ORYGIN

[josh97]

INTRODUCTION:

Hello, thanks for viewing this page.
After reading a couple of epic After Action Reports (AAR), I couldn't help but want to try my hand at an AAR of my very own.
Basically, this AAR centers around the exploits of Aegon Targaryen 'the conqueror' mostly through the point of perspective (pov) of his half-brother who was called Orys. He is basically the first relevant bastard in the universe of a game of Thrones or a song of ice and fire, depending on who you ask.
note: people who are expecting to read the classic story of Aegon's conquest of Westeros will be sorely disappointed...this is a story with twists upon twists enough to rival the Gordian Knot itself... enjoy.


Chapter one: The once and future king



‘What is west of Westeros?' Asked a voice behind me. The voice belonged to a boy not much older than I was. ‘Finally, someone around my age that I could play with in this shadowy place’.



DRAGONSTONE: HOME OF THE DRAGONLORDS

The thought seemed to give me confidence as I turned around with a smile to gaze upon the boy that had asked me a question. A fact that I came to question as I examined the ‘boy’ with immersive purple eyes and flowing platinum hair.

The boy had a puzzled look drawn upon his face. 'Didn’t you hear me?' He asked, ‘what is west of Westeros?!' He denoted with quite an authoritative voice that boomed through the watchtower that we were in, with a tone similar to the likes of the man who brought me to this strange place. ‘Aah, so ‘he’ is a boy’. I assured myself and then proceeded to answer. ‘Normally I would say the ironmen but really I suppose, one would have to go there themselves to answer that question’. The boy simply smiled and moved towards me with such grace that highborn lords move with, or so people say.



A WATCHTOWER ON DRAGONSTONE

‘Orys’ he called. ‘Tell me, do you like it here?' He knew my name, why would he know my name? I must matter to him in some way, I thought. And then I replied that the castle had a dark reputation, further denoting the mysterious architectures of stones shaped like dragons and other fearsome monsters, further concluding that any man would be scared of this place.

The white-haired boy moved closer and closer still and then started circling me and slowly nodding his head all the while saying ‘Dragonstone is grim beyond a doubt, a lonely citadel in the wet waste surrounded by storm and salt, with the smoking shadow of that mountain at its back’. With this said he moved towards the only window of the watchtower that we were currently in and gawked at the mountain. While still looking at the active volcano, he said ‘we have a common saying among us here that since Dragonstone is a hard place, it, in turn, breeds hard men’ and I, in turn, replied that I thought that particular saying belonged to the Ironmen. He then simply replied that he was glad that I was well versed and that he would like to put me further to the test with a question.


A WIDER VIEW OF DRAGONSTONE WITH AN ACTIVE VOLCANO AT ITS BACK

‘We Valyrians are a people foreign to this land called Westeros. A land constantly wracked with wars and strife by their so-called kings, and if they could inflict constant suffering and desolation of war on their fellow countrymen, why do you think that they haven’t attacked us after all these years that we have moved to this island and made it our own?’

I paused a while to think and then said that ‘it was because that they are scared of this strange place rumored to have been conjured up by sorcery’. After hearing of my answer, the boy simply laughed and shook his head and beckoned me to join him at the window with a wave of his hand. As I moved to join him, he started to speak ‘fear is a complicated emotion only a few people know how to handle. Most people have only one impulsive action to what they don’t understand and scares them…they destroy it before they believe it will destroy them. You partially answered my question without knowing that you had, people are scared of us, but it is not because of our surroundings’. As he finished saying this, a wry smile escaped his mouth while still looking at the mountain. ‘Come br—orys. I would like to introduce you to my sisters’. He said as he turned around and motioned to exit the watchtower.

I turned and as I ran to keep up with him, I asked ‘you still have me at a disadvantage, you know my name but I don’t know yours?' He then turned his head and flashed his deep purple eyes at me saying ‘my name is Ageon, of the house Targaryen’.

 

[stnylan]

Welcome to AAR writing

I hope you enjoy yourself.

 

[josh97]

Welcome to AAR writing

I hope you enjoy yourself.

thanks

 

[Twighlight Array 17]

I'm interested to see where this goes. Out of curiosity, why are you writing everything in bolded font?

 

[guillec87]

subbed

 

[josh97]

I'm interested to see where this goes. Out of curiosity, why are you writing everything in bolded font?

I like it that way.

 

[josh97]

Chapter two: The only constant thing in life



The burial of Aerion Targaryen, the lord of Dragonstone.

Burials would always baffle me I suppose. No matter how many strange burial methods that I’ve seen and heard about in my short life, I suppose there is always another stranger method just waiting around the corner.

I have been living on this island for most of my life, the part that held any prominence I guess. A place called Dragonstone, a name befitting of the place the last Dragonlords call home. The prominent part of my life began when a white-haired man brought me to this island, he believed that I was his son and as his spawn, I had the right to be brought up in the Targaryen way. Targaryen spawns always had the trademark Valyrian features which included platinum hair and deep purple eyes. A fact seemingly lost on me, for I only had dark hair and dark eyes to boot.

I must either be the most unlucky man alive or the most cursed one. How many times did I simply wish to suddenly wake up and either have a white hair resting on my head or for my eyes to have a purple glow about them? This cursed life of mine further instilled the fact that everyone constantly whispered around me into my heart, that I wasn’t one of the Targaryen’s…that I didn’t have the blood of the dragon coursing through my veins.

This fact constantly tore at my heart, so much until it finally spurred me to ask the man that called me his son, The question that I wanted answered most of all, whether I was truly his son or did he just take pity on an orphan boy and wanted to give him the chance of a lifetime by being raised in his household. When the question finally escaped my lips, He had a surprised look on his face and he then looked at me and smiled.

‘My lord, the council meeting is about to start’. Said one of the two guards accompanying him. ‘Go ahead and tell them to wait for me’. All the while not breaking his gaze upon me. ‘Yes my lord’. The two guards chorused and promptly left us.

‘On the continent just west of this island lies Westeros, which comprises of seven kingdoms, six of these kingdoms practice the same religion similar to ours only in the form of the presence of a head of the religion. Theirs is a male called the High Septon .I’ve met the current one once or twice and discussed a lot matters of varying topics with each other, most of those topics as you likely guessed were based on religion, and the few among them not based on religion once touched upon the concept of bastards’.

Lord Aerion, the father of young Orys

Nothing escaped my father’s keen purple eyes, not even a slight shrug that escaped my body whenever I heard the mention of the word. ‘You know the word well, don’t you Orys? Both the meaning and also that you are one’.As he said this, he put his hand behind my back and tapped it; motioning me to take a walk with him, presumably to the room where the meeting was to take place. ‘Let that word be your shield. Contrary to your wishes, the world won’t forget what you are…and neither should you’.

The High Septon

‘The High Septon once told me a king’s laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another. Trueborn children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but bastards are born of lust and weakness, he said. It mattered little whether a father decreed that his bastards were not bastards, he could never change their nature. The High Septon further concluded that all bastards are born to betrayal. Lust, weakness, and betrayal…these are not the qualities that I see in you, only unequal strength and steadfast loyalty to your house, Traits I have no doubt will bring honour to the family name in time’.

As soon as he finished saying those words, uncontrollable tears began to cloud my eyes.it obstructed my vision so much that I began to see red, but this was only because we had already gotten to the front of the red door of the council meeting chambers.

‘Does that answer your question son?’ ‘He asked, with his usual stern look etched upon his face. A smile was simply the answer that I gave him as I left to do something that I couldn’t quite remember but there was something about those words my father said that I couldn’t quite get out of my head. It was a spark that awoke something in me. From that day on till the day I finally became a man, I had only one aim, one purpose in sight…only to prove him right and to see that same look of pride in his eyes being directed at me every bit the same way as he looks at my elder brother Ageon, but sadly that was not to be.

Young Orys

A line comes to mind from one of the numerous poems written by my youngest sister which I think goes like ‘we men take delight in planning out our lives but the gods take satisfaction in foiling those plans.’

Could I never have any respite from the wrath of the gods? What did I do to wrong them so? As the man who made me into a living weapon burns away into dust before my very eyes, does all my hope of ever realizing my dreams follow it?

No, I would fight, I would persist as I had always had, and I would continue to fight against the odds constantly being stacked against me from my birth until now. My dreams weren’t lost. There was one constant thing even the gods couldn’t foil, couldn’t avoid, and it had visited Dragonstone, its name was change. My brother Ageon was lord now, and I would do my duty.

 

[stnylan]

Against all the philosophical questions, the need to fight to survive seems quite simple.

 

[josh97]

Chapter three: Everything changes and nothing changes

Clang

Steel met with steel; metallic melody echoed throughout the smoking hill. This was the music being constantly played each day in the courtyard adjacent to the armory of Dragonsgtone.

The garrison of Dragonstone undergoing their daily drilling

Two figures heading to the drilling grounds darted out of one of Dragonstone’s unique numerous towers called Windwyrm, which embodied the very definition of defiance with it being shaped like a dragon with its teeth bared out.

‘She will kill you!’ A smile etched on Aegon’s face was simply the reply that my brother gave to my grim warnings. ‘You think this is a joke don’t you?’ I hastily asked with an increasingly annoyed look on my face, as I jerked my right hand in front of to stop him from walking.

‘This is no joke brother! I’m not a man that anything scares easily except for two things; that damn volcanic mountain looming over us and our dear sister Visenya whom you’ve angered greatly by making me your heir, me… a bastard’.

Repercussions of legitimizing Orys

‘That’s not everything is it?’ Aegon asked with his smile still stuck on his face. ‘You are not afraid of that damn Mountain, you’re only terrified of the dragons residing within it, and Visenya’s ruthlessness scares the shit out of us all. You can see how being terrified of someone might strain the relationship between me and her, but our relationship is different… it’s one of true companionship and I knew from the first day we met that you would always be my strong stalwart right hand’.


VISENYA’S RUTHLESS STREAK

‘Your flattery and way with words might allure others, but you know that doesn’t work on me. What is the real reason that you named me your heir?’ It was at this moment that a sigh escaped his lips and the ever-increasing smile died upon my brother’s face.

‘Our sister Visenya is a very strong and capable heir…but as you know, we rarely see eye to eye. Contrary to my sister’s wishes for me to focus on the east, I know that my destiny lies in Westeros, but my sister feels that it is wrong of me to turn a deaf ear to the reclamation war currently being waged across all of Essos by Volantis’.



THE EASTERN WARS

‘We should either aid Tyrosh in fighting against Volantis or join Volantis in their bid to unite all of Essos and create a new Valyria’. Ageon spluttered out in a surprisingly feminine manner, most likely in a bid to imitate Visenya.


AEGON’S CHOICES

A few chuckles escaped my breath as soon as I heard this and I then quickly replied that I was surprised that our dear sister would suggest that we serve under Volantis in their war to subjugate all of Essos.
To which Aegon simply spluttered out ‘A dragon is no slave’.
As soon as that phrase escaped Aegon’s lips, it dawned on me that Visenya had suggested having him usurp Volantis later on… a plan which clearly disgusted him.

‘Aah, we’ve arrived’. I heard Ageon say with a tingle of excitement. I extended my gaze from him and noticed that we had reached the courtyard. Where is the master of arms? I asked my brother with a puzzled look etched upon my face. ‘father always said that lord Viserys was a competent commander.’ Ageon whispered darkly. ‘Normally, compliments are issued at a person when the said person is present, brother’.I said with a puzzling look still hanging upon my face. ‘I didn’t mean it as one’.my brother said as he looked at me with my facial expression mirrored back at me.

UNINSPIRING ATTRIBUTES OF LORD VISERYS

‘Lord Viserys has been relieved of his duties. He will no longer serve as my marshal. Don’t worry, suitable replacements are already on their way here as we speak, one of them even has a Valyrian steel sword just like mine.’


A Suitable replacement

‘Besides, this should be the least of your worries, because if everything should go according to plan, you will soon be married to the daughter of a king…a storm king’.

 

[stnylan]

As ever the Targaryens do seem to play "Happy Families" with a sort of wild abandon rarely matched by any others.

 

[josh97]

Note: remember when I said that this aar would take place mostly through the pov of Orys? well, this is the first of those instances where we see the story unfold through the eyes of another...


Chapter four: the calm before the storm

Every day, just before the sun sets, Argella frequents the Sept to light seven fires to the seven Gods. She prays for the constant safekeeping of her father during the numerous skirmishes between the Ironmen and her father’s forces usually taking place around the borders of the Stormlands. Although her father, for however as long as she knew him always had a disdainful attitude to the gods and their protection over him. ‘Only a god can kill another god, not men’. He had claimed but would still light the candles at the altar before going off to war. Unlike me, he clearly believed in the mythical origin of our house, that we are descendants of gods.

THE SEPT OF STORM’S END

But tonight was tense; anxious murmurs whispered through the castle’s ancient stone passageways and into her head. No god could push those away. It is time, the wild wind howled, it is time. ‘The last storm is coming’, Ivar the Boneless who slept by the door of Sept had told anyone who passed by. The court fool had a sinister malice in his tone that made his unhinged muttering sound even more ominous. No matter what the bravest soldiers claim, Argella did not doubt Ivar's wheezy voice rang in their nightmare.

The door to her chamber opened with a heavy drag of iron door. Sula, her fair-haired handmaiden stepped in. Argella could tell that she was keeping an eye on her due to her father's command. That much was obvious due to her demeanor, as she sighed to herself.

‘Would like me to send for the court fool, princess?’ She asked. ‘No’. Argella replied curtly and gawked at the window side. The constant storms that raged through the ship breaker bay just outside of her window gave further credit to the name of her father’s kingdom; The Stormlands.

‘Perhaps the court fool will have something amusing for you?’ She suggested. ‘No, thank you, Sula. I am not of the mood. You can leave.’ She said crudely but Sula hung back, clearly torn between her anger and the Storm King's command. Argella would pity her if she wasn't so determined to escape the cell of her chamber. ‘Just get me something from the kitchen, a lemon cake, preferably.’ She commanded and Sula left. In her place, an elderly maid, even more unrelenting, stood vigil.

By the time Sula returned with lemon cake and other delicacies, Argella was tugging at the sleeve of her robe, vexed from her father's inflexible orders. She understood her father wanted to shield her from awful rumors and talks of war as maidens should be, but Argella would rather hear them and be satisfied than wait in nervous tension for the worse.

She finished her cake and told the maid to share the leftovers among the guards. ‘I'd like to retire to bed.’ ‘Now, princess? ‘Asked Sula. ‘Yes.’ She snapped. Sula nodded and with the help of some other servants, made her bed. ‘Close the door behind you Sula and also help me with these’. As she gestured to her robe.

Sula nodded obediently and proceeded to take out her night robes. As soon her robes came off, Argella whirled around and stuffed the fabric into Sula's mouth. She thrashed and tried to scream but Argella being stronger than most girls easily muffled her efforts by fastening the robe around her mouth and hands. The girl almost gauged her eyes out but she succeeded in securing her.

ARGELLA’S PHYSIQUE

‘I am sorry for this but I will free you as soon as I get back. It won't be long.’ She dragged her beside her chamber-pot hidden behind her tub. ‘I would require your clothes.’ She did not wait for her answer and tugged it off her. Slipping into the threadbare blouse and skirt, Argella took off all her ornaments and laid down her hair into a tangled mess. Due to the chilly weather, they wore a heavy cloak and Argella hid under the woolen cloak.

She closed the door firmly behind her and tried to slip past the elderly maid who guarded her way. ‘The princess is off to bed, and she wishes not to be disturbed.’ Argella said in her best common folk imitation. ‘But the king told me not to leave her out of my sight.’ The elder maid argued. ‘Would you rather the princess complain that she could not sleep with you looming over her?’ the elder maid gave in with a frustrated grunt. Argella trusted she would not dare to disturb the 'sleeping princess'.

Maids were ghosts, no one noticed them coming and going. Argella took care not to look anyone in the eye. When she reached the throne room, it was bursting with throngs of people: her father's council members and advisers, all of Stormland's warriors ,lords both high and lowborn, captains and generals of his army, all of them crying out their opinions in squawky uproar that according to a maester, may very well match the roar of a dragon.

Argella meandered through the crowd; several grunted in annoyance as she tried to slip past them, some muttered ‘cunt’ and turned to scream again. Huge stone columns held up the throne room that glowed with large fires burning high up in numerous iron stands. Argilac Durrandon was perched atop a huge granite throne which could barely hold his gigantic physique, slumping to his left and clenching and unclenching his right fist, his usual indication of vexation. Before him, a kneeling Westerosi-valyrian messenger waited with head hung low.


THE THRONE OF THE STORMLANDS

‘Silence!’ Lord Quentyn the chief steward's voice boomed. ‘Read on.’ Her father commanded with a wave of his hand to the young master standing in front of the crowd with a scroll in his hand. The northern maester adjusted his bronze chain fastened around his neck and with a hint of mild amusement and much mockery, read on.

‘I am well acquainted with your daughter's beauty and aptitude and I have no doubt of her virtue and purity.’ Argella flushed as she recognized who it must be from. Her father had sent the marriage proposal only a few days ago; she had not expected an answer so soon. She had heard numerous maids’ talk of the Dragonlord's grace, his prowess as a warrior and a dragon-rider. Argella wondered what he was really like in reality. She had heard that his eldest sister-wife Visenya was not a very kind and pleasant lady and she carried the infamous Targaryen pride.

‘I am bound to my sisters by law and affection and I cannot spite them for their devotion. Orys, my most trusted adviser, and my lifetime companion and champion, however, remains unmarried and he is...’
The storm king cut him off. ‘I do not know of this Orys he speaks of?’

‘By all reports sire, I believe he is Ageon’s bastard half-brother, your grace’. The young master replied. ‘Spawn of some fishwife, no doubt’. Lord Quentyn Wylde cut in. The hall vibrated with wild laughter, Argella sunk with a heavy heart. Storm King Argilac however, was not laughing. Within moments he had gone from red to vibrant purple with anger. Argella could see the messenger cower by the aggressive hostility…a sheep among wolves.

‘That pretentious bastard. The nerve of him!’ Argilac's voice silenced the bustling chaos. ‘I promise him lands and my daughter's hand in marriage, and this is what the arrogant cunt offers in return. A bastard! Never will my daughter marry such lowborn scum!’ Thundering claps broke with loud cheers.

‘Quentyn! Bring the messenger forward.’ The Lord of Rainwood prompted by his orders, followed by three of his guards, seized the whimpering envoy and shoved him to the foot of the platform highlighting the throne, all the while mutterings of ‘half breed freak’ echoed throughout the crowd. Argilac rose from his throne and made his way down the steps; his heavy steps mingled the sound of his iron chainmail jingling with a swish of his golden cloak.

With a click, he unbuckled his sword and unsheathed the naked steel high up in the air. The messenger cried and struggled all the while being held down by the numerous guards flanking him. His sobs mixed with his words as he shouted mostly pleas and then threats, most of them about the repercussions of what this action would bring; ‘please, don’t do this!…lesser men anger Dragonlords at their own peril’.Argella turned away from the heart-breaking scene just moments before her father’s sword fell and then the hall was awash by waves of cheers from the excited crowd.

Argella could stay here no longer. Tripping and jostling through the crowd, she ran to her chamber, completely forgetting her disguise and all the while the wild wind howled; it is time…it is time.

The genesis

 

[stnylan]

Well she has some daring to her, doesn't she?

 

[josh97]

Well she has some daring to her, doesn't she?

you have no idea...the Durrandon family is so intriguing.

 

[josh97]

CHAPTER FIVE: FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

THE JEWEL OF THE IRON ISLES; HARRENHALL

The pandemonium enveloping the grounds around the harbor of Harrentown gripped as hard as the pitch black darkness of the deep; Alluring, mysterious, perilous. The bells were rung, bringing half of the people in the recently built town located just outside of Harrenhall to hear his words. And to Harren, the Darkness was as beautiful a creature as he had ever seen. He had its attention, baiting the entity with practiced and honeyed words that he would never remember giving.

Am I the only one seeing that?

There was a smile on his pudgy face. Not wide…just enough. His mind was a haze. The shouts from below were echoing within him.
The world never looked more beautiful before. The pitch black around him stood proudly as he had never seen them. Gradually churning themselves further into his mind forever.

Beside him the Red priest Aeron was bleeding, shackled, broken. His blood had fallen to the harbor, painting the wooden construction in a color more enthralling than the red color of the Aeron’s tattered robe.
The screams from the crowd had only gotten louder as the Darkness had taken notice of the scent. It was circling around the IronKing, asking…begging, salivating for another serving.

‘More creativity for more screams’. The darkness whispered.
Oh, how he longed for those screams.
He felt a tightening stimulus around his neck as if one the Darkness’s many tentacles slowly strangled him, tired of the waiting. ‘Let them feel it too…share it. Let them wane the pain!’


Do unto others…

To the council members standing around him, the so many times practiced speech was almost identical to the Ironborn mantra in the Iron king’s head, but what came next wasn’t planned or practiced.
The Darkness stopped it’s circling, seized its whispers, and waited enthralled. It would last but a moment. It was all it would take.
He looked straight at the Fish-lord behind him and smiled.

‘As long as I am your Ironking, Sedition shall never go unpunished’. He spoke quietly, but the words traveled well. ‘A lesson is to be taught on this fateful day… one that shows that even light bends in the depths’. The darkness started drooling.


What is dead is dead

ONE KING, TWO KINGDOMS

Harren stood in the empty throne room of Harrenhall. It had not been empty before his arrival, but courtiers and slaves alike were quickly made to leave as the Ironking roared at them. It was a dark room. His father’s favorite portraits of past Ironkings tried to bring some color into the man-made cavern that held the Salt throne.
The middle-aged king had hated those dead pictures all his life. He hated them still, for they stood as a constant reminder of his underachieving father.

He sat in the steps that led to the massive salt throne made out of blocks of oily black stone carved into the shape of a Kraken, legend says that it was found by the First Men on the shores of Old Wyk when they came to the Iron Islands. His gaze wandered to the portrait of the Ironking ancestor that conquered the Riverlands, which was close to the bleak walls to the right of the most powerful throne in all of Westeros.

THE PORTRAIT OFHARWYN HOARE ALSO KNOWN AS ‘THE HARDHAND’

His right hand was slowly caressing his still throbbing neck, rubbing, messaging and scratching the pain away. He was still hearing it, and even if he had had every soul removed from the entire colossus of his keep, he would still hear the sounds, the whispers, the words, the screaming…the Darkness. Sounds that were his only solace as the colors around him gradually drained away. Sounds that he was sure only could be heard by him alone.

His predicament worsened still as his haze-filled mind was interrupted by the Fish lord’s brother opening the doors to the throne room.
The Fish brothers had passed through his beast of a bodyguard guarding the door. An achievement on its own right he supposed.

THE IRONKING’S BODYGUARD

Harren’s gaze was jealously fixed on the pace with which the Fish-lord entered the room…clearly, he had not yet reached the winter of his youth.
Haren took his eyes away from his new Master of laws in an attempt to clear his haze-filled mind. This didn’t work. As his council member’s footsteps grew nearer so did the whispers.
The bald king didn’t even look at his vassal-like son standing in front of him.

The Ironking’s face betrayed nothing despite his troubles, hoping that it would dissuade the whispers from progressing.
It was only making it worse.
Until it stopped. Only for a glorious moment.

It took Harren another moment more to note that there was now a sharp pain in his nose. He was bleeding. The fact that the Fish-lord had punched him took long to fall into place.
‘You fucking idiot!’ The Fish lord hushed.
The Ironking moved his hand to his bleeding nose, bringing the blood into the light.
To him, it looked the most beautiful thing in the damp room.

His beast of a bodyguard standing behind the Fish-lord sheathed his blade halfway but the king swatted away the motion with a flick of his hand.
‘Leave me with Lord Tully.’
The bodyguard obeyed with a huff.
‘Goodbrother, leave your sword with me.’
‘Yes, your Grace.’

As his bodyguard closed the throne room’s door, the Ironking placed the cold steel against his nose. He could almost feel his advisor’s scowling eyes on him.

‘Speak your piece, son.’

‘The red priest was supposed to be the genesis of a new chapter in our story. A public show of mercy was needed to calm the nerves of the Riverlords, to suppress any notion of rebellion brewing underneath, to show my people that you were tolerant of other religions and ease their nerves after your massive slave raid on your own lands to fuel your monstrosity’s construction! By your actions today…You just won yourself nothing but hatred!’ The Riverlord’s tone had started even, but he had finished in a yell.

‘You speak but of a heathen that got a heathen’s death, my charms of persuasion convinced him to divulge the location of the Hellhorn, and I rewarded him for that… I granted him mercy!’


‘A heathen that could have given you peace in the Riverlands. The chance now forever lost to your bloodlust! I saw your face ‘my beloved father’, what else would you call the ‘lesson’ that you gave outside?’

‘I would call it justice. Mercy even. If I had had what I wanted he would have been slowly sawed in half. With the Drowned God as my witness, I would have delivered both parts to each of his parents as a gift. He…was lucky.’

Harren moved the blade to share its cold with his burning forehead. His ‘son’ wasn’t finished.
‘There were no Gods and there was no mercy on the Harbour today. You had your speech. You even practiced it. And you gave everything away in a moment of folly.” He stopped. ‘You’ve cost me the peace that I’ve worked so hard to maintain’ was added.

‘No deed no matter how good carried out by me or my family could never be enough to dissuade your people from carrying out their disillusioned war for independence. Let those cunts have their war.’
Lord Tully gave a disgusted snort.
“War is bad for any kingdom ... Weakness invites attack. To be strong, we must have peace.”
‘Quoting some poet? The Ironking replied with a hint of scorn in his voice.
‘Your great-grandfather.’
‘My great-grandfather is not a man I wish to model after.’

‘You would rather be Halleck the Second of his name.’
The pain in him flared. Harren pushed the Fish-lord against the wall behind him.
‘If you must insult me I would rather it be after your foolish kinsman Samwell Rivers. If someone more extreme is needed call me Hardhand the second. But you will not name me after my father again!’

He wanted to scream it, but his haze-filled mind resented the try. He ended with a rough hiss and shut his eyes to calm his mind. Harren sat on the stone floor and looked again at his father’s portraits.
He suddenly punched his ‘son’ in the nose, causing him to fall.
He had been hit by him earlier after all. No one should think the King’s ‘son’ might strike their King with impunity, even if the person was like a son to him.

‘Do me one last favor 'son' and relay my warning to your people, if they do decide to go against their rightful liege lord and try to win an impossibly difficult war…tell them that they can rally their legions of traitors, they can even seek out an alliance with their former overlord, I care not. Before the war ends, I will visit ‘my mercy’ on whatever traitors fall within my grasp. I will come for them all…even you if need be.’

 

[josh97]

My sincerest apologies to the readers of this aar for the late posting of the latest chapter...life happened I guess and in a couple of weeks time I'm going on a kind of an adventure; its basically a compulsory one year program organized by my country's government for its graduates... so yeah, I'm gonna be real busy real soon, but I promise that this aar isn't abandoned and I will get back to it when I have the time.

 

[josh97]

Finally back... currently writing a new chapter. Sorry for the wait.

 

[josh97]

would you guys like me to continue?