120
Of the many things that make me go 'hmmm' about the storming of the Dragonpit, the sheer steepness of the hill itself ranks chief amongst them. The three great hills of Kingslanding stand tall. How the hell a bunch of starving people managed the assent and then a proper bum rush of the fire breathing monstrosities inside speaks to an inherent courage admirable and desperation induced super endurance while also providing more correlating data for my long held hypothesis that smallfolk are by and large dumber than most cats and dogs.
The winding path up the Hill of Rhaenys was always slow going, but I'd done my best to make the arduous climb even less convenient, evidenced by the three construction zones erecting barbicans to further restrict access to the megastructure at the apex. Many hours at the tabletop with my father allowed me ample opportunity to impress the man with my knowledge of city building and fortification, these three mini-forts the first fruit of that cultivated influence. There will be no Storming of the Dragonpit on my watch.
Even devoid my psyker powers, I felt my older sister's frustration radiating out from her luxurious wheel house, fed by her sorrow. While wisdom would have led her to waiting for me, had she been capable of introspection and self reflection at the time at the very least she would have taken her marriage tour seriously and landed on her heart's desire in Harwin Strong before father grew fed up and yoked her to Laenor Valaryon. Then at least she'd have the honor of a widow instead of the shame of a whore.
Like the uberchad he is, Larys Strong denied her even the closure of a funeral, stating that he wanted a private ceremony just for he and his sisters and their more distant kin. Her face when he said the words 'only for the blood' tickled my heart and put an upward curl to my lips not yet capable of hiding behind a manly mustache. The curse of my insipid youth, to only have the beginnings of thick vivacious facial masculinity.
While my sister's heart ached for her toasted roasted man lost in the midnight fire of Harrenhal, we ascended to the Dragonpit for yet another toasted roasted victim of the year 120 AC. I'd not delved to deeply into the Dance of Dragons with the Sight in my last life - just watched the battles and the dragon fights - and I only had access to one version of the events during my historical studies in my childhood, yet I remember Laena Valeryon not making it on her attempt to visit Vhagar one final time. This time around her fortitude won out and she'd commanded the dragon to immolate her. Hardcore. My respect for the woman abounded after hearing of that, and I felt some honor in going to see her bones and ashes committed to the sea.
Riding next to me came Aemond, the ten year old looked quite comical atop the tall and broad warhorse, but the staidness of this particular breeding line made for little argument when he desired to ride the too big beast. His black and white stallion descended from the beast under me, another of my nameday gifts from afar. Unlike the typical roudiness of the exotic zorses of the pinheaded Jogos Nhai of far Essos the particularly large and powerful creature under me obeyed commands readily and never endangered me via rearing, kicking, or biting. The hither too unseen combination of strength, speed, agility, endurance, and beauty led my father to begin immediately breeding the zorse to every exceptional mare in our stables, and even beyond as he'd purchased many a fine example over the years, and in accordance with the word, 'the seed is strong'. My stallion beget a new nation of zorses to dominate Westeros, just as I beget a new nation of Valyrians to dominate Old Town.
Speaking of begetting new nations, a terrible shrieking echoed out of the entrance to the Dragonpit, a familiar shrieking. A recent, but all too frequent occurrence. My sister emerged from her carriage with a stormy look on her face that would have anyone below my status shivering, the kind that says 'I order kids harshly interrogated for getting maimed by my kids'. A woman of casual cruelty and deep disregard. Poor thing still hasn't figured out that I am the deep end of that pool she's swimming in.
"Aegon!" she screeched with the full calamity of her mammaries, "Explain!"
At least she'd the decency to keep it brief.
"Two dragons fucking." I explained the situation playing out in the main chamber of the colossal megastructure that housed our family's true power.
Once upon a time, I'd hated the beast that now filled my sight. I'd wanted to claim Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, largest of the dragons not yet affected poorly by old age. Still young and strong and capable of asserting instant dominance. On the way to the glorious bronze beast, a spiritual successor to my mastery of the Bronze Fleet nigh two hundred years from now, a dog sized mass of gold and pink beset me, and looked up at me with wide blazing yellow eyes and a facsimile of a smile full of little knifelike teeth, happy as can be, completely unaware that he'd just foiled my plans. Unlike my blindsiding son, I did not set about choking the dragon for its audacity.
Progress some might call it.
I should have known the little beast would seek me out. I'd always admired its tenacity, almost all of my favorite things are gold or pink, and in truth the young dragon did me good service, for if Vermithor benefited from our magical bond like Sunfyre did, there'd be no controlling him. He'd have fucked all the she-dragon's to death save Vhagar and maybe Dreamfyre.
"Control your dragon, or there will be consequences." she seethed with furrowed brow.
I frowned and raised a brow at her, "Consequences…" I mused on the word till my lips upturned, "Ah, so you've found him. The only man I fear, Ser Michael of House Mc-Doesn't-Exist. Our battle will be legendary."
I should talk to Rhaenyra more often. She makes very entertaining faces. So expressive, I can see every ounce of the outrage practically bursting out from behind her purple eyes. That outrage warred with my sister's growing caution of myself. I imagine she'd feel so much more secure with our Uncle backing her rather than her husband and his lover.
"I'd very much like to see the sight of this Ser Michael if he is so fearsome to have even the Young Dragon's concern." Ser Laenor smiled tightly, the Ser replacing his title sham title of Prince Consort.
That he managed any levity in his voice even in his time of morning spoke to how little time he spent with my sister. Too much Rhaenyra easily ruins a man, and Ser Leanor dodged her vitriolic fangs and talons ably all the years of their marriage. He stood a triumph of manhood spitting in the face of any woman threatening to kill the buzz.
"I heard he was once bitten by a Dornish Death Adder in the sands beyond Hellholt." I humored my good-brother, "After three agonizing days, the adder finally died." Laenor and his best bro Qarl Correy both found the joke greatly amusing and laughed freely unbothered when my sister cast her gaze upon them. Another victory for the Chad Laenor over the forces of oppression.
After wiping a tear from his eye, the man addressed me again, "Thanks for that laugh, I needed it. Two dragon's fucking block my way to my sister's funeral. Can you clear the path?"
He stretched out a hand to me which I seized on to, "For you, anything."
Once again Rhaenyra treated me to a showing of why they called her the Realm's Delight. Seethe, woman. I turned from her twisted countenance and dismounted my zorse, tilting my head to let out a satisfying crack before marching into the dragon's den like many a great hero before me. There I found him, Sunfrye, the most beautiful dragon of the age, golden and majestic, and under his thrusting hips, the piss yellow and getting chubby Syrax.
The older she dragon still had length from snout to tail on my regal partner, but not as much as she should. Sunfyre had it in his nature to grow larger and more powerful than other dragons his age, and he fed on our bond eagerly almost all his life, and what a bond we had. Even mid coitus he turned his head to get me within his field of view, tongue hanging out with an expression of utter satisfaction.
When Syrax, the she beast on her back as Sunfyre rutted into her, took a snap at him upon seeing the opening, Sunfyre slapped the big bitch back down with one of his weighty wings. What Sunfyre lacked on this broodmare in length he more than made up for in thickness. His neck thick, his chest deep and wide, his hips powerful, his thighs crushing, head broad and long, wings wide and strong, and claws like shining golden swords. His glittering scales stretched tight over twisting steel cordage of rippling muscle. The wings are considered the weakest part of the Targaryen's dragons, but Sunfrye beat that bitch like a pimping goose with wing strikes capable of breaking the bones of a lesser creature.
"Enough you rutting beast!" I shouted at the engaged dragon, "We've flight to take!"
Sunfrye thought to continue his pursuit of the nut in complete disregard of my command, so I ran at him. My battle cry caused Sunfyre to flinch, shifting his hips and scrambling his clawed feet, trying to swivel the bitch impaled on his Roman column of a phallus between us, his strength so great he succeeded in painfully sliding her around under him. I simply used her head as a springboard to leap into the air and snag onto Sunfyre's impressive wrack of horns climbing up to his big golden eye. I made a fist and snarled at him.
"On my time! Not yours!" I roared then pump faked a punch that caused my dragon to fall back in fear.
I leapt off of Sunfrye as he shuffled back onto his feet, but saw the silvery ropes upon the stone and the deluge leaking from the piss yellow she dragon. I may dictate the schedule, but he stole the nut, and the moral victory. I nodded to my dragon once, acknowledging him. Syrax rolled awkwardly to get her feet back under her and shuffled away with a limping gate, the battered dragon fixing me with a hateful glare. I felt my sword hand tingle.
Any time, bitch.
My sister and her crew arrived after enough time to reasonably suggest an end to hostilities, and I expected to ignore a tongue lashing for the state of her dragon, but in a showing of remarkable awareness she instead kept her distance and her peace. Hallelujah, praise the Lord, for surely he must be mustering his second coming after such a miracle. Never mind, wrong setting. Perhaps the return of Hugor of the Hill? By me, I hope it's not a sign of my own coming ascendance. The fire within can only burn brighter than the fire without for so long before a man cannot endure further, and I've burnt enough for three lifetimes.
-_-_-_-_-_-
Christmas Bonus: Justice For Craster
Craster, the greatest carpenter of the True North sat on a stump with a heavy heart and a heavy frown weighing down his usual bright countenence. "We have an accord. In return for my sons willingly offered, your kind will stay their hands against mankind, not bringing about the return of the Long Night." the pain behind his blue eyes nearly forced tears from the hard man, a man raised by a lone mother in harshest conditions, practically self raised, "And I will never speak of this to anyone."
Even his stoney heart is not hard enough for the monumental task, but by his strength of character he endured. None would ever know of his dark heroism, but this woodsman so loved the world that he would give up his own flesh and blood continually, so that all may be spared the wrath of the Long Night.
"The bloodline must be pure." The Other spoke the Old Tongue with a voice like a blizzard wind tearing through the trees. "I will steal fine women for the task, and allow no other man near them."
Craster grit his teeth at the thought, he'd not allow some willful woman's fornication to undo his sacrifice for mankind. He formerly hoped to use his incredible carpentry skills to build up a village around him, and finally end his long loneliness by filling fine homes with fine people to fight against the harshness of the world alongside him, but now with the weight of that world on his shoulders, he could not afford the risk of another man near his women, lest he offer up the wrong blood and doom all to war against the evil Others.
"The bloodline must be more pure." the Other spoke again, the sound grating on Craster's ears even worse than the wicked being's presence grated on his nerves.
"More pure? I don't understand. What do you mean by more pure? They will be my direct sons." the man inquired while palming his axe in frustration. "You know what must be done to make the offerings pure." the being intoned coldly, even more so that its usual ice crackling voice.
Brave Craster's jaw dropped, as his thoughts turned to such a dark and vile act. Surely this being didn't mean-
"Look into your heart, you know it to be true." its crystalline lips curled into a cruel smirk.
"There must be another way!" Craster cried as he swallowed down the gorge rising up his throat.
"He-he-he." the Other laughed slowly, "You could take up your axe and try to hack to pieces everyone and everything north of the Wall before we can kill and raise them ourselves."
Craster's fingers tapped along the shaft of his preferred tool and weapon. His strong arm and fast hands made him fear no man or beast, but even he knew he could not slay everyone and everything beyond the Wall faster than the Others, and he knew they would watch him, not even allowing him to do so in secret. He could only cry bitter tears and nod his head in acceptance as he silently prayed to the Old Gods that someone one day rise up and save him from his own personal hell on earth by chopping up everyone and everything in the True North, and deny these vile beings their corpse army.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Merry Christmas everyone. For those wondering I'm not on any release schedule, I don't have some hidden back log. I post after I finish proofreading and editing my first drafts of everything. This Christmas Bonus content was inspired by a YouTube Channel I found that creates Thrones content with a similar take to my own called Our Hilts Hurt. They can get kind of annoying when they bend over backwards too hard to make a point, but for the most part their content is a good laugh and a solid take. 8/10 recommended. You can support me and my family at: ko-fi.com/jmanm
Second attempt due to something fucking my formatting up.