POV: Aerys Targaryen
I settled into the march quicker than I expected. It felt natural. Like I had been born for the rhythm of boots and banners. The creak of armor. The smell of sweat and leather and steel. War did not frighten me. It welcomed me.
I let Caraxes fly overhead most days while I walked among the men. My grandfather once told me: If you do not know the men who fight for you, you are as blind as a dragon with no eyes. I carried those words with me. A dragon without sight was only a beast. A prince without his men was already dead.
So I learned their names.
Hedge knights with patched cloaks. Sellwords with scars older than I was. Landed knights desperate for glory. Second sons with nothing to inherit but a sword. Farmers clutching spears with hands that still remembered plows.
They stared at me at first.
A boy in black armor walking their ranks.
But men talk, and dragons speak louder than rumors. Once Caraxes screamed overhead, they began to smile when I passed.
The one I spoke with most was Davos Baratheon.
He walked beside me now, helmet tucked under his arm, his stride long and easy.
"You walk like you're inspecting a castle," he said.
"I am," I answered. "Only this castle has ten thousand doors and all of them can run."
He laughed. "My father says an army is just a city that learned how to kill."
"That sounds like him."
Davos nodded. "He says many things that sound like threats even when they aren't."
"He frightens people," I said.
"He frightens me," Davos admitted. "And I've known him my whole life."
Davos was fourteen, but he looked nearly grown. Broad shoulders. Heavy hands. A face already hardening into a warrior's. He would be a dangerous man one day. I liked him for that.
"We'll win glory in this battle," he said, lowering his voice. "You'll see. Songs and banners and knights kneeling before us."
"And you'll be knighted?" I asked.
He grinned. "If I don't die first."
"You won't die," I said simply.
He looked at me sideways. "You sound certain."
"I have a dragon."
He laughed again, but there was relief in it.
The horns sounded ahead.
Stonehelm rose from the hills like a fist of gray stone, its towers catching the last light of dusk. The host slowed as we approached. Banners snapped in the wind. Caraxes descended in a wide circle, his shadow swallowing the road.
The gates opened before we reached them.
A column of riders emerged, led by a tall knight in blue and silver. He dismounted and knelt as we approached.
"Prince Aerys," he called. "Lord Orys. Stonehelm welcomes you."
Lord Orys swung from his saddle with a grunt. "You're late opening the gates," he said.
The lord smiled thinly. "We had to make sure you were not the enemy."
Orys jerked a thumb toward Caraxes, who landed behind us with a thunderous crash. "If we were the enemy, you wouldn't have gates anymore."
The knight swallowed. "Point taken, my lord."
His eyes drifted to me. Surprise flickered there — the same surprise I had seen in every camp since leaving Dragonstone.
"That's the prince?" he murmured.
"That's the prince," Orys said. "And he brought a dragon. Be grateful."
The lord bowed his head deeper. "Stonehelm is yours, Your Grace."
"It is the crown's," I answered. "We only borrow it."
We rode through the gates as the soldiers cheered. Some stared openly. Others made signs against evil. Caraxes folded his wings and stalked behind us, his claws scraping stone. The castle felt smaller with him inside it.
In the courtyard, Orys turned to the gathered captains.
"How long?" he asked.
The lord of Stonehelm answered. "Walter Wyl marches by dawn. Scouts say he brings every bandit in Dorne with him."
"Good," Orys said. "Less chasing."
He looked at me. "Sleep while you can, prince."
"I won't sleep," I said.
He grinned. "Then you'll fit in nicely."
Davos clapped my shoulder. "Tomorrow we become legends."
I looked up at Caraxes. His eyes burned in the torchlight.
"Tomorrow," I said softly, "we burn them."
The war would begin with the sunrise.
And Stonehelm held its breath.
________________________________________________________________________
I had not slept. I did not think I could have, even if I tried.
The camp had that strange quiet that comes before a storm. Men whispered instead of laughed. Armor was buckled in silence. Fires burned low, forgotten. Even the horses seemed uneasy, stamping and snorting in the dark. Caraxes felt it too. I could sense his restlessness through the bond, a low simmering hunger curling in my chest that was not entirely my own.
Then the word spread.
"The rebels are in sight."
It passed from tent to tent like a spark on dry grass. I was already on my feet when the runner reached us. Davos was beside me, strapping on his sword belt with hands that tried very hard not to shake.
"Well," he muttered, forcing a grin. "This is it."
"This is it," I agreed.
Lord Orys summoned the host before dawn's first light. We gathered in a wide half-circle, thousands of men standing shoulder to shoulder. The banners stirred in the wind: stags, dragons, suns, and sigils I did not yet know. Lord Orys rode before us, his armor dark and polished, his voice carrying easily over the field.
"Men of the Stormlands!" he called. "Today you stand against traitors who think us weak. They think us divided. They think a crown can be stolen if one only reaches far enough."
A murmur rolled through the ranks.
"Show them their mistake," Orys thundered. "Stand fast. Shield your brothers. Strike hard. And when the day is done, let the crows feast on rebel flesh while you drink in Stonehelm as victors!"
Steel rang against shields. A roar answered him.
Davos leaned close. "I think I prefer drinking to dying."
"Then stay near me," I said. "I intend to do a great deal of the first."
He barked a laugh, and for a moment the fear loosened its grip.
When the horns sounded, the world shifted.
The army moved as one great beast, surging forward across the field. Mud and frost churned beneath thousands of boots. Arrows darkened the sky, hissing down in deadly waves. Shields lifted. Men cried out. The clash came like thunder.
Steel met steel.
The front lines slammed together, and the battle dissolved into chaos.
Aerys was swallowed by it.
From above, the fighting looked like a writhing knot of color and motion, banners dipping and rising as men struggled and fell. The rebels pressed hard on the left flank, driving wedges into the Stormlander line. For a moment, it seemed they might break through.
Aerys saw the shift. He felt the panic ripple through his own ranks.
He did not hesitate.
Caraxes folded his wings and plunged.
The dragon's scream tore across the battlefield, a sound that froze men in their tracks. Shadows swept over the rebels as the great red wyrm descended, heat rolling from his jaws. The enemy line faltered, shields lifting too late, courage draining from their faces as death came from the sky.
Flame blossomed.
The ground erupted in fire and smoke. Men scattered, formation shattered. Where they had pressed forward moments before, now they stumbled back in terror. Stormlander soldiers surged into the gap with renewed fury, driving the rebels into disarray.
Caraxes landed in the midst of it all with a bone-rattling crash.
Aerys slid from the saddle before the dust had settled.
The world shrank to the space around him: the ring of steel, the roar of men, the pounding of his own blood. A rebel soldier lunged. Aerys moved on instinct. His blade flashed. The man fell.
Another came.
And another.
There was no time to think, no space for doubt. Training guided his arms. His sword rose and fell with terrible certainty. Faces blurred into shapes, shapes into motion. Each strike was survival. Each breath tasted of smoke and iron.
He did not ponder what he was doing. There was only the next swing, the next enemy, the next step forward.
When at last the horn of retreat sounded for the rebels, the field belonged to Storm's End.
The survivors fled.
Aerys stood amid the wreck of the fight, chest heaving, sword slick in his grip. Around him, men stared at Caraxes with awe and fear. Davos pushed through the crowd, helmet crooked, eyes wide.
"Seven hells," he gasped. "Remind me never to stand against you."
Aerys managed a tired smile. "Wise choice."
They reached Stonehelm by dusk.
The gates opened at their approach, torches flaring along the walls. Lord of the castle rode out to meet them with his household guard, bowing low from the saddle.
"You honor my halls," he said. "Stonehelm is yours. Food, fire, and rest await your men."
Cheers rose from the exhausted host.
As the army poured into the safety of the castle, the weight of the coming days settled over them. Victory had been won, but the war was far from finished. Scouts already whispered of Walter Wyl gathering strength, of another storm on the horizon.
Inside Stonehelm's walls, armor was unbuckled, wounds were bound, and swords were sharpened anew.
They would rest.
And then they would be ready.