Chapter 44
VALARR TARGARYEN
For more than half a year, Valarr had been fighting at the Wendwater, keeping back a force nearly thrice his size from crossing the creek and entering the Crownlands. It pained him to sit here and defend while his own wife was a prisoner at Storm's End.
House Targaryen had known for some time that treason was afoot in the realm, but the constant barrage of disasters had exhausted their resilience. The Spring Sickness had just begun to go away, and they had just won a war in the Stepstones a few moons back.
Yet now they were faced with another existential threat in the form of the pretenders. They had tried to prepare for the treachery, but the Crown was exhausted. The Spring Sickness had killed hundreds of thousands, and families lacked the usual third or fourth sons to send away to war.
They were hesitant to come for they feared that a bout of Sickness could devour their family in the blink of an eye. They did not care for the throne and whether it was the Red Dragon or the Black Dragon that sat on top of it, and their enemy knew this well.
The realm simply lacked the appetite for another war, and as the Blackfyre rose, most lords chose silence and turned towards the drought and the Sickness as an excuse for their inaction.
But the Crown could not stay silent. They had to act. They had to fight, and this time they had to do it themselves. Valarr had to do it himself. He could not burden his brother with their failures once more, even though Matarys was willing to sacrifice everything for them, their father and he had decided to spare him from the campaign so that he might work towards breaking the curse on his son.
Despite their troubles, they would have routed the enemy easily if not for the treachery of the man sitting opposite to him. The Crown knew where most of the dissent was, and the Pretenders had made a home for themselves in the Riverlands.
The flat plains of the Riverlands had been the theatre for war since the time of the First Men. Many within the lands had pledged their allegiance to the Black Dragon, and the Crown knew of other disgruntled lords in other kingdoms as well who planned on breaking their oaths to the Crown.
But they had not thought that a Great House would commit such treachery. House Baratheon's betrayal had surprised them all. The enemy had struck first, attacking and capturing his own Lady wife and Lady Shiera.
Attacking them, women who had no part to play in a war, was the height of cowardice, yet the enemy had chosen to target them for a specific reason. Lady Shiera was the only person in the realm who delved into the art of Blood Magic.
Lord Bloodraven, despite all his infamy, had little familiarity with the art. No. It was Lady Shiera who was a master at the art, and their enemy hoped to make use of it. So, it was not long after their capture that Lord Bloodraven came to him and the King to speak of his failing ability.
Matarys had once mentioned that Lord Brynden's thousand eyes were more mystical in nature, and when he had learned about the truth of his powers, he had been a bit surprised. It seemed strange, but Lord Rivers was not the kind to rely on lies and falsehood.
Yet his powers were of no use to them anymore, for the enemy had planned this well. Using Lady Shiera, they had somehow blinded the man who was meant to be their Master of Whispers, and while he still had a network of spies and servants to call upon, the enemy had just crippled their ability to fight back.
That combined with the betrayal of Storm's End had marked the beginning of this war, and ever since then they had been trying to win back the initiative.
"Why have you called us here, Lord Lyonel?" Valarr snarled with barely hidden contempt for the Lord in front of him. Lyonel Baratheon had once been a handsome man, but the strike from his uncle had left his face misshapen.
He had survived the attack, but ever since that day, he had held a grudge against their House. A grudge that had turned him into a traitor.
"To give you a chance," the Baratheon lord offered proudly, as Valarr's blood boiled. They had thought that the war was over when Lord Bloodraven had torched Whitheall and slain Daemon the Younger, but the enemy was not done with them.
"Surrender now to me, and I will let you keep your life in exile," and he would much rather die.
"I would much rather die," Valarr countered, and they had come together for a parlay at the advisement of the Baratheon lord.
"I have no trouble granting you your wish, but think of your wife," and Valarr's fist cracked the table as he rose in rage.
"Don't you dare touch my wife!" he roared, and the Baratheon lord smirked at his rage.
"Look at you pretending and bristling like a dragon," he taunted, as those blue eyes narrowed.
"But I know the truth," and his tone grew harsher.
"I can see the truth. You are no dragon. None of you are," and Valarr ground his teeth, and for years now their family had feared that such a day would come. Ever since the Dance had robbed their House of the Dragons, whispers had begun to linger in the corners of the capital about the legitimacy of their rule.
Alliances, armies, and oaths kept the people and the lords at bay for the time, but with the loss of the Dragons, they had lost their legitimacy as rulers as well.
They had survived, but there was a realization within their House that they needed to change. King Daeron believed that oaths and alliances would protect them, and his own father had the same belief, but now, as their House stood on the brink of destruction, he wondered if they were wrong.
"We are not the ones who broke our oaths," Valarr countered.
"The only liar here is you, my lord," but the Baratheon Lord shrugged.
"We swore our oaths to the Dragons. Red Black, that does not matter to me," and Valarr shook his head.
"You swore your oaths to House Targaryen," and the man was truly mad, and Valarr ground his teeth as he lowered himself into the chair.
"Why would you even do this?" House Targaryen and House Baratheon had a long history. The Baratheon House was formed through the lineage of his own bastard half-brother, Orys Baratheon.
"Why would you turn your back on our House?" He knew that it was not honor or ambition that motivated him. The Laughing Storm was not one to chase glory or gold.
"Because of your brother," he answered, much to his surprise.
"Because of Matarys?" Valarr could not believe his ears, and the man nodded as his lips thinned with rage.
"Truth is I had hoped to face him here in battle, but instead I was met by you, the so-called Lesser brother," and he knew of that moniker, though he never let it bother him.
"Matarys once called you a friend. You fought for him at the Trial three years ago," and the man looked him in the eye.
"That was where I saw the truth," the Baratheon lord added animatedly.
"I thought that I had finally found a worthy companion in him. A knight worthy of all the praise and honors in the land, yet when the time came for him to face his destiny, he exposed himself as the fraud that he was," and he spoke strangely, but he had already known that the Laughing Storm was a strange man.
"Matarys the Matchless they call him. But I know the truth. He is no true warrior. He is a pretender who lacked the heart to raise his blade against his own uncle while others died for him," and Valarr could not believe that this was his reason for betraying their House.
This was absurd.
"So, you chose to betray us because he hesitated in striking down the very man who had raised him for six years?" he questioned, hoping for a shake of his head.
"He asked us to fight for him while he himself did not have the heart to do so," Lord Baratheon countered harshly, and he could only shake his head in dismay.
"You are a mad man," the words slipped out of his mouth, but the man did not take offense to them and began to laugh loudly.
"Perhaps, I am," and then he looked towards him one last time.
"Unlike you and your kin, I am no pretender. This battle was meant to be between your brother and me," Lyonel Baratheon offered.
"I have no qualms with you, but if I must kill you to bring him out, then I shall do that," and he could not make Matary face this.
"Our armies have already captured Stonedance. Soon enough, we will control the Blackwater Bay as well, and your capital will be under siege," and that was indeed the reality of this war.
"You are trapped, and you know it," but that did not mean that he had to give up.
"Surrender now, and you can take your wife and live a simple life in exile," he repeated his offer of peace, but he leaned forward and bared his teeth as he offered him the stick next.
"Stay, and I will slaughter you and your entire army," and Valarr loved his wife and missed her dearly. He had failed in his duties as her lord husband, but he was not just a husband.
He was a Prince too, and a brother as well. He was outnumbered, and the threat of the army advancing towards them from Stonedance was legitimate. But he could not back down.
Not when the fate of their entire House was at stake.
"I am afraid I cannot do that," Valarr answered as he rose from his chair once more.
"I love my wife, but I am more than just a man. I am a Prince of this dynasty," and he would not abandon his people.
"The odds may be against me, but I shall fight till my last breath," and the Laughing Storm rose himself, but he was laughing no more.
"I shall be happy to grant you this wish," and so they walked out of the tent, and he had traveled across the Wendwater with four men, as per the terms. The four guards stood outside waiting, hoping for a truce.
"I shall see you on the battlefield now, Valarr Targaryen," Lyonel announced, and he saw the faces of the guards shift at those words.
"So shall I...."
.
.
.
In the capital, the second host stood ready to depart as the King himself donned his armor. It had been many years since the Breakspear had ridden into battle, but his legend was as great as ever.
The sickness had made him weak, but he was left no choice. If House Targaryen was to survive this, then he would need to join the war.
"Are you sure about this?" he spoke to his nephew who would rule over the city in his stead, and Daeron nodded resolutely.
"I am no great warrior like you or Matarys. But I can hold the capital," Daeron assured his uncle.
"Kingslanding will not fall as long as I draw breath," he declared, and the King put a hand on his shoulder, beaming with pride at what Daeron had become.
"Maekar would have been proud of what you have become," and the young man nodded.
"I can only hope so...."
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