Rodrick Lychester I/ Alleras Dayne I

Author's Note: Just for clarification, a lot of things that happen in this story are later than in the show/the books, I'm only saying this so that when people see the dates, you don't try to be a smat*ss about it and correct me.

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Rodrick Lychester I

119 AC

"I can't thank you enough, my Prince, that new liquid rock of yours is a Gods send! With these new roads, our goods can go to and fro Kingslanding in less than a day! The Seven blessed us with such a boon, blessed us!" Speaks the leader of the trading caravan.

Rodrick Lychester is the 3rd son of the 3rd son of a minor lordly House on the Riverlands, sent to squire under Lord Grover Tully along with a rabble of other kids, he was hastily knighted by the Lord Paramount after getting chosen by Prince Baelon as his sworn shield.

He could remember the day clear as day, it was when the Crown Prince was coming back from his tour of the seven kingdoms, some sort of present for his 11th nameday...

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115 AC

Rodrick desperately held a shield in front of his chest, fending off an unceasing stream of blows from his much shorter opponent, for a boy of one and ten, he was pretty tall and abnormally bulky.

But the shield was only so big, and his -admittedly impressive- defense, couldn't hold the attacks off for long.

The Master of Arms yelled at him as he fell on his behind, staggered.

"Rodrick! How many times do I have to tell you, to use your sword for once!"

He knew what he was talking about, but Rodrick was always more inclined towards the shield, his father wanted him to be the best knight he could, proficient in a sword, lance, and horsemanship.

But while he was a decent rider, the other two were not quite his strong points.

Just as he was about to apologize, he saw both the Master at arms and the winner of his bout kneeling towards him. He looked to the other people, only to see them do the same.

He got up and turned around, only to see a 5 feet tall boy, looking up at him with a smirk and a raised brow.

'It's the Prince!' He thought.

"Y-your grace! I am deeply sorry for that!" He deeply bowed.

He hoped that the Prince doesn't get offended, if he does, a minor, really, really spare grandson of a very, very minor lord won't be able to resist.

"No worries, Rodrick, right ?" He asked, signaling everyone to stand.

"Y-you know me, your Grace?"

"Oh yes, I saw you sparring yesterday, so I made some inquiries."

"I-I don't deserve your attention, your Grace."

"Oh, on the contrary, I think you may be underestimating yourself. You know what? How about a rematch, with squire Brynden over there, as long as he is not against it of course."

"O-of course your Grace!" Replied the squire.

"Of course your Grace..." So did Rodrick, albeit with a resigned expression.

"Not with these though." Interrupted the Prince, dismissively pointing at his blunted sword and wooden shield.

Baelon gestured to one of his peculiar soldiers behind him.

One of them stepped forwards, holding a huge rectangular shield, in Earth, it is known either as a tower shield, or a roman scutum. Along with the shield, the soldier also held a very average blunted mace, one longer than the usual one.

"I-I don't understand, your Grace."

The Prince's smile got wider.

"What is so hard to understand, you're going to use the Tower shield and the mace, instead of your usual sword and shield."

"B-but your Gra-"

"Just try it, I am sure you'll be very surprised."

Rodrick just sighed and awkwardly grabbed his new tools,

"No, you don't hold it like that, you hold it like this." The Prince corrected his stance.

"Now, before you start, here is some advice. Trust your instincts, contrary to usual norms, the shield is your main weapon, hold your opponent off until you notice the frequency of his blows getting lower. But make sure that you attempt to hit him from time to time. Keep that in mind." He says.

Rodrick hesitantly nods, before he lowers the face mask of his battered armor.

He held the heavy shield on his side, with the heavy weight of the mace unfamiliar to him.

Brynden charged towards him, probably expecting an easy win.

Due to the larger size of the shield, Rodrick instinctively stood sideways to get a better field of vision.

He braced himself and his new shield to defend against the first blow, but he was however pleasantly surprised by the ease at which he managed to hold his ground.

He easily managed to deflect the remaining blows, only having to readjust the tower shield from time to time.

He saw his opportunity when Brynden attempted to break his defense by overextending his next blow, so he suddenly pushed back against his attack, staggering him, before following with a wide swipe with his overly long mace.

The mace had more impact due to Rodrick's power and its unusual length, so it caused the squire to fall off, his arm unconsciously letting go of his shield. And in a last attempt to get back his advantage, he slashes his legs while on the floor.

Lychester however didn't fall for that, as he smashed his shield on the side of the longsword, causing it to collide with the ground and disarm his opponent. He menacingly stands before Brynden for the first time and says.

"Yield."

"I yield" Replied a dumbfounded squire.

Rodrick doesn't help his felled foe up, as the gravity of the situation finally catches up to him.

'This felt ... natural."

"Hahaha! This should teach you to never wage bets against me, Ser Steffon. Now you owe me 20 gold dragons!" Exclaims the Prince, smugly looking towards the knight in the white cloak.

*Sigh*"I guess so, my Prince."

Finally getting his senses back, Lychester turns towards the Prince and bows respectfully.

"Thank you, my Prince! Your intervention changed my life, I do not know how I could repay you!" He said.

But the prince just laughed, it was a booming pleasant sound that echoed in the yard. And many people couldn't help but smile.

"I know how you can! Your potential, while not particularly suited for horseback, is very fitting with a sworn shield. And would you look at that! I seem to lack one at the moment." Replies Baelon, a playful glint in his eye.

"You honor me and my family, my Prince! I shall serve with all my heart!"

"I wouldn't expect nothing less, and who knows? Maybe when Ser Steffon hits the bucket, you could take his place, huh." He jokes while bumping the Kingsguard with his elbow.

"I think I will have a set of grey hairs when the time comes, my Prince."

The Prince's retinues eyes turned grim when they saw how he joked back to Baelon, a moment of silence ensues.

"Hahaha! I knew I liked you! Now, let's spar!"

"Spar, your Grace ?"

It was when he got completely trounced by a one and ten-name day old when Rodrick realized that no one in the world deserves his servitude more than Baelon Targaryen.

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Back to 119 AC

"You flatter me, Arryk. But I have to be honest, the new roads and the buildings made due to the discovery of the liquid rock, or cement as I like to call it, caused a wave of interest from several enterprising lords of the realm, the utility and cheap price of the new substance has my workers in Dragonstone quite busy. My coffers haven't been so full in my life!"

"You are too humble, your Grace! There is nothing wrong with benefiting from one's goodwill, you are an example to all men in Westeros, nay! the World! Everyone knows and sees the change that your deeds have caused. from the traitors at Dorne to the Savages in the North, all know and respect your name."

Prince Baelon stood amidst a group of merchants and his men at arms, the flags showcasing his sigil, a purple three-headed Dragon on a black background, held high by his loyal soldiers.

Just as Baelon opened his mouth to reply, he lifted his left fist causing the soldiers to stop. As he narrowed his eyes toward the sides of the road, they felt the trembling of the ground before the sound of hooves.

"SPEAR WALL!" Rodrick screams in response.

Like puppets on strings, soldiers wearing polished steel armor of the highest quality, draping purple mantles to show their allegiance. In practiced movements, they raised their strange 8 feet long spears towards the sound of hooves, while their round shields protected their most sensitive areas.

Like usual, Rodrick dutifully stood behind his liege, knowing that he could more than handle himself in a fight, as long as no one backstabs him, at least.

In moments like this, the Guardian, as some people called him, couldn't help but reminisce about these last few years. Ser Steffon Darklyn, one of the eminent Kingsguard, stopped accompanying the Prince after admitting that his presence was no longer needed.

What he didn't know though, was that it wasn't wanted either. The Prince only trusted people handpicked by himself, as he did with most of his retinue, including almost every member of the Caravan, that he joined because 'they randomly' met during the road to Kingslanding'.

His train of thought got interrupted as he suddenly raised his tower shield, fully made from polished Ironwood, and one of many gifts from House Stark to the Prince as thanks to his contribution, successfully blocking a dangerously aimed arrow towards his King's neck.

"They are skilled, Your Grace."

"Hmm... I can see that."

That was when the cavalry came in, literally. A squadron of mounted "bandits" with superficially stained armor and dirty faces finally show up from both sides of the road.

Unfortunately for them, while humans know that cavalry has an almost unsurmountable advantage over infantry, the horses aren't that smart.

They are smart enough, however, to know that pointy sticks will gravely injure them if they just... run into them.

So they stop in their tracks, unknowing of their charging brethren right behind them, as you may well know, that causes a dilemma for the valiant bandits.

Cavalry has three choices when faced with a disciplined, well-equipped, veritable wall of spears. Either you die by a pointy stick or by your allies trampling over your body, or you manoeuver your horse sideways, and finally, you are skilled enough (or your horse is) to manage to break through.

A third chose death, another third turned sideways, and the last group followed their leader after the latter managed to behead one of the Prince's retinue, only for him to find another wall of spears behind the first one, one much more prepared for him.

He orders his men to turn around, only to find that not only has the breach that he caused already filled back up, but that he was faced with two walls of pointy sticks of death.

Whether due to his experience or skill, instead of panicking, the leader follows the road made by the two walls, looking for a way to escape.

"Rodrick." Orders the Prince.

"Yes, your Grace. OPEN A PATH!" He responds.

The leader, already having suffered a bunch of casualties due to the enclosing walls of spears. Sees an open path towards the Prince, and the foolish, foolish man, desperately grabs his so-called 'Lifeline'.

"Guard my back." Speaks the Prince.

"Always, your Grace."

The Prince, along with his closest soldiers, draws his red and black sword, Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel sword was awarded to him by the King after he won his first tourney at 12 and got knighted at the very same age.

Just as the Leader of the bandits crosses the opening made for him, the trap closes on his subordinates, leaving him and his horse along against the Prince and his most loyal, most skilled men at arms.

But the man, either due to his bravery or foolishness, doesn't give up. As he charges toward the prince with a maddened roar.

No one makes any attempt to protect his grace against his foe, as the merchants and traders try to warn him about the threat.

But Baelon is unfazed, as the bandit leader grins and his horse face to face with the Heir to the Throne, he swings his sword in an incredibly swift movement, aiming for his neck.

But to his surprise, his sword doesn't make contact. He looks down at his left side to see the prince standing up after slashing his horse's front leg off. While doing so, he cuts the bandit's head before he could even react.

As the body and horse falls down, a hand grabs the flying head out of the air. The Prince throws the head to one of the soldiers, who emotionlessly grabs it.

"Find out who that is, and sound the horn. The archers don't need to hide anymore."

"Yes, your Grace. SOUND THE HORN!" The soldier answers.

The sound of horns came, but the sound of arrows followed.

The remaining bandits were separated into two groups, one gathered in front of the Caravan towards Kingslanding, the other obviously in the other direction.

Sorry, I should reiterate.

There is one group of bandits remaining, one behind them, and the other getting peppered with arrows coming from within the woods.

"Hah! Look at them running, so adorable." Comments Baelon.

The Prince puts two fingers on his mouth and whistles.

After a moment of silence, one of the stray clouds in the sky gets pierced by a falling silhouette.

The silhouette gets bigger and bigger as it gets closer and closer to the ground.

The fleeing bandits notice a huge shadow over their heads, so they raise their heads to know what it is.

Their eyes open up from terror, as the falling dragon suddenly opens up its wings, creating a gust of wind that sends their hair flying.

It was a decently-sized dragon, with regal features and smooth scales. Its scales were dark purple with lines of gold. (Picture in comments.)

Before they even began to scream out of sheer fear, a burst of golden fire burned them all to a crisp.

Baelon turns back towards the civilians, wiping the blood from his face with a smile on it.

"Sorry for the inconvenience. Now! We were talking about liquid stone?"

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People bowed and smiled at the familiar sight of the prince and his stalwart Guardian. But their smiles froze after noticing the blood on his purple doublet.

The duo stopped in front of a door guarded by two Kingsguard.

"Lord Commander, Ser Rickard. I believe I have an appointment."

"Of course your Grace." Replies Criston Cole.

The door to the small council opens, and Baelon steps inside. The Kingsguard however stops Rodrick from entering.

"Only the prince may go in." Says Criston.

"Wherever the prince goes, I go."

They stand there for a while, each putting a hand on the handle of their respective weapons.

"Ser Criston." Interrupts the prince.

The Lord Commander of 7 years looks back toward his prince.

"Let. Him. In." He orders, the look in his eyes piercing through his soul.

Criston takes a step back out of fear, and Rodrick takes advantage of the situation to step inside.

Baelon looks back towards the members of the Small Council, each looking at him with apprehension.

"Father, other members of the Small Council, good mother." Greets the prince with a slight bow.

"Please do excuse Rodrick, as you can see from my wardrobe malfunction, he is in quite a sensitive state."

"What happened, son?" Questions Viserys.

Baelon grabs one of the chairs and takes a seat on the table, right in front of the King.

"You won't believe who I met on the road. He and his friends were quite a surprise!" He says.

He grabs the bandit leader's head from his sack and slams it on the table. The members of the small council look at the head in shock.

"What is the meaning of this!" Exclaims Queen Alicent.

"Why thank you goodmother! You see, this is Garth Pommingham, the second son of the lordly house of Pommingham, of the Reach." His gaze turns more and more threatening as he looks Alicent in the eyes.

"He was dressed as a bandit, along with a mix of hedge knights and sellswords, and he just tried to assassinate me and my retinue, right next to our glorious capital!" He continues.

After a moment of silence, Lord Beesbury, the current master of coin, exclaims.

"That is treason of the highest order!"

"I wholly agree!" Continues Maester Mellos.

"Thank the Seven for your safety, your Grace." Finishes Tyland Lannister, the master of ships.

"Thank you, my Lords. Your loyalty to the crown never ceases to amaze me." Replies the Prince.

"However, I am afraid that this may not be the end of it. In fact, Ser Garth here is but a catspaw." He continues.

"My son, please, do not play those games. Just cease the mummery and get to the core of this meeting." Says Viserys.

"Of course, as you all know, the canal connecting Ironman's bay and the Blue fork was finished a couple of moons ago. Naturally, that took away most of the trading ships going through Sunspear to reach the Western coast of Westeros." Baelon empties a pouch full of coins on the council table.

"And the House of Pommingham is of the marshes, so it is logical that if Dorne wished to hire a catspaw, Ser Garth would be the perfect target."

Lyonel Strong picks up a coin, he looks at the sun on one of its sides with apprehension.

"If Dorne attempted an assassination on the Crown Prince of the realm, then retaliation would become necessary." He says.

"I don't think a war is necessary, we can simply demand some sort of apology from the Prince of Dorne, I do not believe that we have to risk human lives on a failed attempt."

"I must disagree my Queen, but if this attempt goes unpunished then more will come until one of them succeeds. By then it will be too late for regrets." Says Lyonel.

"My Lord Hand, if we wage war on Dorne then they may ally with the Triarchy, and the flames of war would rekindle in the stepstones."

The members of the small council began debating the situation, with Viserys and Baelon silent, Viserys was intensely looking at his son while the Prince just smiled.

"Baelon, what do you think."

"Well, I may have an idea."

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Alleras Dayne I

119 AC

The door opened abruptly while he was signing some papers.

"My Lord, a raven! A raven!" His elderly Maester speed walked to his side and gives him a letter.

"From where ?"

"Dragonstone."

Alleras takes that as a sign to open the letter, it read.

'My friend,

A spark between the Guardians of the Boneway and the Piercers of the Sun was kindled today that could turn into a raging fire.

The Purple Lightning will secretly send aid as always, while the Huntsmen will send sustenance.

A tower tried to shine a light on us, but we managed to evade their attempts, still.

The plan is underway, it is only a matter of time before we reunite as public friends rather than stranger enemies.

I look forwards to that day.

Forevermore, B.'

Alleras let out a dry chuckle at that, his friend's antics always brought a smile to his face.

Why did he have to be so cryptic? There was no reason for it anyway.

The Daynes of Starfall is to Dorne what the Starks are to the seven kingdoms, respected, with ancestry that tracks back to the days of Heroes such as Bran the Builder or Lann the Clever.

They are known for their ferocity and their honor, the wielders of Dawn, the Swords of the Morning, are known as the finest warriors and knights of the ages.

Alleras Dayne is the first son and the Lord of Starfall, which means that he has a responsibility to his people that dwarfs his personal bias.

The Daynes are the leaders of about a third of the Dornish noble houses, people who are known for their skill on the battlefield, but nothing else. So watching his people starve and fall from grace gave birth to deep feelings of resentment towards the squabbling Yronwoods and Martells.

Everything started on 105 AC, after Corlys Velaryon and Daemon Targaryen waged a war on the Stepstones against the Triarchy, trade between Dorne and the Free Cities got stifled to the extreme, and that meant no shipment of grains and the starvation of their people.

It was to be expected, after all, that grain didn't even originate from the Free Cities, but was bought from the Reach at half the price of what they charged.

But Dorne was used to this, as they didn't trade with the rest of the Kingdoms even before Aegon the Conquerors realm, so they weren't going to start now.

Alleras hated that, they drove countless people into death, or worse, and for what, pride? Honor? Independence? What did that ever bring them but death and sickness? Alleras is the Sword of the Morning, and he would give up Dawn in a heartbeat if it meant ending this cycle of misery.

And then came the rumors, the prodigal prince who saved the North! Even from here, they heard of him, a boy of one and ten who convinced his father to give back the New Gift to the people of the north. The boy who solved their struggles against winter for years to come through a few shipments of grain and a fishing fleet.

Baelon the Blessed, they called him. Because blessed by the seven was he who inspires such loyalty from the common folk, who is so skilled with a blade that he felled more than ten knights on the melee of his one-and-tenth nameday.

He thought them lies, and rumors propagated by sycophants to secure his position.

And then he met a 'Lyseni merchant prince' drifting along the Torrentine, docking into the ports of Starfall, carrying grains and food as a gift to the struggling people of Dorne.

He called it charity, he said. A one-time occurrence, he said.

But then people who claim to come from Horn hill came by every moon, also with shipments of grains and food to placate the smallfolk, for half a year they came, and for half a year the people celebrated.

Until he came again, but this time he requested an audience, with me.

He granted it, of course. And the Lyseni confessed his true identity, even showing him his ancestral sword, so he humored him.

Then he told Alleras of his vision, of a united realm, united people, of turning the Seven kingdoms into one, and ushering in an era of peace and prosperity unheard of through the ages.

And then came the plans, the methods by which his ambitions could be achieved.

So he listened, and from Dusk till Dawn, I was regaled with a dream by which I felt compelled to follow.

And so the Prince came to gain a friend, but left with much, much more.

He ended his musings, he must focus on the task at hand.

"Maester Lewys."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Call the banners, it is time to pay our respects to our new liege."

"..., where to, my lord ?"

"Nightsong."