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House of the Dragon (TV)Warhammer Fantasy
Characters:
Ikit ClawRhaenyra TargaryenJacaerys VelaryonLucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra)Baela TargaryenRhaena Targaryen (Daughter of Daemon)Daemon TargaryenCorlys "The Sea Snake" VelaryonHelaena TargaryenAddam VelaryonBackground & Cameo CharactersSilverwing | Alysanne Targaryen's DragonOriginal CharactersJoffrey Velaryon
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Crack Treated SeriouslyCanon-Typical ViolenceThe Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen EraAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanonical Character DeathCharacter Turned Into a HumanIkit got isekai'd as Jace's twinSkaven Species (Warhammer Fantasy)Death to all GreensHuman ExperimentationScience ExperimentsIkit is his own warningSilverwing still has shit taste in male ridersPOV MultipleBackground RelationshipsBackground Character Deathshow canon onlyDragon RidersAnimal AbuseIkit is an abusive dragonriderTho he's fairly mellow compared to his SkavenselfGood Parent Rhaenyra TargaryenNo beta we die like LucerysDysfunctional FamilyCannibalismBlood and TortureCanon-Typical BehaviorBAMF Helaena Targaryen
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Published:2026-02-26Completed:2026-04-22Words:181,492Chapters:55/55Comments:1,270Kudos:749Bookmarks:160Hits:33,669
The Rat Prince of Westeros
SkilledWarriorKiwi
Chapter 32: Norenhor
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It had been near twenty years since the Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake yet their war in the Stepstones was remembered well in the Kingdom of the Three Daughters. Many had also lost family in the Stepstones, sons and fathers and uncles and friends, and many yet wanted vengeance.
So when Tyland Lannister, working on behalf of King Aegon the Second and part of the 'Green' faction which opposed Queen Rhaenyra who had Lord Corlys and Prince Daemon on her side, reached out to the Triarchy they came to an agreement. Norenhor was unsure as to what the offer from the king was, but it was enough for the Three Daughters to agree to help destroy the blockade of the Sea Snake sealing King's Landing off from the sea.
It took some time to muster the men yet there was no shortage of those who felt aggrieved and sought retribution, especially with the offer of glory and riches. Norenhor had lost a father and brother so was willing to join the battle. Those arrogant dragonriders needed to be reminded of their place and they all knew of the likes of Meraxes, near Balerion's size and even larger than Vhagar, yet felled through a scorpion bolt through the eye and then Prince Aemon Targaryen, the previous rider of Ceraxes, had died from an arrow through the throat. Dragons were not invincible, their riders even moreso.
'Kill the rider and the dragon will part,' was the words spread throughout the fleet. Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, all banding together to strike back at their enemies.
So upon the first dawn day of the new year 130 AC the first of the fleet left Lys the Lovely, spilling forth from its grand harbours. Slunking through the very edges of the Broken Arm of Dorne until they could meet with the waiting vessels at Tyrosh. When there the vessels from Myr came to join their congregation, great sails and ships stretching almost as far as the eye could see.
It was how ninety war ships were making their way up the narrow sea along Essos's side, the pace conservative as they all knew the battle lurking in wait for them. Each and every ship was fitting with scorpions, the great barbed heads of the quarrels gleaming in the sun as they sailed with watchers always attentive to the sky. Some had catapults upon the decks, designed to hurl great nets to entangle wings or flaming pitch and oil to blind or sear. Dozens of spears and hundreds of arrows and bolts were stacked upon deck, in great barrels and racks, as they sailed to war.
Norenhor himself, being Myrish, had one of the specifically designed crossbows which fired a trio of quarrels. Now bolts were strapped to his belt, thighs, and a satchel slung over his shoulder.
The weather was fair and many spoke it to be the favour of the gods especially as on the third day the flagship vessels of the Triarchy had encountered eight Westerosi ships in the narrow sea.
The ships had been planning to head to Pentos and as word spread it came with the knowledge one of the sons of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon had been captured alive with the other vessels destroyed so they were unable to take word back. The other had fled on his youngling dragon, even if word held the beast was so badly wounded it was most like to die before it reached landfall and hopefully drown it and the escaped prince.
At one point the commandeered Westerosi ship sailed through the fleet with the highborn captive, even if Norenhor was only able to see the vessel being steered by Triarchy members as they spirited their hostage off to safety at one of the Three Daughters to be ransomed at a later date. Either to a mother who wanted her son or an uncle who wished to execute a potential enemy.
Still, they had to alter their plan if Dragonstone did received a warning so the fleet dropped their speed and adjusted their route for the next three days in the aftermath. When they finally spied the form of Massey's Hook in the distance they began to ready themselves for the battle. The plan spread throughout the fleet to attack at sunrise so they could use the darkness of night to close the rest of the distance until they could finally breech Westerosi waters.
Admiral Sharako Lohar of Lys spread their plan far and wide; the fleet was to split itself into two, one part of the fleet entering the Gullet to the north and south of Dragonstone. There would be a group around twenty, each one after another with a half hour interval, so the first half of each group would punch fast into the waters then be followed by the rest. It was to avoid the ships being clogged in the waters and colliding with each other, along with having to divide the dragonriders attention when battle occurred.
From what Norenhor heard the Black Queen only had two dragons of sufficient battle size and those were being ridden by bastard novice riders. Ones who had not even had their dragons for half a year, much less ridden them into battle. Not like a proper Targaryen, born and bred with dragons.
Meraxes had been felled in battle, these two could as well.
Norenhor was upon one of the Lyseni vessels near the rear of the fleet, and as such he was stuck in the waiting game as light began to peek upon the horizon of the new day. The first two sets of the fleets set sail, heading towards the Gullet with their sails full and flags flapping in the breeze.
He had been in battle before but this waiting he found more anxiety inducing than actually fighting. Soon they were in half, watching the others as they disappeared around the humped form of Massey's Hook as they began the invasion of Westeros. Spice town, Driftmark, High Tide, Dragonstone itself. All ripe for the taking if they could injure or kill the only two large dragons the Black Queen possessed. The queen herself had never flown into battle and apparently the yellow beast she rode hadn't grown in years. If she was stupid enough to join then they could kill her even more easily.
Dragons are not invincible, the Greens killed one and paraded its severed head through the streets of King's Landing to show each and all they were just animals, Norenhor thought as he idly tapped his fingers against his crossbow.
The sky was still dark enough they could see the stars, even as the opposite horizon grew brighter. Eventually they heard the horn, signaling for them to begin their push into the Gullet and following the first half of the fleet.
And that was why the second push of the fleet, around forty ships, were utterly blind to the attack from behind. The watchers in the crows nest had been eyeing the land of Westeros, the sea leading towards the Gullet and Blackwater Bay for any Velaryon vessels or approaching dragons. Not looking to the rear of them. Wings tucked in tight and hurtling down to the rear of the formation.
The only warning they got was a horrific shriek of some gigantic beast, screaming as if it were in agony, before the nearest line of ships exploded into emerald flames.
Norenhor barely had time to flinch before he was struck with a blast of hot air and the smell of burning flesh. Horns began to blare as everyone leapt into action as shouts carried across the crew. All shrieking the same thing.
Dragon.
A rain of spears, arrows and scorpion bolts raised up to meet the dragon but as it soared past- unleashing another colossal jet of fire that was a twisted wretched green, thick and viscous in a way fire should not be, which seemed to explode the very vessels it struck -Norenhor managed to actually see the beast and felt his heart lurched at the sheer size of it. Wings so vast they seemed to blot out the sky, each downward sweep producing a thunderclap of air that buffeted the sailors and ships.
In the budding dawn it was fast and vicious, with arrows and huge barbed bolts pinging harmlessly off the beast's great belly. Its tail snapped as it flew so close to Norenhor's vessel, the noise like a whipcrack and making him cringe.
Was it Vermithor? Vhagar?!
The thing was horrifically huge and horrifically fast and absolutely nothing slowed it down. As it flew down low and yet another ship exploded into flames he could begin to hear the deep ringing of a bell.
Meanwhile green flames rapidly spread, quickly twisting and flaring into oranges, reds and whites as flames engulfed the ships. Masts split and flared like bonfires, sails swallowed by flames even as great pillars of black smoke quickly choked the air.
Even the water was not safe, with the green staining the sea and occasionally latching onto any passing hull as the panicked crew were more focused upon the immense dragon harassing them instead of the ocean.
'Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off,' old seamen liked to say, even as Norenhor felt nothing but panic and bewilderment. Was wildfire based off dragonflame? As the beast banked sharply overhead, twisting its long neck to vomit out a gout of the liquid-like fire, again he saw how thick the flames were.
Ship after ship began to explode or be engulfed by flames; the green fire was sticky and vile, melting through skin and bone as if it were the alchemist wildfire and not even buckets of water would douse it. Attempting to smother the flames with cloaks or sacks simply resulted in them bursting into fire like everything else.
Norenhor tried to shoot at the dragon as it soared overhead, briefly blotting out the sky, but all the quarrels of his crossbow did was bounce off the dragon's wing. He couldn't see the rider, no one could, not while the sky was choked with smoke and everyone was burning alive.
A great trebuchet lunched a huge hooked net up at the dragon and it flared out its wings to blast the net with fire midair and it crumbled to the ocean in a green mess.
Men were screaming, dying from being burned alive or drowning or crushed by falling masts and splintering hulls, and through it all the tolling of the bell was steady, repetitious, and resounded over the battle.
The shrieks of men burning alive, the cracking and splintering of ships shattering, the noise of scorpions and catapults firing, the roars of the dragon, over all it was that terrible bell.
The thunderous tolling seemed to grow louder and louder the longer the battle raged until Norenhor felt like screaming as the noise resounded through his skull like drums and made his vision shudder. A deep, nameless terror gripped him as the screaming bell continued to call over the battlefield, which was more like a slaughter as now the majority of the fleet was now in flames as dawn basked in blues and oranges above them as the stars finally slipped away.
A few ships to the rear were already attempting to flee but the dragon spotted them and quickly turned its attention from the front of the burning fleet. As it flew overhead several spears pinged harmlessly off its belly even as that horrific bell continued chime before it caught the scant few ships that had managed to make it several leagues away from the burning flotilla. They all died in flames, the green swallowing up flesh, wood and steel.
Norenhor was swept up in the panic of everyone, shooting off his crossbow erratically as the dragon flew near and the ship next to them burst open. Upon the deck of the ship a trio of men pushed around the scorpion so the great ballista was following the dragon as it swooped about in a great turn, huge wings flaring out and shimmering like polish metal in the sunlight.
The great barbed bolt fired, shooting through the air in a blur of steel, and the dragon simply shifting a wing and the bolt harmlessly flew past it. Then the dragon roared, the sound more like the keening shriek of agony, and then came sweeping down towards them. Now Norenhor could see the bell tower on the dragon's back, chiming with that unholy noise and making animalistic panic grip him. Norenhor turned and fled, instead choosing to try leaping into the sea, just as the dragon opened its huge jaws and flames exploded the ship. The explosion of heat and fire sent him flying, slapping into the sea like a skipping stone where hundreds of others were dead or dying as the water burned.
How he even survived, Norenhor was unsure. He clung to debris as the ocean heaved and boiled around him, choking on water and smoke and sea water for what felt like years.
He was as sodden as the flotsam when he washed up on the shores of the western beach, with the isle of Tarth seen in the distance. Storm's End would be more northward but as Norenhor lay on the sand all he could do was gasp and spit out salt.
Eventually he had to move, if only for the fact the fleet was burning out in the sea. Hacking and wheezing Norenhor got to his feet and began to hobble down the shore. He luckily enough had no broken bones, but something was twisted in his ankle and burns stained his left arm where his sleeve had been scorched away. At the very least it had been from a burning ship, instead of the green flames of the dragon else he'd be missing the whole arm.
Off in the distance, from Massey's Hook, Norenhor could see more plumes of black smoke rising in the air. The rest of the Triarchy fleet no doubt, dying just their ships had done so.
In hindsight it was such a stupid plan. No dragon had been shot out of the sky since Meraxes. The Fourth Dornish War ended much the same as the Triarchy's attempt- over a year Prince Morion Martell had built a great navy to invade Westeros and then in the span of a single battle the entire fleet was destroyed via dragonfire, as King Jaehaerys and his two sons flew out upon their dragons to confront the fleet. Not a single Westerosi life was lost in the decisive defeat, while Prince Morion and all else perished in flames. Prince Morion's Madness, as the event came to be known and never since have Dorne attempted to invade. The War of a Hundred Candles was another name, for how the burning fleet had looked from the shores.
Norenhor managed to find several other survivors, a mixture of Lyseni, Tyroshi, and Myrish, but also found many more dead and shipwrecks spilling against the beach. Already seagulls were beginning to descend, squawking and cawing as the fought over the dead.
"We can take one of the ships from the harbour by Tarth," one of the Lyseni men suggested.
"Surely they will have soldiers," Norenhor said. "And I only have a dagger."
"If they have any wits they would have battered down their gates," the Myrish man said. "And we only need a ship, enough to get across the narrow sea. There's a harbour opposite Tarth on the mainland, if we do it wisely we can get the ship with threats and flee before the dragon comes for us. And there's wreckage for us to salvage."
"The Triarchy is allied to the Green King," the Tyroshi said, long blue beard partially burnt off. "If we get to Storm's Land perhaps we can demand protection."
The Myrish man scoffed, "I would hardly think so. We failed to break the blockade, failed to even reach the Gullet. The king will have no use for us."
"The rest of the fleet-"
"They're in flames like ours," the Lyseni snapped. "I would rather get home to my wife and children, instead of continue this fool's errand. Now quick while everyone is focused upon the burning ships and those closer to Dragonstone. If we make fast we can leave before noon gets us, and with it the soldiers."
Out of failure to have any other option besides stay in Westeros and get killed, Norenhor agreed to the plan along with others.
They found some other survivors until they were nearly two dozen in a motley group and managed to scavenge. One man was so badly burned they were forced to put him out his misery and Norenhor had to shudder at the way his bones had been jutting through his scorched chest. The flames had melted his bones grotesquely, until he looked like something from a fable to scare children.
Every now and then Norenhor could occasionally hack and retch up bile and water, the stench of burning flesh so thick in his nose as it consistently drifted in from the sea.
At least he wasn't the only one doing that.
The harbour across from Tarth- even if calling it that was generous -was on alert as the motley group approached. The villagers and sailors had an assortment of bows and swords, armed just as the remnants of the Triarchy fleet were. Across the waves Tarth was also on alert, with some horns sounding along with people being seen on the ramparts looking over the gleaming sapphire sea towards them.
When they got within shouting distance, with the Essosi keeping their weapons ready but not raised, Norenhor called out to the smallfolk as the only one who knew common, "Hoy, we're here seeking to take one of the ships here. Even smaller ones for fishing we can make do with."
"Go back and drown in the sea!" came the aggressive response. The smallfolk were using the barrels and crates on the harbour as makeshift barriers and shields but none were attacking yet. Even the woman were armed, including a little girl that looked no older than ten years with a kindling hatchet in hand.
"A ship can be replaced," he tried again. "But a fight can kill many of you, even if you kill us all in turn. Can you easily replace a father, a son, a mother, a daughter? If you give us one of the boats we will leave and never return, and without harm to any of you. There are wrecks down the beach northward, I have no doubt you can scavenge enough wood to make a new boat. Let us pass."
There was a few exchanged looks then one of the women, who was holding a pair of viciously sharp gutting knives, hissed something at one of the grizzled old men with a bow. There was a low, angered discussion coming from the smallfolk and while his fellow Essosi were nervous and on alert they were keeping their heads. While most of the looks from the men and women were hostile so far none had attacked them either.
It looked like fates were going to give them a slither of kindness, as the woman called out, "Is this all your lot? You ain't lying in ambush?"
"There's few of us but we can still take lives if you wish to fight," Norenhor said slowly, keeping his hands raised. "None of you are soldiers or trained, we all are. Even if you outnumber us. We mean no harm, however. We will leave without bloodshed if you let us."
Some more looks, some more hissed exchanges but he noted a few gestures toward the wharf where several ships were tied. All an assortment of smaller vessels, for fishing and trade, but more than enough to bear their motley group. It could work, they could go home.
Then the nearest peasant, a young woman armed with a blacksmith hammer, glanced skyward and her expression blanched.
And she screamed that horrible word.
"Dragon!"
Norenhor flinched, twisting around only to gasp with pain as his burns flared. At the same time he spotted the huge shape that crested over the hills, wings flashing like polished silver in the sunlight. The Essosi men around him panicked as the dragon swept in a great curve, flying over the village even as the smallfolk stampeded inside as if wooden houses were to protect them.
He was running back down the beach along with the rest, as the thunderous flaps of great leathery wings grew closer and closer as the dragon chased them down the beach away from the village.
The dragon landed so harshly and close the impact threw them all down, and Norenhor went rolling even as the man nearest to him was snapped up in huge jaws. Blood splattered the sand, so stark against the white shore. Norenhor managed to scramble to his feet, even as a great tail crushed another with a careless swipe. The dragon was partially encircling the ground of wayward soldiers, bloody maw opening as it hissed.
"Stop or die-die!" a voice screeched, ringing with a ferocious sense of authority.
Norenhor stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his backside. Several of the Essosi failed to listen and they only got several yards down the beach before a jet of great green fire swallowed them.
When he finally managed to lower his arms, from where he had been cringing in a ball, did Norenhor realize it was only him and four others. The huge dragon was staring at them, its breathing washing over them and carrying the stench of carrion. This close he realized the dragon had a strange thing welded onto its head, around the eyes. Strips of metal in the shape of an X, overlapping each other and helping protect the dragon's eyes. Now he realized that even if they did hit a shot like the kind that felled Meraxes, scorpion bolts weren't narrow enough to pierce through the protective covering.
Norenhor managed to tear his stare away from the gigantic dragon looming over them, to look up at the beast's shoulders and where its rider was sitting upon the elaborate saddle.
The first thing he noticed was the armour- gleaming and slick in a manner typical armour wasn't, and forged in blue and silver. Most notable of all was the helm, forged in the likeness of a snarling rat. Made of the same glistening metal, Valyrian steel.
The Rat Prince, Norenhor realized.
He had heard of the mad prince, second son of Queen Rhaenyra, yet from what Norenhor heard the prince hadn't returned to Westeros in nearly a decade. Why now, at the very same instant the Triarchy tried to invade? Maybe that was it even if what Norenhor heard there was no love lost between mother and son. But then again Norenhor guessed it didn't matter in the end as the son came home and now most of them were dead.
Norenhor and the remaining survivors were silent, most of them cowering on the ground as they awaited the fire to engulf them as the dragon's stinking breath washed over them.
The prince looked down at them for a long moment before saying, his voice ringing from the helm, "Who else came with you? More fleet, less? Where others?"
It took Norenhor a few moments to realize what was asked, and by then the dragon curled its lip before roaring at them and making them all cringe.
"There is no one else, my lord," Norenhor managed to blurt out, clutching at his injured arm. "The Triarchy forces was this fleet and now they are all burned. The Three Daughters have been defeated."
"No one?" the rider cocked his head to the side, the sunlight gleaming off the rat-shaped helm.
Norenhor looked back out to sea when even hours later parts of the fleet was still burning far off in the distance. The dark distant pillars of smoke, the wreckage and bodies still washing up aginst the shore.
"Fine, no need to keep you alive," the rider shrugged. Without prompting the dragon coiled back its neck, jaws lolling open to show a thicket of fangs.
"Wait! Wait please, I have information!" Norenhor shrieked.
A snap of a whip and the dragon froze, green drool dripping from its still open maw.
"What-what is it?" the prince barked. "You think it will spare your life?"
"It's about the other prince!" Norenhor said desperately. "He's alive, your youngest brother."
The silence that came from above was only interrupted when one of the men lost their nerve and fled. Norenhor and the others stared as he ran down the beach as fast as he could even as the dragon remained still and did not breathe fire. High above the dragonrider sighed before pulling out a strange long weapon from where it had been latched to the saddle, even if the man was now out of crossbow range.
The Rat Prince raised the weapon up against his shoulder, which had a long narrow barrel and a handle like a crossbow. A sharp bang and a streak of green exploded from the end of the barrel. Whatever projectile it was struck the fleeing man so hard his entire skull exploded, sending his body collapsing across the sand.
Norenhor flinched at the noise, shocked at the sheer range of the small weapon. He remained shivering in place, exchanging panicked looks with the others who remained, as the prince put the weapon back in place.
"Speak," came the flat demand from the dragonrider.
Somehow the way the dragon was staring at them was even more disconcerting than the rider; after the noise of the whip the huge beast had seemed to freeze in place. Instead it just remained still, jaws open and drooling profusely and not so much as twitching its tail. Almost like it wasn't even a living beast but some horrid statue.
Norenhor's breath was sharp and quick, but he managed to blurt out, "The sons of Queen Rhaenyra and the Rogue Prince. They had been sent on a ship from Westeros and our fleet intercepted them and took one of the boys hostage. The other managed to escape on his dragon but it was so badly wounded they probably drowned out at sea. But they would have sent the captive boy back to Tyrosh as a hostage, him and his egg. A ward of the Triarchy to be ransomed at a later date."
"Hm," was the only response.
"I told you what I know," Norenhor said. "Please, let us go like you said."
"I never agreed to anything, stupid one," was the mild reply. "You told me, without seeking promise-vow. Now attack-kill."
Norenhor barely had time to register the prince was now speaking to his steed, before the dragon snapped its jaws and they were swallowed by green flames.
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