The Dragon of Duskendale -- A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic

Chapter 9

Targaryens had been many things in their long history, oftentimes in direct contrast to others of the name. Aegon the Unworthy had been a universally reviled man driven by lust and his own selfish desires, his vices laying the groundwork for the Blackfyre Rebellions that had so plagued the family. His son Daeron the Good, however, had been an even tempered, forthright man respected by all, managing to bring Dorne into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms through peace where his ancestors had failed through war. Another Daeron, Daeron the Young Dragon, had been a warrior, charismatic and confident, a conqueror felled only by treachery. His brother, Baelor the Blessed, had been pious and peaceful, felled by his own fasting-or his uncle, depending on who you wished to believe. Either way, withing the blood of the dragon ran the capacity for many things, both great deeds and utter destruction.

Rhaegar was the brother of peace in this generation, calm and collected. Aelor was the brother of war, his temper as hot as the blood of the dragon in his veins. It sang at him now, demanding vengeance and blood that the Dragon of Duskendale fully intended to exact.

His stallion thundered underneath him, its huge lungs working like a billow as it raced towards the sound of slaughter ahead. Desmond had taken to calling the stallion Warrior, a decidedly impious name but one undeniably fitting. The beast seemed to love battle almost as much as Aelor did, having emerged from the Slaughter of the Straits with a muzzle stained red with Stormlander blood.

While it was particularly unwise of a knight to grow attached to his mount, as more horses would die underneath him than women would writhe, Aelor found himself liking the ill-tempered animal more than he did most men. The beast understood, to an eerie degree, the emotions of his master. As they galloped, Warrior seemed to feed off of the anger Aelor exuded, trumpeting terrifying bellows even as he ran at full tilt, and Aelor felt one of his own rip from deep within as he neared the walls.

The River Gate, called the Mud Gate by the smallfolk, led to the Roseroad and southern Kingsroad, connecting the wharfs along the Blackwater Rush with Fishmonger's Square inside the city. It has also been left mostly unguarded by the Westerlander forces. They clearly hadn't felt the need, as no one was supposed to know they were marching on King's Landing with the intent of sacking it-many though they had mobilized to assist the Targaryen cause, not damn it. But Aelor Targaryen did know, thanks to the chittering's of a little bird that had appeared in his tent the night before he was to assault Robert Baratheon. He'd marched the men near to exhaustion in the days since, only held back by the cautious insistence of Barristan and Renfred. His forces still hadn't been able to reach the city of his birth in time to prevent the start of the Lannister's pillaging, but they were certainly in time to prematurely end it.

We're going to kill them. All of them.

The wharfs were burning, set ablaze by the Lannister's at the beginning of the sack. Thick black smoke billowed from the fires, masking the approach of his vanguard. He supposed he appeared like a demon to the few men left to guard the gate, black armor atop a black horse appearing from the black smoke. Aelor certainly fell upon them like one, driving his lance through the throat of the first man he came to, turning the guard's shout of warning into a gurgle of blood and death even as Aelor planted a boot in the face of another, cracking bone and teeth. Their companions fared no better, some turning and trying to flee through the gate only to be trampled by the mass of armored horses crashing through as the Prince's vanguard joined the fray.

The city Aelor rode into looked nothing like the one he had been raised in. The streets of King's Landing were awry with soldiers and citizens both dead and alive, bodies and blood littering the street among overturned goods and possessions scattered in all directions. A few pockets of resistance remained, men in the red and gold of House Lannister battling with those in the gold of the City Watch or the red and black of House Targaryen. Others had given up the pretense of waging war and were openly looting, the city's wealth being stolen from brothels and Septs alike as the smallfolk attempted to escape.