3: The Harrenhal War Council

(Hall of the Hundred Hearths, Harrenhal, The Riverlands, The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, Westeros, GoT Universe)

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(Daemon Targaryen POV)

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Within the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, The Spare Prince, the Young Dragon Daemon Targaryen held Council with the Great Houses and their principle Bannermen, he just sat there sipping his cup of Dornish Red Wine, in one hand while twirling a Dagger in between his fingers. He was looking at each Lord, studying them, getting a good look at each and every one of them before he spoke a single word.

After taking in every face he buries the dagger into the nearby wall.

A surprised silence hangs in the air as Daemon Casually walks to his Dagger and retrieved it before turning to the Assembled Lord's.

''House Blackfyre has Dragons, I say we get our own and hatch them as they did in Old Valyria, Life for life. However our first bit of business is information gathering, House Greyjoy will set sail and learn the name of the enemy. As for what we'll be doing at the home front I'll be in the Vale investigating a few things. But until then We have to focus on the development of War Machines capable of killing Dragons, House Lannister will provide the funds. We will split the bulk of our forces between Five Main Vanguards, each with a predetermined focus and Composition.'' Daemon says laying out his plan.

''Lord Rickard Stark.'' Tywin says.

''My Lord Hand?'' Rickard Stark says stepping forward.

''Lord Rickard, The North has the Strongest Cavalry outside the Dothraki, therefore The command of the first Regimental Vanguard is yours. Your forces will be mostly Cavalry or Light Infantry or Archers. Take Fifteen Thousand of your Northern Horse, Ten Thousand Dornish Archers, Five Thousand Lannister Infantry and Eight Thousand Rivermen. You will be the First Line against the possibility of the Golden Company joining the Fray." Says Daemon.

"Your grace, I'm honored." Says Rickard.

''I'm not trying to Honor you, I'm trying to get a smile out of that frozen face of yours. Lord Tywin." Says Daemon.

"Prince Oberyn Martell." Says Tywin.

"Present." Says Oberyn.

"You will have command of our Special Tactics Group. Take Five Thousand Dornish Archers and Spears, alongside Three Thousand Reach Horse and Two Thousand Lannister Infantry. You will be given freedom to assault the battlefields as you need to. In other words, you can harry them in the night or fuck them about by dawn." Says Daemon with a small smile at his friends casual response.

"Lord Brynden Tully." Tywin says.

"I'm here." Says Brynden, in the same tone he said to Edmure to stop talking about that damned Mill.

"The Second Van is yours to command, Fifteen Thousand Reach Infantry, Twelve Thousand Lannister Horse, Six Thousand Rivermen Pikes, and Eight Thousand Vale Archers." Says Daemon.

"Lord Randyll Tarly." Tywin Says.

"Lord Hand, your Grace." Randyll Says obediently.

"You have the overall command, each Regiment answers to you, but you specifically will command the Third Regiment. Twelve Thousand Northern Infantry, Nine Thousand Reach Horse, and.....

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After dealing with the troop arrangements, Daemon stood at the top of Kingspyre Tower. Looking out from above the tower. Knowing what he did of ASOIAF he knew he had few options for a bride. He could get in bed with any number, but whether they remained faithful was another matter. Really the only women he was willing to stake his life on being and remaining faithful were gonna be Elia Martell, a Northerner, and maybe someone special. Daemon had friends with a few key Lordlings, and if he Got Sheepstealer, he'd have a monumental advantage against Rhaegar.

Those Dragon Killing weapons he'd talked about would be few in number and he'd have the blueprints burned when the Rebellion was over. Less chance of Rhaegar killing him or a Dragon the sounder he'd sleep. Standing there atop the Kingspyre tower as he did now, Daemon felt a strange peace. If the Whent's died out, he could Claim Harrenhal for his own seat, then wreck the fucking thing and drop the stones over the wall or into the Sea and build anew, Picture a Three Walled City, Same size as Harrenhal, it'd have the first gap filled with the low-born and smallfolk, the second Gap would be filled with Markets and traders and businesses, while the Third would house the Main Garrison and Troops and Nobles. The Castle itself would sit raised with a dug moat filled with spikes below and a Drawbridge. Nine Towers would form a Crown with the Tenth being smackdab in the center. It would be known as The Dragon's Roost.

A dreamers idea, but one can dream and hope for a better future for their children.

''Your Grace? You wished to see me?'' Asks A voice.

''I did Lord Tywin, I'll be taking Four Thousand men to The Vale, no more no less. Until my Return You will plan our strategies, Randyll Tarly will lead us, and I'll be taking your son Jaime with me. We'll bloody his blade against the Hill Tribes. I'll be taking Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell with me. Until the Enemy hits Tyrosh and begins Targeting the Stepstones you will wait. When they do you will engage them in the Stepstones.'' Says Daemon as he observes from atop the tower.

''Of course your grace.'' Says Tywin who then departs.

Daemon looks out across the Riverlands wondering if he must win this war to get out from underneath Rhaegar's eventual thumb, then by the Gods he'll do it. Of course there was a different way to approach this, it was a long shot, but there was a chance that he could make peace between Targaryen and Blackfyre. He knew the acclaim he'd acquire would be tantamount to King Jaehaerys The First. Daemon hoped he could make his own name.

''Your Orders are Clear, sail and pledge allegiance to House Blackfyre, Learn and Gather information in my name, and I will persuade my Father to restore parts of your Families Ancestral Titles.'' Daemon says to the man in the shadows.

''How do you know that you can trust us? We're not trustworthy by nature.'' The hoarse and haggard Voice of Quellon Greyjoy notes.

''I don't trust your People, I trust you to get the job done. Nothing more or less, or anything in between. Just get it down for all our sakes....'' Daemon says before drawing his Dagger and spinning to intercepting Quellon's Knife.

''Good reflexes, keep em and we're yours until you can't.'' Quellon says smirking just a little bit, before sheathing his blade and laughing j

hoarsely as he went....

''Their entire culture is just so utterly fucked up.'' Daemon breathes quietly in solemn exasperation.....