FrenzyAren
patreon
SLW Chapter 64 : Hope is Not a Strategy
🕑 Added 2025-04-26 20:53:46 +0000 UTCAeron stood unmoving, the loose folds of his cloak billowing in the foul wind.
With a thought, Drakaryzor materialized into his hand, erupting into being from smoke and crackling black fire.
The dark greatsword seemed less a weapon and more an extension of his very will a blade of judgment.
The gathered soldiers flinched backward instinctively, steel boots scraping against broken stone. Even the most hardened among them gripped their swords tighter, panic flickering in their eyes.
The young commander the one who had dared step forward stood his ground, though sweat trickled down his brow. His hand twitched toward his sword, but he did not draw it. Not yet.
Aeron lowered Drakaryzor’s blade slightly, its fire hissing against the damp courtyard stones.
"Why are you here?" Aeron asked, voice low and cutting.
The young commander swallowed, confusion flashing briefly across his face before he stiffened.
"I… have been ordered to keep Harrenhal under our control," he said, voice steadier than expected, though the crack of fear was buried beneath the surface.
Aeron's burning gaze swept over the half-ruined castle, the remnants of Lannister banners hanging limply from scorched battlements, the trembling ranks of soldiers awaiting their fate.
"Yes," Aeron said, his voice almost amused, almost contemptuous. "I’m not blind."
He took a slow step forward, Drakaryzor dragging faint black fire in its wake. "I asked you why?"
The commander hesitated. Silent. His lips pressed into a grim line. Loyalty shone in his eyes, even now, even in the shadow of death itself.
Daenerys, mounted atop Drogon, narrowed her violet eyes, observing carefully. She leaned forward slightly, curious surprised, perhaps by the young knight's boldness. It was rare, she knew, to find such devotion these days, even among the lions of the Rock.
Aeron tilted his head, almost admiring.
"Impressive," he said, voice laced with dark approval. "Still loyal.."
He turned, pacing slowly past the commander.
His voice, when it came again, was cold and knowing.
"I’ll answer for you."
Aeron dragged his gaze across the broken castle walls.
"Tywin Lannister, old snake, ever the schemer. He holds Harrenhal to keep his claws in the Riverlands… to keep his reach ready should another war ignite. He knows this peace is but mist over boiling waters. The realm stands on the brink of chaos, and he prepares as only Tywin does: with quiet steel and veiled treachery."
He turned, blade still aflame, facing the commander squarely.
"But what he does not understand," Aeron said, voice deepening to a near growl, "is how insignificant he is in the grand scheme of things."
The earth seemed to tremble as the Cannibal shifted behind him, growling low and guttural, smoke curling from his fanged mouth.
Drogon snarled softly in response, the two dragons like waiting hounds at Aeron's side.
"I will allow you to withdraw," Aeron said, his words heavy as a sentence. "The Riverlands are not yours to conquer. Return to the Westerlands. Or to KingsLanding, it is up to you to decide."
The courtyard held its breath.
The young commander trembling slightly now, fists clenched tight at his sides stared at Aeron for a long, hard moment.
Duty warred with terror. Loyalty with common sense.
Finally, he spoke.
"I… I can't do that, my lord."
His voice cracked, but he did not falter.
Aeron’s glowing eyes narrowed to burning slits.
Behind him, the Cannibal let out a low, dangerous rumble, black smoke pouring from its nostrils, claws tearing deep into the stone.
Daenerys shifted slightly on Drogon’s back, her face unreadable, though a flicker of something pity, or perhaps admiration crossed her features.
She knew this man had just signed his death warrant.
"You are brave," Aeron said softly. "But that was foolish…"
The fire along Drakaryzor’s edge roared higher.
"Foolishness in this world is a terrible thing."
Aeron turned from the cowering soldiers and faced the monstrous shadow that was the Cannibal.
The ancient dragon shifted, smoke coiling from his gaping jaws, awaiting his master’s command.
Aeron, feeling the raw power from the dragon. His violet eyes gleamed, and he said almost conversationally.
"You understand Valyrian, don’t you?"
The Cannibal let out a deep, resonant growl not mindless rage, but acknowledgment.
Aeron’s mouth curled into a dangerous smile. His gaze sharpened, voice dropping into an ancient tongue, thrumming with command:
"Dracarys."
The courtyard didn’t even have time to scream.
The Cannibal spread his wings wide wings that could have blotted out the sky and drew in a tremendous breath.
Then he unleashed it.
A torrent of black fire, dark as smoke and ash, poured from his maw with a horrifying roar. It wasn’t like Drogon’s flame it was thicker, heavier, almost alive as it devoured everything it touched.
Stone melted like wax.
Steel ran like rivers.
Men became shadows and then ash in an instant.
The young Lannister commander, defiant until the end, vanished in a storm of shrieking flame.
Their banners the proud lions of House Lannister turned to cinders, spinning away into the smoky skies.
The courtyard of Harrenhal, already a ruin, sank further into desolation. Towers cracked and split, collapsing into themselves. The ancient black stones groaned and wept fire one again.
And still the Cannibal roared, a sound of such primal fury that it made the bones of the land itself tremble.
Above it all, Aeron stood unmoved, Drakaryzor burning at his side, watching the judgment unfold with cold, sovereign eyes.
Daenerys, atop Drogon, watched in awe and shock.
The power unleashed, the ruthless finality of it, it was staggering.
But in her heart, the queen understood.
Sometimes a king must deliver judgment.
And sometimes, judgment must come on wings of fire.
When at last the flames died down, and only the smoldering ruins of Harrenhal remained, Daenerys guided Drogon down beside Aeron.
The heat from the charred earth warped the air around them.
Her voice was quiet almost reverent as she spoke.
"It’s like history repeating itself," she said, gazing at the blackened skeleton of the castle.
"First it was Balerion who burned Harrenhal when its lord refused to bend the knee…"
She turned to Aeron, eyes fierce and knowing.
"And now you."
Aeron said nothing at first. He simply stared out over the ruins, the smoke rising
Then, with a small, grim smile, he spoke:
"No, it's not about history, people just never learn."
****
Kingslanding – The Red Keep
The Red Keep’s throne room was heavy with tension, King Tommen Baratheon, still young and uncertain, sat small and fragile upon the Iron Throne a boy draped in a crown too heavy for his head.
Beside him, seated on the chair of the Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister loomed like a living statue, unmoving, every flick of his cold eyes measuring the room.
Below them stood Petyr Baelish, always smiling that sly, secretive smile.
And at the queen’s side Cersei, proud and burning with barely concealed rage.
The court was otherwise empty save for the echoes of their private conversation.
"Dragons," Tommen said at last, his voice soft, fearful. "How can we fight such things? Aeron Grim rides a monster even larger than the queen’s."
Cersei shifted at his side, her knuckles white where they gripped the armrest.
"You don't," she snapped, sharp enough to cut. "You kill the rider."
Tywin gave her a measured glance, silencing her with the weight of his authority before he addressed the boy-king.
"Wars are not won by brute strength alone," Tywin said calmly, "nor by fear. They are won with patience. With strategy. Daenerys Targaryen has dragons. Aeron Grim has magic. But they are still mortal."
Baelish stepped forward then, his voice light, almost amused.
"There is... a thought, my lords," he said smoothly, "one worth considering. Dragons may be terrifying, but even the greatest beast is nothing without its master. And sorcery..." he chuckled low "sorcery will die with its wielder."
Tywin’s eyes flickered toward him.
Baelish smiled wider and leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper meant only for the Lion of Casterly Rock.
"Invite him," Littlefinger whispered. "Offer peace. A parley, perhaps. A chance to speak terms. Once he is here, inside these walls..." he let the implication hang in the air, like a blade over a neck. "We remove him quietly. Cut out the rot before it spreads."
Tywin considered him for a long moment, face unreadable.
At length, he rose slowly to his feet, towering over Baelish.
"You will handle this," Tywin said, his voice cold iron. "Extend the invitation. Speak the right words. Bait the trap."
He smoothed his crimson cloak over his shoulders with finality.
"I am returning to Casterly Rock. I have wasted enough time here. I have matters to attend to."
Cersei frowned, clearly wanting to object but Tywin silenced her with a look sharper than any blade.
Baelish bowed low, the very picture of obedience.
"Of course, my lord. I will see to it personally."
Tommen shifted uncomfortably on his throne, staring at the grown men plotting as if they were discussing supper.
"Is there any hope for us to beat them?" he asked hesitantly.
Tywin gave him a thin smile if it could even be called that.
"Hope is not a strategy, Your Grace. It is a weakness."
With that, he turned and strode from the hall, leaving Cersei glaring after him, and Littlefinger already scheming in the shadow of the Iron Throne.
