67 Chapter 67

It took five weeks and twice as many battles before the Golden Company surrendered.

After the Second Battle of the Trident, the Golden Company had retreated towards King's Landing, though it had fallen to the Dornish one day before. King Aegon hadn't followed them; instead, he had marched for the docks south of Darry, sending instructions to Lord Edmure Tully to chase the Golden Company towards the Dornish via Harrenhal. The King's instincts had been right; he found the Golden Company a day's ride away from those docks, marching towards the sea to flee back to Essos. The Royalist cut off that avenue of retreat in the Battle of the Flats, and pursued them until he engaged them again two days south at the Battle of Berry Keep. Each battle saw a royalist triumph but also saw a smoothly executed Golden Company retreat, leaving Aegon on the cusp of complete victory but denying it to him time and time again.

Lord Tully's forces engaged them days later, Aegon arriving only as the Golden Company abandoned the field. The two forces merged and pursued, chasing the Golden Company towards the Dornish, who were marching out of King's Landing after installing Lord Anders Yronwood as regent of the city. It was a game of cat and mouse for days, accompanied by dozens of light skirmishes and a handful of full-scale engagements with the same result as all the others, before the trap was laid.

Aegon and his force made a point of pursuing the Golden Company while continuously denying them any travel north towards the coast of the Bay of Crabs, while the Dornish denied them access to the Narrow Sea. The King himself had devised the simple yet effective plan; they would funnel the Golden Company to Maidenpool, the only port deep enough between the docks of Darry and the Whispers on the Claw to not be frozen by the damnable cold. There they would unite with the Dornish to finish them.

For once, it went perfectly.

The Golden Company was caught just as her ships began to dock, thousands of Royalist charging into the old town of Maidenpool from the east, west and south. The Battle of the Bloody Shallows earned the name, the waters of the port at Maidenpool turned red with blood. It was fierce but short, claiming the lives of thousands in less than an hour of brutal combat. The Golden Company, an organization that had survived for generations, was cut to pieces on the shores of the Bay of Crabs, half of her galleys burned before the others fled without a single ground soldier aboard.

The prisoners were sent under heavy guard to King's Landing, to await judgement by King Aegon. Renly Baratheon was among them, wounded and captured by Baelon Targaryen as he tried to board a galley. Renly's brother, Stannis, had defeated the last of the Ironborn off the shores of Pyke, and was sailing to the warmer shores south where he could make better landfall to unload the plethora of prisoners he had taken. Whatever remained of the Ironborn fleets were scattering back to their rocky islands, and though Aegon knew he would have to scourge them clean in the coming months their teeth had been removed from being able to inflict further damage.

The War of the Three Kings was over. The Second War for the Dawn had just begun.

Aegon stretched his left shoulder, feeling the healing scar from the arrow he had taken resist the movement. He had fought in every battle despite the warnings of both the maesters and his Kingsguard, compensating for the wounded shoulder as well as he could. The wound had been more painful than debilitating, but he had yet to regain the full range of motion he was used to. He also had a bad habit of reopening the puncture wound while fighting; every undershirt the King owned now bore bloodstains around the injury. It was proving as frustrating as it was uncomfortable.

Sers Barristan and Arthur Dayne sat horses alongside him, watching as crews scavenged the battleground for salvageable weapons and armor, pulling corpses from the shallow waters and lining them along the docks and beaches. Maesters and healers roved the lines of wounded royalist, saving who they could, forsaking those they couldn't. Baelon led the hard-hearted butchers, most of them men from his father's retinue, slitting the throats of the wounded traitors, sparing only the odd few of noble blood to be hostages. Peasant levies swarmed the bodies of dead Golden Company men, brawling with one another over the golden rings of service that lined many arms.

It was the aftermath of war. Aegon had grown used to it, just as he had grown used to death.

Lord William Dustin had died at the Battle of the Flats. Jon Arryn, the Lord Paramount of the Vale, had been slain at the Battle of Berry Keep. His son, now Lord Artys Arryn II of the Vale, had bravely taken command of his father's forces for the remainder of the War of the Three Kings, but the young man was grieving fiercely. Over a dozen minor lords had been killed and several more wounded. Randyll Tarly had lost an eye.

Ren had lost his life.

My uncle was right all these years. War is hell.

Aegon was shook from his reverie by the sound of approaching hooves. His other uncle, the Red Viper of Dorne, approached atop a Dornish sandsteed, his lips twisted into a smirk of a smile. Aegon returned it; he hadn't seen Oberyn Martell as much in recent years as he had when he was a child, but his mother's brother had always cared greatly for him. This was their first meeting since months before Aegon had originally travelled north, their two forces in constant contact but never having merged until today.

"Uncle, cousins." The King called as Oberyn reined to a stop in front of him, nodding in greeting to both Barristan and the Sword of the Morning. A spear was strapped to his back, and two of his bastard daughters—brutal Obara and austere Nymeria—sat sandsteeds behind him.

The Red Viper let the smirk grow into a full smile. "Nephew. I hear you've never lost a battle; you're making quite a name for yourself as a warrior."

That praise once would have inflated Aegon's ego for days, but now he only nodded lightly. "None of it would have been as complete without your help. You and uncle Doran have my thanks. How is Elia?"

"She and the other hostages were unharmed when we took King's Landing. She wished to be here, but her mother refused to let her out of her sight again. They were both waiting with my supply train, well out of harm's way. I imagine they'll catch up to us any moment now that it is over." The Dornishman's smile faded. "How is Aelor?"

Aegon looked away, back to the scurrying figures around the dock, debating just what to say. He eventually decided to tell only what Aelor himself would; the truth. "He comes to the council. He fights in the battles as well as he always did, kills as only he can. He oversees picket lines and scouting duties, organizes the layout of the camp each night. On the surface he is the same authoritative, ruthless prince." Aegon sighed. "How is he truly, though? I don't know. I'm only his son."

Oberyn nodded slowly, looking down. "He always loved his family more than life itself. Now he's lost two children and had to kill a brother, even if it was one of your Kingsguard to swing the sword."

The King of the Iron Throne sighed. "He hardly speaks outside of duty; he never contradicts my decisions or orders anymore, even if they are questionable. If you would have told me a year ago that I would miss having my uncle advising my every move, I would have called you a liar. Now I'm desperately wishing for him to call me foolish and correct what I'm doing again." Aegon glanced back to Prince Oberyn, the Red Viper's concerns for one of his oldest friends clear on his olive-toned face. "I wrote for Alysanne. She should already be at Chiltern, awaiting our return as we move back north. Hopefully she can bring him back from…wherever it is he's at now. Anyone who truly knows him can tell it isn't here." He glanced back to Baelon, his cousin in the process of bringing his sword down on a wounded mercenary. "Hopefully she can bring them both back."

Ser Barristan spoke up, his eyes also on Baelon though he spoke of the lad's parents. "She has always been able to reach him, even when he was long past listening to anyone else. I've seen him deal with grief and rage before, but never this way. Perhaps Alysanne has. "

The Prince of Dorne nodded. "We can hope." His face lightened as he changed the subject, though it wasn't necessarily to a lighter topic. "What is this about marching north that your ravens have been mentioning? You're a bit too old to believe in ghost stories."

"I wish they were only ghost stories, uncle, but I've got the entire north coming towards me to feed and protect. Jaehaerys is—or was—at Winterfell to try and hold back what's chasing them. I pray to the Seven every night that he meets us at the Neck; I don't think Aelor would survive the loss of another son."

"Aye, one can only pray." His smirk returned. "I imagined you wouldn't call Dornishmen into these snows without a true threat. While I was in King's Landing, I recruited a few thousand bits of help. If Alysanne can't cheer Aelor up, perhaps another old friend will."

Aegon cocked an eyebrow, following the Red Viper's extended finger. Squinting against the white of the snow, Aegon could just make out a line of wagons rumbling through the snow. They didn't carry men or rations; instead they were filled with sand.

And nestled in that sand were dozens of jars.

Her sons looked haggard and worn, their silvery hair unkempt and faces gaunt, the dark circles under their eyes easily visible against their pale Valyrian skin.

There were also two of them missing.

Neither of their eyes, Targaryen violet or Lefford dark brown, met hers as Ser Vardis helped her off of the mare she'd ridden from the Gates of the Moon to Chiltern, and then from Chiltern to where the army was camped. King Aegon Targaryen, the most powerful man in Westeros, looked like a chastened child, eyes locked on his armored boots. Her third son Baelon, he who had gained a sort of vicious infamy in the War of the Three Kings, was fixated on his gauntlet, scratching at an invisible blemish. Even the Kingsguard, deadly men who had faced down lines of screaming knights, looked anywhere but at her.

Wars they could handle. Grieving mothers they could not.

Aegon cleared his throat and finally raised his gaze to her as she crunched over the snows towards him, her woolen skirts brushing the mud and ice. Despite the pain in her heart, a pain she had thought couldn't get worse after Rhaella until news of Renlor reached her, a streak of relief filled her soul when she looked to the boy she had mothered since he was less than two namedays old. He was changed to be sure, considerably thinner than he had been last she saw him and his face now one of a hardened man and not an untested boy, but she could still see her Aegon underneath it.

He squared his shoulders as he spoke, voice strong and formal. "Lady Alysanne, I—"

The King fell suddenly silent when she threw her arms around his armored middle. She felt Aegon let out a long, relieved sigh, and then he was hugging her back, his voice now small and quiet. "I missed you, mother."

Alysanne hugged him a long moment before she leaned back, fighting back tears as she placed a motherly hand on his cheek. She didn't trust her voice so she didn't use it, instead turning to wrap Baelon in a similar hug. He had grown an inconceivable amount since she'd last saw him in the courtyard of the Red Keep; Baelon was tall, nearly as tall as Aelor, and where once there had been peach fuzz there was now whiskers.

They're both men now. Gods, how much I've missed.

She didn't say anything for a long while, holding the two Targaryen warriors, thanking the old gods and the new that they were alive and well. She felt the sudden urge to hold Aemon, her sweet sweet Aemon, though she knew he was travelling south with the refugees of the north. A pang of fear for Jaehaerys spiked through her, as did a fresh new wave of pain as she thought of Renlor.

He never got to meet Lucaerys. He never even knew.

It took her a long while before she gathered the strength to speak without her voice cracking. "Where is Aelor?"

Aegon shook his head. "I didn't tell him you were coming. He is…not himself. I don't believe he has slept since…"

Alysanne had heard all she needed to. "Take me to him."

Her husband's tent was dark when she quietly stepped through the canvas, her eyes taking several moments to adjust to the dim interior. This tent was different than the one she and Aelor had hammered out their own agreements in outside Lannisport; then his had been the center of command for the entire surrounding army, needing to be capable of housing all of his advisors and chief lords. During this campaign however those duties fell to Aegon, and so the Hand of the King had opted for a modest pavilion capable of housing a cot, a chest, a small writing table, one brazier for warmth and not much else.

A candle sat on his chest of belongings next to the cot, which clearly hadn't been used anytime recently. It, like the lantern on the table and brazier in the corner, was unlit. Quill and parchment was perfectly organized alongside said lantern, too perfect to have been used since they were originally set out. While the canvas walls protected her from the bite of the wind and the falling snow, the interior was nearly as cold as the conditions outside of it.

It was tidy, much too tidy for her Aelor. It looked as if a ghost resided here, a ghost that was currently seated in an open-backed stool in the very center of the shelter.

Alysanne didn't say a word as she moved towards the broad shoulders and lean hips that she knew every bit as well as she knew her own body. Aelor's back was to her, her dragonlord as still and silent as the mountains around the Golden Tooth of her youth. He remained that way as she neared, his head down as he focused on something in his hands that was shielded from her view.

The Dragon of Duskendale didn't even flinch when she slipped her hands under his arms and wrapped her own around his ribs, resting her chin on his left shoulder. It wasn't difficult; even seated, her husband was much larger than she herself was, despite Alysanne being on the taller side for a woman. Tucking her cheek against his neck, she peered down towards his lap where Aelor held the object of his fixation.

The empty eyeholes of her son's helm stared back at her.

The warlike spikes along the center a sharp contrast to the pale skin holding them, the dark steel polished to a shine. The lack of violet eyes staring back at her from the empty black eye gaps broke her heart into more pieces, as did the lack of a smiling Ren underneath it all. I'll never see it again. Tears burned her eyes until one slipped down her cheek, trailing off to run across the smooth steel of her husband's shoulder plate.

He never moved his head, focused on the helm of their son, but one broad hand reached up to cup her cheek. His voice was rough and raspy when he spoke, the palm of his hand cold against her cheek. "Allie?"

The Lady of Duskendale said nothing, instead turning her head to press a kiss to his cheek before looking back down at the piece of armor in his hands. With a long, infinitely tired sigh the Targaryen prince melted back into her, his movement accompanied by the sound of popping joints. Neither of them said anything for a while, peering down at the memento of their son. Alysanne leaned her head against his, letting tears roll unchecked. Aelor kept his hand on her cheek, thumb gently stroking, speaking after a long while with a somber, broken tone. "I lied to you, Allie. I said I'd bring our sons home, and I failed."

Her own voice wavered as she spoke, but Alysanne was past caring enough to try and hide weakness, particularly from Aelor. "Our boy never did follow our plans for him."

"I couldn't even avenge him, not properly. Viserys was dead by the time I learned Ren was gone. In my youth I would have slaughtered the entire Golden Company in vengeance, as I tried to do to the Lannisters after Elia, but now…now even death doesn't fill the hole in my soul."

"Ren wouldn't have wanted you to anyway, love; he was always more diplomat than warrior. A smile rather than a punch, a love letter rather than a declaration of war. A…" Her voice broke and the sobs came uncontrolled.

He gently reached across to the table beside him and placed Renlor's helm there before leaning out of her grasp. He slid around on the stool, and she was greeted by the dark bags under his eyes and his unkempt beard before he reached for her again, pulling her into his embrace. She clutched him with ferocity, burying her head into the side of his neck as he spoke again over her tears. "How could you ever forgive me?"

It took her long minutes to control herself enough to answer, the sobs slowing as she struggled to regain herself. When she did her voice was muffled by his skin, but she put as much conviction behind it as she could. "I never once blamed you. Ren fought and he…died, just as Rhaegar and Renfred Rykker and all those before him have. You told me yourself when you started his training that it was the way of war."

Aelor grunted, arms tightening around her. "You never truly believe it will happen to your own children when you say those things. You always foresee it as happening to someone else, someone distant and foreign, not someone you held since the day he was brought into this world."

Alysanne choked back another round of sobs, rallying her inner strength before she leaned back in his arms. She placed a hand on either side of his face, meeting his eyes as she spoke with as much conviction as her broken heart held. "There are seven others you have held since the day they entered this world left, and they need you now more than ever. Aegon is still half a boy—he needs your guidance and your strength. Baelon has lost his eldest brother and half of his mind; he needs your strength. Aemon is coming south with thousands of refugees; they need your strength. Jaehaerys is fleeing from a foe he cannot defeat, and likely feels as if it is all his fault; he needs your strength. And I am Renlor and Rhaella's mother just as much as you are their father; I need your strength. We can grieve, love, and we will for the rest of our lives. But we have a duty, not only to our living children but to the one we won't see in this life again. There is much to live for; to live for as a man, not as a hermit in his cave."

Like Lucaerys. She wondered if she should mention that they had a grandson, but opted to wait. Now was a time to grieve with one another; there would be time to tell him all else later. There would be time to tell him of grandsons and gooddaughters and even dragons; they'd kept the hatchlings quite from all, no one having entered or left the Gates of the Moon aside from the Kingsguard and herself, and Sers Arthur and Rolland—and Tyrion Lannister, who had been there at the first—had been sworn to secrecy. At first it was because they were too small to have done anyone any good—Alysanne and Daenerys had wondered if they might in truth die, creatures of fire born into a world of ice. Aegon and Aelor hadn't needed any further distractions from the difficult battle they faced, particularly not one as significant to their House as Balerion, Aelon and Rhaegal were, at least not while the hatchlings were too small to singe a housecat much less an army. Their war was to be won with swords and strategy, not dragonfire; the women had agreed it best to not give the men even the slightest idea of anything different.

Then they had kept the news hidden for fear that it would draw Viserys down on the Gates of the Moon; nearly all of the fighting men in the Vale had marched to war, as they were too far from the Western coast to draw the ire of Ironborn raiders, and even that heady defense could have fallen to the discipline of the Golden Company. If Viserys had taken dragons into his possession—and in the process Daenerys—his rebellion would have grown tenfold.

Now, though, there was no true reason to hide the birth of the dragons from Aegon and Aelor. They were nearly a year old, and bigger than any animal Alysanne had seen though she wasn't sure how anyone could ride the beasts. Word of the return of dragons was not to be entrusted to a raven, but since she, someone who had seen them grow, was here in the flesh…well, perhaps it was time. The dragons were willful and ornery, flying where they wanted when they wanted and preying on livestock and wildlife alike. They could not truly be controlled, though they always returned to wherever Dany was at night, save for Balerion.

The smallfolk of the Vale were doubtlessly spreading word that they had seen dragons swooping through the snowy skies, only the snows that prevented easy travel and the skepticism the stories were clearly met with keeping the news from already spreading all over Westeros. The secret wouldn't be held much longer. If anyone had a right to know, it was the man she was with now.

But she didn't say anything, at least not then; there was something else, wholly inappropriate for a woman grieving, on her mind. They'd kept word of the dragons hidden for almost a year; a few more hours would make no difference.

Aelor had watched her as she spoke, his hand at some point having stroked back the hair from her face. Alysanne kept her eyes on his, shaking from the cold and the emotion and something else entirely. Aelor finally smiled, a small and sad smile, deadened by clear and obvious pain, but a smile none the less. "I never deserved you."

Her response was to press her lips to his, pushing as close to his body as she physically could. One turned to another, then another.

The next morning, the cot was anything but tidy.

"Aegon." A hard grip grabbed his shoulder, shaking the King of the Iron Throne out of his dreams of sunshine and fire. "Wake up, son, now."

Aegon the Sixth opened his eyes to see his uncle standing over him, silhouetted against the light of a lantern. The Dragon of Duskendale turned to light the candles on Aegon's table as the King sat up on the cot, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Uncle? What…what hour is it?"

"Closer to dusk than dawn." He was forced to squint as the candles burned to life, and when Aelor turned to face him again Aegon was taken aback by the difference in the man. This was not the haggard, broken hearted man he had seen this morning; the darkness under his eyes had dissipated some, and Aelor stood taller and straighter than Aegon had seen him in years. There was a healthier gleam to his Valyrian features as well, the blush of life prevalent where there had been only deadened white skin earlier.

His uncle looked positively alive.

With a shock Aegon realized his uncle wasn't in his armor for the first time in forever, instead dressed in a simple robe cinched at the waist that was entirely unfit for the deep snows outside. When Aegon's sleep-addled mind remembered Alysanne had arrived only hours earlier, it all clicked.

Oh. OH.

The wave of revulsion he felt—those were his parents, for the sake of the Seven—was quashed by his uncle's intently focused gaze and tone of voice. "Are you awake enough now, boy?"

Aegon didn't even mind being called boy, as long as it was the old Aelor saying it instead of the new. He nodded once, and Aelor reached out to grip his shoulder. It was strong, as strong as the conviction in the Dragon of Duskendale's voice.

"Good. You're going to need all of your wits for what I'm about to tell you."