Chapter 25: The Man Comes Around
129 Fourth Day of the Third Moon
(Johnny Cash 'The Man Comes Around)
'-And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
One of the four beasts saying,
'Come and see.' and I saw, and behold an Iron Throne-'
"Do we have more work to do, Dad?" my son asked.
Aerys sat in my lap as I finished signing and sealing the final document on my lantern lit desk. He and I stay up late each night, each of us working in our own way. After it dried, I held the velum up for him and pointed to where it needed to go on a rack to await delivery.
As if summoned, Maester Zeddicus arrived as soon as young Aerys stepped away from the shelf and looked to me for approval. The grey robed man stood tall, even by my standards, and whip thin limbs stretched under the drab fabric of his order. The dark bags under his eyes had little to do with the late hour, and more to do with the constant fatigue of keeping up with both Helaena's Horde and the score of apprentices I foisted on him to spread out medical knowledge in my domain.
"Urgent message from the Capital, my Prince." the tired man announced, likely woken from bed by one of those apprentices to deliver the small sealed parchment.
The red wax sported the signet of Lord Commander Criston Cole, and Aerys climbed back into my lap to read it for himself.
"What does it say, Dad?" he inquired as I worked through the encrypted short hand he and I used for raven correspondence.
I tilted my head back as I slowly filled my lungs, then let out a deep sigh.
"The King has died." I informed my son, holding back Ser Criston's words concerning the lockdown of that information and readiness of my forces in the capital.
"Grandpa is dead?" Aerys sounded ready to cry, so I grabbed him by the chin and made him look me in the eyes.
"Do not weep for him." I counseled, "My father lived a good life, and suffered greatly, enduring greatly. Though we will miss him, his was a spirit of great virtue released in death to ascend to a better existence. We need not be concerned for him, for I have seen beyond this life of matter and motion, and know what is next for him."
"You've seen the gods!" Aerys gasped, and Zeddicus wisely held his tongue while I dealt with my boy.
"My eyes have seen much. More than any man living or dead." I informed him, "Now be at peace. I will answer more questions when our work is done."
Aerys locked in on the word work, like usual, and settled down with his brimming feelings as I turned my head to the maester.
"Summon up your apprentices and have them bring quills, ink, and parchment, Maester Zed, for this night's work is nowhere near done." I instructed the man, "And send for my brother, and my seven sons."
He knew which boys I referred to, certainly not the children and babes my sister bore me. Zeddicus bowed and acknowledged my dismissal. I lifted Aerys from my lap and sat him on the desktop before rising and opening a large locked cabinet. In my hands I took seven leather rolls, and placed them on the station next to the boy, then pulled his hands back from opening the first.
"Not yet." I commanded him and added more raven message sized parchments to the desktop.
I placed him in my lap before the black swan feather quill moved across one script ribbon after the next, my words to move the men of the west by my design. Old Town, Lannisport, Seagard, Barrowton. The nostalgia of coordination and command, logistics handled quietly since the turn of the new year. All of Westeros waited with baited breath, anxious, fearful, for my father's demise and for the military build ups of the last handful of years to finally be brought to bear. We all knew, save him, who we politely kept ignorant.
My boys finally arrived together, led by Daeron. Though two years older, my brother now stood slightly smaller than my sons, though by no means a small man for he was of a similar size to my old friend Robert Baratheon. In a showing of 'the seed is strong' no one could tell that the boys came from different mothers, they all looked like daddy. Daeron looked like me too, just slightly less so. Aerys shied at the sight of them, but I held him firm with one hand as I turned to address the group.
"The King is dead." I announced to the boys.
Daeron understood and took a knee, his nephews following his lead soon after.
"The King is dead! Long live the King!" Daeron shouted and they repeated.
I nodded. Silently, I indicated for my son to undo the fastenings on the first of the leather scrolls on my desk. Aerys cooed in delight seeing the illuminated sheet in full. Quietly I readied a bottle of ink and took up a fresh quill signing the bottom of the scroll as King Aegon II Targaryen, King of All Westeros and Shield of His People. It may seem petty, but I never miss a chance to spit on my namesake's memory. He was wrong to accept the titles offered by the High Septon over those chosen by his sister-wife. He got most things wrong, but can rest easy. I'll fix it all.
I did this little signing ceremony six more times, "Now the work begins." I announced, then took the first scroll and handed it to the appropriate boy in the line up, "A bastard no longer." I informed him of the contents of the document, legitimizing him, explaining his privileges and duties as a Targaryen Prince.
The language likely escaped the boy, but I didn't pick him and the others to read. I needed asses to park on my dragons, loyal and true. I looked for those with ambition and cunning, and immediately struck them from the running. Of those left over, these seven proved the finest. Thick headed savages though they are. For the last year they rode atop Swiftwing, Starfyre, Goreclaw, Pigmauler, Goldtooth, Slickback, and Yellowbelly. Letting a pack of abused teenage boys name my dragons resulted in… results. At the very least, only one of the names bordered on pretentiousness.
'~There's a man goin' 'round takin' names
And he decides who to free and who to blame
Everybody won't be treated all the same
There'll be golden dragons flying down
When the man comes around~'
"Tomorrow morning, you all will fly to Lannisport, then at the appropriate time, onward to the Iron Islands where you will burn every castle, every home, every ship and boat. Take as long as needed, but ignore Lonely Light, I'll not have any of you lost at sea for barely inhabited rock. A raven will fly to Casterly Rock tonight, carrying my will. The Lannister Fleet will ferry men to finish cleansing the islands after your work is done."
Daeron looked shaken by the command, so I chose to continue shaking him, "From there, you will all join me and Aemond at Storm's End to celebrate Daeron's betrothal to one very lucky Baratheon girl. You choose which while I'm feeling generous, Congratulations."
"Congratulations, uncle!" came the cheers from the knot-heads, which Aerys joined half heartedly, while Daeron worked to pick his jaw up off his chest.
"I-I-I don't know what to say…" he stammered looking around the room as if to throw himself out a window.
"Say nothing." I advised, and like a good and loyal member of the House Targaryen, he kept his peace.
I sent them from me to ready themselves for departure, and Aerys and I worked through the new stack of outgoing correspondents coordinating the war effort while I evenly explained to him many things. Despite distance and infirmity, my boy loved my father, for how could a boy not love a man who gives him all he desires. Many a time have I heard the boy extol his greater love for my father than for me, the man who says no.
Children.
"When I go to war, I go on the offensive whenever possible." I explained to the boy about the messages he saw me scribe.
"Have you been to war before?" he asked excitedly.
"Many times." I told him, "Many times beyond the Wall in the North, from the Frozen Shore to the Haunted Forest. There the cold and the animals are deadlier than the people. Twice in the lands below the Wall. Once against the Riverlands, Reach, Crownlands, and Dorne, and once against the Iron Islands."
"Really?" he looked at me in awe.
"Really really." I nodded and continued writing, "I've warred in Essos, against Slaver's Bay, and even raided Yi Ti. In far Mussovy I campaigned against monsters forged of ancient Valyrian magic. I liked that war especially."
"Monsters?!" he cried, "What kind?!"
"Twisted combinations of animals, and even men." I reminisced about one of the few bright spots in my decade of burning, "Imagine a lion as large as house, black as night, with curling jagged rows of fangs in its maw, upon its back rose the head of a goat, and its tail was a massive venomous snake. Our battle was legendary."
"It would be no match for Sunfyre!" Aerys announced.
"No beast that walks the earth is a match for Sunfyre." I agreed easily, "That's why he works for me, having finally met his better."
Aerys nodded, the lad unable to imagine my dragon as anything less than the enormous brute he is today.
I blew on the final parchment and offered it to one of Zed's apprentices to put to raven. Dark wings, dark words. I carried my tired son to his chamber and handed him off to his maid servant. Finally at peace I strode through the halls built by my father, unbothered by the few remaining servants or the nightwatchmen. All of them kept their boots clean enough to eat off of, lest they track filth across the long stretches of silk carpets atop the honed blue marble floors. Columns of the same stretched up to the vaulted ceilings crowned in beaten gold. The walls bore artwork of landscapes, flora, and fauna from across the world made with metallic paints between frames of polished ebony, carved ivory, silver and gold reliefs. Tapestries hung floor to ceiling depicting scenes of history and myth, each worth more than lifetime earnings of most noble houses.
Like when Aegon VI gave the Sword of Kings to Daemon Blackfyre, the gifting of the Blue Keep to me should have signaled to the entirety of Westeros the true heir, but we wouldn't be Westeros if more than half of us are capable of understanding the subtle nuances of power. What else could this place be besides the capital of a great empire? Into who's hands was it entrusted?
Just smoke. My father never entrusted his throne to me. Perhaps he intended the Blue Keep as a means to keep me from moving east after his death, making my place in the world so much better than anything I could achieve with ambition. He never understood me. He never understood, it is not ambition. It is principle. I thought of the man as I descended into my wine cellar, a labyrinth of liquor.
"To you, Viserys." I poured out the first cup for him, then tipped back the jar for myself.
'~The hairs on your arm will stand up
At the terror in each sip and in each sup
Will you partake of that last offered cup
Or disappear into the potter's ground?
When the man comes around~'
-Ser Criston Cole-
A new dread replaced the anxiety that churned within the Lord Commander in the days following the demise of the King. With the help of his brother Kingsguards, and with the men loyal to the Lord Hand, Master of Whispers, and Prince Aemond, they'd managed to keep the truth of the man's demise from reaching the renewed forces of the whore-princess and her vile husband within the capital. She'd worked hard to restore her courtiers in the Red Keep, while Prince Daemon re-established his hold over the city and the Velaryon's 'took over' the port. It was enough to give a man ulcers, but the efforts of the Greens to manage the opposition won the day, and now the new King arrived.
From a tower balcony he witnessed Sunfyre moving across the star speckled sky, the light of the full moon making the massive beast easy to see for those looking for him. He circled around the city and when he arrived at the Iron Gate the battle began. The burst of golden fire in the night is what filled him with new dread. The dread of the absolute power of dragonfire.
Prince Daemon worked diligently during his stays in the city to regain control of the Gold Cloaks, and the Hand battled him fiercely for it. Slowly, with grit teeth, the man increased his influence, and one gate and barracks after another fell under his sway, filled with his loyalists as officers who dismissed all the men with ties to the Greens. Daemon boasted and bragged about each victory, like another gem in his crown.
All lies the Greens allowed him to believe. For each barracks his men claimed Daemon fought hard and relished the victory, gleefully gloating as his loyal men cheered his name. They didn't understand. They gathered all the armed and loyal men for the cause in known locations, and on this night, as scheduled, Sunfyre began burning them all.
Ser Criston's guts churned as the golden fire reigned down. They'd carefully managed which gates and barracks Deamon 'won' in his politicking. The Old Gate, The Dragon Gate, The Iron Gate. All situated around Fleabottom. When the fires inevitably spilled over into the city, 'That's just a bonus.' Prince Aemond smirked.
'~Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers
Half a million voices screaming'
Multitudes are rallyin' to the big bucket lines
Voices callin', voices cryin'
Some are born and more are dyin'
It's Aegon the Second's kingdom come~'
Ser Criston drew his sword and readied to do his part. Grim faced he turned his gaze from the city below and his back on their suffering. With a nod to Ser Rickard Thorne the pair moved through the Red Keep, after years of patrols they needed no guide to take them to the apartments of those loyal to the Black Princess. They knew every name, and every location. Picking up a few men along the way they arrived at the apartments of the Master of Coin. The King ordered the killing of such a man of status must come from another man of high status, and for the task Ser Criston served. He knocked upon the door until the old man appeared in his night robes.
"What is the meaning of this, Lord Commander?" Lord Beesbury demanded then fell back with a fright as Ser Criston shoved open the door.
"By order of the King, Lord Lymon Beesbury, you are sentenced to death." Ser Criston informed the man of his situation while he struggled to right himself.
Ser Thorne seized the man of eighty years and forced him to kneel.
"King Viserys would never-" he objected.
"King Viserys died days ago." Ser Criston interrupted and Lord Lyman's mouth opened and closed several times before the shock settled and his face turned red.
"Traitor!" he shouted and struggled in Ser Thorne's grip in vain, "Queen Rhaenyra comes after King Viserys!"
He stood no chance of actually getting free, but Ser Criston understood the gesture of full body fury.
"And that unnatural belief is what condemns you as a traitor, Lord Beesbury, not I." Ser Criston raised his sword and breathed deeply, "Pray." he ordered, "Make right with the gods."
"I pray that the seven hells are all they promise, 'Lord Commander'" he spat his disdain for the title right onto the man's white enameled armor, "So that you and all of yours can truly find their just rewards for this treachery."
"I do not wish the hells for you, Lyman." Ser Criston nodded to his white clad brother who forced the old lord to hunch over, exposing his neck as the man on his knees shook in fury.
The Lord Commander's blade glinted an arc in the dark room and the pair continued on. By now screams echoed the stone halls of the Red Keep, as their fellow brothers of the Kingsguard and the men at arms that serve under them purged the castle of Black loyalists. The men died, and the women and children wailed as Green soldiers herded them to the throne room. Ser Criston and Ser Thorne exited the keep and took to the godswood, where Sunfyre already awaited them as smoke rose high in the city.
'~Till world's end, no peace, no respite
Then the Father will call his children home
The wise men will bow down before the throne
And at his feet, they'll fall onto their knees
When the man comes around~'
"Hail, King Aegon!" Both men shouted as they fell to their knees before the man whom they supported full hearted.
The King stood taller than most any man, and under the black, silver, and gold metal casing lay a body unlike any other. The broadest shoulders, the deepest chest, arms like a bear, thighs like a horse, hands like dinnerplates and feet like serving platters. The apex of the masculine form. Not even a lifetime of training could build a body like his, yet here he stood. Maturity fit his exposed face, no boyishness despite his obvious youth. His lip sported a mustache thick and vivacious, and not a mote of skin peeked through his silver gold beard. His swept back hair waved and curled, but obeyed. He smelled of sandalwood.
"Rise." he commanded, and Ser Criston felt as if the command came from within himself.
Without another word the King walked forth, and the Kingsguard followed as if drawn by his wake. Popular myth states that the golden fleece that cloaks him came from the gods themselves, a radiant mantel for their chosen champion. Ser Criston knew it came from the Warlocks of Qarth, but if the gods sought to make the Warlocks their delivery men, could those far away sorcerers possibly resist them? Nay.
Along the path through the Red Keep, Aegon paid no mind to the bloodied men at arms who kneeled and hailed him as King, but when they passed a hallway with a duo of men hacking at a door, the King altered his course and stepped to them. They both stepped back from the door and kneeled, but Aegon ignored them too, and instead sent a single kick to the door that tore it from its hinges, then he entered the room despite Ser Criston screaming for his liege to allow him to do so instead. Two thuds rang out, two punches, and two men's heads exploded into scrap and fragments under his gauntleted fist. The king shook some brain off his armored knuckles and resumed his journey to the throne room while the men at arms dragged the rest of the family within out.
'~Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still
Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still
Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still
Listen to the words long written down
When the man comes around~'
Nothing in the Red Keep held the man's interest, not even the open doors of the throne room, nor the tear, snot, and bloodsoaked midnight court assembly. The men at arms kept the sobbing throng to one side of the chamber while those loyal to the king waited for him on the other, and at the foot of the Iron Throne, that enormous mass of fused swords, awaited the Dowager Queen and her father, the Lord Hand. She held a crown, and he carried the sword of Kings, and soon all knelt while Aegon continued his march down the middle aisle of the room. The Lord Hand looked aggrieved, and the Dowager Queen openly wept. He argued until the final raven against this course of action, she never knew. Good and decent people.
Aegon soon stood before his grandfather, and silently took the sheathed sword, Blackfyre, tying it to his plaque belt, then from his mother he took a gold crown. Not any worn by a prior Targaryen King, for none fit his head, and Ser Criston found that fitting in itself, for despite bearing the name of the Conqueror, Aegon's greatness came entirely from himself. He did not kneel to be crowned, but instead crowned himself. He made no attempt to garb himself in legitimacy or ceremony. Fire and Blood. Not cute words to scream during the charge. No social constructs bound the King, he seized power openly.
His each step up the steel behemoth drowned out all other sound in the chamber and not a single eye turned from his back. When he reached the summit, he turned, sat, and smiled.
"Hail to the King."
'And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts
And I looked, and behold an Iron Throne
And his name that sat on it was Death
And Hell followed with him'
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