Prologue: The Bard Prince's Folly
POV Rhaegar Targaryen
The Dornish sun beat down fiercely on the pale stones of the Tower of Joy, but within the solar, the atmosphere was one of quiet expectation. Rhaegar Targaryen gazed at the horizon of sand and mountains, a pang of satisfaction in his chest. Things were finally aligning.
"It seems the threads of fate are beginning to weave the tapestry we envisioned, Ser Arthur," he said, his voice a soft, melodic counterpoint to the austere silence of the place.
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood near the door, his posture relaxed yet ever vigilant. "Fate is a capricious weaver, my prince. We must be careful not to confuse our desires with its designs."
Rhaegar turned, a slight smile on his lips. "You have always been my counterweight, Arthur. The voice of reason to my... vision. But it cannot be denied. She is here. The third head of the dragon will be conceived. The Prince That Was Promised." His lilac eyes shone with an inner conviction that went far beyond mere political ambition. It was a near-religious certainty.
It was then that a harsh sound interrupted the quiet. The flapping of wings. A raven landed on the windowsill, a small metal capsule attached to its leg. Arthur, with the silent efficiency that characterized him, retrieved the message and handed it to Rhaegar.
The prince broke the seal – not his father's royal seal, but that of one of his own loyal men in King's Landing. His eyes scanned the lines of tight script. The serene expression on his face dissolved, piece by piece, like a plaster mask cracking. Color drained from his face. He read the message twice, his fingers trembling slightly against the parchment.
"My father..." the word came out as a stunned whisper. "What did he... what did he do?"
The events were narrated crudely: the execution of Rickard Stark, the death of Brandon, the insane decree demanding the heads of Eddard and Robert. And the response: rebellion declared. The North, the Vale, the Stormlands... half of Westeros was aflame.
For a long moment, Rhaegar was silent, his mind a whirlwind. The plan was to wait. To wait for Aerys's madness to consume itself, to wait for the Emperor Aenar, distant and divine in his power, to not care about lesser power games. He and Lyanna were to remain hidden until the child was born, until the prophecy was safe. Now, the entire empire was at war, and prematurely. The centerpiece of his great cosmic drama had been thrown onto the board in a brutal and premature fashion.
Then, an insidious thought arose in his mind, sharp and clear as the sound of his harp. Perhaps... perhaps this is not entirely bad.
He looked up, meeting Arthur's concerned gaze. "Arthur," he began, his voice regaining a trace of its usual calm, but with a new, dangerous note of speculation. "In this war... is there any possibility, however remote, that the Emperor Aenar... might die?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and profane. Ser Arthur Dayne, the greatest knight of his generation, did not flinch. He simply stared at Rhaegar, and for the first time, the prince saw something in his friend's violet eyes that resembled... pity.
"My prince," Arthur spoke, his voice grave and slow, "are you well? Is your mind clear?"
The question confused Rhaegar. "Of course I am. It is a logical question. In a war, even the most powerful can fall."
Arthur shook his head, a slow, sad movement. "Not this one. Not him. You ask about the death of a god by mortal hands." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Some years ago, the Emperor took me on one of his journeys beyond the Wall. He wanted to witness the threat with his own eyes."
Rhaegar stood still, his scholarly curiosity momentarily overriding his obsession.
"We encountered a horde of wights," Arthur continued, his eyes lost in the memory. "Hundreds, perhaps thousands. And among them, there were Them. The Others. The White Walkers. Their very presence froze the air in our throats." He closed his eyes for a second. "The Emperor did not draw his sword. He did not use a grand spell. He simply... jumped. Leaped from the crest of the Wall and fell into their midst like a meteor."
Rhaegar listened, unable to picture the scene.
"He fought with his fists, Rhaegar," Arthur whispered, the use of the first name a testament to the gravity of the moment. "His fists shattered the wights like glass, and when one of the White Walkers approached, its ice blade capable of cutting steel... he grabbed it. With his bare hand. And shattered it. Then, he took the Walker by the throat and disintegrated it with a touch." The knight opened his eyes, and they were filled with a reverent terror. "And then, he looked to the sky, to the stars, and... pulled one down. A falling star, my prince. He brought it from the firmament and cast it down upon the other Walkers and the rest of the army of the dead. The blast... the light... it was the end of the world in miniature."
He looked directly at Rhaegar. "So, no, my prince. There is no army in Westeros, no rebellion, no combination of swords that can defeat him. He is not a king. He is a force of nature. A walking cataclysm. He cannot be killed in this rebellion. He can only be appeased or... diverted."
The story echoed in Rhaegar's mind. He had always known Aenar was powerful, but that... that was on a different scale. A cold, heavy knowledge settled in his stomach. The great enemy, the final obstacle his son, the Prince That Was Promised, would have to face, was infinitely more monstrous than he had ever dreamed. It was not a mad king or an ambitious lord. It was something that defied comprehension itself.
He stood up, his legs a little weak. "I need... I need to see Lyanna," he said, his voice slightly muffled.
He found her in her chambers, sitting on the bed. She did not look at him when he entered. Her shoulders were slumped, and he could see the wet gleam of tears on her face, even with her hair falling over it. The news had reached her. Somehow, she had found out.
"Lyanna," he said softly, sitting beside her.
She did not answer. A sob shook her body.
"I am sorry," Rhaegar murmured, putting an arm around her. "For your father. For your brother. It was... a tragedy. My father's madness knows no bounds."
She kept crying, and he pulled her closer, letting her weep against his chest. Externally, his face was a mask of compassion and sorrow. Internally, however, a part of him chafed with impatience. It was a tragedy, yes, but it was also a complication. A delay. Her grief, her pain... was an obstacle on the path of the prophecy. This is so... inconvenient, he thought, his mind already pulling away from the human suffering before him and returning to the ancient verses that occupied his thoughts. We must focus on what matters. We need the child. We need the Visenya. Her role, in the grand narrative of his mind, was to give birth to the savior, not to wallow in a mundane grief for her lost family.
Weeks passed. The air in the Tower of Joy grew heavy. Lyanna's grief morphed into a resigned quietude, a melancholic state that Rhaegar interpreted as acceptance. And then came the confirmation he had been waiting for. Lyanna was pregnant.
A new fire ignited in his eyes. The prophecy was coming true. The third dragon. His Visenya. The mother of dragons who would save the world from darkness. Now, with the seed planted, with her mission for humanity fulfilled in her womb, he could, in his twisted mind, begin to distance himself. Her immediate physical utility to the Grand Plan was complete. The focus now was to protect her until the birth, of course, but a part of him already yearned for the moment he could resume his rightful place, the crown prince who would usher in the new age, with his newborn son as his heir.
It was on one such morning, while he was pondering this, that a sound began to grow in the distance. It was not the wind howling through mountain passes. It was not thunder. It was a deep, visceral roar that made the stones of the tower vibrate faintly and echoed in one's bones. Rhaegar, a man of letters and music, recognized that sound from descriptions in ancient texts. It was the sound of a mature dragon in a diving flight. A large dragon.
His heart leaped. Aenar?
"Arthur! Oswell! Gerold!" he shouted, running to the window.
The three members of the Kingsguard – Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, and Gerold Hightower – were already moving, their swords drawn, their faces tense. They ran to the main door and emerged into the small flat area before the tower.
What they saw made Rhaegar's blood run cold. Against the relentless blue of the Dornish sky, a dragon descended like a silver bolt. It was smaller than Aenar's black monster, but still majestic and deadly, its scales shining like polished metal, its wings cutting the air with a hiss. It roared past the tower, a hurricane of wind and sound that made everyone instinctively crouch.
And then, something separated from the dragon's saddle. It was not a bolt, nor a stone. It was a figure. A human figure, clad in a full suit of steel armor, silver in color, adorned with carvings so intricate they looked like metallic lace. The figure fell like a projectile, without a scream, without a sound, straight to the ground a few dozen meters from them.
The IMPACT was like the end of the world.
The earth shook violently, throwing Rhaegar and the others to the ground. A cloud of dust and shattered stones exploded upward, obscuring the sun. The roar was so deep it hurt their ears. Rhaegar rolled on the ground, stunned, his ears ringing. He felt strong hands pulling him up – Ser Gerold, the White Bull, his face a mask of shock.
As the dust began to settle, they saw it. Where there had been hard ground and loose stones, there was now a crater, smoking and deep, at least five meters in diameter. And from it, emerging with supernatural calm, was the figure.
The armor was immaculate, without a scratch. A cloak as white as snow, attached at the shoulders, swayed gently, without a stain of dust. As the figure stepped out of the crater, Rhaegar saw the mane of hair cascading from behind the closed helm: hair of a silver so pure it was almost white, interwoven with strands of pale gold. It was the mark of the Targaryens, but of a specific branch, the branch that carried the blood of the Emperor himself.
The silver dragon, Silverscale, landed gracefully behind her, folding its wings and emitting a low growl that was pure threat.
The figure walked towards him, her steps firm and silent on the disturbed earth. At her waist, hung from a scabbard of white steel, was a longsword. The hilt was black as night, made of a material that seemed to suck the light from around it. Dark Sister.
Rhaegar felt the air leave his lungs. He knew who it was. Everyone in Westeros knew. The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Firstborn Daughter of the Emperor. The Dragonrider of Silverscale.
Galadriel Targaryen stopped a few paces from him. She raised her hands and, with a deliberate motion, removed her helm.
Her face was one of sharp, ethereal beauty, so perfect it was almost frightening. Her skin was pale, her features fine and noble. And her eyes... they were her father's eyes. Dragon-purple, with feline slits, burning with a cold intelligence and a latent power that made Rhaegar want to shrink back. He had seen her before, at court functions, always in the shadow of her formidable parents. He had always seen her with a serene, almost smiling composure. The face before him now was a canvas of absolute seriousness.
Her purple eyes swept over Rhaegar from head to toe, then passed over the three guards, assessing, judging, and finding all wanting. Finally, her gaze returned to him.
Her voice, when it came, was clear and melodious like flowing water, but laden with the weight of unquestionable authority. Each word was a crack of ice.
"Bard Prince," she began, and the title sounded like the deepest of insults from her mouth. "You have made a great mess, haven't you?"
Part 1: The Lords' Wagers
POV Tywin Lannister
The silence of his study in Casterly Rock was broken only by the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Tywin Lannister sat in his oak chair, an untouched glass of Dornish wine in his hand, when Maester Creylen entered with a scroll. The man's face was always pale, but that night it was ashen.
"My lord," the maester said, his voice a thread of sound. "News from Summerhall."
Tywin took the scroll. He read it. And then he read it again. The words described a slaughter that even for him, a man who had ordered the massacre of the Tarbecks and the Reynes, was shocking. Rickard Stark burned alive. Brandon Stark strangled to death by an Essosi device. A royal – no, imperial – decree demanding the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. Tywin's hand, normally so steady, trembled slightly. He would not lie to himself: he knew of Aerys's instability. He had his sources, his spies. He knew the Interim Lord was a powder keg. But he had never, never imagined the spark would come from something as stupid as the abduction of a Northern maiden, nor that the explosion would be of such an apocalyptic magnitude.
He had no time to fully process the news when another raven arrived, quickly followed by a third. From the Vale. One was a formal proclamation, signed by Jon Arryn, Lord Yohn Royce, and others, declaring rebellion against the "tyranny emanating from Summerhall." The other was a personal letter, written in Jon Arryn's own hand.
'To Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West,
'I hope this letter finds you in good health. The news from the south has undoubtedly reached your ears by now. The madness that consumed Aerys Targaryen has resulted in the brutal murder of one of our most noble peers and his heir. Such an act cannot and will not be tolerated. We do not rise against the Emperor, but against the scourge of insanity that stains his realm.
'Yet, we must be pragmatic. A rebellion of three kingdoms is a message. A rebellion of four is a negotiation. Your strength, your troops, your gold... united with ours, would create a front impossible to ignore. Together, we can force the Iron Throne to grant concessions. Greater autonomy for the Lord Paramounts, limits on the Crown's power, a permanent council to check imperial power. What happened to Rickard Stark must never be repeated.
'Join us, Tywin. This is our chance to shape the future of the realm, to ensure that power does not reside in one man alone, but in a structure that protects us all, even from an Emperor.
'Respectfully,
'Jon Arryn, Defender of the Vale.'
Tywin read the letter three times. In the years that followed, in the long and lonely nights after the events to come, he would always wonder why, even for a moment, that proposal seemed not only reasonable, but brilliant. Perhaps it was the lingering resentment against Aenar, a man he had never been able to intimidate or manipulate. Perhaps it was the golden opportunity to weaken the central power that so limited his own ambition. In that moment, intoxicated by Jon Arryn's logic and the vision of a realm where the Lannister Lions would be true kings in their own lands, it seemed like the right move.
He summoned his brothers and his wife. Kevan, ever loyal, remained silent, his face a mask of concern. Genna, with her sharp wit, was the first to speak.
"It's a colossal risk, Tywin," she said, frowning. "You're betting that the Emperor will prefer to negotiate rather than crush a larger rebellion. What if you're wrong? You know his power. We all do."
Tywin looked at her, his resolve hardening in the face of opposition. "Jon Arryn is right. Alone, the North, the Vale, and the Stormlands are a nuisance. With the West by their side, we are an existential threat. Aenar is a pragmatist. He will not waste resources and lives to crush half the continent when a deal can give him the peace he wants. It's a chess move, Genna. And we are putting him in check."
It was then that Joanna spoke. Her voice was soft, but each word was like a hammer blow. "Tywin, my love, I beg you. Don't do this."
He turned to her, surprised. Joanna rarely interfered in matters of state with such vehemence.
"It's pride," she whispered, her beautiful green eyes fixed on him. "It's pride and blind ambition. You are challenging a man who, according to stories, can make stars fall from the sky. Who fought with his fists against the Others themselves. What are our armies, our gold, against that? Jon Arryn is leading you to a cliff, and you are following because you think you are smarter than everyone else. Please. Stay home. Protect our family."
He looked at her, and for a brief moment, his conviction wavered. He saw the genuine fear in her, a fear that was not cowardice, but profound clarity. But then, the image of a subservient realm, of House Lannister bowing its head to an emperor who treated all lords as mere administrators, rose in his mind. Pride, as Joanna had said, spoke louder.
"My decision is made," he said, his voice as final as the closing of a tomb. "The Lannisters join the rebellion."
The look on Joanna's face at that moment – a mixture of despair, disappointment, and a deep sadness – would haunt him forever. Years later, when the ashes of the rebellion had cooled and the price had been paid, he would bitterly regret not listening to the one person whose counsel had always been wiser than his own.
---
POV Jon Arryn
The air inside Jon Arryn's tent at the Trident camp was heavy with the smell of damp earth, leather, and smoke from green firewood. He was alone, a map of Westeros spread out on a rough table. The pins representing his forces – a falcon of the Vale, a wolf of the North, a stag of the Stormlands and, gloriously, a lion of the West – were clustered together, about to move towards the site of the meeting with the Emperor.
He thought of Rickard Stark. A hard man, yes, but just. A friend. The news of his horrible death and Brandon's still hit him like a punch to the gut. No one, not even in their worst nightmares, had imagined that the madness of Aerys, the Interim Lord, had sunk to such depths. He clenched his eyes shut, anger a hot ember in his chest. But from the anger, opportunity had sprouted.
"At least, old friend," he whispered into the silence, "your death will not be in vain. It has given us a chance."
A chance to break the yoke. Aenar Targaryen was a god of war, yes, but even gods needed administrators. The rebellion was not to overthrow him – Jon was no fool – but to force him to the table. To make him realize he could not rule alone. Rickard's death was the perfect tool. How could the Emperor deny concessions when his own vassal, a man he himself had placed in a position of power, committed such an atrocity? The guilt, the ultimate responsibility, lay with the Iron Throne. They were morally justified. For the first time in generations, the Great Houses had the leverage to reclaim the power they had enjoyed in reigns past, when the Lord Paramounts were virtually kings in their own domains.
He stood up and walked to the tent's opening. Outside, the camp buzzed with activity. The central bonfire was surrounded by men. And in their midst, as always, was Robert. His chosen heir. The future he envisioned.
Robert was sitting on an upturned barrel, a bottle of wine in one hand and a camp prostitute sitting on his lap with the other. His laughter was a roar that dominated the conversation. He was telling a lively story, probably about some feat of drinking or combat, his voice full of unshakable confidence.
And beside him, slightly removed from the direct firelight, was Ned. Jon could see the tension in the young Stark's shoulders. His face was somber, his eyes fixed on the flames, not on Robert. With each loud laugh from Robert, with each careless gesture towards the woman on his lap, Ned's lips tightened. Jon understood the source of the discomfort. Robert was, at that very moment, proclaiming to anyone who would listen his determination to "rescue his beloved Lyanna" from the clutches of the wicked Rhaegar. It was the romantic justification for the war, the spark that had ignited the hearts of common men. But to see the same man who swore eternal love to one woman with another in his arms, and on the night after his own wedding no less, must have been a difficult spectacle for an honorable man like Ned to digest.
It doesn't matter, Jon thought, pushing the concern aside. Ned was young. He would learn that politics and war required certain... performances. Robert's love for Lyanna was a useful tool, as was his fury. Genuine emotions could be channeled, shaped to serve a greater cause.
He looked south, in the direction from which the Emperor would come. The meeting was approaching. The opportunity he had worked so hard to create was at hand. The possibilities that would open up were infinite. Or, at least, that is what he thought, his own heart swollen with a mixture of grief for his dead friend and the avid anticipation of the power that was, he was certain, within his grasp. The vision of a great council, of lords ruling their domains without interference, of a balance of power that would put the Great Houses back at the center of the game... it was a dream so sweet it blinded him to the roar of the approaching dragon.
Final part: The Price of Insolence
POV Aenar Targaryen
Harrenhal. The location was appropriate, I had to admit. A monument to overreaching ambition and the consequent destruction. The castle's twisted, blackened towers rose like the charred bones of a giant, a silent reminder of what happens when one defies dragons. I stood before the main gate, not within the courtyard. Let them approach me. A simple oak chair had been placed for me on the worn ground before the immense, scarred entrance. I brought no great armies. Why would I? A show of force would be unnecessary when one is the very embodiment of force. The only troops present were those of the Riverlands lords – Lord Whent and other minor vassals – who had insisted on "protecting" their Emperor. Nearly ten thousand men. I had accepted their loyalty, not out of need, but politics. It was good to honor those who remained faithful.
To my right, Uriel was seated in another chair. His face was a mask of composure, but I felt the cold anger still smoldering within him, an ember stoked by the violation of his sanctum at Summerhall. Standing to my left, immobile as statues, were Ser Duncan the Tall and Ser Barristan Selmy. Their loyalty was a steadying counterpoint to the instability around us.
Then, they arrived.
It was like watching a tide of steel and pride flood the plain. The rebel army was a colossus, an endless mass of lances, shields, and banners stretching to the horizon. Over two hundred thousand men. The North, the Vale, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and, to my genuine – though brief – surprise, the West. All united under the banner of rebellion. My dragon-purple eyes picked out the leaders as they approached on horseback, flanked by their chief knights. Jon Arryn, with his wise, grave face of a man who believes he is doing the right thing. Eddard Stark, young, somber, carrying the weight of recent grief and a decision I knew tormented him. Robert Baratheon, a volcano of fury and testosterone, his fists clenched on his reins. Hoster Tully, the calculating opportunist, and Tywin Lannister... ah, Tywin. The smartest man in the room, or so he thought. Seeing the Lion of Lannister here was final proof of the manipulation at play. Not even his sharp mind was immune to the insidious whispers of the gods and the bitter Bloodraven. They had stewed his pride and ambition in a cauldron of delusion.
They dismounted a dozen yards from the gate. Jon Arryn stepped forward, his posture erect, trying to project a dignity the situation had already eroded.
"Your Imperial Grace," he began, his voice clear but strained.
Before he could continue, I raised my index finger and waved it gently downward.
It was not a grand gesture. It was not accompanied by a verbal command. But the pressure that emanated from it was physical and absolute. An invisible, irresistible, ancient weight forced everyone on their side to their knees. Not just the five lords, but all the knights and soldiers with them. Knees hit the hard ground with a collective, muffled thud. Even Robert Baratheon, his face contorted in impotent rage, was forced to bow.
"You may rise," I said, my voice flat, emotionless. "And sit."
They got to their feet, some with difficulty, others with shame. The five lords sat in the chairs that had been placed for them opposite me. The silence was heavy, laden with the grinding of Robert's teeth and Hoster Tully's ragged breath.
I tilted my head, studying each face. "Now," I began, my tone almost conversational. "Would someone care to explain what, exactly, came over all of you to suddenly exhibit the collective intelligence of a chicken in the middle of a road?"
Jon Arryn was the first to find his voice. "This is not a rebellion against the Empire, Your Grace," he said, speaking the rehearsed words clearly. "It is a protest against the tyranny of Aerys Targaryen and the horrific murder of Lord Rickard Stark and his heir. An act that demanded a response."
"A response," I repeated, slowly. "I see. And gathering two hundred thousand men, pointing swords at your Emperor, and marching across the land was the only possible response? Justice for Aerys was already served. By my hand. The problem was solved before you even sharpened your blades. What you are doing here is something else entirely."
My gaze swept over Jon, Tywin, and Hoster. "It's obvious. I can see it in your eyes. You three... you aren't just here for justice, are you? You want something. You crave something. So, spare me the theatrics. What is it?"
That's when Robert Baratheon exploded. He slammed his fist onto the wooden table with enough force to have shattered it, had I not stabilized it with a thought.
"I want Rhaegar's head!"he roared, his voice thunderous. "And I want my Lyanna back! Your dragon-spawn bas—"
"Rhaegar has been located," I cut him off, my voice slicing through his like a blade, utterly unmoved by his outburst. "My daughter, Galadriel, has been dispatched on her dragon to rescue Lady Lyanna and apprehend Prince Rhaegar for judgment. Your personal demands are being handled."
Robert opened his mouth to shout again, but Jon Arryn placed a firm hand on his arm, silencing him with a stern look.
"What we want, Your Grace," Jon said, reclaiming control of the conversation, "are guarantees. Guarantees that such tyranny will never be repeated. A permanent council of the Lord Paramounts to advise the Crown. Greater autonomy to rule our domains according to our customs. Limits on imperial power, so that no man, not even an Emperor, can again raise a hand against a Great Lord without the consent of his peers."
Tywin Lannister remained silent, but his slight nod was eloquent approval. Hoster Tully agreed eagerly.
I fell silent. I looked at one, then the other. And then, I laughed. It was a short, dry, humorless chuckle that echoed strangely in the silent space before the gate. It sounded like genuine disbelief, mingled with profound scorn.
"This?" I asked, my voice still carrying the echo of the laugh. "This is why you brought two hundred thousand men to my gate? For councils and autonomy?"
It was then that the sound began. A distant whisper that quickly grew into a deep, rhythmic beating, like a dozen gigantic drums pounding the sky. The lords looked up, their expressions of defiance giving way to confusion, then to dread.
These weren't just the sounds of Zekrom. They were the sounds of all of them.
From the clouds, they descended. A fleet of living nightmares, scaled and winged. Zekrom, my own beast black as night. Reshiram, his brother of pure white scales. Balerion the Black Dread, whose breath had blackened these very walls. Vhagar, Vermithor the Bronze. Syrax, Seasmoke, Meleys the Red Queen. Dreamfyre, Tessarion the Blue. Vermax, Arrax, Stormcloud, and Morghul. All the dragons of House Targaryen, the legendary and the young. And they were riderless. No knights sat in their saddles. Their immense forms, some the size of galleys, others like flying castles, landed in a great circle around the rebel army. The ground shook with each landing. The air grew hot and heavy with the smell of sulfur and ancient beasts.
The army of two hundred thousand men, once so confident, now looked like a flock of sheep surrounded by wolves the size of mountains. Banners dipped, cries were stifled. Pride dissolved into pure terror.
I turned to Ned Stark, ignoring the collective panic.
"Lord Eddard,"I said, my voice soft, yet cutting. "Your family was wronged. Your motive, though executed with the subtlety of a battering ram, holds a spark of dignity. Therefore, the Northern army will not pay the ultimate price for the folly of its lords."
I raised my hand and made a sweeping, dismissive gesture.
Ned Stark gasped. Before our eyes, the ranks of the Northern army – all twenty thousand men – simply vanished. Not with a bang, but with a soft shimmer of light. A moment later, we spotted them, disoriented and unharmed, gathered on a hilltop several leagues away, far from the field of death.
The other lords stared, their minds struggling to comprehend what they had witnessed.
"Now," I continued, as if nothing had happened. "Each of you – Jon, Robert, Hoster, Tywin – may choose ten men from your army. Ten, to take home and spread the news of what transpired here today."
They looked at me, bewildered. Ten? Out of two hundred thousand?
Before they could articulate a question, I closed my eyes for a second. I had already skimmed their surface thoughts, identified the ten men closest to each – captains, guards, squires.
"It is done,"I declared.
With another series of subtle shimmers, forty selected men vanished from their ranks and reappeared, stumbling and dazed, behind their lords, on our side of the table.
I stood. My chair scraped back on its own. The pressure in the air became crushing.
"You have one moon's turn,"my voice was not a roar, but carried a weight that echoed in the soul of every man present. "One moon's turn to present yourselves in King's Landing and beg on your knees for the Imperial Pardon for treason and rebellion. Your sentences will be decided then."
I then turned, not to the terrified lords before me, but to the vast rebel army – now reduced to one hundred and eighty thousand men, but still a giant – and to the circle of dragons caging them.
My next word was whispered, yet laden with a power that made the very air tremble.
"Dracarys."
Hell opened its maw.
It was not a jet of flame. It was the sun descending to earth. Every dragon, in perfect unison, released its fiery breath. The roar was apocalyptic, a sound that tore the sky and deafened all ears. Waves of white, orange, and golden fire engulfed the army. Steel melted like wax. Flesh and bone turned to vapor, then to ash. There were no screams that could be heard over the roar of the flames. There was no time for terror. It was instant, complete, and absolute annihilation.
In seconds, there was nothing left. Where a host of two hundred thousand men had once stood, there was now only a plain of black, smoking glass, dotted with mounds of fine ash. The silence that followed was more terrifying than the roar of the flames.
I turned back to the five lords and their forty chosen men. They were paralyzed. Ned Stark was pale as a ghost, his body trembling. Robert Baratheon, for the first time in his life, looked small and broken. Jon Arryn stared at the destruction, his wisdom and plans reduced to nothing. Tywin Lannister, the proud Lion, was on his knees again, not by my command, but from pure despair. Hoster Tully was vomiting.
None of them looked at Jon Arryn with hatred. There was no room for blame. Just as they could not have conceived of Aerys's madness, no human mind, however ambitious, could have imagined the cold, calculated, and absolute cruelty of the Dragon Emperor. They had not challenged a king. They had provoked a force of nature, and witnessed the price.
"One moon," I repeated, my voice now a blade of ice. "Do not be late."
I turned and began to walk back towards the shadowed entrance of Harrenhal, leaving them with the smell of ashes and the weight of their absolute failure.
Hey guys, here's another chapter and practically the end of the rebellion. Now I wanted to know what punishments you think should be given to each of them, except Ned obviously. Just remembering that these aren't very harsh punishments, mainly due to what happened to their armies.
For Robert, I was thinking of him challenging any punishment for him and asking for a trial by combat, different from the others, and the MC wiping the floor with him and destroying one of his hands, turning him into the second Orys.