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Divide and Conquer, Chapter 26: Above Gods and Men
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 17:19:44 +0000 UTCEleventh Moon, 110 AD (9 AC)
The Gardener
Hopeless. That is what the situation had become. Simply hopeless. Sometimes Mern couldn’t help but curse the Seven. Why had their Faith called them up into this pointless war? Why had they ever been so foolish as to think they stood a chance?
The Targaryens were advancing on all fronts. The North had been devastated for their own actions against the Targaryens and fallen into civil war, their allies rebelling in the Westerlands and Vale had long since been crushed, the Stormlands had been lost, and in the Reach itself the Targaryens had conquered as far as Old Oak, Coldmoat, Longtable, Ashford, and Nightsong.
Mern and his lords had provided aid to the Faith Militant in dispersing throughout the countryside, taking shelter and blending in with the smallfolk to wage war on the Targaryens and slow them down but even in this the Targaryens had twisted all of their efforts against them. They had made use of their slower advance to take the time to root out all of their assets and fully subjugate and pacify the regions they had conquered with a terrifying and almost sorcerous efficiency.
There was no more resistance to the Targaryens in the Northmarch or Grassy Vale or the Stormlands or all their other conquered lands. All their forces and rebels there had been crushed and the smallfolk had either been terrified and brutalized into submission or won over by the Targaryens’ false promises of peace and prosperity.
Oh, how he despised that Seven-damned house of incestuous, arrogant abominations. Yet hatred could not bring them down, armies had been destroyed, assassins had failed, and even magic had been to no avail. The Northmen and their skinchangers had come closest and they had ultimately failed to kill even a single Targaryen and gotten only the Dragon’s Wroth for their troubles.
Even worse, the skinchangers provoked the Targaryens to dedicate themselves to their own magical studies. Rumors had come of their sorcery, crimson fire pouring from their hands, tendrils of blood that could pull men to their demise, and some whispered that they could even control the blood of others and bend their bodies to their wills…
Not even the Faceless Men had been able or willing to stop them. Ever since they had first formed their coalition, all of their attempts to reach out to the guild and hire them had been rebuffed. Their constant attempts had finally seen a reply when they had been told that they could not hope to afford the exorbitant cost, a price in gold that would have drained the coffers of all their kingdoms and lords combined. When they had attempted to negotiate further or even become desperate enough to offer to pay the price, they had then been told that the price for the heads of the Targaryens would require sacrifices to their demon god, the lives of some of their own kin, including children and grandchildren, a price too high for them to even consider.
The Faceless Men had given many excuses for their reluctance, citing the ongoing war in Essos, the Braavosi booking all their services for said war, as well as the difficulty, noting that all eleven Targaryens would have to be removed for safety and that would increase the cost. As the Targaryens had proven in the Deluge of Blood and the Dragon’s Wroth, even their little ones were capable of enormous destruction and when any of their family was threatened, the retaliation would be devastating. Mern thought it all excuses for their own cowardice. They had simply been unwilling to take the risk.
Yet… had he been any different? Ever since the Deluge of Blood, since Crakehall, since his son Edmund had died, he hadn’t left Highgarden at all.
Oh, he had told himself it had been to coordinate the war effort from the capital, to rally the people and the soldiers behind his banner, give them a morale boost in a dark hour, a central figure that would inspire them to keep fighting. Ultimately however, all of that was just excuses.
Mern hadn’t acted when the Targaryens had invaded the Stormlands, flush with chaos after Argilac had died in the Deluge. He hadn’t acted to help his struggling grandson and his wife Argella control the kingdom that was supposed to be his ally, that was supposed to be part of his grandson’s realm one day. He hadn’t acted when the Stormlands had fallen and Argella and his grandson had been forced to flee to Highgarden. He hadn’t acted even when the Reach itself had been invaded and he had lost more than half of his own kingdom to the heathens.
He had done nothing. No one seemed to blame him, because they didn’t know. They saw only their stalwart strong king holding the line, desperately and bravely coordinating the war effort and sending reinforcements and aid but Mern knew the truth. He could have done more, he could have sallied forth himself to the battle, been right there on the forefront of it all defending his kingdom and helping his allies and kin.
But he hadn’t. Because he had been afraid.
That day at Crakehall had never left him. The flesh of men had cooked where they stood, the smell of pork well done. An acrid scent of ash and fire had filled the air, so thick he could taste it on his tongue. The smoke had been choking, and before his very eyes, his son had screamed as he had burned, the dragon’s breath missing Mern himself by a hair’s width. Close enough for him to feel the heat on his skin but not to scald or even blister.
Why had he been spared when so many had died? Why had he lived when Edmund had died and he had so utterly failed to live up to his memory? His son had fought and died bravely; he would be ashamed of the craven his father had become.
But there was nowhere left for Mern to run. The jaws were closing in on them. The end was nigh. The Targaryens had but to take Appleton, Cider Hall, Whitegrove, Starpike, and the Shield Islands, and they would be upon them from all directions, their armies at the gates of Highgarden itself.
Some had suggested retreating south to Oldtown. A few in his family had even raised the idea of fleeing by sea down the Mander and thence to Essos, but Mern had refused that in the end no matter how tempting it would be. Even in the depths of his cowardice, Mern still had his pride. He was an old man now, whether he made it to Essos or not, he would be dying soon. How would he ever be able to face his father and his son and all the others of his kin who had passed in the seven heavens if he simply gave up Highgarden without a fight?
No, he would make his last stand here. He had called all of his kin that remained, all of the armies and men still loyal to him and gathered a great host. Twenty thousand strong, with another five thousand Faith Militant reinforcing their ranks. A pittance compared to what he could have once risen but it was enough. It had to be.
But just because Mern and most of his house were marching to their deaths, it did not mean that House Gardener had to as well. His grandson and namesake, the man who should have succeeded him as Mern X, had wanted to join them on their march but Mern had refused him. He had told him that when if the battle went ill, he should immediately take Argella and their children and flee Highgarden by ship. That way at least, the lines of Garth Greenhand and Durran Godsgrief would endure, even if it was in exile or even obscurity in the war-torn streets of Essos.
When he had seen to all of his affairs and said his farewells to his grandson and great-grandchildren for what he suspected would be the last time, Mern led his army north. The march was solemn, quiet, with not even the rain disturbing them.
No one said it aloud, but all suspected that they were marching to their deaths. It was almost a miracle that Mern managed to keep the army together, as many had tried to mutiny or desert when they had realized his intentions, yet just before the end, the army almost seemed to rally behind him again. A grim and emboldened determination in their spirits.
If this was to be their end, then let it be a glorious end indeed. One that would be immortalized in songs and folk tales until the world itself was no more.
Finally, a dozen miles south of Appleton, they saw it. A vast open field of grassland, perfect cavalry terrain. And on the other side of the field stood the Targaryen army, their legions and levies arrayed in perfect formation beneath their black and red standards. It was a cloudy day, the winds were blowing gently to the southwest, and there were no dragons in sight.
Immediately Mern sprang to action, old instincts perfectly melded with new knowledge. The Targaryens weren’t here yet, but it was only a matter of time before they were. Before they came, before the dragons descended, they had a narrow window of opportunity to engage the Targaryen army. The Targaryens should be much more hesitant to unleash dragonfire on all of them if their army was entangled with theirs in a brutal and chaotic melee, if only to ensure they had the manpower to brutally occupy the Reach. Mern highly doubted they actually cared for the lives of their soldiers, why would they?
Experience and instincts told him this was the wrong decision but he knew it was their only option. They were marching to their deaths, anyway, might as well do it in the way that would do the most damage to the enemy.
Turning back around to his army, Mern called out to them. “Before us lies the Targaryen army! We have one chance! To engage them before the dragons arrive! If we do, it will reduce the effectiveness of their fire lest they destroy their own army! Onwards! For the Reach! For the Seven! Death!” he cried out before spurring his horse forward.
His cavalry and knights were quick to take up his cause. “Death!” they cried over and over as they passed by Mern, their lances ready as they thundered upon the field. Behind them, the rest of his army surged, breaking formation as they charged across the field.
The Targaryen army drew and loosed endless volleys of arrows upon them but their numbers were great enough that their charge could not be stopped. It would be only seconds before their cavalry was upon their front ranks.
That was when everything started to go wrong. Mern’s horse froze in its tracks, bucking and neighing in terror and he fell off and landed to sharp pain as a terrible sound filled his ears. It was a bright baneful scream, hot and shivering, like the sound of shrieking souls burning in agony. Like the gates of the seven hells themselves had opened and the damned were calling out to him. Five times did the sound ring, each time sounding a little different but no less terrifying.
And then the roars came. The very earth shook and trembled beneath his feet as he struggled to get up from where he had fallen, his long faithful horse long having since deserted him in fear. Mern had barely gotten back up to his knees when a terrible wall of greenish blue flames ignited before his eyes and all of his cavalry and knights were gone, their dying screams lasting only for a second.
The smell of well-done pork returned, the acrid scent of charred bones and smoky ash in the air. Chaos and panic took hold of what remained of his army then, as many threw down their weapons and tried to flee, a full-blown rout that would find no avail.
One, two, three, four, five dragons descended from the sky. Scarlet, crimson, bronze, silver, and a black so immense it beggared belief. Their flames dropped like punishment from the heavens, creating rings of flames to the south, the west, and the east. The gentle winds that had blown southwest were now an omen of their doom, as they fanned and blew the embers towards them and the hot dry grass ignited like kindling.
Soon the whole field turned a blazing orange, fire in every direction as far as the eye could see. The Targaryen army retreated further and further away, having not lost a single man while Mern’s army was being torn to shreds. Even as the field burned, the dragons continued to descend, columns of crimson, copper, greenish-blue, silver-gold, and black death drew lines in the ground across the whole field, destroying everything in their path.
Men screamed and panicked, pushing and pulling as they tried desperately to escape, but Mern felt nothing. He simply stood there, almost as if he was frozen in time. The smell of despair, the scent of ash and pork, the heat upon his skin, it was all distant to him. Dull, numb.
He was pushed to his knees by the panicking stampede and barely reacted, dazed and distant. When he finally raised himself up, he beheld the sky and saw a silver-gold beam of flames blazing towards him. Everyone around him desperately scattered and pushed against each other as they tried to escape to the sides, but Mern couldn’t even see the point.
Why do they run?
It was pointless. Couldn’t they see that? There was no hope in life, but in death at least, they might find some release and peace. Mern simply knelt there and accepted his fate, his arms cast open and wide.
‘Edmund, my son, I’ll see you again soon,’ he thought, tears streaming down from his eyes.
The silver reached him and he knew no more.
So passed Mern IX Gardener, son of Garse VII. Last King of the Reach.
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Aegon
Two weeks after the Field of Fire, as the battle in which Mern IX Gardener and his army had all died in a last stand was now being called, Aegon and his army finally reached Highgarden. The idyllic castle was perched on a broad verdant hill overlooking the Mander, all white with green gardens and a famous hedge maze between its middle and outer walls, and beyond the walls were great orchards growing fruits and fields of golden roses as far as the eye could see, like a scene straight out of a storybook. Which, in a way, Aegon supposed perhaps it was, even if he had never truly seen the world around him as something out of a book.
‘Rhaenys must love this place,’ he thought to himself as his eyes flicked left to where Rhaenys was flying atop Meraxes. Highgarden was everything they wanted Summerhall to be one day, at least when it came to beauty.
Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to destroy or damage the castle overly much. As they neared the castle, Aegon narrowed his eyes as he saw all the gates were open and rudimentary Targaryen banners were flying from the standards alongside those of House Tyrell and truce flags, with the Gardener and Durrandon banners nowhere to be seen.
In front on the main gate of the outer wall on the north side, a party stood with truce flags. Signaling to his family members to remain in the air, Aegon landed Balerion right in front of the gatehouse while the twins and his wives circled overhead in the skies atop their dragons.
“You’ve asked to treat with me. Speak. Who here holds authority?” he asked, not unkindly.
A man stepped forward, garbed in a green doublet with golden rose patterns and brown hair flecked with grey. He knelt reverently. “Hail Your Grace, Aegon of the House Targaryen! I am Harlan Tyrell, High Steward of the Reach and of Highgarden. I yield this castle to you and all that I ask in return is that the lives of myself all within are spared.”
Harlan Tyrell had done exactly this in that other world but Aegon was a little surprised he was doing it again given how radicalized the Reach had become. Perhaps no matter what the Tyrells were always going to be opportunistic upstarts.
“Granted. You and all the other denizens of Highgarden will be taken into custody while my army occupies the castle to ensure there are no traps or treachery but you will be treated with honor, and perhaps in time we might find a place for all of you in our realm.”
Harlan bowed again. “You humble us with your generosity Your Grace. I also offer you as prisoner Your Grace, Prince Mern of House Gardener, his wife Queen Argella Durrandon, and their three children, Princes Armund, and Merfryd, and Princess Delena.”
That surprised Aegon a little as he saw the hateful looks on Mern the would-be Tenth and Argella Durrandon and the frightened expressions on their young children’s faces, the oldest of whom could only be six.
“Interesting. If they were here in Highgarden, I thought for sure they would have fled south to Oldtown or taken the Mander to escape by sea once word came of the Field of Fire,” Aegon observed.
“They tried to, Your Grace. As instructed by the late King Mern. But I intercepted them and took them into custody with the aid of the castle guards as proof of our loyalty to you.”
‘So you are a traitor as well as an opportunist?’ Aegon supposed he couldn’t really blame Harlan for not sinking with the ship, especially not when it benefitted him, but he would never be trusting this man further than he could throw him.
Perhaps he could be thrown a bone like a dog, made a Keeper or Master of some insignificant towerhouse in the soon to be formed Crown Province of Highgarden and held up as an example of his mercy and generosity to those who submitted to him, while Highgarden and its rule would remain with House Targaryen and its chosen Archon. He would certainly not be choosing Harlan Tyrell as his archon or even keeping him on as steward of Highgarden in the long run.
Once his usefulness during the transition period expired, he and his family would be given their measly little reward and moved out of sight, and out of mind. Aegon considered that mercy given all the other fates he had had in mind for them had they not yielded.
As for the last Durrandon and her husband and children… well, Aegon did find it amusing that no matter what world it was, it seemed Argella Durrandon was always destined to be betrayed and humiliated by her castle guards. At least this time she hadn’t been forced to endure the ignominy of being stripped naked.
Argella and Delena would go to the Silent Sisters in Stoney Sept, he decided, as most of the other female royals and nobles they had captured were destined for. And Mern and their sons would go to the Wall with the Arryn boys and all the other male nobles and royals. The lines of Durran and Garth would end not with a glorious blaze but in a sad, lonely whimper.
He couldn’t help but take some satisfaction in that, especially for ending the Durrandons who had so corrupted and perverted the line of his brother Orys until they became oafish buffoons daring to think they were the rightful heirs of his legacy.
Not this time.
It wasn’t long before his marching army caught up and with the gates open and Tyrell having yielded, they fully occupied the castle and once it was cleared of traps and deemed safe from treachery, the Tyrells and other servants were slowly released from custody gradually so they could continue seeing to the castle’s affairs while Aegon and his family continued planning for the war. They took care to make sure their own staff was overseeing the local staff so no delayed treasonous plots could be made such as poisons in the food but Aegon personally didn’t think any of that was going to happen.
The Tyrells and their fellow Highgardeners were simply too tired of war and too opportunistic to turn on the victors. The rosy-eyed zealotry that had once been so common across the Reach had already started to decline but Aegon knew that they still had a tough campaign ahead of them.
Beyond Highgarden, the road to Oldtown would be long and difficult, the most pious and zealous lords and smallfolk, the most numbers of Faith Militant hiding in the villages and barns waiting to cause trouble. But one day soon, Oldtown itself would fall and that would be the final end of the Faith and the Reach’s resistance to his family’s rule.
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Twelfth Moon, 111 AD (10 AC)
Aerion
It had been four years and some moons since the war with the Faith and its coalition had started. Not that long when considered in the grand scheme of things but to Aerion it felt like a lifetime had passed. So much had happened since the fateful day his parents had left to conquer the Vale, things his innocent and childish thirteen-year-old self could never have imagined.
Aerion had become a man grown now, seven and ten. He had led armies and waged wars, survived assassination attempts, and learned magic the likes of which had not been seen in a century, his path as bloody as the scales of his dragon and the reputation he had earned in that time. The Crimson Prince and Demon of the Bloodstained Red Twins.
Four long years of war had passed. The North had suffered the Dragon’s Wroth for their actions against his family, and even now Brandon Snow struggled to reunify the shattered kingdom. He and his would have their comeuppance one day. The Vale, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and most of the Reach had all been fully consolidated, the populaces compliant at the very least if not truly loyal yet.
In the year since the Field of Fire and the capitulation of Highgarden, his family had worked to secure what remained of the Reach. Appleton, Cider Hall, Whitegrove, Starpike, Dunstonbury, Horn Hill, and the Shield Islands had all been conquered and secured before they had moved south, sweeping towards Brightwater Keep, Bandallon, Honeyholt, Uplands, Three Towers, and Blackcrown, while at sea their fleet aided by his mother Visenya had smashed the joint Hightower-Redwyne fleet at the Battle of the Redwyne Straits and conquered the Arbor.
All the while, they had been met with the fiercest resistance they had faced throughout the entire war, with almost every segment of the population dedicated to resisting them, slowing their progress. Every mile of ground they took was bought with the blood of the local people and their soldiers. Every noble with a status higher than the equivalent of a Keeper was removed and replaced with their loyalists and slowly but steadily the Faith Militant had been rooted out of the countryside with their glass candles and their Rangers and Eyes. What remained of the populace had been forced into begrudging obedience. The carrot and the stick both were quite useful in swaying the smallfolk and they put it to good use once the local will to resist had been stamped out.
And then there was Oldtown. They had intentionally avoided the city thus far, going around it to secure the Arbor, Sunhouse, Three Towers, and Blackcrown first so that they could encircle the city in every direction. What Faith Militant had remained had all fled to the city where the High Septon and House Hightower were making a final brave stand even as the city had begun to starve from an informal siege as they had encircled it on all directions and taken control of the hinterlands it needed to feed its vast population. No help came even from the sea where their fleet sailed in the Whispering Sound and blockaded the city ever since the Battle of the Redwyne Straits.
But now at last, the time had come for Oldtown. Their army was at the gates of the city, siege weapons and cavalry ready to storm and sack it at a moment’s notice as soon as the walls were breached. Their fleet patrolled mercilessly in the Whispering Sound beyond the empty harbor of the city. The Hightower rose from Battle Isle in the harbor, its beacon burning green and defiant. The Starry Sept nestled besides the Honeywine, full of faux piety and decadence, its rooms full to bursting as the glass candles showed them the desperate High Septon and the Most Devout praying for a salvation that would never come.
He, Valaena, and their parents stood on a stout hill overlooking it all. Their dragons were nearby, ready and eager. Even from here, Aerion could feel the current of despair that was just oozing from the city. And it seemed that he was not the only one.
His father had a vindictive look on his face as he beheld Oldtown. The rest of them bore similar expressions. After so long, the hypocritical Faith of the Seven which had rankled their family would finally be brought to heel.
“Fear. The city is rank with it.” His father’s words were almost gleeful.
He looked to the rest of them. “Let us ease their pain and welcome them into the fold of our empire,” he said with a smirk before turning to Balerion and climbing the long rope-ladder into his saddle.
They followed suit, mounting their own dragons before they all took off into the sky together. They climbed into the sky above Oldtown, each of them ascending above their assigned targets before his father sounded his dragon horn.
A triumphant trumpet sounded, like the sound of a roaring forge that lit a fire in his soul and stirred Aerion’s bond with Caraxes straight to life. Yet to everyone else, the horn sounded like hell itself had opened, a hot and baneful scream that rattled men to their bones. The city almost seemed to scream in despair and even their own army looked a little put off by the horn’s sounding.
The horn was immediately followed with a roar that thrummed through the skies and Aerion could have sworn he could see the Hightower wobble ever so slightly in the distance as the power of Balerion’s voice emanated across the land. Responding to Balerion’s call to arms, Caraxes, Meleys, Vhagar, and Meraxes answered in kind, their roars lesser but no less fearsome as the five dragons folded their wings effortlessly and dived down towards the city at terrifying speeds.
As they plummeted towards Oldtown, more horns sounded in rapid succession and Aerion noted each of them. His mother sounded hers first, followed by his aunt, and then Valaena, and finally, horn in hand, Aerion blew his own.
His vision immediately focused, his mind opened fully to Caraxes and they moved as one. The fire lit by the other horns within them burst to new heights like a bonfire, an intoxicating battlelust that made them both long for the destruction of their enemies cut by the calculating precision of instincts and strategy. Their two minds had been honed into a perfect whole.
He no longer knew where he ended and Caraxes began. They moved in unison, Caraxes’ wings spreading back out as they slowed their descent and entered into a furious assault on the walls of Oldtown, Aerion giving commands through words, spells, and thoughts all the while as he cast his magic, directing Caraxes’ flames at times and sending out his own at others as they strafed across the battlements of Oldtown’s outer walls.
They destroyed everything in their path, men, spears, swords, bows, and scorpions alike, evading bolts and tanking arrows with ease while they returned fire a hundredfold. Elsewhere in the corner of their eyes, they could see their kin doing the same with the rest of Oldtown’s defenses.
Before long, with the gates blasted open and incinerated with dragonfire and every inch of the battlements scoured of all defenders, a great cry rose from the army outside the walls and they charged into the city, with the knights and other cavalry forming the spearhead of the advance as they thundered through the broken gates and spread out into the city.
Caraxes climbed back into the sky, their task done for now, and Aerion coughed furiously. His lungs burned as Caraxes faded from his mind ever so slightly, the bond receding from an all-devouring flame to a gentle and warm candle in the back of his mind, always present but no longer dominating. Magic always had its price; the pain was temporary thankfully.
He would need to remember to be more sparing with the dragon horn in the future. Only seconds passed before he recovered, but such a distraction could have consequences in the future. Nonetheless he put the matter aside for the time being as he turned his attention back to the city below.
Their army continued to spread through the city and a sack soon inevitably began as the Faith Militant continued to resist on the streets, fighting fanatically door to door. There was little Aerion and Caraxes could there without risking the fires spreading across the entire city, destroying all its wealth and people and hurting their own men.
However, as he saw Vhagar and Meleys racing towards the Starry Sept besides the Honeywine, he knew his part in the battle wasn’t yet over. With a silent command, he urged Caraxes onward and the dragon dived as it made to catch up with the other dragons. Before long all three dragons bathed the Starry Sept in a myriad of crimson, copper, and greenish-blue. The arched stained-glass windows of the sept burst open from the heat as the fire spread within, the great dome sagged and warped before collapsing entirely, and the white-star-studded black marble walls that gave the sept its name blackened entirely as the fire scorched and weakened the stone until it crumbled beneath its own weight.
As the Starry Sept continued to burn, Aerion turned his eyes over to the harbor where Balerion and Meraxes were unleashing their full power and fury upon the Hightower on Battle Isle. The heat of their breath was so strong that the whole tower began glowing red-hot even in the bright light of day. The very stone in the tower began to melt, molten stone trickling down the sides like candlewax as the tallest tower in Westeros sagged and twisted into some lumpy mess like a mishappen candle.
By the time Balerion and Meraxes finally stopped, three hundred feet at least must have been melted off from the Hightower’s height and what remained of the base was not proper, all charred, warped, and smoking as liquid stone continued to pool at the base of the tower while the rest of Battle Isle and its inhabitants had already been incinerated.
‘I suppose Dragonsreach will now be the tallest tower on the continent,’ Aerion thought with some amusement and pleasure.
It was all by design of course. An example had to be made, something permanent that would stand the test of time and never be rebuilt or altered in any way. For the rest of eternity, Battle Isle and the melted twisted ruins of the Hightower would straddle the harbor of the largest city in Westeros, an ominous shadow that would continue to lay overhead on the people of Oldtown, a visible sight to all visitors and travelers who passed through Oldtown as it straddled one of the world’s busiest trade lanes.
Once a wonder of the world, a famed landmark that had been known as far as Asshai, the ruins of the Hightower would now be a symbol of House Targaryen’s power, a declaration of their rule.
With the fall of Oldtown, all of Westeros save the North and Dorne had now been broken to their will and whims. And upon the ashes of the old order, they’d build a better one.
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The fire was eventually put out in what remained of the Starry Sept as their army slowly took control of the entire city and began dedicating troops to firefighting. Battle Isle and the melted ruins of the Hightower continued to smoke and burn for a few days however as the last resistance of the Faith Militant within the city were finally snuffed out.
Oldtown’s people waited fearfully as Aerion and his family began assessing enemy casualties and consolidating the annexation of the city into their realm.
They had taken extreme care not to damage the Citadel during the entire siege and sack, and their efforts had paid off as the great libraries and its artifacts and relics were entirely intact. The Maesters were all in custody and Aerion’s family planned for all the treasures of Oldtown to be looted and taken back to Summerhall, with the Citadel’s relics and books being copied and added to the University of Summerhall’s collection while the Order of Maesters was abolished and its members would either be sent to the Wall or slowly absorbed into the University of Summerhall’s own academic structure.
From now on, ‘Maester’ would simply be a term for scholars who had achieved certain qualifications, as was the case in their realm, and whenever castles and lords hired the services of a Maester, they would now have to hire from Summerhall University.
As for the city’s former rulers, the entirety of House Hightower was dead it seemed, unless some survivors had fled the city before the Battle of the Redwyne Straits and the siege had begun. All of them had been present on Battle Isle when Balerion and Meraxes had descended upon the Hightower and they had all died in the flames. Other members of the family had died when the walls had been strafed, during the brutal sack of the city, or when Aerion and his mother and sister had destroyed the Starry Sept.
Most of the Faith of the Seven’s leadership were dead as well, with the High Septon and most of the Most Devout all having burned with the sept, though a few had managed to escape with varying degrees of injury. There was little risk of them becoming martyrs either as the rest of the faithful lands of Westeros had been slowly subjugated and rid of extremists and dissidents in the past four years, with the remaining populace slowly turning against the leadership of the Faith whom they were beginning to see responsible for their suffering.
Aerion’s father had taken advantage of the devastating blow to the Faith’s leadership and legitimacy to formally abolish the Faith of the Seven’s structure and institutions as they had been formally organized under the Starry Sept. The new headquarters of the Faith were to be the Great Sept in Summerhall and all other septs would be subordinate to it. A new Most Devout would be formed in Summerhall from the Rivermen clergy loyal to Aerion’s family and Exceptionalism would now become the formal doctrine of the entire Faith of the Seven in the entire world.
The Faith Militant and the position of High Septon were permanently abolished and the latter especially was to be portrayed as a perversion of the Faith’s original roots in Essos where they had answered to secular rulers like Hugor of the Hill and deviating from that had brought ruin to the faithful under the corrupt leadership of illegitimate High Septons. That this new submission to secular authority would mandate the Faith’s adherents to serve and obey House Targaryen was a happy coincidence.
Lands owned by the Faith were to be taxed equally to secular lands by the Crown and several prosperous motherhouses, septries, and more were formally annexed by the Crown so that their wealth could be repurposed for better uses. Furthermore, clergy and religious were all to be tried in royal courts. Overall, the Faith was made a lot more decentralized and weakened than it had previously been and what little central authority now existed was moved to Summerhall and preached adherence to Exceptionalism and obedience to House Targaryen.
Most of these laws and policies had long existed in the lands ruled by his family, organized under the Exceptionalist Sect of the Faith of the Seven. But the Exceptionalists were now longer a mere sect but the dominant orthodoxy of the Faith of the Seven and their ascension and the cementing of the new laws and policies had all been acknowledged by what remained of the previous Most Devout.
The most notable of these survivors was a man his family was quite familiar with. The zealous ideologue and former right-hand man of the High Septon, Septon Luceon of the First Canon. Many years ago, he had come to Summerhall and tried to convince his father to stop their family’s practices of incest, polygamy, sorcery, and religious tolerance.
When his father had refused, Septon Luceon had promised that their family would regret refusing the Faith’s demands and his father had promised him in turn that the Faith would regret it even more. Now after fourteen years, his father’s words had finally been proven true.
Luceon had refused to acknowledge their demands for the Most Devout survivors to resign and acknowledge the new order of the Faith and for that he would be denied even the mercy of the black and given instead the hangman’s noose. Before that however, he had been forced to watch as the Faith he so loved had been ‘perverted’ and twisted to serve abominations and heathens.
And as a final humiliation, he would now be made to watch as House Targaryen asserted its dominance over the Seven and their Faith once and for all, his tongue torn out so he could not interfere and ruin the ceremony with his poison.
The charred rubble and ruins of the Starry Sept would host one final ceremony before the site was demolished in its entirety, never to be rebuilt. His mother and father stood before a rudimentary altar where the other survivors of the Most Devout would officiate and recognize one last rite before they were sent to the Wall. The rest of the ruined site was filled with soldiers and officers and a few townspeople that had been allowed to spectate.
Septon Luceon meanwhile was held down by the Dragonguard in a place of ‘honor’ right beside the altar where he could have a nice perfect view of the whole ceremony. The guards forced his eyes and made him watch. He screamed in despair, all impotent and wordless with hate and pointless religious fervor.
The sight was simply amusing to Aerion; he’d have to check on Luceon again once the ceremony concluded. He was curious to see if there would still be hatred in his eyes or if it would have been replaced with a hollow emptiness and defeat. He didn’t know which would be more entertaining.
But while Luceon felt only hate and bigoted rage at the sight before them, Aerion was starstruck. Valaena walked down the aisle, arms locked with her mother, in a lovely red and white dress and bridal veil, a Targaryen maiden cloak about her shoulders. She had never looked more stunning and beautiful.
It had been his mother’s suggestion. Though his aunt insisted that they would have another ceremony for their siblings and their court to attend when they returned to Summerhall as part of the festivities celebrating the end of the war with the Faith, this was as equally valid a wedding ceremony.
What greater way to send a message about House Targaryen’s supremacy and just how far it was above all gods and men in this continent than to have the incestuous wedding ceremony of its heirs in the ruins of the Starry Sept?
He and Valaena loved the idea. They had waited years to wed and the war had delayed their wedding. Their sixteenth and then seventeenth namedays had come and gone and they had remained betrothed. No longer, finally, after years of waiting, they were to be bride and groom.
This was always meant to be.
For as long as he had ever known, Valaena had been at his side. They had come into this world together, born from two different wombs on the same day yet they and everyone else around them had always considered them twins. They had been inseparable throughout their childhood. They had gone to war together, fought together, bled together, survived assassination attempts, been punished, learned magic, and returned to war and it had all been together.
Now, they would take the next step in their journey through life together, finally consummate their love and grow old together. And Westeros would always remember the Red Twins as they should be, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.
“Who comes to be claimed in the eyes of the gods?” his father said aloud.
“Valaena of House Targaryen,” his aunt Rhaenys said.
“And who claims her?” his mother asked.
“I, Aerion of House Targaryen,” Aerion answered.
The ceremony continued from there, both of them waiting eagerly as the rites proceeded. Though the survivors of the Most Devout were spectating the ceremony and there were some Westerosi traditions involved to further tie them to the people they sought to rule, the actual ceremony was for the most part conducted according to Valyrian tradition and in Valyrian, with his parents and aunt officiating. Yet another spit in the face of the Starry Sept and the hypocritical Faith it had housed.
Finally, once all the vows had been spoken, the ceremony reached its climax. Aegon removed the cloak of their father and house from around Valaena’s shoulders and replaced it with his own cloak, one modelled after his personal coat of arms which added two red border lines to their family’s banner symbolizing himself and Valaena. Then he removed Valaena’s bridal veil, revealing her lovely blushing face to him in full and they both smiled.
Together they placed her maiden cloak and veil in a brazier of flames, symbolizing the end of their old lives and their rebirth as one whole together, wedding them by fire.
Then his mother handed him a dragonglass dagger, and with loving devotion, taking excruciating care not to hurt his beloved, Aerion slowly cut shallowly into Valaena’s lips, drawing enough blood for him to inscribe a glyph on her forehead. Wife.
She did the same in turn, inscribing the glyph ‘Husband’ upon his own forehead before they cut into their hands and joined them tightly, the blood dripping down into a cup of wine Aunt Rhaenys held beneath which mixed and mingled their blood and they each drank of it.
All the while, his parents spoke in Valyrian, sealing their marriage with a traditional prayer and rite from Old Valyria about two bloods becoming one, two hearts of ember glowing together forever.
Then, adding a little personal flair to the ceremony, Aerion willed the blood still bleeding from his hand clasped with Valaena to form gentle red tendrils that snaked around her arm and up her body gently, wrapping around her like red strings, as if it was fated to be.
Many looked on in awe at the demonstration of such fine and precise mastery over magic but Valaena only laughed before she did the same. Their blood had mingled through the wounds in their hands; they had partaken in that shared blood from the infused cup of wine and woven it with magic to bind and wrap around each other to display their claim before all. Then as if they had but one mind, they ignited the tendrils of blood together, making them both glow in a gentle red light as streams of warm and soothing bloodfire arced around their bodies, under perfect control, willed not to hurt, never to hurt, not each other, not the loves of their lives, the other halves of their souls.
They looked at each other, their purple eyes staring deep into each other and they spoke in unison.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” they both said.
“…and take you for my princess and wife,” Aerion finished.
“…and take you for my prince and husband,” Valaena said in turn before they kissed.
Their lips intertwined, their tongues danced, and they tasted blood, their own and that of the other, from the cuts they had made on each other’s lips, but they didn’t care. The room cheered and clapped, shouting their congratulations at seeing their prince and princess wed, their parents smiled and wished them well, their father declared them ‘one flame, one blood, one soul, now and forever,’ but they didn’t care about any of it.
The bloody glyphs on their foreheads smudged as they finally broke the kiss and rested their heads against each other, but they didn’t care about were getting a little dirty. They shut the world out entirely, lost in each other. This moment was just for them.
It was funny, he had thought to check on Luceon’s expression earlier for his own amusement but now he couldn’t care less. He and Valaena were above him and his gods. They always had been. And they always will be.
_____________________________________________
Author’s Note: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It took some pain to write it, especially as I had to rewrite the entire Mern interlude from scratch since I quit without saving and lost the original version (over 2000 words) :((((
The timeskip between the Field of Fire and Highgarden to the Fall of Oldtown might be quite huge lol but given wordcount I thought it was fitting and it lets us narratively wrap up this whole Faith/Reach War arc at long last! House Targaryen is ascendant, they answer to no one, they are above all gods and all men, and their conquest continues! Up next, the North!
Parts of the wedding ceremony were taken from HOTD (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWmpljGNEsk) which gives me such mixed feelings. I truly despise that show with all my heart but damn if it doesn’t have such good Valyrian lore which even I like yet I always have to deal with this itch in my soul telling me it’s tainted by association RIP. Still though I hope you liked the wedding ceremony, both the parts inspired by HOTD and the parts that I came up with on my own.
Comments
Tertius711
Thank you! I'm glad you loved it! We will be getting a Brandon Snow interlude again next chapter as well as Lord Commander Loren Lannister of the Night's Watch so some of the plans regarding the lands beyond the Wall and the Watch both by enemies and Aegon himself might start becoming clearer! I will say though that Aegon envisions the Wall as the perfect northern border for his Empire, whether that involves keeping the Night's Watch around or not. I'm glad you like my fic so much! (Though just a note but the girl in Ch15 is a courtier not a courtesan, a courtesan is a fancy prostitute lel)
Equinox
Loved this chapter. I had to ask since I don’t think you have mentioned it thus far but what are Aegon’s plans for beyond the wall? Will he leave the wildlings be or will the potential for more wargs and greenseers make him involved? Will the lands remain barren and empty and largely just ignored for his future empire or will certain areas such as hardhome become populated and protected and more importantly what will happen to the nights watch if anything? Its gained a lot of former royals and nobles which could become a relatively upcoming problem if they gather together and perhaps plan a rebellion of sorts, title of oathbreaker be damned. What does Aegon think of the watch in general? Does he see it as just an order to exile criminals or as something which needs to be upheld thereby preventing any internal collapse as seen in ASOIAF. This is by far my favourite fic I’ve ever read fyi!! Specifically love the POV’s from other characters especially little ones like the courtesan and the builder from chapter 15. Great work!!
Tertius711
You're welcome! Wdyt of the chapter? Based on the calculations, Aegon is 36 , Visenya is 38, and Rhaenys is 35.
fireball77
Thanks for the chapter! How old are Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys rn?
Tertius711
Glad you liked the chapter! What did you like about it? These are all canonical houses from Lys like the Rogares! https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Category:Houses_from_Lys https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Magister https://iron-throne-roleplay.fandom.com/wiki/Noble_Families_of_Lys They are all Valyrians indeed!
Tertius711
Siege weapons cavalry is a typo lol. Let me fix that. The other one isn't though. "religious" can be used as a noun and refers to those who take monastic vows. Thx for reading! Wdyt of the chapter?
Tertius711
Probably went back to Dorne and are now cowering there lol. They'll have their punishments in due time, fret not.
Peter
Great chapter! I'm looking at the maps of the new wards and I don't recognize the houses named there other than Celtigar and Qorherys. Did you make them up or are these canonical minor houses raised like House Scales? Either way I assume these new House are important people loyal to the House of the Dragon likely successful and useful soldiers or administrators. They all appear to be Valyrians at least!
Amerdism
But now at last, the time had come for Oldtown. Their army was at the gates of the city, siege weapons cavalry ready to storm and sack it at a moment’s notice as soon as the walls were breached. Is 'Siege weapons cavalry' a typo? Furthermore, clergy and religious were all to be tried in royal courts. this to
ARV4 IV
Whatever happend to the Dornish houses that helped in the faith war?
Tertius711
The Faceless Men really did not want to mess with the Targaryens lol. And funnily enough them asking for live sacrifices as payments is canon to the books.
AJ
It’s hilarious that the faceless men were like you can’t afford the price for the contract and kept upping the price.
Tertius711
Ah welp lol. Knew I was forgetting smth. Yeah lemme add them in now.
kay4t123
Will you post maps of conquered Reach and Stormlands? Thanks for the chapter. Excellent end for Reach and Stormlands.
Tertius711
Glad to help make your day better! Wdyt of the chapter?
Odysseus
Had an absolutely shite day, this was just what i needed cheers lad
