Chapter 8

The banners of war are once again raised, this time on land. Thousands of men bearing the banner of House Targaryen marched in a rectangular formation through the Old Gate of King's Landing. They followed the kingsroad, heading northward to Harrenhal. All in all, they numbered two thousand men strong, but half of those were poorly armed levies hastily gathered from Flea Bottom. Willam was among those who marched, though he was riding a horse, accompanying the prince himself at the front of the column. As the last of the men passed through the city walls, a dragon flew overhead—Tessarion, her shimmering blue scales visible to all.

Now, Willam wore slightly more armor. The prince had given it to him, saying it would be an embarrassment for him to be escorted by men wearing only leather armor. So now, plate armor adorned his body, though the tabard bore no banner, only pure white cloth, along with a bastard sword dangling at his side.

It was time to end the war by clearing the remaining 'traitors' of the crown and putting them in their places, either in a ditch or in a damp cell.

***

When the army arrived at Harrenhal, they found the place abandoned. Only the kin of House Strong were left, who were quickly executed by Prince Aemond for treason against the crown. The two thousand men set up camp around and within Harrenhal, with the prince temporarily holding council at the Kingspyre Tower. There, discussions of the future march began.

"We should not waste any more time. Send me back," said Daeron, calmly watching over a map spread on a table. "We do not know where Daemon is. If he flies to King's Landing, no one but the scorpions will challenge him. Our mother and sister could be in danger."

"If he isn't here, then where is he?" Aemond murmured, turning his remaining eye to the map to look for likely spots. "Maidenpool? The Vale?"

"It does not matter," Daeron refuted. "The important thing is that King's Landing is vulnerable right now. As far as we know, he is heading there at this very moment. You go ahead and lay siege to Maidenpool if you wish, but let me fly back to secure our family. Once you confirm his location, send a raven, and I will fly back to you."

"Fine," Aemond hummed. "Gather sellswords for possible reinforcements. Once you've done so, send them here, to Harrenhal."

"I will." Daeron nodded. "Then I'll be going."

Daeron left the room, leaving only Aemond, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Willis Fell, another Kingsguard, Ser Rickard Thorne, and Willam himself, standing furthest from everyone else.

"We should march at once, my prince," said Ser Willis. "We could catch Maidenpool off guard if we are quick enough."

"Our target is not Maidenpool, Ser Willis," Aemond shook his head. "It's Daemon Targaryen. If he is dead, their cause will be gone. No dragons shall challenge us anymore."

"But we do not know where he is, my prince," Ser Rickard repeated. "Our best bet is to continue our plan. Take control of the Crownlands and march to the Vale. The Lannister host will deal with the Riverlands and the North."

"If I may, my lords," Willam suddenly interrupted. Aemond turned to him, curious. He was not the type to strategize, at least, as far as he knew.

"What is it?" Aemond asked.

"We should join the Lannister host instead, combining our forces," Willam stated. "The Crownlands are static on Rook's Rest, having lost their lords from the Gullet, and if we take over the rest of the Riverlands, Maidenpool will naturally surrender, as they will be isolated from their allies. The Lannister host alone might not be enough if the Tully host is bolstered by the Northmen."

"Where is the Lannister host now?" Aemond turned to Ser Willis Fell.

The knight took one of the figurines from a box and placed it on the map. "Last communication placed them here, my prince, at Acorn Hall."

"How long ago was that?"

"Two weeks ago."

Aemond frowned. "They should be here by now. But where are they?"

Ser Willis was silent.

"Then we march towards them," Aemond said. "Ser Rickard, take seven hundred men with you, along with Willam, and march to Maidenpool."

"My prince?" Ser Rickard was surprised. "I believe it is unwise to split the army. We are already thin in numbers; we cannot lay siege with so few. Not to mention, there is a threat of the Clawmen Host in Rook's Rest. Lord Walys is possibly still there, waiting for an opportunity to attack."

"You bore a few men, so you will be faster than them. And didn't I say you will go with Willam?"

Ser Rickard turned to the man in question. "He cannot hold a town alone."

"I do not ask you to hold it," Aemond said. "They are traitors to the crown, so treat them as such. If Daemon is there—"

Willam nodded. "I will do what I can, my prince."

"Good," Aemond hummed. "If that is the case, you will send a raven to King's Landing and tell Daeron that we no longer have to worry about the sky."

***

At dawn, the Targaryen host split into two armies. One thousand three hundred men marched west, led by Prince Aemond Targaryen, while seven hundred men followed Ser Rickard Thorne towards Maidenpool. At first glance, this might seem like an idiotic move—splitting an already thin force when marching into enemy territory is dangerous. However, what they lack in numbers, they compensate for with a command to let loose, not caring about the damages done, and focusing solely on punishing the traitors of the realm. And so, in the third month of the one hundred and thirtieth year since Aegon's conquest, blood was once again spilled on the ground, and the first battlefield would be Maidenpool itself.

It was clear upon their arrival at Lord Mooton's town that Daemon was there. When the small army asked for a parley from Lord Mooton, Caraxes revealed himself from the middle of the town and circled it closely, watching every move of the army. The poorly armed levies were instantly nervous at the sight of the Blood Wyrm. They had already been uneasy about sieging a town with only seven hundred men, and thoughts of desertion were bound to arise.

Ser Rickard Thorne watched Caraxes from afar, nervously. Willam slowly approached him on his horse, looking calm as ever, his eyes fixed on the dragon.

"Prepare to send a raven to King's Landing, Ser," Willam said.

"I hope to the gods that you can stop him and see this through," Ser Rickard sighed, offering him a pole bearing the banner of House Targaryen. "We are dead men if you do not."

"Do not worry," Willam said, taking the banner from the Kingsguard's hand. "It will all be over; the men might not need to bloody their weapons."

With a kick, Willam's horse moved forward, galloping through the plains between the small army and the town wall. The banner flowed smoothly as he stopped in the middle, watching Caraxes above. He dismounted and planted the banner on the ground, waiting with his hand resting on the pommel of his bastard sword as the dragon flew towards him.

At first, the men worried that Prince Daemon might burn Willam instantly, without parley, as technically, no agreement had been made. But Willam stood unfettered by the obvious threat. To everyone's surprise, Daemon did not burn him. Instead, he landed just a distance from Willam. The prince dismounted from his dragon and walked towards Willam, the sword Dark Sister at his side, his hand resting on its grip.

The prince stopped approximately twelve feet from Willam, looking at him casually in his black Valyrian armor. He looked him up and down, humming to himself.

"Who are you?" asked Daemon. "I've never seen you before. A Lannister bastard?"

"The name's Willam," answered the young blond man. "I was born in the Crownlands."

"Really?" Daemon chuckled. The prince looked towards the army behind and then back at Willam. "What makes you think you can ask for a parley with such a meager amount of men?"

"Probably due to me," Willam said. "You might not know me, my prince, as you were idly sitting in Harrenhal while your family was being slaughtered in the Gullet."

Daemon frowned. "It's 'Your Grace' now, to you. I am the king. Not the child that sits on my brother's throne."

"I had thought the next king in your cause would be Joffrey Velaryon?" Willam asked calmly.

"He is but a boy, a reckless one," Daemon said. "No lords would want to be ruled by children."

Willam smiled. "Of course. But you are not the king, my prince. Your side has lost, your wife is buried deep in the sea, along with your sons and daughter. It is time to give up."

"How brave of you." Daemon unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Willam. "Do you not realize your position? A mere common man dares to tell me when to give up?"

Caraxes growled with a thin voice that pierced every ear. His head loomed before Daemon, ready to strike and burn everything in his path. But still, Willam was calm. He merely looked at the dragon and turned back to Daemon.

"I assume you are here to hear our words," Willam continued. "Our terms are simple. We will give you one last chance. Lord Mooton is to bend the knee to the one true king, King Maelor, and Maidenpool will be spared. I extend this offer to you as well, my prince. It is not too—"

Daemon spat. "I would rather burn myself with dragonfire than kneel to that usurper puppet-king of yours."

Willam chuckled. "I knew you would say that."

In an instant, as if responding to Daemon, Caraxes approached them, rage could be seen on the dragon's eyes. But before the Blood Wyrm could spit a single spark of fire, a bright light burst from Willam's body. From where he stood, a titan of white bone armor, fifty feet tall and emitting steam from its recent transformation, emerged.

The dragon was stunned by the light, as was the prince. Seizing the opportunity, the titan rushed forward, taking a few steps before punching the dragon's head. Sharp spikes burst from the point of contact, piercing through the dragon's scales and killing it instantly. Caraxes's head dangled on the spike, and with a push using the titan's leg, the spike was unsheathed from the skull, dropping the lifeless dragon to the ground before Prince Daemon.

The titan then turned to the prince, who could only stare defiantly at the scene.

***

When Daeron arrived at Maidenpool, it was already in chaos. As he flew over the town atop Tessarion, he could see the fallen titan's carcass in the middle of the town, stretching from just outside the wall to near the castle where House Mooton resides. The seven hundred-foot titan lay there, motionless, its body a gigantic battering ram used to breach the town's walls. But another titan was still ravaging the place, albeit a much smaller one, fighting around Mooton's castle but not breaching the castle itself.

Tessarion quickly descended outside the town, where the small army was encamped. As the blue dragon landed and Daeron dismounted, he was greeted by Ser Rickard on horseback, looking calm yet nervous. When Daeron looked around the encampment, he saw carriages filled to the brim with bloodied armor and weapons, better than what they had been given before.

"My prince," the knight greeted. "You've come at the last moments of the battle."

"So I've seen," Daeron hummed. "But we must prepare for battle again, ser. When I took flight, I saw the Rook's Rest Host marching here as we speak."

"We've known," the knight nodded. "Our scouts reported their army just moments ago. We are currently distributing new armor and arms to the men."

"How did you get those?" Daeron asked.

"We sent our men to the walls, or whatever is left of them," Ser Rickard murmured. "The town guards were scared to death once Willam appeared in his titan form. A huge part of the town was crushed when he intentionally made himself fall down. Seeing that, some took their own lives out of fear of a miserable death; some just surrendered when they saw our men. We do not have enough men to man the walls, so we set up camp here and took what we could. Prince Aemond's instruction was clear that we did not have to occupy it."

"And what is he doing now?" Daeron turned to the gigantic carcass of the titan. "Rampaging wantonly?"

Ser Rickard shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps he is just waiting for the people in the castle to surrender."

Daeron hummed. His gaze then suddenly found its way to the corner of the encampment, where he could see the corpse of Caraxes.

"I see that he has met his end at the titan's hands," Daeron noted. "Where is the body?"

"You do not want to know, my prince," said the knight solemnly. He then detached the sword from his hip, its sheath battered and dented beyond count. "Here is his sword."

"Dark Sister…" Daeron murmured, taking it from Ser Rickard's hand. "Thank you, ser."