The Conquest

Orys

Fog loomed thick and wet over turbulent water that rocked their ship . They had the wind on their side but the river currant was against them: the mouth of Blackwater rush where the river opened into sea was whirlpool of opposing currants bred thick white foam.

The harsh winds were already biting through his surcoat and wool; even his skin beneath his leather breeches were raw from cold. Orys glanced above his shoulder. Beside the Tyroshi captain, Visenya stood, proud and commanding, her silver-gold braid whipping with wind.

Rhaenys had chosen to be in the comfort of her cabin until they reached the shore and Aegon was down below the deck, conversing with Massey. It'd be well past morrow before they reached, Orys judged.

They had sailed the day before when the light shone brightly on Dragonstone for the first time in days. The West tower glinted in rare sun, from which the ravens have burst, carrying Aegon's message to all of Westeros, Lords great and small, the Citadel and the North alike: from this day forth there would be but one king in Westeros. Those who bent the knee to Aegon of House Targaryen would keep their lands and titles. Those who took up arms against him would be thrown down, humbled, and destroyed.

Before sailing, he had accompanied them to the sept to Seven of Westeros. Orys had never accounted Aegon for a pious man. He could only reckon it was a way of him accepting all of Westeros, giving into the most common thread that bound the southern kingdoms.

The sept of Dragonstone had statues representing the seven aspects of the Seven Gods, carved from the masts of the ships that had carried the first Targaryens from Valyria.

Rhaenys lit seven candle in front of them and knelt beside her siblings. The pearly eyes of the Crone glimmered in the light, but the Stranger, who resembled an abomination from hell looked even more animal like.

And now with the Seven's blessing twenty ships lifted anchor from Dragonstone: a modest host sixteen hundred men at most, all those who were capable of wielding a sword along with stone masons and builders that they'd require in due course. Aegon had left the young boys back against Visenya's arguments. A wise decision, Orys had thought. They'd need something to fall back to.

"We are here." Visenya announced from his side. Not many could claim on creeping up on Orys but Visenya was light as air. Across the thinning fog and crash of waves came songs of birds of woods. Orys closed his eyes and let the melody engulf him.

"Land ho!"

The captain steadily pacified motion of their cog; their sail stopped fluttering and was taut against the consistent blow of wind. Behind them all other ships were coming to halt.

"A smooth sail." Visenya remarked as the crew cheered.

"Just so, my lady." Orys agreed.

In course of time, the silhouette of the three wooded hills became greener and the ruined forts that was built by lesser lords only to be demolished by others became prominent. Under them were small mud and thatch houses of fishing village sprawled along the Northern bank.

Though claimed by both Storm's End and Harrenhal, the river mouth was undefended, and the closest castles were held by lesser quarreling lords: Darklyns and Mootons, and Brackens. None of great prowess, but they had little reason to love their nominal overlord, Harren the Black. An advantage Aegon could exploit.

"Lower the boats!" Orys commanded. Several boats: small vessels of timber that were more of fishing boats than war galley were dropped on the shallow waters.

Orys led the course with twenty men of Aegon's household guards, ready to take on the first front in case of attack. From Massey's Hook came Lord Bar Emmon of Sharp Point, flying his swordfish banner.

"Any trouble?"

Orys noted the lack of 'my lord' but refrained from remarking. Men of higher rank do not take it kindly that a man of much lesser status has more importance than they'd like. He was used to it by now.

It was mile from coast to the nearest house and the villagers have gathered keeping their distance, watching the Targaryen troop land on the soft mud. Orys ordered the first troop to mark the boundaries to set up their camp. He sent a band their swiftest riders to spread out through the land. "Shoot down any bird that flies. Words cannot reach till we have secured our hold."

Upon disembarking, Aegon ordered tents to be set up and a boundary be constructed. The following day, men would start work. The soldiers will stand guard on the outpost, keeping an eye for interruption while the masons would raise straw and earth, a crude ford on the tallest of three hills to house them until they have secured the Blackwater Bay.

When dusk settled and breezed caressed his tired and sweaty cheeks, Orys heard the familiar roar of dragons gliding in the sky. From the east where the sun rises each morrow,  dragons rose, cutting through the cloud with their sharp wings, last bit of light glimmering on their scale.

Meraxes, the color of fresh cream, with his sharp sprouting horns soared past them and began to circle the sky. Following it was Vhagar, spreading her wings as he flew over them; her spinal crest a shinning bronze that flashed bright as metal in the sun.

Balerion swooped in silently diving straight from the cloud and landing on the tallest hill. A few trees uprooted and rolled down by the fan of his wings. His roar cracked like thunder, heralding his arrival to all that could here.

By their counsel, the tallest hill was named after Aegon, and the other two after his sister-wives. As all the ships came ashore, Aegon commanded his battle standard be brought forth. The Targaryens had no war banner like the Westerosis did. By his request, fabrics were sewn, worked upon by the most delicate hands of seamstresses. An effort to show that they are one of them now.

Poles were erected outside the cluster of tents where soldiers stood guard and Jallen unfurled the Targaryen banner: the three headed dragon, red upon black.