The Red Dragon
patreon
34. Marching West
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 17:54:47 +0000 UTCThe Riverlands
The day was fair, the sun shining high above them, with white clouds drifting lazily across a blue sky. Their march westward to Seagard was unhurried, almost leisurely. From time to time, Daeron let himself enjoy the scenery—lakes shimmering in the sunlight, rolling green hills, and open fields. House Malister and House Frey had suffered far less than other Riverlords. Many of those had seen their harvests burned or stolen, and Daeron doubted they had enough grain to fill even their own bellies and that of their smallfolk this winter. This would not be a short, forgiving winter. No, it would be long, dark, and bitterly cold. A Long Night—an apt name, he supposed.
Daeron, along with the lords sworn to him from the North and the Vale, and leaders among the Freefolk, had departed the Twins and spread across the Riverlands, marching in different directions. Convincing half of the Vale lords had been easy—they believed the task Daeron asked of them was honorable and just. The other half required promises: favors from Riverlords, land, or marriages for their houses in return for aid in this time of need.
Unlike previous wars, where Northern lords resented being dragged into southern affairs, this time not a single complaint was raised. Daeron assumed it was because the Riverlands had bled alongside the North, stood beside them, and accepted a Stark—one of their own—as king. Perhaps that had changed their minds. Whatever the reason, it meant less resistance, less work for him. For that, he thanked the magic that still lingered in the world.
The Freefolk leaders had also changed. They looked nothing like they did when they first crossed the Wall to fight alongside him against the Boltons. Now, clad in steel armor and bearing real weapons, they looked cleaner and more noble than some lords. Warm baths had done them wonders, and steel looted from the dead had been shared generously. Not just the leaders—every Freefolk man and woman marching with them now bore steel. When Daeron asked whether they would still follow him, they gave him no words, only savage grins. He couldn’t read their minds any more than he could the lords, but he knew they followed him for two reasons: either curiosity and the thrill of adventure, or a craving for blood and war. Both kinds had their own selfish reason to head further south. There were, of course, exceptions who are truly loyal to him—one big and ginger one being Tormund.
So Daeron’s host now included Ser Arthur Dayne, Master Glover, Lady Maege Mormont, a minor Vale lord and his heir, Northern infantry and cavalry, and the bulk of the Freefolk—most of their clans, save one, had chosen to ride with him.
A thundering roar echoed from above.
Ah yes—Caraxes was with them too.
Daeron turned to his right, where Master Glover rode beside his master-at-arms. Feeling Daeron’s gaze, Glover dismissed his men and looked to him attentively.
“Forgive the interruption, Master Glover,” Daeron said. “But I wanted to ask your thoughts on how best to take Seagard—without causing the death of its lord and heir, who are held captive inside by our enemies.”
“You need not apologize, Your Grace,” Glover replied respectfully. “As Lady Mormont and I told you before, Seagard is like the Twins—an impregnable stronghold. It was built with defense against the Ironborn in mind, and every generation has improved upon its walls. Our options are few. We either negotiate with the Frey men inside, or you use Caraxes and hope the lord and his heir survive the fire and any opposing sword.”
Daeron recalled their earlier conversations. Both Glover and Mormont had briefly stayed at Seagard and inspected its defenses. They concluded the keep was near impossible to breach, short of a siege by land and sea. If not for Lord Malister and his heir, Patrek, Daeron would’ve ordered the gates blasted open by dragonfire. But the cost was too high—not just in lives, but in legacy.
When he returned from the last battle where fire had rained down, his advisors had spoken to him—at length—about the repercussions. And after some deep thought, Daeron had agreed with them.
The world had changed since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. He couldn’t simply wield power through fire and blood. Well, he could, but that road led only to fear, isolation, and the name tyrant. He had no wish to become Maegor reborn. Making further allies would not be easy due to that. And while he might not need allies to take the Iron Throne, he would certainly need every soul once the Long Night truly came.
With that future in mind, Daeron now sought to craft a different image—honorable, just, like his uncle, Eddard Stark.
“We’ll try negotiation first,” Daeron said, after a moment. “From what I’ve gathered, there are no actual Freys at Seagard—just men loyal to a house that is no more. Perhaps the sight of Caraxes will be enough to make them rethink their position.”
The lords around him nodded in agreement.
“Let us pray,” the Vale lord murmured quietly, “that those late Lord Weasel’s men surrender. For the fate of old lineage like the Malister hangs in the balance.”
Daeron nodded solemnly, then spurred his horse forward. The others followed, thundering toward Seagard.
Nine days later, a few leagues away from Seagard
It took them eight days to reach Seagard. After sending an envoy requesting a meeting under the peace banner, Daeron received a reply from the Frey men a day later—meaning today. They agreed to meet a few leagues from Seagard.
“There, Your Grace. They’ve arrived,” Ser Arthur’s voice pulled Daeron from his thoughts. He followed Arthur’s gaze and, sure enough, saw men approaching, flying both the rainbow-colored banner and the Frey banner. Before long, the riders reached them. Clad in full armor and mounted on well-bred horses, they looked every bit the part of knights. Either House Frey had too much gold and no hesitation in spending it on their men, or they had been stealing—from House Malister’s coffers or the smallfolk of Seagard.
“Men of House Frey, you stand in the presence of Daeron Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of—” Ser Arthur announced all of Daeron’s titles with steel in his voice.
Daeron focused on the five men before him. Though they tried to compose themselves, he noticed the slight tremble in their limbs and the nervous shivers that had little to do with the cold wind. They were afraid.
“I’m Ser Stevron, my… Your Grace,” stammered the man who appeared to lead them, bowing awkwardly atop his horse. They didn’t even know proper courtly manners. Just men-at-arms pretending at nobility.
“Ser Stevron,” Daeron said coolly, “you are holding a noble lord and his heir captive without a royal command. You do realize that is a crime, don’t you?”
Ser Stevron’s face paled as he looked up, wide-eyed.
“It was a command from our liege lord, my… Your Grace. We could not disobey Lord Frey’s order. We broke no law—just followed commands,” he replied hastily, panic lacing his words.
“A liege lord who died nearly half a moon ago,” Glover said sharply. “And you knew that. A letter bearing my seal was sent to every keep in the Riverlands. You could have released Lord Malister and his heir the moment you received it. But you didn’t. Because that would’ve meant relinquishing the power you held. Am I right, Ser Stevron?” Master Glover’s voice is low and dangerous.
“No, my lord. That’s not true. I… I was afraid,” Ser Stevron admitted. “If I released Lord Malister, his first order might’ve been to behead me, or hunt down my men and bring me before him to be executed. That’s why I didn’t release him, Your Grace. But I swear, we treated them according to their station. With respect. I swear it.”
He glanced at his companions, who nodded solemnly, backing his claim.
A man of little wit, Daeron thought. More afraid of dying than doing what was right. But not cruel. Just scared.
“If that’s the case,” Daeron said evenly, “then drop your weapons and surrender. You have my word that neither you nor your men will be hunted or punished by Lord Malister—or, by extension, House Malister. Your fate will be decided after the lord and his heir are released by mr personally.”
Without hesitation, the Frey men dropped their weapons.
And just then, Caraxes swooped down from the skies with a thunderous roar, shaking the earth and the Frey men’s hearts alike. Judging by the terror and recognition on their faces, they knew what awaited them if they resisted.
