummed, nodding his head. "Good. And tell me... why did you choose to defy my brother's wishes and follow a traitor instead?" he waited for an answer, but none came. "None of you dumbasses know? Pity. So you chose to rebel for no apparent reason at all. It would have been very different if you were to surrender to someone who is more unforgiving than I am. It would be best if you were thinking about that while I ask you again. Will you swear anew your oath to Aeonar as your king and reject the pretender Aegon Waters, or will you forever be remembered throughout history as a stain upon your family names? To die... screaming?"
As the deafening roar of Caraxes reverberated through the air, a sense of awe and fear gripped the hearts of the Peake men. The ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble in response to the sheer power emanating from the Blood Wyrm. At that moment, a profound realization washed over them, compelling several members of the Peake family to drop to their knees in humble submission. Their bodies sank to the ground, their heads bowed low, as they acknowledged the supremacy of the dragon and the indomitable force it represented. Yet, amidst the overwhelming display of loyalty and deference, a few Peake men stood, their gazes unyielding and their resolve unshaken. These defiant few, driven by a fierce determination and an unyielding spirit, refused to succumb to the imposing presence of Caraxes. They stood tall, their eyes meeting the fiery gaze of the dragon, unafraid to challenge the status quo.
As the tension between the kneeling and standing Peake men hung in the air, a palpable sense of division permeated the scene. The contrast between submission and defiance created an atmosphere of anticipation as the fate of the Peake family seemed to hang in the balance.
"So you've chosen your fate then." Daemon brandished Dark Sister, swiftly striking down Ser Titus with a merciless swing, severing the young knight's head from his body. With this fatal blow, the fate of House Peake, hinging solely on the survival of Unwin Peake's sole surviving son, who was the only one of his sons to reach manhood, now faced a grave and uncertain future. Beatrice and Myrielle stood as Unwin's sole surviving children, casting a shadow of uncertainty over the fate of their noble lineage. Rival houses, sensing weakness, would undoubtedly seek to exploit the vulnerable position House Peake now found itself in. The whispers of betrayal and treachery would grow louder. Would House Peake be able to weather this storm and emerge stronger, or would it crumble under the weight of its own uncertainty? "Take the rest of them into custody. The crown will decide their fate."
"Please, my prince! We don't want to die!"
"Then you shouldn't have taken up arms."
As Alysanne Blackwood and her nephew Lord Benjicot rounded up the subdued Peake garrison of Dustonbury, Daemon was approached by a Lykirī Mēre acolyte disguised as a Peake servant. "Message from Whitegrove," she said.
"Hmm?" Daemon raised an eyebrow. Breaking the wax seal, he read the contents written in High Valyrian. Slowly, he smirked with amusement. "So... he's seized Whitegrove already, huh?" The Rogue Prince lifted his gaze at the sun setting. So, Aeonar... what will you do now?
The Reach ― Whitegrove...
Whitegrove, a castle belonging to House Peake, was set on fire by Vaelor the Swiftrunner, resulting in a blazing inferno. As the dragon's flames engulfed Whitegrove, the once majestic castle was transformed into a nightmarish scene of destruction. The air became thick with smoke and the scent of burning wood and stone. The intense heat radiating from Vaelor's black flames, laced with crimson hues, consumed everything in its path. The flames licked at the towers, causing them to crack and crumble under the immense pressure. The stone, weakened by the extreme heat, began to melt like wax, dripping down the walls in grotesque formations. Once solid and unyielding, the towers now resembled twisted sculptures, their once proud architecture reduced to a molten mess. The flames danced and twisted, leaving behind a trail of devastation in their wake.
Meanwhile, the Peake guardsmen who had been stationed at Whitegrove found themselves facing a swift and brutal end. Caught off guard by the sudden attack, they were ill-prepared to face Vaelor's might. The dragon's flames engulfed them, reducing their bodies to ash in mere moments. Their screams of agony were drowned out by the crackling of the dragonfire and the castle's crumbling. The small group of elite Lykirī Mēre assassins and 1,500 men-at-arms, who had accompanied Aeonar to the Reach, witnessed the astonishing sight of the towers glowing and liquefying like candles. Meanwhile, the Peake guardsmen who had been stationed at Whitegrove met a swift and brutal fate at the hands of their assailants.
Aeonar carefully navigated through the desolate aftermath, his feet treading upon the scorched remnants of bones, ash, stone, wood, and soot. Meanwhile, his assassins swiftly silenced the lives of additional Peake soldiers by mercilessly slitting their throats. "Hmph! Mijegindita. (How pathetic.)" he said in disgust. My children are making my job too easy. It's only a matter of time before Beatrice is forced to move again. His keen senses were honed to detect even the slightest movement or sound, ensuring his survival instincts were as sharp as ever, honed by his years of training and combat experience. With each step, his feet crunched upon the remnants of bones, a grim testament to the lives lost in the chaos.
Behind him, a group of highly skilled Lykirī Mēre assassins moved swiftly and silently, their presence masked by the shadows. Aeonar himself handpicked these lethal agents, their loyalty unwavering and their skills unmatched as they moved swiftly and silently by his side, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement. The assassins ruthlessly executed their deadly tasks as they moved through the wreckage. One by one, the Peake garrison's lives were extinguished, their throats slit without a moment's hesitation. The silence that followed each kill was deafening, broken only by the soft thud of lifeless bodies hitting the ground. Aeonar's assassins were masters of their craft, leaving no trace of their presence behind. Their swift, precise, and ruthless actions are a testament to their unwavering dedication to their cause.
Vaelor hovered overhead, beating his wings to allow himself to land. "*Grrrrrrrrrrr!*" he growled.
"Gīdāpa, Valor. (Steady now, Vaelor.)" Aeonar commanded. "Skorverdon gepton? (How many are left?)"
"Dōre, āeksio. (None, master.)" a Lykirī Mēre agent answered.
"Sȳz. (Good.)" Aeonar gazed towards the sky, noticing that dusk was approaching rapidly. According to his reliable sources, the Caltrops' leaders, Beatrice and Unwin, along with their elite members, would soon change their location using a horse-drawn carriage. With the Peakes encircled and trapped, no escape route was left for them. It was logical for the Caltrops to advance in this particular direction to seek refuge... only the Young Dragon would have a special surprise in store for them. I grow tired of this game of hide-and-seek, Beatrice. Now, it's time for the final curtain call. "Mazēdan qīzy. Jēda sir. (Get into position. The time is now.)"
"Kessa, āeksio. (Yes, master.)"
Aeonar turned to his dragon. "Ūbrie arghugon, uēpa raqiros? (Ready for a hunt, old friend?)" he asked.
Vaelor possessed an uncanny bond with his rider, Aeonar. Their connection ran deep since he hatched in the Targaryen king's cradle, forged through countless adventures, battles, and shared victories; their minds intertwined, allowing them to communicate without uttering a single word. The dragon's keen intelligence allowed him to comprehend the unspoken message, and he knew exactly what was expected of him. It was a silent understanding, a mutual agreement that they knew what to do next. The Swiftrunner's instincts kicked in, and he emitted a low growl, a rumbling warning that reverberated through his massive chest. Vaelor's crimson eyes, with their slitted pupils, narrowed as he honed in on the scent of another dragon, old but less than half his size: Dreamfyre.
With a swift and calculated movement, Vaelor crouched down, his massive form blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. His ebony scales, glistening in the fading light, provided the perfect camouflage for a stealthy ambush on his unsuspecting prey. Nightfall was approaching, casting a shroud of darkness over the land, and Vaelor knew that this was his advantage.
All he had to do now...
...was wait for his prey to come to him.
"*Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr!*"