Chapter Text
Summerhal 104 AC
Aemon Targaryen
Aemon stood within the confines of Summerhall, his mind swirling with a tumult of thoughts and concerns as he received reports regarding the status of the Dragon's Gate. It was said that the formidable structure had held firm against the onslaught of the Dornish army, its walls standing tall and unyielding against the tide of attackers.
The news brought a sense of relief to Aemon, tempered by the knowledge that their respite would likely be short-lived. The Dornish were a tenacious foe, and while the Dragon's Gate had proven capable of withstanding their initial assault, it was only a matter of time before they regrouped and launched another attack. But it was an entire army marching straight into a single path, while not narrow by any stretch of the word, it was narrow for an entire army to fit through and archers could shoot them down from both sides of the elevated mountain walls.
Yet even amidst the chaos and uncertainty, Aemon found pride in his father's foresight and ingenuity. Daemon Targaryen had overseen the construction of the Dragon's Gate with meticulous care, ensuring that it was not only formidable but virtually impregnable. It was a testament to his father's strategic prowess and dedication to defending their home.
The Dragon's Gate served as the last line of defense against the might of Dorne, its imposing presence acting as a bulwark against the advancing forces. While Aemon harbored doubts about its ability to hold off the entire Dornish army indefinitely, he knew that it afforded them precious time - time he intended to use to deal with the looming threat posed by the Greyjoys.
With the Dragon's Gate standing firm, Aemon could focus on repelling the Ironborn invaders and safeguarding the realm from their plundering and pillaging. It was a daunting task, to be sure, but one that Aemon approached with a grim determination born of duty and necessity.
As he gazed out at the sturdy walls of surrounding Summertown from his solar window and overlooked the city at large, Aemon knew that their fate hung in the balance. But with the strength of their defenses and the courage of their people, they would stand firm against the storm that raged around them, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead in the tumultuous days to come.
Aemon stood amidst his advisors and commanders, the weight of leadership heavy upon his shoulders as he issued orders for the defense of Summerhall. In his life as Jon Snow, he lived a contradiction, he wished for Winterfell, and he always wanted it no matter how much he thought otherwise, he wanted to be Lord of Winterfell and yet he loved Rob far too much to ever harm him or wish him pain. He wanted the position and then he grew to hate the leadership, he hated war, he hated having to sentence those to death and now he had everything he wanted from Rob that he grew to hate, and then some. At the age of seven Aemon had to worry not only about a keep that had yet to be finished but over a hundred thousand lives in a city just at the base of said keep while worrying about siege and war. His voice rang out with authority as he directed his men to bolster the defenses of the Dragon's Gate, the formidable barrier between them and the advancing Dornish forces.
Ghost sat by Aemon's side like he had every day since Aemon had come to Summerhall. Ghost seemed calm and made no noise, but the wolf's eyes looked at everything and did not miss anything. The white fur is almost matching the white marble of Summerhall and the pieces of weirwood bark in the furniture. But it was the red eyes that gave Ghost away. The dire wolf camouflaged almost perfectly on the floor while Ameon scratched the wolf's ear. Aemon scratched the wolf's ear as he spoke to his advisor.
"I want another four thousand men stationed at the Dragon's Gate," Aemon commanded, his tone firm and decisive. "We must ensure that all seven walls are adequately protected to prevent the Dornish from breaching our defenses."
Maester Vaegon, ever the voice of reason, interjected with caution. "Perhaps it is not wise to deplete the ranks of the City Watch, Your Grace. Moving another four thousand men to the Dragon's Gate depletes most of the guards in both Summerhall and Summertown," he suggested, his brow furrowed in concern. "We cannot afford to leave the city nor the keep undefended."
But Aemon waved off Vaegon's concerns with a determined gesture. "From what we've heard, the Greyjoys will be at Summerhall in another four days," he countered, his tone resolute. "And Princess Daenerys reports that they are in open fields, making them easier targets for Balerion. I do not like to speak of what my dragon can do but I have seen entire landscape burn in a black blaze and turn the very area into one of the seven hells." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled company as he laid out his strategy. "With the Greyjoys approaching and the Martells already at the Dragon's Gate, we cannot afford to delay," he continued, his voice tinged with urgency. "I will use Balerion to burn the Greyjoys, and the forces we won't need in the city can be deployed to bolster the defenses of the Dragon's Gate. A few thousand Greyjoys is no threat compared to the entire might of Dorne. The same principality that had fought both the Reach and Stormlands before."
With his orders issued and plan in motion, Aemon steeled himself for the challenges ahead. The days ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but he was determined to do whatever it took to defend his home and protect the realm from the ravages of war. It was moments like this that three men came to mind more than any other. His honorable Uncle Ned gave him a false understanding that the world was black and white and that honor should never be questioned. He thought of the Old bear, Jeor Mormont, who had gifted Jon Snow his sword Long Claw, and by rights claimed Jon as much as his successor as a son was. He thought of his uncle maester Aemon. He wondered what they would do in his position. Two of them never had to defend an entire city while worrying about the siege and dwindling food for nearly sixty thousand people in a city, a city that has not yet been completed and its defenses not fully set. Jon Snow wanted to show his importance and learned how daunting a task it was, Aemon Targaryen knew of the pressures and hated every second of it but had to survive so that he could secure ways to fight against the Long Night later. Aemon truly hated everything now. He looked to the sword in the other side of the room, the sword he was not large enough to wild just yet. He would have loved to bring Blackfyre to battle but it was useless while he was to small to use it, even if Valyrian steel was so light that he could lift the blade.
Aemon had to tell Ghost to stay behind in the room because the other dragons, the dragons of the six princesses, were not taking to Ghost as much as Balerion put up with him. Ghost was almost killed several times, and Balerion only kept the other dragons in check due to Aemon caring for the wolf even if Balerion did not. Aemon had the feeling that Balerion would not do so another time. Dragons care for their own. Ghost was no dragon, but to Balerion, Aemon was, and Balerion would care just enough about the things that Aemon cared about to not allow the wolf to die so easily.
As he walked, Aemon's mind buzzed with thoughts of strategy and preparation, his every step a testament to the weight of responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. He had left his advisors to carry out his orders, trusting in their competence and dedication to the defense of their home, while he made his way to the Dragoncaves, where the dragons resided.
The Dragoncaves, the network of caves already established, slightly at the very least, for the dragons to stay. Aemon had allowed Balerion to enter first so he could make the caverns wide enough for himself, making it far more than enough for the dragons of his aunts. Balerion had been using his own fires for quite some time and melted much stone, It as a week into that that Aemon learned that there were gold veins, diamond veins, and other precious metals in the caves inside the Red Mountains, meaning that the entire mountain range the Summerhall was built upon was made of gold and precious stones. The lowest of the mountains in the Red Mountains was taller than the mountain that Casterly Rock was made upon and that lone mountain had enough gold to fund House Lannister since the Age of Heroes, for thousands of years. If Aemon had multiple mountains of equal worth, he would make good work of it for Summerhall, and Summertown, and to fund the resources to fight the Long Night. He would be happy to spend said gold on the city when the war was finished.
If not for the war with the Greyjoys Aemon would have had the caves explored already and new secret entrances and exits built, like Maegor the Cruel had done, securing a way for future Targaryens to live and escape, avoiding the Tragedy of Summerhall that had occurred before Jon Snow's birth. No fool would dare entirely without his leave since those caves were connected to Summerhall itself and had dragons lurking inside, maybe he could even build new rooms inside the caves as the Reyens did in Castamere. But for now, he had to walk into the Dragoncaves and go see his dragon that had made such large caves for the gold and precious metals and materials to be found in the first place, and Balerion was a temperamental dragon to be sure.
Aemon's footsteps echoed softly against the cool, damp walls of the hidden tunnels that wound their way through the heart of the mountains beneath and surrounding the white stones of Summerhall. The air was thick with the scent of earth and stone, the only illumination coming from the faint flicker of torchlight that danced along the ancient stone walls.
As Aemon's footsteps echoed through the damp, wet caves, the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows upon the rugged walls, illuminating the vast expanse of the Dragoncaves with a dim, flickering glow. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and ancient stones from the Red Moutains, the sound of dripping water echoing softly in the distance.
The caverns were a labyrinth of twisting tunnels and cavernous chambers, their walls lined with jagged stalactites and stalagmites that seemed to reach out like gnarled fingers from the darkness. The torches that lined the passageways provided only a meager illumination, their feeble light barely penetrating the gloom that shrouded the depths of the caves.
And there, amidst the darkness and shadows, stood Balerion the Black Dread.
The dragon was a behemoth of immense size, his massive form filling the cavern with his presence, the dragon of eight hundred feetin nearing nine hundred had made a space for himself just as large as the space in King's Landing's Dragon Pit. His scales gleamed like polished obsidian in the dim torchlight, their glossy surface reflecting the flickering flames in myriad shifting shadows. His wings were spread wide, spanning the length of the chamber, while his powerful claws scraped against the stone floor with a low, menacing growl.
As Aemon approached, Balerion turned his massive head, his blood-red eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam. His jaws, capable of devouring mammoths in a single bite, parted slightly, revealing rows of black razor-sharp teeth glinted in the dim light. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from the depths of his throat, a sound that sent shivers down Aemon's spine.
Balerion the Black Dread loomed over the cavernous expanse of the Dragoncaves like a living mountain, his immense form stretching upwards to towering heights that seemed to pierce the heavens. His body, over eight hundred feet tall from the tip of his snout to the end of his powerful tail, was a sight to behold, dwarfing everything in its path with its sheer size and magnitude.
His wings spread wide in the cavern's dim light, were a formidable sight to behold, their span twice the size of his massive body. Each wingbeat, while slow as if he were waking from deep sleep, sent gusts of wind rippling through the chamber, stirring up clouds of dust and debris as they swept through the air with a thunderous roar.
Balerion's head, crowned with jagged horns that jutted out from his skull like twisted spires, was a fearsome sight. His eyes, blood-red orbs that glowed with an otherworldly light, were three times the size of Aemon, a seven-year-old boy, their piercing gaze filled with a primal intelligence that seemed to pierce through to the very soul.
His mouth, lined with rows of black, razor-sharp teeth larger than two grown men standing atop one another, gaped open in a silent snarl, revealing the cavernous maw within. With each breath, a deep, bellowing rumble emanated from the depths of his throat, the sound echoing through the cavern like rolling thunder right next to Aemon, its sheer force enough to send tremors rippling through the ground beneath his feet.
Aemon stood before the mighty Balerion, his eyes fixed upon the towering dragon with reverence and determination. Taking a deep breath, he spoke in the ancient tongue of High Valyrian, his words echoing softly through the cavernous depths of the Dragoncaves.
"Enemies are coming, Balerion," Aemon began in Valryian, his voice steady despite the tremors of uncertainty coursing through him. "Enemies who seek to harm our home, to bring chaos and destruction to the land we hold dear."
Balerion growled in protest, his massive form shifting restlessly as he regarded Aemon with a wary gaze. But Aemon pressed on, his words filled with conviction as he laid out his vision for the future of their home.
"I want this city to be a new Valyria," Aemon declared, his voice ringing with determination. "A place where the flames of our ancestors burn bright, casting aside the darkness that threatens to engulf us. The rebirth of the place you were born. Aegon's dream, his dream was of ice and fire," Aemon continued, his gaze unwavering as he met the dragon's piercing stare. "And now, as the Long Night approaches, we must ensure that our fire burns brighter than ever. The Long Night will bring ice," Aemon explained, his voice tinged with urgency. "And to counter it, we need more fire. We need Summerhall to be the center of the fire of Valyria. Dragons must return to Summerhall," Aemon declared, his voice echoing through the cavern with a quiet intensity. "For in their flames lies the key to our survival. Summehall can not fight against all of Dorne without you. House Targaryen will fight for Aegon's Dream, Summerhall will protect that dream, but I need you to protect Summehall."
As Aemon approached the massive form of Balerion, he couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation coursing through his veins. The dragon, towering above him like a living mountain, regarded him with curiosity and skepticism, his blood-red eyes flickering with an otherworldly light.
With a soft chuckle, Aemon reached out to pat Balerion's scaled flank, the smooth surface warm beneath his touch. Through their bond, he could sense the dragon's reluctance and underlying determination beneath his gruff exterior.
With a deep breath, Aemon began the arduous climb up the ladder that led to Balerion's back. Each rung seemed to stretch on for eternity; the climb made all the more challenging by the sheer size and bulk of the dragon beneath him.
As he ascended, Aemon couldn't help but marvel at the enormity of Balerion's form. His scales gleamed like polished obsidian in the dim light of the Dragoncaves, their glossy surface reflecting the flickering torchlight in myriad shifting shadows. His wings, folded tightly against his massive frame, seemed to stretch outwards for miles, spanning three times his towering height.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Aemon reached the summit of Balerion's back. With exhilaration coursing through him, he settled himself into the saddle that rested upon the dragon's broad shoulders, his hands gripping the reins with a firm grip.
And then, with a mighty leap, Balerion sprang into action. With a powerful thrust of his massive wings, he propelled himself upwards, his form soaring towards the opening near the top of the mountain with breathtaking speed. The winds from each beat of the wings were strong enough to topple trees from their roots.
As they burst through the exit, Aemon felt the rush of wind against his face, the sheer exhilaration of flight coursing through his veins. Below them, the world stretched out in all its glory, a patchwork of fields and forests, rivers and mountains, stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Balerion spread his wings wide with a triumphant roar, catching the air currents beneath them as they soared through the skies. And as they flew towards the horizon, towards the looming threat of the Greyjoys and the impending battle that awaited them, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and determination.
As the winds began to rush past him, Aemon felt an exhilarating rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he hated that the blood in his veins pumping so much energy for fighting had such a familiar feeling to him. Aemon Targaryen did not like killing, but it must be done. In truth, if Aemon had his way, he would sit in the dining halls of Summerhall and play the harp, as Rhaegar had done in the streets of King's Landing. He did not like to play the harp earlier in the life of Jon Snow, but he did learn it and have some connection to Rhaegar more than just brooding and isolation. But when blood covers one's hands more often than tears of the mourning of a widow, then a man wishes to give meaning to life with his hands to negate the lives they had taken so early. It came to be that Jon Snow and Aemon Targaryen in this life were more like Rhaegar than even he cared to admit, and he disliked being like the man who helped lead to the end of House Targaryen. Aemon never liked killing; he liked singing.
With each beat of Balerion's massive wings, the air whipped past them with incredible force, sending Aemon's black wolf's fur cloak billowing out behind him like a banner unfurled in the wind. The sheer speed at which they were traveling was dizzying, the ground below them blurring into a mosaic of colors as they soared through the skies with breathtaking speed.
With a firm grip on the reins, Aemon guided Balerion through the air with practiced ease, his movements fluid and precise as he turned the massive dragon towards the looming threat of the Greyjoys on the horizon. The sensation of banking sharply mid-air was both exhilarating and terrifying, the world spinning around him in a dizzying whirl as they veered off course toward their destination.
As Balerion roared into the skies, his mighty voice reverberated like a thunderclap, causing the earth to tremble beneath them. The sheer force of his roar sent shockwaves rippling outwards, stirring up clouds of dust and debris as they soared through the skies.
But to Aemon's surprise and confusion, Balerion's roar was met with a chorus of six other dragons, their roars echoing through the heavens in response. Aemon's heart skipped a beat as he realized that there should not be any other dragons in the skies besides Balerion, yet here they were, their presence a mystery that left him both concerned and intrigued.
Turning his gaze towards the source of the roars, Aemon's eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the sight of six dragons and their riders soaring through the air alongside them. Each dragon, nearing a formidable fifty feet in size, radiated an aura of power and majesty that left Aemon breathless with awe.
Viserra's dragon, Vēttir, shimmered in a deep maroon-red hue, his scales gleaming in the sunlight like polished rubies. Aerea's dragon, Dȳñes, dazzled with silver-platinum brilliance, his scales catching the light and reflecting it in a dazzling luminescence display.
Rhaella's dragon, Perzys, bathed in the warm tones of sunset orange, his fiery presence casting a warm glow upon the surrounding landscape. Daenerys' dragon, Averilla, displayed a rich palette of deep purple and grape colors, her scales shimmering with an otherworldly luminescence.
Maegelle's dragon, Jēdar, was adorned in light blue and sapphire, his form gliding gracefully through the air with an elegant belying his immense size. And Saera's dragon, Sōna, was a creature of ethereal beauty, her scales shimmering in shades of white and pale, her presence imbued with otherworldly grace.
Each dragon was only a fraction of Balerion's staggering size of over eight hundred feet, yet they moved with a speed and agility that belied their massive bulk. As they soared through the skies alongside Balerion, their wings beating in unison.
Amidst the roaring winds and the loud cries of the dragons, Aemon's voice pierced through the tumult, his screams echoing across the skies as he confronted his aunts. "What in the Seven Hells are you all doing here?!" Aemon bellowed, his words carried by the wind so that all six of his aunts could hear him.
Saera, shot back a fiery retort. "It was Daenerys' idea to join you," she screamed, her voice barely audible over the howling winds.
Daenerys, her eldest sister, shouted back in protest. "Don't you dare pin this on me!"
Saera screamed back to Daenerys over the harsh winds. "You manipulated us all into helping, made us feel guilty for leaving Aemon to fight alone!"
Daenerys scoffed. "You didn't need much convincing, Saera. You were getting your dragon before I convinced the others to join us."
Aerea, the third sister, added her voice to the fray. "I'm not letting those Krakens try to take a home I just moved into! It's not fair. First, we are brought to Volantis. Then, we are forced out of Volantis. Then we come to the Red Keep. Then, we are forced out of the Red Keep. I'm sick of moving around and would like to stay still from now on."
Maegelle and Rhaella, the more reserved sisters, spoke in calmer tones. "We want to build a better, grander sept in Summertown," Maegelle said, her voice carrying over the wind. "But we need to defend it first, make sure the town is safe."
Viserra chimed in with a mischievous grin. "And it's bound to be more entertaining than watching the squires pretending they're too young to fight. A dragon would prove far more interesting than boys playing war."
Aemon cursed. "And girls playing war is better?"
Viserra laughed loudly. "Come now, nephew, a pureblood Valyrian should be able to face off anything the Krakens have. With ease, Aegon brought House Hoare down before; the Krakens weren't even the best of the Ironborn Houses, and Aegon beat their best. Proof pure Valryian blood reigns supreme."
Balerion roared in protest, which caught Viserra's eyes. "Bloody hell. All of you might be smarter than you should be, but you seem to forget that Balerion was the one that burned down Harrenhal. Aegon wouldn't have been able to take down the Ironborn without the dragon I am currently riding. I wonder, Viserra, has your dragon taken to battle before?"
Viserra smiled widely, the Targaryen smile that always looked so forced, which Aemon thought was something bound in their blood since they had to act fake in front of all the courts. The smile that showed no teeth, the smile that Viserra purposely squinted into her eyes as if trying to pass the wrinkles and folds near the eyes of a true smile. It looked true to anyone other than a Targaryen, but to Aemon, it looked more fake than a dragon made of wood and stone. "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you," she said in a sing-song voice.
Aemon's frustration boiled over as he shouted for them to turn back. "You might hate me, Viserra. You may mock my mother was not Valyrian. But remember that it was this half-blood that fought off an army before."
Aerea smiled widely, not the false smile but a wide, feral smile, more like an old Stark than a proper Valryian princess. This was interesting, because for the last four months, Aerea had gone from being a prim and proper, terrified and shy girl to the rebirth of Arya herself. Safe to say, between her and Daenerys, they were the ones Aemon spent more than half his time with now. "She doesn't hate you. She's too proud to say that her nephew is far more fun than the squires she and Saera spent their time with."
Aemon turned to Aerea, looking at the ride's carefree smile. "Those same squires will be knights that could keep all six of you alive."
Viserra laughed loudly. "So can a dragon. And dragons are drawn to dragons, nephew, even half-bloods." She said with a truer smile.
But Saera met his glare with defiance. "What are you going to do to make us turn back, Aemon?" she challenged, her voice unwavering.
Aemon clenched his jaw, his gaze flickering between his determined sisters. "I'm not taking you," he insisted, his voice tinged with desperation.
Daenerys shook her head vehemently. "You're not taking us," she corrected, her tone resolute. "We're taking ourselves, and we're joining you. Aemon, we're not leaving you," Daenerys insisted, her voice firm with determination.
Aemon's eyes blazed with frustration as he shouted over the wind. "I won't have you risking your lives in battle! None of you have ever ridden a dragon to war!"
Rhaella, the ever-calm and quiet, was the one to respond. "Neither have you."
Aemon wanted to curse at them. His memories may fail him of his past, but he knew he was a grown man in a child's body. These were children readying for war. Gods be good. All he could think of was the Dance of Dragons. Aemon did not recall the name of the child, but he swore several of Rhaenyra's children, none older than Jon Snow, had died in combat when he went to the Wall. These were children. "I brought Balerion to the Wildling Invasion!" Aemon screamed over the winds.
Daenerys screamed in joy as the winds rushed past her; Aemon doubted she thought of this as a battle for her family but an excuse for her own enjoyment and riding a dragon; it was clear to Aemon that the eldest aunt was the ringleader of all this, and with Viserra and Saera as her support it was easy to get two devout future septas, at least if Aemon could recall in his life as Jon Snow, to believe it was gods work to protect their home, it would be easy to get all six to do something after five already agreed. Saera was known for getting her way in both lives, and with Daenerys bold enough to make the decision, it was a recipe for disaster.
Saera spoke, belittling and condescending, "You brought the dragon and rushed beyond the Wall without it. You fought an entire army of one hundred thousand without a dragon."
Aerea stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. "And we won't have you facing danger alone," she countered, her voice resolute.
Viserra scoffed her prideful and mocking scoff. "Speak for yourself, sweet sister. I reminded our nephew that he may have brought a dragon to war before, but he had his dragon for a lesser time than we had. He would need someone to show him how outclassed he is."
Aemon rolled his eyes at Viserra. "Viserra, thank you for gracing us with your beauty and lack of empathy. It makes me feel so happy I'm risking my life to defend yours," he said sarcastically, just for Daenerys to laugh loudly.
Saera looked to Aemon, her purple eyes gazing into Aemon, waiting for him to counter her. As with all the girls they knew, Aemon would never nor could ever refuse them. "One hundred thousand with no dragon. Three thousand with seven dragons, the odds seem firmly in our favor."
Aemon shook his head vehemently. "I've already lost too many loved ones," he argued, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't lose anymore."
Saera stepped forward, her eyes blazing with defiance. "And we won't lose you, Aemon," she declared, her voice unwavering. "You're the only one who hasn't abandoned us yet."
Aemon screamed in rage. "I made a promise to Jaehaerys!" he screamed, tears almost spilling from his eyes. All he could see was Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell; he saw his children; he saw the corpses of the Others and the army of the dead. He wanted to cry, but he screamed in rage, in deep pain. "I promised I would protect you! All of you! I can't protect you here! I can't protect you there!" His voice was hoarse; his voice was weak, so harsh was the scream that it broke with every syllable. "Why do you wish me to fail at a dying man's wish? Why do you wish me to fail to protect the one thing I care for?"
Saera was the one who screamed in anger. "He abandoned us!"
Aemon could see the rage Margaery and Arianne had for a split second when he told them he would prepare for war. Aemon did not know the dead were rising again, but he had dreams that said something was coming. His wives called him mad; they thought him Aerys, and somehow, they still loved him even if they thought he should be killed before he used his dragon, like Aerys would have if he was alive. Aerys with a dragon. That was what his wives thought of him in the end. Only his children thought him sane still, for only a dragon truly understood dragon dreams, like Daenys the Dreamer, Aegon the Conqueror, Daeron the Drunken, Daemon II Blackfyre, Maester Aemon, Rhaegar the Last Dragon, and so many others not fully confirmed, only Targaryens true believed the prophecies of other Targaryens. The women he loved thought him mad like the grandfather that burned his other, had his uncle suffocated, and raped his grandmother every day for decades.
"He loved you!" Ameon found himself screaming. "Gods, his dying wish was for me to protect you. He trusted me with it. Not my father! Not Viserys. Not Aemma! Me! He trusted me with you, and I will not fail the man who was our greatest king."
Viserra took her sister, Saera, argument. In Jon Snow's life, he supposed two of the ones to despise Jaehaerys the most. "He was a horrible father!"
Aemon then screamed in rage. "Aye! He was!" Aemon screamed, conceding the point. "He left you! He took away my father! He failed his family, but he chose you in the end! He chose you and asked me to love and protect you in his stead! And I wish to honor him. I wish to keep you alive. I am doing that! I am fighting. You don't need to!" All the girls turned to Aemon; they had never seen him show such emotions, such vulnerability. Aemon was strong. Aemon was resolved. Ameon was stoic. Aemon was a warrior. And Aemon supposed they all forgot Aemon was younger than them. Aemon's heart clenched at her words, his resolve faltering in the face of their unwavering loyalty. "But I can't bear the thought of losing you; I made a promise to King Jaehaerys," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper amidst the chaos.
Daenerys stepped forward, her expression softened with compassion. "You won't lose us, Aemon," she said gently, grasping his hand. "We'll face this together, as a family."
Aemon hesitated, torn between his desire to protect them and his need for their support. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he relented. "Fine, you can come," he conceded, his voice laced with resignation. "But you have to promise me one thing."
The princesses nodded in agreement, their expressions solemn. "Anything, Aemon," they chorused in unison.
Aemon fixed them with a stern gaze. "You have to promise to follow my lead and do exactly as I say," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.
The princesses exchanged a knowing glance before nodding in agreement. "We promise," they vowed, their voices filled with determination.
They drew closer; from Aemon's guess, they were only a few minutes' flight from reaching the Greyjoys and sellswords. As the winds howled around them, Aemon raised his hands in a gesture of peace, hoping to quell the rising tension among his sisters.
"What do you mean, Aemon? What does that mean?" Daenerys' voice cut through the air, her tone tinged with concern.
Saera's voice was sharp with urgency. "Stay still and wait for Aemon's next move," she commanded, her eyes fixed on her nephew.
Aemon took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil within him. "You'll stay here and observe," he announced, his voice steady despite his turmoil.
Aerea's reaction was immediate and fierce. "And let you face the Greyjoys alone?" she exclaimed, her voice rising in disbelief.
Aemon held up a hand, trying to placate her. "I said you could join me," he conceded, his tone firm. "But you won't be attacking."
Aerea's eyes flashed with frustration. "But you've never led a dragon into battle before!" she protested, her voice tinged with fear.
Aemon met her gaze, his expression resolute. "Balerion has," he countered, his voice unwavering. "He's been at war before, and I trust his instincts. He avoided scorpion fire from Dorne during the Dragon's Wroth, and he killed a dragon beforeMaegor the Cruel killed Aegon the Uncrowned when they fought in the skies. I trust Balerion." Turning to face his aunts, Aemon's voice was firm. "You'll observe and learn," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Saera's voice was filled with concern. "But Aemon, you may need our help," she argued, her eyes pleading with him.
"If I need help, I'll signal you. But for now, you watch." Aemon shook his head, his resolve unwavering. "Sending inexperienced dragons and their riders into battle will only get us all killed," he insisted, his voice tinged with sorrow.
As Aemon urged Balerion forward, the massive dragon's powerful wings beat against the rushing wind, propelling them forward across the vast expanse of the open field. The landscape stretched out before them, a sprawling vista of lush greenery and rolling hills that seemed to stretch on endlessly.
In the distance, Aemon could see the distinctive banners of House Greyjoy flapping in the breeze, their ominous presence casting a shadow over the serene landscape. A sense of unease settled over him as he surveyed the scene before him. Just about five thousand men marched towards Summerhall and would reach the keep and Summertown in a few days they would lay siege to Summertown only had a force of one thousand men, due to most going to the Dragon's Gate, to combat the five thousand men of the Greyjoys.
The clearing where the Greyjoy army stood starkly contrasted with the countryside's tranquil beauty. It was a scene of organized chaos, with soldiers bustling about and preparing for battle. The air was thick with tension, the anticipation of conflict hanging heavy.
Aemon took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He had done this before, had wielded Balerion's fiery breath as a weapon of war. But despite his experience, a pang of guilt gnawed at his conscience. There was no honor in killing men with a dragon, but it was a necessary evil in times of war.
As he guided Balerion closer to the enemy, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creeping over him. The weight of responsibility pressed down upon his shoulders, the fate of Summerhall resting in his hands. But with determination, he pushed aside his doubts and prepared to face whatever lay ahead.
As Aemon and Balerion drew closer to the Greyjoy group, Aemon's keen eyes scanned the scene before him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The sight that greeted him was unexpected: the Greyjoy forces were accompanied by several wagons, an unusual sight for a raiding party known for their hit-and-run tactics.
A sense of unease gnawed at Aemon's gut as he tried to make sense of the situation. Why would the Greyjoys bring wagons to a battle? It didn't fit their usual modus operandi of swift and merciless raids. But Aemon pushed aside his confusion, focusing on the immediate threat before him.
Panic swept through their ranks as the Greyjoys caught sight of Aemon and Balerion soaring overhead. Men shouted and scrambled to prepare for battle, their movements frantic and disorganized. Aemon could see the fear in their eyes, the realization dawning on them that they were about to face a dragon's fury on the open field.
A sense of grim determination settled over Aemon as he guided Balerion closer to the enemy. He knew that in an open field, no army stood a chance against the might of a dragon. With Balerion at his side, he felt a surge of confidence coursing through his veins.
As they closed in on the Greyjoy forces, Aemon tightened his grip on Balerion's reins, readying himself for the onslaught. He knew that the fate of Summerhall hung in the balance, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to protect his home from the impending threat.
As Aemon surveyed the enemy army stretched out before him, he couldn't help but feel remorse at the prospect of unleashing Balerion's fiery wrath upon them. But war was a cruel and unforgiving mistress, and honor often died on the battlefield. There was no honorable battle. It was death, it reeked of sh*t and rot and fires and yet it must be done.
The golden kraken banner rose high in the force of five thousand; a large portion of men were Greyjoys, and a portion were the sellswords, but Aemon could tell that it was the sellswords who were guiding the force upon horses. The sellswords had fought battles before and new war, and having nearly the entire rule of Jaehaerys be free of battle meant the only forces that knew true battle were the North due to the wildlings and the Greyjoys for their raids, but raiding was not sieges and wars.
The sellswords were on horseback while the majority of the force of Greyjoys marched forward. The sellswords had been to wars and had done sieges, and Aemon hated to admit it but his men were not as well prepared since only a portion had been to war in the North. The majority of Greyjoys and sellswords step one head of another. Aemon noticed carriages being pulled by carts. The legions are almost straight-line, shoulder to shoulder, with ten men in each row. Stray men on horseback, keeping everyone in step and in line.
The carriages being drawn were pulled by two horse carts, pulling the large, cumbersome carts, the carriages covered with a cloth to cover whatever was inside. He knew that whatever was in the carts had to be important enough for the Greyjoys to waste time, effort, and energy to bring said carts with them to siege a castle with seven dragons, one of them being the Black Dread.
With a heavy heart, Aemon steeled himself for the inevitable conflict, knowing that the fate of Summerhall hung in the balance. He took a deep breath, his chest tight with anticipation, his mind focused on the task.
"Dracarys," Aemon commanded, his voice steady despite his turmoil.
In response, Balerion roared with a deafening intensity, reverberating like thunder. His massive jaws opened wide, unleashing a torrent of black flames that seemed to swallow the landscape whole. It was as though a black sun had been pushed through the heavens in a single massive hole. The force of a geyser of flames of the night came forth as wide as a hundred feet in radius, and when it slammed into the ground the explosion of flames stretched ten times the initial size.
As Balerion unleashed his torrent of black flames upon the enemy army, the initial impact was cataclysmic. The flames crashed into the earth with an explosive force, sending plumes of fiery debris hurtling in all directions. He had dived down with the flames to add more force and speed to the initial eruption of black flames. While Balerion was slow when soaring or gliding compared to the younger dragons, save for one not even thirty years of age, Balerion's size added to his dives, making him reach speeds that no other dragon could dare to attempt, that also made turning such a large beast difficult when reaching such speeds.
The shockwave from the explosion rippled through the air, sending soldiers flying like rag dolls and casting chaos and devastation in its wake. The force of the impact was so great that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, leaving a smoldering crater in its wake. Earth, rocks, people, horses, everything that was near the initial slamming of black flames into the ground below was sent careening in every direction in an explosion of fires and flames, dirt and dust and smoke.
The flames that erupted from Balerion's mouth were a sight to behold, a seething mass of black fire that danced and flickered with an otherworldly intensity. They consumed everything in their path, turning the once verdant field into a charred wasteland in seconds. As Aemon and Balerion descended upon the enemy army, a wave of black flames erupted from the dragon's gaping maw with a ferocity unmatched by anything Aemon had ever witnessed. The flames surged like a torrential geyser, engulfing everything in their path in a swirling sea of darkness.
The heat radiating from the flames was intense, a searing wave of heat that washed over Aemon and Balerion as they soared above the battlefield. The roar of the flames was deafening, drowning out all other sounds and filling the air with a cacophony of destruction.
As the inferno raged below them, Aemon couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse for the lives lost in the blaze. But he knew that sacrifices must be made in war and was willing to do whatever it took to protect his home and people from the encroaching threat.
The ground quaked beneath the onslaught, the very earth itself trembling as the flames erupted from the ground in an explosion of fire and earth. The flames soared hundreds of feet into the skies, engulfing the battlefield in a towering inferno that blazed with an intensity that seemed to defy the heavens.
Amidst the chaos and destruction, the screams of the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of the flames, creating a cacophony of terror that echoed across the battlefield. It was a scene of unimaginable horror, a harrowing testament to the awesome power of dragonfire unleashed upon mortal men.
The flames danced and flickered with an otherworldly intensity, their inky blackness casting an eerie glow across the battlefield. As they washed over the unsuspecting soldiers below, the air was filled with the sickening scent of burning flesh and scorched earth.
The carnage that followed was nothing short of horrific. Men screamed in agony as the flames consumed them, their bodies writhing and contorting in the searing heat. The once verdant field was transformed into a charred wasteland, littered with the smoldering remains of those unlucky enough to be caught in Balerion's fiery onslaught.
Limbs twisted and blackened, flesh charred beyond recognition as the flames mercilessly devoured everything in their path. The air was thick with the stench of death and despair, a tangible reminder of the brutality of war.
As Aemon and Balerion made their first pass, a third of the enemy army was left burning in their wake, their cries for mercy drowned out by the inferno's roar. It was a scene of unimaginable horror, a grim testament to the destructive power of black dragonfire unleashed upon mortal men.
"Seven hells!" Aemon cursed allowed. "I need more practice!" Aemon had gotten rusty. He had pulled the reigns too much to the right and, by doing so, could not decimate the whole army in a single run. Balerion was more than able to do such things. Balerion could burn down entire keeps, and castles in less than a dozen passes when Aegon the Conqueror rode him. An entire castle was nothing but melted ruins in less than a dozen turns of the dragon, but Aemon had pulled the reigns too much to the right, had pulled them too early, he should have waited a bit longer, and he would have beat the army of five thousand in a single pass.
As Balerion soared through the skies, his massive form casting a shadow over the battlefield, Aemon felt a surge of anticipation coursing through his veins. However, his excitement was tempered by the realization that Balerion's sheer size slowed him to maneuver. The dragon's wings beat heavily against the air as he struggled to execute the sharp turn necessary for the next pass. The beating of the wings made harsh winds that uprooted trees and men alike.
It seemed to take an eternity for Balerion to complete the turn, while also trying to gain more height for another diving passing of black flames, each moment stretching out agonizingly as Aemon watched with growing impatience. Finally, with a mighty effort, the dragon shifted his course and began to angle back toward the enemy forces below.
But as Balerion descended for the second pass, Aemon's heart sank at the sight that greeted him. The wagons that had been innocuous before were now revealed to be armed with Dornish scorpions. Resembling oversized crossbows mounted on wheeled platforms, bristled with menacing spikes and coils of tensioned sinew.
Aemon cursed under his breath as he realized the danger they posed.
Scorpions were notorious for their ability to pierce even the toughest dragonhide, and with Balerion's massive size making him an easy target, the consequences could be catastrophic. Lesser dragons would be easily brought crashing from the skies by such formidable weaponry. The scorpions, a dozen or so, loomed ominously on the battlefield, their presence casting a pall of dread over Aemon's heart. He knew that the battle's outcome could be disastrous if they were allowed to fire upon Balerion unchecked.
As Balerion descended toward the enemy forces, the scorpions sprang into action, their massive torsion arms unleashing bolts of death toward the sky. Each bolt was as thick as a man's thigh and three times the length of an average soldier, hurtling through the air with deadly accuracy.
Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the bolts streak toward them, his hands tightening around Balerion's reins in a desperate attempt to guide the dragon out of harm's way. But Balerion, with his keen instincts and swift reflexes, seemed to anticipate the danger even before Aemon could react.
With a powerful beat of his wings, Balerion twisted and turned in mid-air, evading the deadly projectiles with a grace that belied his massive size. The bolts whistled past them, slicing through the air with a deadly swiftness.
As the scorpion bolts continued to rain down upon them, Aemon worked in tandem with Balerion, his shouts of warning mingling with the dragon's roars of defiance. Together, they danced through the sky, dodging and weaving through the deadly barrage with a skill born of desperation, a difficult task for such a large and slow dragon.
Each near miss sent Aemon's heart racing, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to keep himself and his dragon out of harm's reach. But despite the overwhelming odds stacked against them, Aemon refused to give in to despair, his determination burning bright even in the face of imminent danger.
Balerion, the Black Dread, soared through the air with the weight of ages upon his massive wings. Yet, for all his power and majesty, he was burdened by his immense size, his movements slow and ponderous compared to the swift and deadly projectiles hurtling toward him.
As the scorpion bolts were unleashed upon them, Balerion's colossal form seemed to fill the sky, as he blotted out the sun, a prime target for the deadly weapons below. The bolts whistled past him with alarming speed, their deadly tips gleaming in the sunlight as they sought their mark.
Aemon's heart leaped into his throat as he watched the bolts draw nearer, each threatening to strike the mighty dragon and bring him crashing to the ground below. With a desperate cry, Aemon tugged at Balerion's reins, urging him to move faster, to evade the deadly barrage that threatened to end their lives in an instant.
Aemon's breath caught in his throat as he watched the bolts draw nearer, their deadly tips glinting in the sunlight as they closed the distance between them and the dragon. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Aemon knew they were running out of timeand that one false move could spell disaster for them both, or more specifically, him. Balerion more than likely would survive a few hundred scorpion bolts, unless one went straight through his eyes, but Aemon, the scorpion bolts were larger than Aemon and would kill the boy in an instant.
But just as all hope seemed lost, Balerion shifted his massive bulk with a sudden burst of speed, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectiles by the narrowest of margins. Aemon let out a sigh of relief as the bolts sailed harmlessly past them, their deadly intent thwarted by the dragon's quick reflexes.
Balerion soared through the skies with Aemon clinging desperately to his back. As they evaded another barrage of scorpion bolts, a scorpion bolt was unleashed toward them, aimed directly at Aemon rather than the massive dragon. Aemon's heart skipped a beat as he saw the bolt hurtling toward him, its deadly trajectory threatening to cut him down in an instant. With a surge of panic, he braced himself for the impact, knowing that the bolt was too large to be avoided.
But before disaster could strike, Balerion roared in fury, his massive form quivering with rage as he rose higher into the sky. The scorpion bolt, intended for Aemon, struck the dragon's thick scales with a resounding clang, shattering upon impact.
The force of the blow caused Balerion to roar louder than ever before, a deafening sound that echoed across the battlefield like thunder. His eyes blazed with wrathful fire as he turned his gaze upon the source of the attack, his immense form radiating with primal fury.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment as Balerion hovered in the air, his anger palpable and his rage a force to be reckoned with. With a mighty flap of his wings, he unleashed a blast of searing black flame toward the enemy below without his command, his roar echoing across the battlefield as he unleashed his wrath upon those who dared to challenge him.
Aemon's mind raced with disbelief and awe as he processed what had just occurred. He had always known Balerion was a formidable beast, but he had never imagined the extent of the dragon's resilience against such deadly weaponry. The scorpion bolts, massive in size and designed specifically to pierce dragon scales, had been aimed at Balerion with deadly precision. Aemon had braced himself for the worst, convinced that they would not be able to evade the onslaught.
Yet, to his astonishment, the bolts had struck Balerion's immense form and shattered upon impact like mere pebbles against a towering mountain. The dragon's scales, thick and impenetrable, had deflected the deadly projectiles with ease, leaving both Aemon and Balerion unscathed. Aemon was overcome with a mixture of shock and gratitude. He had underestimated the true strength of Balerion's defenses, unaware of the dragon's remarkable resilience against such formidable foes.
As he gazed upon Balerion's majestic form, bathed in the glow of his flames, Aemon felt a newfound sense of awe and respect for the ancient creature. Balerion was not just a dragon; he was a living fortress, an unstoppable force of nature that had defied the odds and emerged victorious against all who dared to challenge him.
As Aemon uttered the command, "Dracarys," adrenaline coursed through his veins. Balerion, ever obedient to his rider's will, responded with a deafening roar that reverberated across the battlefield.
Suddenly, a torrent of flames erupted from the gaping maw of the ancient dragon. The black was the depths of the night swirling with an intensity that seemed to consume all light around them. It was as if the very essence of darkness had been unleashed upon the world, a manifestation of primal fury and unrestrained power.
The sea of black flames surged forth like a tidal wave, engulfing everything in its path with an insatiable hunger. The air crackled with heat, and the ground trembled beneath the onslaught of infernal wrath.
As the flames consumed the landscape, they left behind a trail of devastation in their wake. The once verdant fields were now reduced to ash and cinder, the scorched earth serving as a grim testament to the ferocity of Balerion's breath.
Amidst the chaos, the unfortunate souls caught in the path of the dragon's fury met a fate as gruesome as it was swift. The roar of the flames drowned out their screams, their bodies consumed by the relentless firestorm that swept across the battlefield.
Limbs were charred and twisted, flesh melted away like wax before a flame, and the stench of burning flesh hung heavy in the air. It was a scene of horror and carnage, a tableau of death painted in shades of black and crimson.
Yet, amidst the devastation, Balerion soared triumphantly, his wings outstretched as he continued to rain down destruction upon his enemies. He unleashed another wave of black fire with each breath, his roar echoing across the battlefield like a herald of doom.
As Aemon commanded Balerion to unleash his fiery wrath upon the enemy, a vast sea of black flames erupted from the dragon's gaping jaws. Dark as the abyss, these flames surged forth with an unstoppable force, engulfing the entire landscape in their sinister embrace.
The once serene fields were now transformed into a nightmarish realm of fire and ash, as far as the eye could see. There was nothing but an ocean of black flames, flames of night from east to west, from north to south. There was nothing but flames. There was no land, trees, grass, or green, just a black inferno. A black hell brought upon Westeros. The horizon shimmered with the intense heat, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the desolation below. There was no blood. There was no corpse. There was no life. There was no hope. This was destruction. This was death. This was fire. This was dread.
As Balerion soared through the air, his massive wings beating against the fiery storm, the flames danced and writhed in a macabre display of destruction. The very earth trembled beneath the onslaught, consumed by the relentless fury of the dragon's breath.
Amidst this infernal inferno, there was naught but black flames, swirling and churning with a malevolent energy. The air crackled with heat, and the sky was shrouded in a veil of darkness as if the very essence of night had descended upon the world. As Aemon surveyed the devastation from atop Balerion's back, he could only marvel at the dragon's power beneath him. At that moment, the entire landscape was nothing but a vast, black sea of flames stretching out to the horizon in all directions.
With the enemy defeated and the battlefield ablaze, Aemon urged Balerion to turn back, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had wrought. As they soared back towards his waiting aunts, Aemon could only hope their presence would bring solace amidst the chaos and destruction surrounding them.
As Balerion descended upon the scorched battlefield, his massive form casting a shadow over the desolation below, Aemon's aunts turned their gaze towards the dragon and his rider, their expressions etched with a mixture of shock and awe. There was no need for words as they beheld the devastation wrought by Balerion's black flames.
He found his aunts standing by the dragons, just a few ways away, looking over the black sea of flames on a small hill. They stood there as Aemon climbed down Balerion's back and looked back at the destruction he had brought with him just to pass on Balerion's back. Not even Rhaegal could have done the carnage Balerion had done. Balerion was known throughout history as the greatest dragon in written history, and Aemon, now calmer and clearer of mind to assess what had happened, stood in shock. Nothing existed but the black flames. There was no land. It looked like Westeros was made only of black flames, like the sun of flame, a land of black hell fire.
Daenerys the tense silence with a concerned inquiry. She rushed to Aemon and hugged him before checking him over. She even lifted his arm to check under it and placed her head on his chest to hear if his heart was beating far too quickly, which it was, but was manageable. "Aemon, are you alright?"
Aemon offered a reassuring nod, though his eyes betrayed a hint of weariness. "I'll be fine once we secure the Dragon's Gate," he replied, his voice tinged with determination. His other aunts came over just a second later than their eldest sister; they were just a bit taller than Aemon and looked him over just as fiercely.
As Maegelle and Rhaella whispered prayers to the Seven Faces of God, seeking solace amidst the chaos, Saera, Aerea, and Viserra remained silent, their faces sad and contemplative. Aemon found solace in their silence, grateful for their understanding of the grim necessity of their actions.
Aemon was thankful that he had rushed in alone. All of them would have died. Balerion took too long on the second pass; all the girls would have been shot down then. Hopefully, they all knew that. He hoped they knew this was no game. Judging how the most outspoken of them, Saera Aerea and Viserra were in shock, and Daenerys, their ringleader, was far more concerned about Aemon's well-being rather than continuing to show her strength, Aemon would guess they understood the gravity of what was happening here now.
Breaking the heavy silence, Aemon addressed his aunts with urgency. "Do you understand now? This is no game. If we fail here, death does not claim just us but all of Summerhall and Summertown."
Viserra was the one who spoke first. "We could have died. The scorpion bolt almost hit you. It could have hit you."
Aemon walked up to her before opening his arms as his aunt hugged him fiercely. They may have each of their faults, but in truth, all seven knew that they were all they had for however long they stayed together at Summerhall and Summertown. A dragon alone is a terrible thing, and while most strong Targaryen women would hate to admit it, without a male Targaryen, there was no telling what the other men around them would do to them when in castle halls and their dragons were too far away. Aemon, even as a child, had Ghost, and both were their insurance and the only one who had stayed with them all the more once he had returned from the North.
Viserra looked to Aemon, ready to cry as the flames crackled behind them. Aemon looked to the eyes that spilled over with tears. These girls were just that, nine-year-old children. They were small girls who should never go to war, and yet they had to because the Grejoys and Martells wanted to bring it to them. Viserra hugged Aemon strongly; she hugged him so hard that Aemon thought his ribs would crack and his lungs would burst.
Viserra, the same as Rhaenyra had told him, had mocked the very idea that Aemon was a Targaryen when they were younger for lacking the coloring and that dragon was the one that hugged him the hardest. She was a proud girl. Aemon knew this. Targaryen women were women of pride, beauty, and passion when raised with one another. But Viserra had it worse than most.
She cried with full force once she comforted Aemon, who was fine. She spoke so fast that Aemon barely had time to register one word before the next came to follow. "You're one of us; you can't leave us again! Do you understand me? I am older than you! You are my nephew; listen to me! Do you understand me? You listen to us from now on. You will not do anything without me saying so! You will not go do that again. I promise you are Targaryen. Did you have fun proving me wrong? Don't do it again! You listen to your aunt. I'm older. I'm smarter!" she screamed at Aemon.
She was a child. She was frantic. She was scared. Aemon could not leave her grasp as he turned to see his aunts. They all looked just as frightened. Aemon's stoic face had his lips slightly upturned. He waved them over, and his aunts rushed to him for a deeper hug. They stayed like that for some time before Aemon and his aunts remounted their dragons.
"We must fly to the Dragon's Gate to the south," he declared, his tone resolute. "There is much work to be done and little time to spare." With a firm resolve, Aemon spurred Balerion onwards, his companions falling into formation behind him as they prepared to face the challenges ahead.
"But we won't be able to help you. They have scorpions. If the Greyjoys had a few then that means the Dornish have a hundred times more," Daenerys then replied.
"Balerion would be more than a match. The Dragon's Gate is a large single path, the only way for any army to come north from Dorne. It is the only path for an army of fifty thousand, which means they would be marching in formation. Far more uniformed than the Greyjoys were. And we saw what Balerion could do to them. What he gave them."
Rhaella was the one who spoke, quiet and religious as she was sent a prayer before speaking. "He gave them fire and blood. And he'll do it again."
As Aemon and his aunts took to the skies atop their dragons, a sense of urgency gripped them all. With the memory of the devastating battle still fresh in their minds, they soared towards the Dragon's Gate with determination etched upon their faces.
The wind rushed past them as they flew, whipping through their hair and billowing their garments. Each beat of their dragons' wings propelled them forward with a sense of urgency, the urgency of impending danger.
As they approached the first three gates, Aemon noted with relief that each wall appeared intact, standing strong against any would-be invaders. However, as they neared the fourth a cacophony of screams and cries pierced the air, shattering the relative calm of the skies.
A sense of foreboding gripped Aemon's heart as he scanned the horizon, searching for the source of the chaos. His instincts told him they were racing against time to reach the Dragon's Gate, where their aid was desperately needed; an entire army of fifty thousand would be fighting a group of barely four thousand. With grim determination, Aemon urged Balerion onwards, leading the charge towards the heart of the tumultuous fray.
Seven gates, each separated by a distance of two thousand yards, stretched across the terrain like an unyielding barrier. Each wall was evenly separated among the only paths that led from the southern portion of Summerhall to the heart of Dorne. The lone path went through the mountains, making natural walls on either side just enough for two or three platoons of men to walk through shoulder to shoulder. The Dragon's Gate walls were constructed of red stone that bore a striking resemblance to the rugged mountains surrounding Summerhall, the walls of the Dragon's Gate exuded an aura of strength and resilience.
Each wall, towering nearly two hundred feet in height, stood as a formidable obstacle to any would-be invaders seeking passage from Dorne to the northern kingdoms. The strategic placement of these walls, coupled with their sturdy construction, made the Dragon's Gate an impregnable fortress capable of withstanding even the most determined assault.
The natural walls of the mountain that kept the army solely walking toward the Dragon's Gate were elevated high enough that archers and soldiers from Summerhall and Summertown could pick men off one by one as they walked from one gate to the next alongside the men already at the gates fighting. Especially the longer one walked through the Dragon's Gate, the more damage they did to themselves, and the gates themselves held the army back long enough to be picked apart as well as forced the men to exhaust themselves before reaching the next gate in a series of seven, leaving them a shadow of themselves even reach the fourth gate and nonexistent as a threat by the time they reach the fifth.
But, from what Aemon gathered, the information of its completion was false and meant that this was far more of a struggle for the men operating them than it should be when completed. Meaning, that the majority of the fifty thousand troops had made it to the fourth wall.
The significance of the Dragon's Gate was not lost on Aemon or his companions. It served as the only viable route for an entire army to traverse from Dorne to the northern realms, a fact made possible by the legendary deeds of Daemon Targaryen and his dragon, Caraxes.
Through a combination of dragonfire and sheer force of will, Daemon had rendered other known paths impassable, ensuring that the Dragon's Gate remained the sole conduit between the two regions. As Aemon and his aunts approached this formidable stronghold, they knew that the fate of the northern kingdoms hung in the balance, and it was their duty to defend it at all costs.
As Aemon and his aunts observed from a distance, the scene unfolding before them was chaos and violence. The air was thick with the sounds of war drums and the clash of steel as an army of over forty thousand Dornish soldiers descended upon the second gate of the Dragon's Gate.
Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the massive force of Dornishmen march inexorably forward, their banners fluttering in the wind like dark omens of impending doom. He could see the glint of steel as their ranks bristled with weapons, ready to spill blood in the name of conquest.
But it was not the sight of the Dornish army alone that sent a chill down Aemon's spine—it was the sight of the trebuchets that accompanied them. Massive war machines, their wooden frames creaking under the strain of their payloads, stood poised to unleash destruction upon the second gate of the Dragon's Gate.
Aemon's eyes widened in realization as he understood the true intent of the Dornish assault. They weren't merely seeking to conquer the fortress—they aimed to obliterate it, rendering it nothing more than a pile of rubble and dust.
With a sense of urgency, Aemon urged Balerion forward, his hands gripping the reins tightly as he guided the dragon through the skies with deft precision. The trebuchets unleashed their deadly payloads, hurling massive boulders through the air with devastating force.
Aemon's heart raced as he maneuvered Balerion skillfully to avoid the incoming projectiles, the air around them filled with the thunderous sound of impact as the boulders crashed into the ground with earth-shaking force. Each near miss sent shockwaves reverberating through the air, a constant reminder of their peril.
Through it all, Aemon remained focused, his eyes scanning the battlefield for any sign of weakness in the enemy's defenses. He knew that the fate of the Dragon's Gate—and perhaps the entire realm—rested in their hands, and he was determined to do whatever it took to emerge victorious.
As Balerion soared over the wall, his immense form casting a shadow that seemed to blanket the battlefield in darkness, all eyes turned skyward to the awe-inspiring sight. Aemon gripped the reins tightly, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration as he guided the dragon toward the massed ranks of the Dornish army.
Unlike the Greyjoys, who had only a handful of scorpions to defend their position, the Dornish had deployed hundreds of deadly siege weapons and scorpions, their ranks bristling with the ominous contraptions. Aemon's jaw clenched as he realized the magnitude of the threat they faced—the Dornish were not merely content to breach the Dragon's Gate; they sought to obliterate it.
Balerion roared defiantly as he soared through the sky, his wings beating with powerful strokes that sent wind gusts whipping through the air. The Dornish soldiers below screamed and shouted, pointing skyward as they caught sight of the massive dragon bearing down upon them.
The ground trembled beneath them as Balerion closed in, his sheer size and ferocity casting a pall of darkness over the battlefield. It was as if night had descended upon the day, shrouding the land in a cloak of shadow and foreboding.
As Aemon and Balerion approached the Dragon's Gate, the battlefield erupted into chaos. All eyes turned skyward as the massive dragon soared overhead, his wings beating with thunderous force that stirred up clouds of dust and debris below.
The trebuchets, massive siege engines designed to hurl projectiles of enormous size, ceased their relentless barrage against the walls and turned their attention to the airborne threat. With a deafening roar, the trebuchets launched their deadly payloads—a barrage of boulders larger than houses hurtling through the air with terrifying speed.
Simultaneously, the scorpions swiveled to target Balerion. A team of Dornish soldiers manned each of these monstrous contraptions, their faces set in grim determination as they prepared to unleash a barrage of deadly bolts.
The air was filled with the whistling of projectiles as the trebuchets and scorpions unleashed their fury upon Balerion. The ground shook beneath Aemon's feet as the massive boulders hurtled towards them, their impact sending shockwaves rippling through the earth.
Balerion roared defiantly as the onslaught descended upon them, his scales gleaming black in the sunlight as he soared through the sky. Aemon gritted his teeth as he guided Balerion through the storm of projectiles, his hands gripping the reins tightly as he steered the dragon with all the skill and determination he could muster. Each near miss sent a shiver of fear down his spine.
Balerion the Black Dread, mighty and unyielding, stood firm amidst the storm of projectiles that rained down upon him. The trebuchets hurled their colossal boulders, and the scorpions unleashed their deadly bolts, yet the dragon remained unmoved. His scales, black as the depths of night, proved impervious to the onslaught, deflecting the blows with an almost casual indifference.
As the boulders and bolts struck Balerion's armored hide, they shattered upon impact; their force dissipated against the impenetrable barrier of the dragon's scales. The dragon's roar grew louder with each blow, a primal symphony of rage that echoed across the battlefield like thunder.
The screams of the enemy soldiers filled the air, mingling with the sound of splintering wood and crumbling stone. Despite their best efforts, the assault of weapons proved futile against the dragon's might. The Dornish forces, once emboldened by their superior numbers and formidable siege weapons, now cowered in terror beneath the shadow of the Black Dread. Their cries of defiance turned to panicked shouts as they realized the futility of their efforts. With each passing moment, the resolve of the Dornish faltered; their hopes of victory dashed against the unyielding scales of the dragon.
As Aemon uttered the ancient Valyrian command, "Dracarys," a primal roar erupted from Balerion's mighty chest. With a thunderous bellow, the dragon unleashed his infernal breath upon the unsuspecting army below.
The flames pouring forth from Balerion's maw a swirling vortex of black fire devoured everything in its path. The flames danced and writhed as they surged forth, casting an eerie glow upon the battlefield. As Balerion unleashed his torrent of black flames upon the tightly packed ranks of the Dornish army, the air was rent asunder by the deafening roar of the inferno. The black fire surged forth like a relentless tide, engulfing everything in its path with unyielding fury.
The heat from the flames caused the stone to melt and turn to magma. The molten rock fell to the ground as a thick liquid. It fell slowly and glowed red hot due to the flames. The space between the gates of the Dragon's Gate was so vast that Aemon did not need to worry about melting the man-made walls melting, but the walls of the Red Mountains themselves, the same walls that blocked movement left or right and only allowed for armies to go forwards or back. Black flames were the call. Molten rock and burnt corpses were their answers. The rock turned to liquid, and those lucky enough not to get directly burned by the flames died of heat stroke nearly instantly, began hacking and breathing heavily as the smoke filled their lungs, or were trapped and killed by molten rock.
With nowhere to flee and no escape from the path of destruction, the Dornish army stood helpless before the relentless advance of the black flames. The natural walls of the Red Mountains made a single path and there was no escape left or right. The men tried to rush back to Dorne in the south while Balerion had come from the north, but the dragon was faster. The flames came from a maw a hundred feet wide, and when they touched the ground, the flames reached a thousand feet wide; the heat radiated ten times the number alone. There was no escape, only death. Only death. Only a black death.
The ground erupted in a maelstrom of fire and ash as the flames consumed everything in their path. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh, mingling with the choking smoke from the inferno. The sheer magnitude of the devastation was staggering to behold. As far as the eye could see, the landscape was consumed by a swirling vortex of black fire; each burst more ferocious than the last. The Dornish army was engulfed in a sea of flame; their desperate cries drowned out by the roar of the conflagration.
The roar of the flames echoed across the landscape, drowning out the sounds of battle with their deafening fury. The air crackled with heat as the black inferno consumed everything it touched, reducing stone and steel to ash in its relentless onslaught.
The sea of flames swept across the ranks of the Dornish army like a tidal wave, engulfing them in its ravenous embrace. Men screamed and writhed as the inferno consumed them, their flesh blackening and blistering in the intense heat. A straight line that left not even ash behind. As the sea of black fire raged on, it left naught but destruction and despair in its wake, a stark reminder of the unstoppable force that was Balerion the Black Dread.
The mountain walls that framed the Dragon's Gate, deformed and melted further before the eyes of those who bore witness to the tumultuous spectacle. The solid stone, weathered by the ages and hardened by the passage of time, yielded to the searing heat of the dragonfire. At first, there was nothing but a faint shimmering, an ominous prelude to the impending doom.
The stone walls began to liquefy like wax before a blazing inferno. The once-sturdy foundations crumbled and buckled under intense pressure, their ancient bonds shattered by the overwhelming force of the dragon's wrath. Rivulets of molten magma cascaded down the sheer rock faces, their fiery embrace devouring everything in their path with an insatiable hunger. The air was filled with the acrid stench of burning stone, a testament to the sheer intensity of the heat that now consumed the mountainside.
As the walls melted away like wax under the relentless assault of the dragonfire, the very fabric of the landscape was transformed into a hellish tableau of destruction and chaos. The once-imposing barriers that guarded the path through the Dragon's Gate now lay in ruins, their molten remnants serving as a grim reminder of the awesome power unleashed upon the world.
With each passing moment, the intensity of the conflagration only grew, the flames spreading like a ravenous beast hungry for destruction. Entire units were engulfed in the inferno, their once-proud banners reduced to ash in the blink of an eye.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh, a toxic haze that choked the lungs and stung the eyes. Amidst the chaos, the sounds of battle were drowned out by the crackling roar of the flames, their fury unrelenting and all-consuming.
Soldiers fled in blind panic, their ranks shattered by the relentless onslaught of the black fire. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in its path were incinerated in an instant, their bodies reduced to charred husks amidst the smoldering ruins of the battlefield.
As the flames continued to rain down from the heavens in an unending torrent, the once-mighty army of Dorne was reduced to zero but ash and cinder. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the devastation, bearing witness to the awesome power of dragonfire unleashed upon the mortal realm. Fifty thousand men dead by the flames of one dragon. No one would doubt that Aemon had caused this, no one would question later if Aemon had done such deeds at Summerhall nor the Wall after that day.
It would be a week later when the flames died, and the area cold enough for a man to walk through without dying of heat exhaustion; it would be a month later when all the heat left the area. But the message was clear as the mountain walls that made the path to the Dragon's Gate showed the molten magma and now retired rock that looked like the drippings of wax. Aemon and Balerion had made the point that Daemon had constructed. To walk through the Dragon's Gate was death. For while a normal army of a few thousand held an army of fifty thousand at bay, and while the Dragon's Gate was made to wither any force to the point that they would be no threat to Summerhall should they come from the south, there was one thing that all seemed to forget about the Dragon's Gate that neither father nor son had forgotten.
Dragons ruled Summerhall.
Any man could hold the Dragon's Gate. But a man did not make the Dragon's Gate, nor was it constructed to merely hold men at bay. The Dragon's Gate was made as a kiln, it was an oven, and it was the dragon's fire that would be used to cook and melt any army that came to it. This was Daemon's vision. This was Aemon's result. This was the will of the Targaryens of Summerhall.
