The wind tore at Cersei Lannister's golden hair, yanking strands loose from the intricate braids pinned with ruby-studded clasps. They lashed across her face like tiny whips, stinging her cheeks as she stood rigid on the Red Keep's highest balcony, her emerald eyes narrowed against the gusts. Below, King's Landing sprawled in a filthy haze—its crooked streets and stinking hovels a mockery of the majesty she deserved. Beyond the city walls, far past the reach of even the sharpest Gold Cloak archer, plumes of dust rose like specters on the horizon. Two armies, her scouts had stammered minutes ago—the Targaryen boy with his dragon and Dornish rabble, and some fool leading the Golden Company—converging in the open fields. Too far to strike, too close to ignore.
Her hands, pale and trembling with fury, gripped the balcony's iron railing. The cold metal bit into her palms, and her knuckles whitened beneath the weight of her rings—gaudy things, gold and emerald, glittering like the Lannister pride she wore as armor. Her gown, a deep crimson slashed with gold thread, clung to her frame, the heavy velvet hem snapping in the wind like a lion's tail. She'd chosen it this morning to remind her court of her power, her birthright, but now it felt like a shroud, too warm, too tight, as sweat beaded beneath her corset.
"They're out there, Your Grace," Ser Boros Blount wheezed, lumbering onto the balcony behind her. His white cloak hung limp, stained with sweat and grime, a disgrace to the Kingsguard he'd once pretended to honor. His plump face glistened, red as a ripe apple, and his small eyes darted nervously to the horizon. "The dragon-boy and those sellswords—too far for arrows, but they'll come for us soon enough."
Cersei's lip curled, a sneer twisting her features—her high cheekbones sharp as blades, her full mouth tightening into a thin, venomous line. "Do you think me blind, you oaf?" she snapped, her voice a lash of silk and steel. She didn't turn to face him; her gaze stayed fixed on those distant clouds of dust, swirling like the chaos she'd spent years suppressing. "Or deaf, perhaps? I heard the scouts' bleating. Two armies, yes—let them tear each other to ribbons. Let the dragon burn those gilded curs, and maybe we'll scoop up the scraps."
Her thoughts churned, bitter and jagged. The Targaryen boy—that's what she called him in her mind, a bastard whelp of Rhaegar's loins, no doubt, with his cursed dragon and his Dornish whores. She didn't know who led the Golden Company—some pretender, some sellsword with delusions of a crown—but she prayed to the Seven they'd clash and bleed each other dry. A dark laugh bubbled in her throat, unvoiced. Let the smallfolk cheer their new savior. They'll choke on ash when I'm done.
"Your Grace," came another voice, soft and oily as a snake's hiss. Qyburn shuffled forward, his black robes dragging across the stone, the hem frayed and dusty. His hunched shoulders and bald pate made him look like a vulture circling a corpse, but his eyes—small, dark, and gleaming—betrayed the mind that had kept her alive this long. "The wildfire caches are nearly ready. A word, and we can turn the city into a pyre before they ever breach the gates."
Cersei's head snapped toward him, her hair whipping across her shoulder like a golden banner. Her eyes blazed, green as wildfire. "Nearly?" she hissed, stepping closer, her skirts rustling with each sharp stride. She loomed over him, though he was taller when unbent, her chin tilted imperiously. "You dare bring me nearly when dragons circle my city? I want them ready now, Qyburn—every vat, every barrel, primed to burn this cesspit to the ground if that boy dares cross my walls."
Qyburn bowed his head, a faint smile tugging at his thin lips—too knowing, too smug for her liking. "As you command, Your Grace. The alchemists work tirelessly. A few hours more, and—"
"Hours?" Cersei's voice rose, sharp enough to cut glass. She seized his sleeve, her nails digging into the coarse black fabric, and yanked him closer. His breath smelled of herbs and decay, and she wrinkled her nose, her face contorting in disgust. "You think I have hours while that dragon roasts my enemies—or me? Move faster, or I'll have your head roasting on a spit instead!"
She shoved him back, and he stumbled, catching himself against the railing with a bony hand. His smile didn't falter, though his eyes flickered with something darker. "It will be done," he murmured, retreating with a shallow bow. "The city will blaze at your whim."
Cersei turned away, her chest heaving beneath the tight lacing of her bodice. Her fingers flexed, itching to claw something—someone—to pieces. Whim, she thought, the word a dagger in her mind. As if I'd burn my throne for a whim. No, it's survival—mine, my children's, my legacy. She imagined the smallfolk's screams, their grubby hands reaching for a new king—traitors, all of them. She'd seen it before: the cheers for Robert, for anyone but her. They'd welcome this Targaryen boy, dragon or not, and her Small Council—those scheming rats—would nod and simper and plot her fall.
Her gaze flicked back to the horizon. The dust clouds thickened, and now she could make out faint shapes—banners, perhaps, or the glint of steel. Too far to see clearly, but close enough to knot her stomach. She leaned forward, her elbows braced on the railing, the iron cold against her forearms. A gust snagged her sleeve, fluttering the gold embroidery like a tattered flag, and she cursed under her breath.
"Ser Boros," she barked, straightening abruptly, her posture regal despite the tremor in her hands. "The Gold Cloaks—where are they?"
"On the walls, Your Grace," he replied, shifting his bulk uncomfortably. His breastplate creaked, too tight around his gut, and sweat trickled into his bushy brows. "Two thousand. Bows ready, though they can't hit a damn thing from here."
"Useless," she muttered, her voice dripping with scorn. She paced to the edge of the balcony, her slippers silent on the worn stone, and peered down at the battlements. The Gold Cloaks milled like ants—specks of yellow against the gray, their longbows clutched in nervous hands. She could almost hear their whispers, their doubts. They'll turn on me the moment that dragon flaps closer, she thought, her jaw tightening. Cowards and turncoats, every one.
She whirled back to Boros, her skirts swirling around her ankles. "Tell them to hold the gates," she snapped, pointing a ringed finger at him. "If those armies finish their little dance and come for us, I want every man ready to die before they let a single spear through. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Boros mumbled, bowing awkwardly. His chins wobbled as he backed away, nearly tripping over his own cloak. "I'll see to it."
"See that you do," she called after him, her tone icy. "Or I'll have your fat head on a pike to greet our guests."
"They'll come," she muttered to herself, her voice low, almost a growl. She set the goblet down with a clatter, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—a graceless gesture she'd never allow in court. "They'll come, and they'll find nothing but fire waiting."
Her thoughts spiraled, dark and vicious. The smallfolk will cheer him—the dragon-boy, the savior. They'll forget me, forget Tommen, forget Myrcella. Forget everything I've bled for. She pictured their dirty faces, their grasping hands, their fickle love turning to another. Ungrateful pigs. And her council—Pycelle with his trembling hands, that oily upstart Qyburn, the rest of them—plotting behind her back, ready to bend the knee the moment her grip faltered. Traitors. All of them.
Another roar, louder now, rolled over the fields. Cersei's head jerked up, her goblet tipping in her haste. Wine splashed across the table, pooling like blood, and she cursed, slamming her fist into the wood. Pain flared up her arm, but she welcomed it—something real, something she could control. She strode back to the railing, her movements jerky, her gown dragging behind her like a wounded beast.
The dust clouds were shifting now, swirling into chaos. She couldn't see the banners, couldn't hear the clash of steel, but she knew. Battle. Death. Good, she thought, a savage smile curling her lips, though her eyes burned with something closer to fear. Let them butcher each other. Let the dragon feast on sellsword flesh. I'll outlast them all.
She gripped the railing again, her knuckles white as bone, and leaned into the wind. Her hair streamed behind her, a golden flag of defiance, but inside, her heart thudded a traitor's rhythm. They're too far, she told herself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. Too far to touch me yet. But the dragon's shadow loomed in her mind, and for the first time that day, Cersei Lannister felt the chill of helplessness seep into her bones.
The Golden Company
The wind swept across the open fields beyond King's Landing, tugging at Aegon's silver hair as he rode at the head of his 9,000 Golden Company soldiers. The strands gleamed like molten moonlight, spilling over his shoulders and catching the midday sun—a crown of his own making, he thought, far finer than any iron circlet. His purple eyes, sharp and bright as polished amethysts, scanned the flat expanse ahead, the terrain stretching wide and unbroken. He sat tall in the saddle, his lean frame clad in a doublet of black silk slashed with gold, the colors of his army shimmering like a promise. Over it, a cape of deep violet flowed behind him, pinned at the shoulder with a dragon-shaped clasp of polished obsidian—a nod to the Targaryen blood he claimed as his own.
The black-and-gold banners of the Golden Company snapped in the breeze, held aloft by grim-faced standard-bearers marching in tight ranks behind him. Their armor clinked with each step—9,000 strong, battered from Harrenhal, but still a force to reckon with. Aegon's destrier, a sleek black beast with a mane braided in gold thread, snorted beneath him, its hooves kicking up clods of dry earth. He patted its neck absently, his leather-gloved hand steady, though a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his brow beneath the silver fringe of his hair.
"This is it, my soldiers," he called over his shoulder, his voice ringing with a practiced lilt. "Today, we take the first step to the Iron Throne. My brother's out there—Jaehaerys, another son of Rhaegar. He'll see the truth, and together we'll storm that stinking city."
His captains rode close, their horses snorting plumes of steam into the cool air. Jonathar. "Your Grace," he rumbled, his voice thick with caution, "that crimson beast circles above the Dornish lines. A dragon's no small thing—fire don't care for blood ties if it's loosed."
Aegon laughed, a bright, careless sound that rolled across the ranks. He tossed his head, letting his hair ripple like a banner, and flashed a grin—teeth white and even, a prince's smile. "Fire bends to family, Jonathar," he said, leaning forward in the saddle, one hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. The blade, a fine Essosi steel with a hilt shaped like a dragon's claw, hung at his hip, more ornament than weapon—he'd never been much for fighting, not when words could win what steel couldn't. "Jaehaerys is my brother—Rhaegar's blood flows in us both. He'll hear my tale and bend the knee. That dragon's ours to command."
The captain's frown deepened, creasing his weathered skin. He scratched at his beard, his gauntleted fingers rasping against the coarse hair. "And if he don't buy it, lad? That beast could roast us before we draw swords. I don't want to see again what I saw in Harrenhal."
A flicker of irritation tightened Aegon's jaw, though his smile held, brittle as glass. He straightened, his cape billowing as he turned his horse to face a Captain fully. "I am Aegon, firstborn of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, saved from the Sack by Varys's cunning. Jaehaerys will know me—he must. The Golden Company fights for me, not some bastard whelp with a lizard."
His thoughts churned beneath the bravado, a current of unease he refused to acknowledge. He'll believe me, he told himself, gripping the reins until the leather creaked. I've the look—silver hair, purple eyes, the mark of the dragon. Jon Connington drilled it into me: I'm the true heir, the one who lived. He'd spent years in Essos, a prince in hiding, fed tales of his miraculous escape—a babe swapped for a decoy, smuggled across the Narrow Sea while the Mountain crushed a stranger's skull. It was his truth, his destiny. Jaehaerys would see it—or he'd die denying it.
Another captain, Lysono Maar, nudged his horse closer. The Lyseni's pale skin gleamed beneath a helm adorned with golden spikes, and his painted nails tapped a rhythm on his thigh. His voice was smooth, lilting with an eastern accent. "The dragon's a fine sight, I'll grant you," he said, tilting his head to peer at the sky. "Red as blood, wings black as night. But it's circling their army, not ours. I'd wager it's not here for a family reunion, Your Grace."
Aegon's smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, before he forced it back, wider and sharper than before. He waved a hand dismissively. "You worry like old women," he said, his tone light but edged with steel. "That dragon's a sign—proof of our blood, our right. Jaehaerys will parley, and when he does, he'll see I'm the elder, the true king. We'll march on King's Landing as one."
Maar arched a plucked brow, his lips pursing into a thin, skeptical line. "And if he calls you a liar? That Dornish host looks eager for blood—spears gleaming, banners thick as flies. They outnumber us, dragon or no."
"Then we fight," Aegon shot back, his voice rising, sharp enough to turn heads among the nearest ranks. He wheeled his horse again, facing the fields, his cape snapping behind him like a whip. "But it won't come to that. I'm no pretender—I'm Targaryen, born to rule. He'll see it in my face, hear it in my words."
He raised a hand, and the Golden Company halted with a rumble of boots and hooves. The banners dipped, their black fields stitched with golden skulls swaying in the wind. Aegon dismounted, his boots sinking into the dry grass, and strode forward a few paces, his cape trailing like a shadow. He planted his feet wide, hands on his hips, and stared across the field. There, half a league away, the Dornish army sprawled—a bristling mass of spears and sand-colored cloaks. Above them, the dragon circled, its red scales a wound against the sky, its black wings beating with lazy menace.
"Look at them," Aegon said, half to himself, half to his captains as they gathered behind him. His voice softened, almost reverent. "My brother's host—Dornish fire, Targaryen blood. They're mine to claim." He turned, his grin returning, boyish and bold. "Signal the parley, Jacob. White flag, high and proud. Let's meet this Jaehaerys and show him his king."
One of the captains grunted, his meaty hand tugging at a pouch on his belt. He pulled out a scrap of white cloth, tying it to a spear with reluctant fingers. "Hope you're right, lad," he muttered, heaving the spear aloft. The cloth fluttered, a stark surrender against the black-and-gold sea. "That dragon's got a hungry look."
Aegon ignored him, his gaze locked on the distant army. He smoothed his doublet, brushing dust from the gold embroidery, and adjusted the sword at his hip—a king's posture, he thought, practiced in mirrors across a dozen cities. His heart thudded, fast and eager, though a thread of something colder wove through it. What if he doesn't believe? The question came like a bad root on a flower, and he crushed it down, clenching his fists until his gloves creaked. He will. I'm Aegon Targaryen, the son who lived. Fire bends to family.
Jaehaerys
The wind whispered across the open field, a dry rustle through the brittle grass, as Jaehaerys Targaryen swung down from Rhaenix's saddle. His boots hit the earth with a soft thud, kicking up a puff of dust that clung to the hem of his sand-colored cloak—a gift from Dorne, its edges embroidered with crimson serpents. Beneath it, his tunic was a deep indigo, slashed with silver thread that caught the sunlight.
Rhaenix settled behind him, her crimson scales glinting like fresh-spilled blood, her black wings folding with a leathery creak. She loomed, her long neck arched as she sniffed the air, her purple eyes narrowed to slits. Her tail lashed once, carving a shallow trench in the dirt, and Jaehaerys rested a gloved hand on her flank, feeling the heat pulse beneath her armored hide. "Easy, girl," he murmured.
Before him, the Dornish army stretched in a disciplined line—thousands strong, their spears glinting like a forest of steel. Oberyn Martell stood at their fore, his lean frame taut as a drawn bow, clad in a tunic of burnt orange beneath a breastplate etched with vipers. His dark eyes smoldered, and his hand rested on the hilt of his spear, fingers twitching. Beside him, the Sand Snakes—Nymeria, Tyene, and Obara—shifted restlessly, their silks and leathers a riot of color against the muted sands of their kin. Further back, the Kingsguard trio—Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent—stood like statues.
Jaehaerys straightened, his cloak settling around his broad shoulders, and watched the party stride forward, led by someone—silver-haired, purple-eyed. A white flag fluttered above him, tied to a spear held by a burly captain with a graying beard.
The boy halted a dozen paces away, planting his boots wide, hands on his hips. His grin was wide, boyish, and brimming with rehearsed conviction. "Jaehaerys Targaryen!" he called, his voice ringing across the field, clear and bold. "I am Aegon Targaryen, firstborn of Rhaegar and Elia Martell, saved by Varys during the Sack of King's Landing." He gestured grandly to himself, his cape snapping in the wind, then swept an arm toward the Golden Company's ranks behind him—black-and-gold banners swaying over a sea of steel. "Elia swapped me for a decoy—Gregor crushed a stranger's child, not me. You're my brother, Jaehaerys. Together, we can take the throne—two sons of Rhaegar, united at last."
The words hung in the air, bold and bright, and Jaehaerys tilted his head. His expression remained calm, almost serene, though his purple eyes darkened, a storm brewing beneath the surface. He clasped his hands behind his back, the leather of his gloves creaking, and let silence stretch.
Oberyn broke the quiet first, stepping forward with a predator's grace. "Elia would die before handing her son to that spider," he spat his voice a venomous hiss that cut through the wind. He jabbed a finger at Aegon, his spear trembling in his grip, the point gleaming wickedly. "She cradled Rhaenys to her last breath—clung to her even as the Mountain's boots stomped closer. Why not save her too, you lying cur? Your tale's a mockery of my sister's blood!"
Aegon flinched, a subtle jerk of his shoulders, though he masked it with a laugh—high and sharp, too forced. He tossed his head, silver hair rippling, and spread his hands, palms up, as if offering peace. "Uncle Oberyn," he said, his tone smooth, coaxing, "I know it's hard to hear. But Elia had no choice—Varys acted swiftly, took me from her arms to save the line. Rhaenys... she couldn't be saved. It was chaos. I live because of her sacrifice."
Oberyn's lip curled, baring his teeth in a snarl. His hand tightened on his spear, the shaft quivering as he took a half-step forward, his knuckles whitening. "Sacrifice?" he roared, his voice raw, cracking with grief and rage. "Elia would've clawed Varys's eyes out before letting him touch her babes! You're no nephew of mine—you're a fraud, a thief of her name!" His arm twitched, the spear rising an inch, and Jaehaerys shot him a glance—sharp, fleeting, a silent command. Oberyn froze, his chest heaving, but his eyes never left Aegon, promising death.
Jaehaerys stepped forward, and then he stopped close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on the pretender's brow. "The Golden Company," he said, his voice calm but cutting, each word precise as a blade's edge. "Forged by Bittersteel to seat Blackfyres on the throne—not Targaryens. Why do they follow you?"
Aegon blinked, his grin slipping, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips—a quick, nervous flick. He recovered fast, squaring his shoulders. "They've forsaken old feuds," he said, though his voice wavered, a crack in the facade. "They see my claim—Rhaegar's son, Elia's heir. They fight for a true king, not some dead grudge."
"If what you are saying is true." Nymeria started, looking at the man pretending to be Aegon. "Why was the Golden Company at Harrenhal fighting for the Bastard King, Tywin Lannister, and Renly Baratheon. We received word from Queen Daenerys after she took Harrenhal, and in her letter she talked about how much from your army she had to burn, why side with the enemy then?"
"If what I'm saying is true?" he echoed, his voice pitching up, a touch too loud, as he planted his boots wider, hands on his hips. "You must be one of Uncle Oberyn's daughters, you wound me with your doubt! The Golden Company fights for me—Aegon Targaryen, firstborn of Rhaegar and Elia—not some bastard king or Lannister cur."
His grin stretched wide, teeth flashing white, though his lips twitched, betraying the strain. "Harrenhal?" he continued, his tone smoothing out, rehearsed and oily now, as he leaned forward slightly, one brow arching. "A misunderstanding, nothing more. We were... negotiating, yes—testing the field, gathering allies. Tywin and Renly thought they could use us, but I turned their game against them. Daenerys burned what she didn't understand—sellswords caught in the chaos, not my true strength."
Jaehaerys's eyes narrowed, his head tilting further. He studied Aegon. A mummer's mask, he thought, his mind turning like a wheel. But the cracks show. Then, Rhaenix's voice filled his head: "He lies. No child was swapped—our mother held me as I died. I was there, I saw Aegon being crushed. HE IS LYING. I WILL BURN HIM!"
The words struck like a hammer, and Jaehaerys's breath caught, a faint hitch no one saw. His gaze flicked to Rhaenix. Her memory—seep into him. Elia's arms, tight and trembling, cradling a girl as steel crashed and blood pooled. No swap, no savior—just death, and a dragon born from its ashes. His fingers flexed behind his back, the leather creaking again, and a cold resolve settled in his chest.
"Well, brother?" he pressed, his voice rising, a touch desperate. "You see it, don't you? Our father's blood, our mother's line—we're meant to rule together. Say it, Jaehaerys. Join me."
Jaehaerys's gaze hardened, his purple eyes turning to ice. He stepped closer. "You're no kin of mine—a Blackfyre remnant draped in stolen colors. Your tale's a lie, and your blood's a sham."
Aegon's face twisted. "You're wrong!" he shouted, his hands balling into fists, the rings on his fingers glinting as he jabbed a finger at Jaehaerys. "I'm Aegon Targaryen—I lived, I'm the heir! You're the bastard, some Dornish by-blow with a pet lizard! You'll regret this!"
Oberyn barked a laugh, harsh and mocking, his spear slamming into the ground with a thud. "Pet lizard?" he sneered, his dark eyes glinting with savage glee. "That 'lizard' will roast your pretty hair off, boy. Call him a bastard again, and I'll gut you myself."
Aegon flinched, his cape fluttering as he stumbled back a step, his bravado cracking. His captains shifted behind him, hands on swords. Jaehaerys raised a hand, stilling Oberyn, though his eyes never left Aegon. "Go," he said, his voice a quiet thunder. "Take your sellswords and run. Or stay, and burn."
Aegon's defiance flared one last time—his lips curled, his shoulders squared—but then Rhaenix growled, a deep, guttural sound that rattled the air. Her wings twitched, half-unfurling, and a wisp of smoke curled from her jaws. Aegon's eyes darted to her, his defiance crumbling into fear—his face paled, his hands trembling as he backed away. "This isn't over," he spat, turning on his heel, his cape whipping behind him as he fled to his lines.
Jaehaerys watched him go, his expression unreadable, though his heart pounded—a drumbeat of fire and blood. Rhaenix's voice echoed again, soft and sure: "The liar flees. Finish it, brother." He nodded, a single, sharp motion, and turned to Oberyn. "Ready the men," he said, his voice steady once more. "This ends now."
Oberyn grinned a wolf's smile, and hefted his spear. "With pleasure, my King."
.
.
The field trembled as Aegon stumbled back from the parley, his violet cape flapping like a wounded bird. His silver hair whipped across his face, and his purple eyes blazed with a mix of panic and fury. "Attack!" he bellowed, his voice cracking as he waved his sword—a polished, useless thing—toward Jaehaerys's Dornish line. "Crush them! Take the dragon-boy's head!" The Golden Company surged forward, 9,000 swords glinting in the sun, their black-and-gold banners snapping as they charged. But the roar of Rhaenix, Jaehaerys's crimson dragon, split the air—a bone-rattling thunder—and the sellswords faltered. More than half peeled away, boots pounding the dirt as they fled toward the horizon, shields clattering to the ground.
"Traitors!" Aegon shrieked, his face twisting into a snarl as he whirled on his retreating men. "Cowards! I'll have your heads for this!" His voice was shrill, swallowed by the wind and the growing chaos, but the loyal remnants—some 4,000 strong—pressed on, steel raised, driven by gold or desperation. More than half of the army was running away, they didn't know where they were going, but they were running.
Jaehaerys leapt onto Rhaenix's back, his sand-colored cloak billowing as he gripped the ridges along her neck. "Up!" he shouted, his singer's voice ringing clear over the din. Rhaenix's black wings unfurled with a snap, kicking up a storm of dust, and she launched skyward, her crimson scales flashing like a blood-red comet. Her roar shook the earth, a primal bellow that sent horses rearing and men staggering, and Jaehaerys's purple eyes locked on the battlefield below, cold and unyielding.
"Burn away the lie," he said, his tone low, a command wrapped in calm fury. Rhaenix's jaws parted, and crimson flames erupted—a molten torrent that carved a searing line through the Golden Company's ranks. Sellswords screamed as fire swallowed them, armor melting into flesh, swords dropping from charred hands. The stench of burning hair and metal rose, sharp and acrid, as panic ripped through Aegon's army like a plague.
On the ground, Oberyn Martell charged, his spear a blur of steel and fury. "For Elia!" he roared, his orange tunic flashing as he drove the point through a sellsword's chest, twisting it free in a spray of blood. His dark hair streamed behind him, and his grin was feral, teeth bared as he plunged into the fray. The Sand Snakes followed, weaving through the chaos with deadly grace—Nymeria's small swords cutting through the small gaps, Tyene's daggers flashing, Obara's spear punching through armor. "Keep up, my daughters!" Oberyn shouted, laughing as he ducked a wild swing and gutted another foe. "This is Dornish sport!"
Arthur Dayne moved like a storm, Dawn flashing in his hands—a pale streak that cut through sellswords like wheat before a scythe. His white cloak swirled, unstained despite the blood pooling at his feet, and his face was a mask of grim focus. Beside him, Gerold Hightower roared, his broadsword cleaving a man from shoulder to hip, while Oswell Whent anchored the line, his blade a steady rhythm of death. "Hold fast!" Hightower bellowed, his voice a thunderclap over the screams. "They break or we do!"
The Golden Company faltered under the dual assault—dragonfire raining from above, Dornish steel tearing through below. Men stumbled over their own dead, shields splintering, banners trampled into the mud. Aegon stood amidst the wreckage, his black-and-gold doublet streaked with soot, his sword shaking in his grip. "Stand, damn you!" he yelled, shoving a fleeing captain back into the fray. "I'm your king—fight!" His silver hair was plastered with sweat, his handsome face contorted with desperation as he rallied what little remained.
Jaehaerys spotted him from above, a lone figure shouting in the chaos. "There," he said, leaning forward, his gloved hands tightening on Rhaenix's scales. Her golden eyes narrowed, and she dove, talons gleaming like obsidian daggers. The wind howled past Jaehaerys, tugging at his indigo tunic, as Rhaenix's wings angled sharp and deadly. Aegon looked up, his purple eyes widening, mouth opening in a silent scream—and then the fire came.
A precise blast of crimson flame engulfed him, a roaring column that turned his silver hair to ash in an instant. His violet cape ignited, his doublet melted into his skin, and his sword clattered to the ground as he crumpled, a blackened husk swallowed by the inferno. His scream—high, piercing—was lost in the dragon's roar. Rhaenix pulled up, her wings beating hard, and Jaehaerys's face remained stone-cold, his purple eyes reflecting the flames below.
Leaderless, the Golden Company broke. The few hundred still fighting threw down their weapons, hands raised in surrender, while others fled, scattering like rats from a sinking ship. "Mercy!" one cried, dropping to his knees as Obara's spear hovered at his throat. "We're done—mercy!" The Dornish closed in, spears and swords flashing, but Jaehaerys raised a hand from Rhaenix's back, his voice cutting through the din: "Enough! Take the living—let the rest run."
Oberyn yanked his spear free from a corpse, wiping blood from his brow with a grin. "Pity," he called up to Jaehaerys, his tone mocking. "I was just warming up." Nymeria laughed, coiling her whip, while Tyene sheathed her daggers with a pout. Arthur sheathed Dawn, his white cloak billowing as he surveyed the carnage—thousands dead, the field a smoking ruin of twisted metal and charred flesh.
Far across the field, beyond the reach of the fight, Cersei Lannister stood on the Red Keep's balcony, her golden hair whipping in the wind. She squinted at the distant flames, her emerald eyes narrowing as the crimson dragon swooped and roared. Her crimson gown clung to her, heavy with sweat, and her hands gripped the iron railing, knuckles white beneath her rings. The faint echo of screams reached her, carried on the breeze, and her heart sank—a cold, heavy weight in her chest.
"What's that?" she snapped, turning to Ser Boros Blount, who hovered at her side, his fat face glistening with nervous sweat. "What's happening out there?"
Boros swallowed hard, his white cloak limp and stained. "The dragon, Your Grace," he stammered, pointing a trembling finger. "It's burning them—looks like the sellswords are done for. The Dornish are cutting through what's left."
Cersei's lip curled, a sneer masking the tremor in her voice. "Good," she said, though her grip tightened, the metal biting into her palms. "Let them slaughter each other. Less for us to kill." But her eyes betrayed her—wide, flickering with dread as Rhaenix's shadow stretched across the sky, a harbinger of what was to come.
Below, around the wall of King's Landing, her 2,000 Gold Cloaks muttered, their yellow cloaks fluttering as they shifted uneasily. "Dragon's real," one whispered, his bow sagging in his hands. "Ain't no pay worth this." Another nodded, glancing at the gates. "She'll burn us all—wildfire or not." Their loyalty frayed, thread by thread, as the distant firelight danced in their eyes.
Jaehaerys landed Rhaenix amid the wreckage, her talons sinking into the scorched earth. He slid from her back, his cloak settling around him, and surveyed the field—Golden Company banners trampled, bodies strewn like broken toys. Oberyn approached, his spear dripping red, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, your grace," he said, his grin wide. "Elia can rest more easy now, knowing there's no one out there pretending to be her son."
Jaehaerys nodded, his expression calm but his purple eyes burning with purpose. "It's not over," he replied, glancing toward King's Landing, its walls a faint gray line on the horizon. "The city's next."
Rhaenix rumbled, smoke curling from her jaws, and Oberyn laughed again. "Then let's give Cersei a proper welcome," he said, hefting his spear. "Dorne's not done dancing yet."