A good distance away from the walls, the rebel army had set up camp out of arrow range. In front of the camp, the army approached Kingslanding.
Robert Baratheon rode at its head.
His massive warhammer rested across his saddle.
Though wounds from the Trident still ached, the thought of another victory filled him with renewed strength.
Every mile south brought him closer to the Iron Throne.
Closer to vengeance for Lyanna.
Closer to ending House Targaryen forever.
Robert looked at the city ahead, massive, ancient, and strong.
And something immediately felt wrong.
Robert's smile faded.
The walls should have looked desperate.
Instead they looked prepared.
Somewhat Disciplined.
Ready.
More troubling still were the banners.
Lion banners.
Hundreds of them, and the thousands of Lannister soldiers in front of the city.
Tywin Lannister's army.
Jon Arryn rode alongside him.
"This isn't right, this isn't what I expected after hearing that Tywin had marched for Kingslanding.
"No," Robert agreed.
"It isn't."
Ned Stark stared toward the walls.
A chill crawled down his spine.
He could not explain it.
Something felt off.
Dangerously off.
The city seemed too calm, and he wasn't sure, but it seemed like the soldiers looked at them with pity.
As though it knew something they did not.
Robert spat into the dirt.
"Damn lions."
He expected Tywin to sack the city. That much was assured to him by Jon, but now it seemed he was in for another fight.
Though he didn't think it would last long.
Jon looked at the walls, and then turned to the men standing behind him.
"Ride out with a flag, tell them we wish to talk, so we can settle this peacefully, sparing many lives."
Robert's head spun around; so did Ned's.
"Why, why do you want to talk after what they did??!!" Robert shouted.
"Because, clearly something has changed. Tywin Lannister is no fool; he wouldn't be supporting the boy prince if he wasn't sure there was a high chance they could win. Let's try and see how confident they are." Jon replied.
"It's fine, Robert. I agree there seems to be something wrong here; those soldiers don't look like they think they are going to die, and that alone is a problem considering the situation." Ned added.
On the walls, Damon and Tywin looked on as a rider left the rebel army, flying a white cloth as he approached the Lannister army outside the gates.
"Oh, now this is interesting; I thought they would just start attacking." Damon remarked
"It seems the rebels have someone smart enough to notice that something is wrong, Jon Arryn no doubt." Tywin says, looking down as a Lannister soldier leaves the army and rides back to the gates and whispers something to the soldier standing there.
"A shame, he'll die soon either by dragon fire or blade; the result will remain the same."
"You might consider........" Tywin was interrupted.
"My King, my lord. The rebels request you ride out to meet them to talk about settling this matter peacefully." The soldier kneeled as he spoke.
"Mhm, what do you think?" Tywin asked Damon.
"I think, men who live by their honor are very easy to predict; it isn't a trap. Let's hear what they have to say." Damon responded as he strapped his sword to his waist and began heading down.
From the Lannister lines outside the gates of Kingslanding, a path opened. Ranks of soldiers stepped aside in disciplined unison. Two riders emerged from within, their horses moving at an even, deliberate pace.
At the head rode Damon Targaryen.
His armor gleamed black and red, his silver hair shining beneath the sun, a crimson cloak flowing behind him like a stream of blood. Beside him rode Tywin Lannister, his golden armor a perfect contrast to the young dragonlord's shadowed majesty.
The rebel army stirred uneasily as the two approached. No banners were raised, no trumpets sounded, just the steady rhythm of hooves striking the earth.
Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, and Ned Stark rode out to meet them, stopping when they were six feet apart, far enough to speak, but close enough to see the emotions in each other's eyes.
For a moment, neither side spoke. The wind howled softly through the grass.
Robert broke the silence first, voice booming like thunder. "You're a bold one, boy! I thought I killed the last dragon at the Trident!"
Damon's expression didn't change. His voice was calm, almost regal. "Then you thought wrong."
Robert's smirk faltered slightly. "You've got Tywin's men standing between us. You think that'll save you?"
Damon tilted his head, his violet eyes narrowing. "No, Lord Baratheon. Nothing will save you."
The wind picked up again, tugging at their cloaks. Robert's stallion snorted, restless beneath him.
Behind Damon, Tywin watched in silence, his face impassive.
The two groups faced one another across the open field, the wind tugging at their cloaks, carrying the faint scent of steel and sweat. The air between them thrummed with tension, a silence so taut it seemed that even the earth waited to see who would speak first.
Robert Baratheon's warhammer rested on his shoulder, his expression locked in a scowl. His eyes flicked between Damon Targaryen and Tywin Lannister, disbelief and irritation warring across his face. He expected madness, maybe even misplaced arrogance, but what he saw instead was something worse. Calm. Confidence.
Finally, Jon Arryn's voice broke the stillness.
"You've come to surrender then?" he asked evenly, though his tone betrayed the faintest note of hope. The man was old, and though wise, even he longed for an end to the bloodshed he had started; the Targaryen had to be removed from the throne.
The response was laughter.
Tywin's deep, cold chuckle came first, followed by Damon's smoother, almost melodic tone. The sound carried easily across the open field, echoing off the distant walls of King's Landing. It was not the laughter of fear, nor bravado, but of two men who already knew the outcome of the game being played.
Damon leaned forward slightly in his saddle, silver hair catching the morning light. "Surrender?" he said softly, his voice carrying like steel through the air. "No, Lord Arryn. I came to see what you three wanted to say and also to see if you had come to your senses. Because when this battle begins…" He smiled faintly, his eyes glinting violet fire. "It will not end until I wish it to. No matter how much you beg."
Robert's expression hardened, anger flashing in his blue eyes. "You speak like your father, boy, words full of madness," he snarled. " I'll kill you the same way I killed your brother!"
Damon's smile vanished. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to still. The faintest flicker of killing intent radiated from him, so sharp and heavy it made the very air tremble. Even the horses snorted and backed away uneasily.
But Damon said nothing. He simply turned his horse slightly, his eyes never leaving Robert's.
Jon Arryn exhaled softly. "Then there is nothing to discuss," he said. His tone was calm, but his gaze lingered on Damon, studying him, as though seeing for the first time that this was no boy, but something far more dangerous.
Damon inclined his head slightly, as though granting them that conclusion. "So be it," he said quietly.
He tugged at the reins, turning his horse back toward the city. Tywin followed, silent and regal. But before Damon began to ride away, he paused, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"Tell me, Robert," he called over his shoulder. "Do you know why the words of House Targaryen are Fire and Blood?"
Robert's jaw clenched, fury blazing in his eyes. "Aye," he shouted back. "Because that's all your damned family ever brought to Westeros! Fire and death! I'll end it, I'll end you!"
"How righteous of you." Damon said. He simply gave a faint, unreadable smile, then spurred his horse forward.
The two, Targaryen and Lannister, rode away toward the city, while behind them, Robert, Jon and Ned turned back toward their lines.
The silence of the plain was shattered only by the whisper of the wind and the faint thud of retreating hooves.
By the time Damon returned, the city walls were lined with soldiers. The tension from beyond the walls had reached them too, but when Damon rode through the gates, their unease faltered, replaced by confidence.
He dismounted, ascending the steps to the wall's edge. The crowd of soldiers turned toward him, some kneeling, others watching in silence as their prince stood before them.
He looked out over the city, then down toward the field where the rebel host still stood, banners fluttering like stubborn weeds.
"Men of King's Landing," Damon began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the parapets. "Today, you will not shed a drop of blood."
A murmur rippled through the soldiers, confusion mixed with curiosity.
He raised his hand, commanding silence. "You have stood loyal when the realm crumbled. You have endured fear, hunger, and the stench of betrayal, yet still, you stand. Today, you will see why House Targaryen has ruled and why it will continue to rule the Seven Kingdoms!"
A roar erupted from the men not one of defiance, but of conviction.
Damon's gaze drifted upward. The morning sky was clouded, faint sunlight peeking through gray mist.
Then he shouted, his voice thundering through the heavens.
"Caraxes! Dreamfyre!"
The world held its breath.
Then, two answering roars split the sky apart.
The air trembled. Shadows passed over the city enormous, living, burning shadows. The soldiers looked up in awe as the clouds tore open, revealing the great forms of Caraxes and Dreamfyre descending from the heavens.
Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, scales deep crimson and wings vast as mountains, his long serpentine neck twisting with anticipation.
Dreamfyre the Queen of Flames, her scales pale sapphire and silver, shimmering like molten glass under the sun. She was a tad larger now, radiant, and energetic; her presence both majestic and terrible.
Gasps filled the air. Men fell to their knees. Some wept openly, murmuring prayers to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to anything that might save them from the divine power they beheld.
Across the plain, panic began to ripple through the rebel ranks.
From the front lines, Robert Baratheon's laughter died on his lips as his eyes widened, watching the sky split open. Ned Stark's hand went to the hilt of his sword, though he knew no blade could save them from what was coming.
Jon Arryn's voice was quiet, but filled with dread. "Dragons... there are two. Seven save us"
Men began dropping their weapons, shields clattering, spears falling to the ground. Horses neighed and reared as the dragons' shadows passed over them, their roars shaking the very bones of the earth.
The Lannister soldiers parted as Caraxes landed before the city gates, the ground cracking beneath his massive weight. The Blood Wyrm moved towards the wall as his long neck stretched forward, his crimson eyes locking on Damon.
Damon stepped forward as the men anywhere near him stepped back, some scrambling away. Damon stood unflinching, the heat washing over him. He placed his hand against Caraxes' snout, feeling the heartbeat of the dragon beneath the scales. Then, with practiced ease, he climbed into the saddle and turned his gaze skyward to where Dreamfyre circled above, her sapphire wings cutting through the clouds.
For a brief moment, dragon and rider were one. His blood thrummed, his vision sharpening, his heart beating in rhythm with the great beasts.
Damon raised his sword high, the blade catching the sun, and spoke softly in High Valyrian:
"Sōvētās. Vezof. Āeksia." Fly. Rise. Conquer.
Caraxes leapt skyward, joining Dreamfyre in the clouds, twin trails of fire spiraling behind them.
Below, the city walls thundered with cheers, awe, and fear. Tywin Lannister watched in silence, his green eyes reflecting the sight above him. Two dragons he had shown now; Tywin now no longer believed that was all. Once again, Damon was showing he was another step ahead of him.
"The only way forward now is to bend; Cersei needs to arrive here immediately." Tywin whispered.
High above, Damon looked down upon the enemy host, the wind whipping through his hair, the dragons' roars deafening the world below.
"You brought fire and blood upon yourselves," he whispered.
Then, in High Valyrian, his voice carried the command that would forever burn itself into the memory of Westeros:
"Dracarys."