Dragonlord Chapter 165: Dragon vs Stag P1

The mists clung low upon the woods lining the side of the goat pass that morning, rolling like pale smoke through the tall oaks and whispering pines. Dawn had scarcely broken when Aegon Targaryen drew his steed to a halt upon the rise that overlooked Felwood. The fortress crouched in the clearing below, its squat towers black against the paling sky, its stone walls wet with dew.

Thin banners of House Fell fluttered from the battlements—green axes upon white fields.

Aegon’s face was stern as he studied the keep. He wore no crown, only a plain black helm with the visor raised, his dark hair loose around his face, his violet eyes catching the first lances of sunlight. His silver hair was swept back, and its tips could be seen at the bottom of his helm.

Beside him, Prince Oberyn Martell leaned easily in his saddle, a smile playing upon his lips. The Dornishman had left Sunspear in the flower of his strength and rode now in light mail, a long spear gleaming in his grip. His army of Dornish levies stretched behind them, a column of horse archers, spearmen, and light-footed swordsmen hardened by raids and border wars. Mixed among them were Stormlander turncloaks who had bent the knee to Aegon’s cause.

“Felwood is no Storm’s End,” Oberyn said, breaking the silence. “Its lord is brave enough, but the garrison looks thin. Perhaps your sword will not even need to taste blood this day.”

Aegon’s gaze lingered on the castle.

“Lord Fell made his choice when he swore his oaths to the Usurper. We will give him battle—and let the realm see how swiftly his walls crumble. Besides, if we make the offer, we’ll only give Lord Fell time to prepare.”

Oberyn smiled and nodded with approval.

The order went down the line. Horns sounded low and steady, and the Dornishmen began to move. Siege ladders, rough-hewn from the very forests they marched through, were dragged forward by sweating men. Oxen pulled carts of stones and timbers, while the smallfolk from the nearby village carried picks and shovels to work on the promise of food and coin.

The men of House Fell had seen the host assemble, and by midmorning, the gates of the castle were shut tight. Archers lined the walls, their quivers full of arrows. Drums beat within as the defenders prepared for the coming assault.

Aegon raised his hand, and silence rippled through his army.

“We begin,” he said.

His voice carried, clear and cold, across the ranks, spelling the beginning of the siege.

The first assault came swiftly. Dornish spearmen surged through the mist, shields locked above their heads as arrows rained down. Some fell, screaming, but others pressed on, jamming ladders against the walls. The defenders hacked at them with poleaxes, thrusting down, hurling stones. Ladders toppled, men broke upon the ground, and still the assault went on.

Aegon rode along the rear, his sword still sheathed, his eyes cold and calculating. He did not hurl himself into the fray at once, for a commander must see the shape of the field. He noted where the walls were weakest, where the archers faltered, where the gates shook with the blows of a ram.

Oberyn was not so patient. With a cry, he spurred his horse forward, his spear levelled.

“To victory!” he shouted, and his horsemen wheeled to the flanks, loosing arrows at the ramparts, darting in and out like wasps.

His laughter rang above the din, wild and exultant, as if war itself were a lover to be embraced. He launched himself from his horse and joined the men's effort to cross over the wall using ladders.

At the southern wall, Aegon dismounted, drawing his sword.

“With me!” he called, and the men surged at his back—knights sworn to his banner, clad in dark mail and steel helms glinting under the light.

The ram crashed again at the gate. Wood splintered. From above, the defenders poured boiling oil, shrieking as the liquid fire devoured flesh. Men screamed, writhed, and fell.

Still, Aegon pressed forward, a tower of calm amid chaos.

The gate burst at last under their relentless assault. With a roar, Aegon led the charge.

Inside the gatehouse, the melee was savage. Fell men swung axes, hurling themselves in defence of their lord’s hall. Aegon met them head-on, his sword a storm in his hands. The first man who barred his path was cleaved from collarbone to the hip, his scream drowned in the clash of steel. Another lunged with a spear; Aegon turned the thrust aside, his comeback swift and fatal, cutting the man’s neck.

“Forward!” he bellowed, his voice akin to the roar of a dragon. “No quarter to traitors!”

Oberyn appeared at his side, spear darting like a serpent’s tongue, finding purchase in a soldier’s eye. Together they carved a path, the Dornish prince’s speed matched by Aegon’s brutal strength. Blood slicked the floor, the clash of steel echoed, the cries of dying men rose high.

Through the gate, they forced their way until at last they stood in the castle yard. The defenders rallied desperately, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. The gates stood wide open now, and Dornishmen poured through in a flood.

Lord Fell himself strode forth, armoured in green plate, stag antlers crowning his helm. He carried a longsword, two-handed, his voice hoarse with fury.

“Come then, you mad dragon! Come taste your death!”

A hush seemed to fall, as though battle itself paused to watch.

Aegon stepped forward.

“So be it.” Aegon yelled with his sword raised before he charged in.

They met with a crash of steel that rang through the yard. Fell was strong, his blade heavy, and twice he drove Aegon back with sheer force.

But Aegon’s sword was quicker, sharper, hungrier.

Aegon’s blood sang with the rhythm of combat, his breath steady, his eyes cold. On the third clash, he turned Fell’s blade aside and drove his own point beneath the lord’s belly. The green stag reeled, blood gushing to the floor, and fell with a groan.

The sight broke his men. Some threw down their arms; others fought on, only to be cut down by Aegon’s trusted knights.  

By midday, Felwood was taken.

******

Smoke curled from the village beyond as Dornish levies spread through the countryside. They plundered food, seized livestock, and put torch to any who resisted. Women wailed, children fled, and the old and infirm were dragged screaming from hovels. War showed its cruellest face, as it always did when armies descended upon the helpless.

Aegon rode through the fields, his heart shut to the depravity before his eyes. His sword was still stained with the blood of his enemies.

He did not halt the foraging.

Supplies were needed, men must be fed, and the villages nearby were unfortunately sworn to the Fells. Mercy had no place in conquest. Besides, pillaging was necessary if they were to draw Ser Barristan Selmy and Renly Baratheon out of Storm’s End to battle in an open field.

Oberyn rejoined him at the crossroads, his face flushed with battle’s afterglow.

“Felwood is ours,” he said, gesturing at the smouldering keep. “Your banner flies above its tower. Let the realm take note—the dragon comes not as supplicant, but as conqueror.”

Aegon gave a curt nod.

“Bronzegate will be next,” Aegon said. “The Bucklers are strong, but no stronger than Fell. We break them swiftly, and the Stormlands will tremble.”

“You assume too much, nephew. The Stormlands will truly tremble when we have Renly Baratheon in chains or his head on a spike. The Fells and Bucklers are nothing but a passing hurdle on our road to victory.” Oberyn said.

“You’re right, of course.” Aegon said, letting out a breath he had been holding.

Oberyn’s smile widened.

“Good. I have no love for Stormlanders. And war… war is the only mistress who never tires.” Oberyn said.

Aegon’s gaze lingered on the horizon, where the road wound northward towards Bronzegate. His hand tightened on his sword’s hilt. Each victory brought him closer to the throne of his father. He had taken the Marches with the brave men of his mother’s people, and Felwood fell with fire and steel.

Bronzegate would fall next.

And after that—Storm’s End itself. He swore this on the blood of his ancestors.

They marched towards Bronzegate at a slow pace. He made sure the men under his command created enough ruckus to draw the attention of Storm’s End. They spared no village on their march, even though they had an abundance of supplies. His uncle ordered the pillaging to continue, and though loath he was to use such dishonourable tactics, Aegon went with it for the sake of his goal.

The last village before they took the road to Bronzegate came upon them when they rode over a hill. It was a cluster of timber huts around a mossy sept. Chickens scattered as Dornish riders swept in, spears flashing. Doors were kicked in, grain stores broken open. Screams echoed as smallfolk fled, clutching babes, dragging carts, their meagre lives upended in a storm of foreign voices and steel.

Fires crackled soon after, thatch roofs leaping into flame. The sept’s wooden starburst melted into ash. Livestock were driven off in droves, herded toward Felwood’s barns to support their war effort.

Aegon rode beside Jon Connington, watching all of this happen with a hardened heart. He never imagined bringing such destruction and wroth to the lives of the smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms. Though he ordered the pillaging, he also ensured no one was killed.

After all, the whole point of pillaging was to force the smallfolk to seek refuge in the lands controlled by Storm’s End.

For days, the work went on. Dornishmen delighted in the pillage, their laughter ringing across the hills as villages burned. Some took spoils, others women, though Aegon had ordered restraint—still, restraint in war is but a word, easily broken once fire takes hold.

Each morning saw another column of refugees trudging eastward, their faces hollow, stomachs empty, their carts piled high with what little they could save, which was not much. The roads clogged with them, winding like a grand procession toward Storm’s End.

The castle of Renly Baratheon loomed far away, a beacon of safety, but its gates grew ever more crowded with each passing day.

******

Word carried fast. By the second week, Storm’s End was bursting with hungry mouths. Farmers from the north streamed in when their fields were burnt, fisherfolk from the coasts, spurred by Euron’s raids along the shores for slaves, all poured in, clamouring for shelter.

Renly, ever the benevolent lord, opened his gates to his people despite Ser Cortnay Penrose advising him otherwise.

It didn’t take long for Ser Cortnay’s caution to be proven true.

Renly’s stewards struggled to house them. Grain stores dwindled, sheep pens emptied, wells ran dry. The castle walls echoed with the cries of babes, the moans of the sick, and the angry shouts of men demanding bread.

Renly himself, in his great hall, strove to calm them, promising food, promising safety. He was the gallant lord, the smiling man who would not turn away the helpless.

But behind his smile lay worry, for each promise cost him dearly.

“The Dornish cretins bleed us without raising a sword,” he muttered to Ser Barristan, admitting defeat. “Every loaf of bread I give feeds his war and weakens my position.”

“The enemy has sought dishonourable means to force us to act, Lord Renly.” Barristan said grimly.

“What will you have us do, Ser Barristan?” Renly asked tiredly, his youthful face marred by lines as he struggled to bear the weight of responsibilities that fell on his shoulders.

For once, he understood the difficulties his brother faced when the Reach invaded their lands during the Rebellion. He could no longer blame Stannis for being a dour man, as he faced the same dilemma Stannis faced during the rebellion.

He had the choice to hold Storm’s End bitterly to the end or sue for peace.

To hold Storm’s End would mean starving to death. Renly knew his own limitations, and he recognised he was not one to possess the iron will of Stannis or the high optimism of Robert. The latter option was out of question as he’d be betraying everything Robert bled for, and he’d be essentially betraying Stannis.  

“We must seek out battle, my lord.” Ser Barristan said grimly. “We’ll be less provisioned, and our men will be forced to chase after the Dornish host. However, the longer we wait, the more tenuous our position becomes. To the east, the Golden Company marshals their forces under Harry Strickland, and to the north, the Dornish host gathers under Prince Oberyn and Aegon. We must destroy one of those armies.”

Renly closed his eyes, feeling helpless and at the same time scared. He mulled the suggestion in his mind and came to realise Ser Barristan spoke soundly. To stay behind the walls of Storm’s End was sure to invite defeat through starvation and rebelling smallfolk.

After all, he was not just the lord of Storm’s End. He was also the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

It was time he fulfilled his duties by protecting his lands from Dornish invaders with the edge of his sword.

“Ser Barristan speaks true. We cannot wait for our enemies to position themselves and trap us in between. We must destroy them.” Renly decided.

“But who will we attack, my lord?” Ser Cortnay asked grimly.

Renly looked at Ser Barristan in askance, hoping for an answer from the veteran of many wars.

“We cannot allow Prince Oberyn to take Bronzegate. If they take that castle, they’ll cut us off from the capital by closing the Wendwater Bridge.  We’ll then have no other option but to ask for more reinforcements from King Stannis.” Ser Barristan said, pressing his finger against the map where the bridge lay leading to the Kingswood.

“Wouldn’t this give a chance for the Golden Company to strike at Storm’s End. If Lord Renly rides out in strength to battle Prince Oberyn’s host, Storm’s End will be defenceless.” Ser Cortnay said worriedly.

“That is true. The moment we ride out, the Golden Company might move in to siege the castle, or they might march for Bronzegate and try to take us by surprise from our back.” Ser Barristan mused aloud with a frown.

“Storm’s End will not fall so easily so long as the gates remain closed with firm hearts guarding the walls.” Renly said with confidence.

“But we cannot take that chance, Lord Renly. Not all men have the iron will of your brother to hold the castle against all odds with very few resources.” Ser Barristan said.

“Then what should we do, Ser?” Renly asked earnestly.

“We must send ravens to Bronzegate and Haystack Hall. They must be prepared to face the Dornish army while promising to come to Bronzegate’s aid to crush the enemy outside the castle walls.” Ser Barristan said.

Renly was about to ask what to do with Storm’s End when Ser Barristan continued to lay out his plan, and the more the knight talked, Renly felt a ray of hope piercing the dark cloud of misfortune that had befell him in the recent months.

When the dawn broke the next day, the army under Ser Barristan and Renly’s own levies started to ride out from the castle with their banners fluttering in the wind for all to see. They rode northward towards Bronzegate, and every soul in Storm’s End knew their lord sought battle with the Dornish army.

******

Oberyn returned from another raid, his horse lathered with sweat. He flung himself down in front of Aegon, laughing as he recounted the burning of mills, the scattering of peasants, the look on their faces as fire consumed their homes. He sent them all scurrying eastward towards Storm’s End.

“Renly will find his great hall turned into a granary before long,” Oberyn jested,  joining his nephew outside the tent with a map laid out before him on a table, “though his sheep bleat and bleat for food.”

Aegon leaned over the war table, where wooden markers stood for Storm’s End, Bronzegate, and a dozen other markers on the major towns, villages and roads.

“Good,” he said. “Each hungry mouth that enters Storm’s End is another dagger pointed at Renly’s heart. He cannot march without leaving them to starve. He cannot feed them without emptying his stores. We need only wait, and he will be forced to come out.”

Oberyn studied him, a glimmer of approval mingled with something darker.

“You speak like a prince who has known war all his life. Yet you are still young. Tell me, Aegon, do you ever flinch at what we do?”

Aegon’s violet gaze did not waver as he stared into the map, seeing only his goal and not the hungry gazes of thousands whose lives he had callously upended for the sake of his rightful throne.

“The realm is not won by softness. My forefather Aegon the Conqueror burned Harrenhal to the ground, and the Riverlords bent the knee. What I do now is no different. A king must be feared, if he cannot yet be loved.” Aegon said without an ounce of regret.

The Dornish prince chuckled.

“Spoken like a dragon.” Oberyn nodded in approval.

“Indeed.” Jon Connington joined them with a small piece of parchment in his hand. “And the fruits of our labour have arrived. The Spider has sent word about Storm’s End. Renly and Ser Barristan have chosen to ride out northward. They’ve taken the Kingsroad and are riding towards Bronzegate as we speak.”

“The stag has taken the bait,” Aegon said, a smile breaking across his youthful face. “It’s now time for us to set the stage for Renly’s downfall.”

“Renly won’t be alone. Barristan Selmy will guard the stag like a loyal dog.” Jon Connington said with some heat.

“Then we kill the dog and his master on the battlefield.” said Aegon. “We’ll remind the turncloak knight of the betrayal of his oaths to my family before justice is delivered.”

“Mayhaps, it’d be better to capture Ser Barristan. He’ll be a valuable asset if we can make him switch his loyalties.” Jon Connington suggested while eyeing Aegon warily.

“Are you mad?” Oberyn asked with a scoff.

“Barristan fought side by side with Rhaegar at the Battle of Trident.” Jon said in defence of the knight.

“Yes, and he swore vows to Robert Baratheon before the blood from my sister’s and her daughter’s corpses dried. The man is a turncloak, and he deserves nothing but the blessing of our steel.” Oberyn said fiercely.

“My uncle speaks right. Even now, after knowing my cause to be just, Barristan Selmy has refused to side with me. I will not show any mercy to such a turncolak, Jon.” Aegon said firmly, and that was the end of the discussion.

The only thing left for them to talk about was to plan their trap and choose the field of battle.