A few days later, at the end of the River Road.
The Vale of Arryn spread out before them, a natural fortress with mountains stretching out on both sides, forming a formidable, pocket-shaped barrier.
"They are coming."
A harsh, grinding sound echoed from the towering cliffs. Vermithor's bronze pupils were indifferent as his massive body clawed its way up the precipice, shattering moss-covered rocks under his weight. Aemon sat firmly in the saddle, his body swaying only slightly with the dragon's movement.
It was then that the rebel host appeared. A mighty force of Vale lords, flying a motley collection of banners, approached in formation. There were more than five thousand men, their arms and armor a chaotic mix of heirlooms and hastily forged steel. The most conspicuous flags were those bearing six silver bells on a purple field and a black shield emblazoned with green vipers.
The banners of House Belmore of Strongsong and House Lynderly of the Snakewood.
"Well, those two certainly stand out," Aemon grinned.
According to Johanna's intelligence, the total number of Vale rebels was twelve thousand. After defeating several wealthy knightly houses loyal to Jeyne, the army had split. One force, led by the lords of House Hunter of Longbow Hall and House Egen, numbered seven thousand well-equipped men and marched directly for the Bloody Gate. The other half was now before him, blocking the western approach from the riverlands. They believed a war on two fronts would grant them the initiative.
"Poor fools of the Vale," Aemon mused aloud. "This is Queen Visenya's fault. She was too kind, never showing you the true wrath of a dragon."
During the Conquest, both the Vale and the North had surrendered without a fight. They had only heard tales of dragonfire; they had never felt its heat themselves.
Aemon smiled faintly, two pieces of parchment fluttering between his fingers. They had arrived yesterday—one from King's Landing, the other from Dragonstone. His uncle, King Viserys, expressed support for Aemon's claim to the Vale but insisted that war must be avoided. A contradictory request, to be sure.
Rhaenyra's letter noted that the news had spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The Lannisters of the Westerlands, the Baratheons of the Stormlands, and the Tyrells and Hightowers of the Reach had jointly appealed to the Iron Throne, demanding Daemon's son be prevented from invading the Vale. They denounced Aemon for bullying House Arryn of the Eyrie—a house of "orphans and widows"—and demanded the Iron Throne punish him.
For a time, the matter was on the lips of lords in every corner of the realm. Great-uncle Viserys was under immense pressure, a weight he was ill-suited to bear.
"Bullying orphans and widows?" Aemon scoffed. "If I truly wished to bully them, I doubt they would be so pleased with the outcome."
Was he afraid of the great lords rebelling? They were peacetime cowards, the lot of them. If they had the courage, let them try.
Puff.
A glass lantern appeared in his hand. A flick of his wrist sent it flying, its magical light igniting the two letters, which turned to ash on the wind.
"A show of courtesy before a show of force," Aemon stretched, his mind clear and calm. "Lest anyone claim the Prince acted without cause."
Boom!
As if in perfect harmony, Vermithor spread his great wings and swooped down from the cliffs.
…
As the Vale rebels approached the valley road, their scouts spotted the lone dragonrider waiting in the natural basin ahead. Lord Belmore received the news and ordered his army to take up defensive positions. Their mission was to block any support for the Eyrie coming from the riverlands, while the other rebel host dealt with the "protection" of their lady. They had been assigned this position because it was said the Bloody Gate could not be broken, and a dragon was likely to be there. Why risk their lives in a battle with no reward for victory and a headman's axe for defeat? It was better to shirk one's duty than to die for it.
"Summon Lord Lynderly," Lord Belmore commanded, patting his large belly, a nervous sweat beading on his brow. House Lynderly of the Snakewood, whose lands bordered the Narrow Sea near the Fingers, had long fought the mountain clans and were veterans of marching and war.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. A bronze dragon, his wings like shifting rock, descended from the heavens, swooping down upon the thousands of soldiers. In an instant, day turned to dusk beneath his form. Lord Belmore looked up, his face a mask of pure horror.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor let out a long, piercing roar, and a torrent of molten copper dragonflame erupted from his maw.
"DRAGON!" someone shrieked, and the hastily assembled rebel army dissolved into chaos.
"Land!" a low, magnetic voice commanded in High Valyrian, laced with an accent they did not recognize.
Vermithor flapped his wings, arched his powerful back, and dropped from the sky like a cannonball. He landed with enough force to send sparks flying as his massive claws struck the stony ground. Aemon's body jolted with the impact, but he skillfully absorbed the inertia.
The dragon's hot breath washed over the front ranks. "Your Highness," Lord Belmore stammered, his eyes wide with terror.
"Fetch the maester," Aemon said, his voice level, speaking again in High Valyrian as he leaned an elbow on his saddle.
Lord Belmore did not understand the ancient tongue, but he recognized the Common Tongue word for "maester." He quickly sent a man to find Lord Lynderly and the maester accompanying their forces.
A few minutes later, the stout Lord Lynderly arrived with an old, trembling maester in tow.
"Do you understand me?" Aemon asked, tilting his head to look down at the old man.
The maester swallowed hard, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. "In my youth, I studied the High Valyrian tongue, Your Highness."
"Excellent," Aemon smiled faintly. "I speak, you translate."
The old maester dared not refuse. The two lords, unable to understand the exchange, looked on in confusion. Lord Lynderly, in particular, was tense, his dark face a grim mask of resentment. He felt the sharp sting of humiliation. Though Valyrian was the mother tongue of the Targaryens, they had long ago integrated into Westeros. Was he not worthy of being addressed in the Common Tongue?
Exactly, Aemon thought. That was precisely the point.
During the reign of his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys, the Old King had compromised too much for the sake of stability, conceding too many privileges. Jaehaerys had been soft, always swallowing his pride. The Seven Kingdoms had known peace for too long, and its nobles had begun to look down upon the blood of the dragon.
From this day forward, his line would conduct all formal matters in High Valyrian. If a lord did not understand, he could bring a maester to translate or he could leave. Step by step, he would restore the authority that was the birthright of the dragonlords.
"Ask him what terms he offers for negotiation," Lord Lynderly growled to the maester.
The old man was about to obey when the figure on the dragon's back waved a dismissive hand.
"There is no need. My use of my native tongue is not an inconvenience for you, but a privilege you have yet to earn." Aemon looked down at them, his gaze like that of a man looking upon vermin. He spoke again, his voice soft but carrying across the field. "Tell them to retreat. Otherwise, by sunset, only their ashes will remain."
The old scholar shuddered, the words chillingly familiar. He did not delay, relaying the ultimatum to the two lords. Sweat poured from Lord Belmore, who raised a hand to wipe his brow only to find his palm slick with it. Lord Lynderly's face contorted with rage, a harsh retort on his lips.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor stretched his long neck and roared. With a final, contemptuous look, he turned, spread his wings, and launched himself back into the sky.
This was not a negotiation. It was a declaration.
"Damn him! Like father, like son!" Lord Lynderly spat, his voice thick with fury.
Lord Belmore's eyes darted around nervously before he began to quietly back away into the crowd.
…
Minute by minute, time bled away. At dusk, the setting sun painted the sky in shades of dim, bloody red.
On a patch of lawn within the valley, Aemon lay flat on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. Vermithor crouched beside him like a bronze mountain, shielding his rider from the wind. Between them, a glass lantern cast a faint, peaceful glow. The Warlock's Nightlight had a calming effect on the mind, a property Aemon had come to value. It was similar to the obsidian candles of the warlocks, though flawed. It required magical energy to burn, supplied by a grey stone orb within the lantern that absorbed ambient magic. By engraving a simple fire rune upon it, the stone could draw power from the air itself, storing one day's worth for two hours of use.
Using the nightlight helped him sleep, suppressing the chaotic side effects of his dream-walking talent. It was also useful for Vermithor. The dragon's title, "The Bronze Fury," stemmed from his sudden, violent rages. It was both a strength and a weakness, granting him immense power in battle but making him prone to losing control. If he could master this flaw, his strength would grow beyond measure.
Puff.
The soybean-sized flame in the lantern extinguished itself. Man and dragon opened their eyes in the same instant.
"It is dark," Aemon said, climbing reluctantly to his feet.
"Roar!" Vermithor shook his great head, his broad wings scraping the ground and sending grass and dust flying.
Aemon mounted the dragon, and together they took to the sky.
…
Outside the valley pass, half of the rebels had already fled. The rest, under Lord Lynderly's command, were digging crude trenches. Lord Lynderly saw his own banner was one of the few still standing and gritted his teeth in hatred. Lord Belmore had deserted, taking with him all the horses and half the food stores.
"The sun has nearly set! Order the men into the trenches!"
A messenger ran to obey, but it was already too late.
"Hiss—"
A roar like rolling thunder split the air. A colossal figure blotted out the last rays of the setting sun, enveloping the earth in a bronze shadow.
"Drakarys!" The command was given without hesitation.
Vermithor's vertical pupils flashed with predatory hunger. His ferocious maw opened, and a torrent of liquid fire emerged from the depths of his throat. The dragonflame fell like molten copper, descending upon the heads of the rebels below.
"Ahhh!"
"Gods save us! Run!"
The terrified soldiers, already on the verge of breaking, cast aside their arms and armor and fled. Lord Lynderly stood frozen in shock as he watched half of his household knights consumed by the inferno.
Boom!
Vermithor banked and turned, loosing another searing blast upon the other half of the Snakewood knights.
"NO!" Lindley screamed, collapsing to his knees in despair.
"Drakarys!" Aemon commanded again, not even glancing at the burning men. He pulled on the saddle ropes, directing Vermithor to pursue the fleeing army.
Fools, he thought. To go to war with a dragonrider and dare to raise your banners so proudly. Had they never heard of the Field of Fire? Did they not know why House Gardener, the Kings of the Reach, had been utterly destroyed, with no survivors left to carry on their name? It was because Aegon the Conqueror had stared at their burning banner and willed their line to end.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor's bloodlust rose as he chased the men below, who scurried like insects. The bright copper dragonflame turned the ground into a hellscape of grey-black lava. With the Lynderly banner burned and their elite forces annihilated, the rebel army had no will to fight back.
Rumble! The sound of thundering hooves grew louder as a column of Vale cavalry emerged from the river road. Gunthor and Robb led the charge, flanking the scattered rebels on both sides.
It was a one-sided slaughter.
…
Dusk settled over the land. The fields outside the valley pass were a barren waste of blackened earth and charred remains.
"The longbowmen will remain to clean up the battlefield. The cavalry is with me," Aemon ordered.
"Yes, Your Highness!" Gunthor replied, leading three hundred Vale knights. Robb's eyes shone with excitement as he commanded five hundred equally eager sellswords from the Second Sons. This was what it meant to ride to war with a dragon.
Aemon exhaled, a plume of steam in the cooling air, and urged Vermithor toward the Eyrie. He had to move quickly. If he was too late, the rest would flee.
…
Late in the night, Vermithor soared through the dark sky, crossing the vast expanse of the Vale. They soon arrived at the impregnable Bloody Gate. Below, the night was alight with fires and filled with the shouts and screams of battle. The second rebel army was stalled outside the gate, unable to breach its defenses. The narrow passage allowed only a few men to pass at a time, and the loyal Knights of the Gate cut them down with ease. The great host was nothing more than cheerleaders for a doomed assault.
Aemon saw the truth of the situation at once and pulled on the saddle ropes.
Boom!
Vermithor descended, landing with a ground-shaking thud on the steep cliff beside the Gate.
"DRAGON!"
The battlefield erupted into chaos. In the command tent, Lord Orion of House Corbray and Lord Hunter of Longbow Hall were both stunned into silence. A single thought crossed Lord Orion's mind: It is over.
The Knights of the Bloody Gate, however, cheered wildly at the sight of the bronze dragon. Before the war, many in the Vale had wondered what a conflict against a Targaryen would truly be like. The dragons were strong, yes, but recent Targaryen wars had been less than glorious. Maegor the Cruel had barely suppressed the Faith Militant uprising before dying mysteriously on the Iron Throne. Prince Aemon Targaryen had been assassinated while fighting mercenaries in the south. Even Daemon, the Rogue Prince, had spent years capturing the barren Stepstones. In the eyes of many, even if Aemon won, it would be a costly and difficult victory.
Their perspectives were worlds apart.
Aemon surveyed the scene and patted his dragon's neck.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor roared, and the force of his breath alone tore the rebel banners from their poles. Lord Orion and Lord Hunter watched, their pupils shrinking as the wind stung their faces.
Aemon wasted no words. "Surrender, or face the fire!"
Crash!
Thousands of weapons fell to the ground as the soldiers, trapped in the narrow pass, lost all will to fight. They were caught in a death trap; if the dragon unleashed his flames, the entire tunnel would become an oven.
Vermithor, impatient, roared again, ready to breathe fire at the slightest provocation. Lord Orion and Lord Hunter exchanged a look of resignation. They walked out of their tent and knelt on one knee before the Bloody Gate. The other Vale lords followed their lead, kneeling in the dirt. The Bloody Gate was strong, but the fangs of the Bronze Fury were stronger.
"Open the Gate!" Aemon commanded calmly.
The continent of Westeros was a world built on unspoken rules. A conqueror was admired for his ruthlessness toward his enemies, but also for his mercy toward those who knelt. The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms abided by a tacit agreement: you do not extinguish a noble house.
As was tradition, the Knight of the Bloody Gate called out, "Who would pass the Gate?"
One by one, the kneeling lords announced their names.
Aemon had no interest in listening. He urged Vermithor into the air and flew toward the Eyrie. King's Landing was a nest of vipers, and the Stepstones a barrel of explosives. The great lords were already denouncing him. The Vale had to be unified, and quickly. At the very least, he would not make things more difficult for his uncle Viserys.
…
The night was almost over.
At the Eyrie, a procession of defeated lords made the arduous climb up the mountain and entered the hall of the Maiden's Tower. Jeyne Arryn, dressed in a fine purple gown, sat upon the weirwood throne, her legs crossed. She paid the anxious traitors no mind, occasionally adjusting her new dress or glancing at the large ruby ring on her finger. The dress was a gift from Jansif, the ring one she had playfully pilfered from Aemon's own pocket. Both actions had earned them a light-hearted punishment. Jeyne was quite satisfied. Her lips curled into a faint smile; she was, she admitted to herself, a petty woman.
"Excuse me, my lady, but where is Prince Aemon?" Lord Orion finally asked, his voice strained.
Jeyne remained silent, admiring her jewelry.
"Madam Arryn, did you hear me?" another lord asked.
Jeyne raised her eyes, feigning surprise. "Oh, were you speaking to me?"
"Yes, my lady."
She tilted her head. "How would I know such things? I am but an orphan and a widow, imprisoned in my own castle, awaiting rescue at your hands." She emphasized the words "orphan" and "widow," and the assembled lords could not help but flush with shame.
Jeyne sneered internally. Though House Arryn had a history of being led by the young and the widowed, it was no excuse for vassals to rebel. Did they think she had no pride?
At that moment, the great doors to the hall swung open. A guard stood tall and announced in a booming voice, "Before you stands Aemon Targaryen, the Bronze Flame! Prince of the Narrow Sea, Warden of the East, Protector of the Vale, and Rider of the Dragon!"
As the titles echoed through the hall, the noble lords turned as one. Silhouetted against the halo of the rising sun, Aemon entered. His silver-gold hair draped over his shoulders, and he moved with an unhurried, regal confidence. He wore simple black, yet a palpable aura of nobility emanated from him.
The lords bowed their heads, a nervous energy filling the room. This was an oppressive presence not felt since the days of the Old King, Jaehaerys. Even the Rogue Prince, Daemon, lacked this refined authority, his wild nature diminishing his royal charm.
Jeyne rose from the throne, placing her hands on her stomach and smiling. "From this day forward, my betrothed, Aemon Targaryen, shall be the new Lord of the Vale."
Aemon glanced at her, then walked through the path cleared by the kneeling lords and ascended the dais. He turned and seated himself upon the ancient weirwood throne. Jeyne, her smile fading into a look of serene contentment, stood beside him.
With a rustle of mail and cloth, the noble lords fell to their knees.
Leaning back on the throne, Aemon rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, Lady of the Void. "I am the Prince of the Vale," he stated lightly, speaking in High Valyrian, "and Jeyne Arryn is the Lady Regent."
The maester of the Eyrie, standing in the hall, served as his interpreter. Upon hearing the words, the lords let out a collective, secret sigh of relief. On their journey to the Eyrie, they had learned the fate of the other rebel army at the Battle of the Valley Road. Lord Orion, sweating profusely, thought of his younger brother serving in Aemon's forces and his sister, a companion to the princess. He had chosen wisely.
He took a deep breath and shouted, "King of the Vale!"
One voice took the lead, and dozens more followed.
"King of the Vale!"
…
Aemon's calm expression finally shifted, a strange light flashing in his eyes. He understood the confusion. In both the Common Tongue and High Valyrian, the words for "Prince" and "King" could be one and the same, much like the ruling Prince of Dorne was, for all intents and purposes, a king in his own land. How one interpreted the title was a matter of perspective.
"King of the Vale..."
The chant grew louder, the voices of the lords echoing off the ancient stones of the Eyrie. Aemon could not help but straighten his back, his grip tightening on his sword. Whether they knelt out of loyalty or fear did not matter. He had the endorsement of King Viserys from above and the recognition of Jeyne Arryn from below. His legitimacy was unassailable.
The morning sun rose higher, its golden light streaming through the open doors of the hall. Aemon squinted slightly, basking in its warmth. In that moment, he looked as if he had stepped forth from a sacred light. The lords who witnessed it held their breath, awestruck.
Aemon smiled.
"You may rise."
---------------
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