Chapter XII
We returned to our lands far the wealthier for our adventure, and many were the tales of glory told to those that had stayed behind, at least by my Ironborn, my Westermen sang more sombre songs. Most on both sides spoke of the Battle of Rayonet, and the fury of the dragon. The Ironborn have long had fascination with the beasts, recalling the legend of how one of our greatest kings, Harren the Black, had defied Aegon the Conqueror and perished in dragonflame with all his sons.
Our greatest king perhaps. But not, I think, our greatest monarch.
The time came to recognise warriors that had held great role in our victory, chief among them my brother Dagon and Ser Gawen of House Marbrand. I awarded Dagon sizeable gift of gold, whilst to Marbrand I granted the hand of my sister Yara, though I made it clear that their children would be raised as Greyjoys.
My other sisters did not go neglected. The second of Sansa's girls, Lyanna, wed a Goodbrother of Great Wyk, whilst the youngest, Gwynesse, I took under my guidance whenever I was at Pyke. She loved to fight as much as Dagon had when I'd had him underfoot, and in time her proclivity became so well known that we attracted the attention of a Braavosi swordmaster, who crossed all of Westeros to seek out so promising a student. I would sooner Gwyn learned to fight with axe and shield, but all experience is to the good, and I allowed the Braavosi, to teach her what he knew. The man named himself Lazzaro, and soon became a fixture at court.
Time passed. Yara and Lyanna both bore strong sons, Dagon prospered as ever, and Amerei bore an heir to the Vale. But not all of Balon's get fared well that year. Word came to us from the north that my brother Theon had been slain in the lands beyond the wall, hacked down by some nameless wilding in a battle no-one shall remember. He was a fool, but I mourned my little brother, who could have been a king.
His was not the only death that ravens brought us from the North however, and the second was of far greater import. Robb Stark, The Young Wolf, had died, worn down by the stresses of forty years of Kingship and war. His son, Roger, was barely fit to be his father's shadow. Presumably favouring his mother's Frey heritage, Roger was a weak, foolish man, and his realm lay open to one with the will to take it.
Three hundred years ago the Ironborn had held the Riverlands, before Harren had burned, but we had the dragon now, and would reclaim what was ours. I gathered the captains at Pyke and made short journey to the Trident, encamping around The Twins, seat of House Frey, and knowing full well that Stark would have to march his forces past me to reach the Riverlands. Meanwhile, Dagon raised his banners at my command and marched on Riverrun, putting it to siege.
Sure enough, the Northmen fell on us at The Twins, and great battle ensued. The Starks held slight advantage of numbers, but we were able to meet them with fire and sword as they crossed the river and so emerged victorious.
The Northern army defeated, I turned attention to The Twins. As fortresses they are difficult to assault, straddling the river as they did, and I had little patience for long siege. I turned Drogon on the fortress, and burned the Freys from their homes like rats from a burning thatch.
To the South, Dagon took Riverrun and several surrounding castles, and the King in the North sued for peace. We took the Riverlands as our price and added them to our dominion. We travelled to Casterly Rock where Dagon held a great feast to celebrate another victory and I reflected that my grasp of war-making had grown considerable over the years. To marshal ninety thousands to war is no mean feat, even when one can visit quartermasters on dragonback.
Our celebrations were interrupted when the doors to the great hall swung open and messenger in Arryn livery of blue and white strode up before my place of honour. Custom would dictate that he greet the host first, but he was keen, it seemed, to share words with me. The messenger had come from Amerie our sister, wife to Lord Arryn of the Vale, and spoke of her great distress. Her husband had somehow caused Myrcella Lannister to doubt his loyalty to her and she had stripped him of his Lord Paramouncy, claiming it for herself. Amerie was, of course, sister to Myrcella as well, for she and Dagon sprang from union of Myrcella's mother and my Father, but she had chosen to seek my aid over that of her liege. She knew, I think, what course would be the surest to restoring her children's birthright.
We wasted no time, and once again gathered two sizeable hosts. This time Dagon would march on the Vale whilst I swept south and put King's Landing to siege. Gwin's swordmaster, Lazzaro, helped devise this strategy and I granted him command of my flank opposite Gawen Marbrand. For his own part Dagon chose as his seconds Robin of House Westerling and the Dothraki Drogo, son of one of Daenerys's bloodriders and named, liked Drogon, for her long dead Khal.
We swept aside the armies of Myrcella before they had chance to unite and descended on King's Landing like angry swarm. This time we would not be sated by gold alone. I sent word to Myrcella that she must cede all claim to the Vale of Arryn or face the fury of my dragon.
She refused.
I think back to that day and wonder, am forced to wonder, just how differently the world would turn had she done otherwise. But I have never made idle threats. After all, I only needed to use Drogon to breech the gates and sow a little fear. My men would do the rest.
We would learn Kings Landing held a deadly secret. In the years of the Mad King, his alchemists had thrived on his love of fire and had built tremendous stockpile of the foul chemical known as Wildfire, which requires but a spark to burn hot enough to melt steel and stone.
Near as hot as dragonfire, but with fuel enough to burn for weeks.
How could I have known?
I directed Drogon to set fires across the city, but was caught unprepared for what happened when the flames licked around the alchemist's guild. A virulent green fireball exploded across the skyline, and ripped through the city like a great wave smashing through an ill-prepared fleet at sea.
Drogon's instinct's saved me, swooping higher just fast enough to avoid the blast, but as we cicled higher than we had ever been I could still feel the heat coming from Aegon's city as it burned.
In the Drowned God's Hall King Harren was no doubt looking on and laughing, perhaps slapping my father on the back, but all I could do was weep.
Myrcella somehow survived, and quickly offered surrender. I named Jon Arryn Lord Paramount of the Vale and he swore fealty to me before the Seastone Chair. My mind filled with the horror's of King's Landing, I resolved to seek no more war with Queen Myrcella. We both needed to attend to our people, and see old wounds healed.
But we had both reckoned without the ambition of our mutual half-brother. Dagon, a Lion with a Kraken's heart, saw the weakness of an Iron Throne shorn of the Vale and decided to make war of his own. He gathered his loyal bannermen, those who had helped him pacify the west and marched beside him under mine own banner in three great wars, and declared his own claim to the Iron Throne. I should have melted the cursed thing when I had opportunity.
Dagon is perhaps the most fearsome warlord in Westeros, and his armies brushed aside Myrcella's as if they did not even exist. He marched into the still smouldering ruins of King's Landing and captured Myrcella, taking her lands and titles for himself.
I received word from him not long after. He was King now, he told me, and the Westerlands could owe no more fealty to the Seastone Chair of Pyke.
