299 AC - Harrenhal - Third Person POV
The cavernous ruins of Harrenhal loomed over the northern army, its blackened towers a grim backdrop to the war council within. King Aemon Targaryen sat at the head of a vast table, his grey eyes scanning the gathered lords of Stark, Tully, and their bannermen. Eddard Stark, Robb Stark, and Edmure Tully flanked him, their faces etched with resolve. Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Roose Bolton, and other northern and river lords filled the hall, their voices a low rumble as they debated strategy. That morning, a raven from the Vale had arrived, bearing Lysa Arryn's refusal to join the war, and the news sparked heated discussion.
Greatjon Umber's voice boomed, shaking the rafters. "Lysa Arryn's turned craven! The Vale's knights could tip the scales, and she hides behind her bloody Eyrie like a frightened hen!"
Rickard Karstark, his beard flecked with grey, nodded grimly. "Jon Arryn's widow shames his name. The Vale owes us—owes *you*, Your Grace—for the blood we've spilled."
Roose Bolton's pale eyes flickered, his voice soft but cutting. "Lysa's refusal is no surprise. She's ruled by fear, not honor. Her son's a pawn, and she'll keep him locked away."
Edmure Tully, his face flushed, rose to his feet. "Enough! My sister's not herself since Jon Arryn's death. Her mind's frayed—she can't make sound judgments. Blame her grief, not her heart."
The hall quieted, the lords weighing Edmure's words. Robb Stark leaned forward, his tone measured. "Grief or no, the Vale's absence stings. We've forty-five thousand swords, but the Lannisters and Tyrells muster over a hundred thousand. We needed those knights."
Aemon's voice cut through, steady and commanding. "We'll deal with the Vale after the war. Lysa Arryn will answer for her choice. For now, we focus on King's Landing."
Lord Manderly, his jowls quivering, shifted in his seat. "Your Grace, the Tyrells' alliance with the Lannisters changes everything. Margaery's betrothal to Joffrey binds the Reach's wealth and swords to their cause. We're outnumbered."
Greatjon slammed a fist on the table. "Numbers be damned! We've got a king who wields ice and fire! I saw Aemon break the Twins like kindling. Let Joffrey's roses face that!"
Roose Bolton's lips twitched, his voice low. "Sorcery wins battles, not wars. Tywin's no fool, and Tyrion's cunning. They'll have plans for your powers, Your Grace."
Before Aemon could respond, a messenger burst into the hall, breathless. "Your Grace! An army approaches—five thousand strong, bearing banners of a red sun and golden spear!"
The lords stilled, hands drifting to sword hilts. "Martells," Eddard Stark said, his voice calm but wary. "Dorne has come."
Aemon rose, his cloak swirling. "Send an emissary. I'll meet their leader outside the gates."
---
Outside Harrenhal's scorched walls, under a sky heavy with clouds, Aemon, Eddard, Robb, and a small guard met the Dornish emissary. Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, strode forward, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief, his spear glinting in the dim light. Behind him, five thousand Dornish spears stood ready, their armor light but deadly. Oberyn knelt briefly before Aemon, then rose with a flourish.
"King Aemon Targaryen," Oberyn said, his voice rich with Dornish cadence, "I am Oberyn Martell, brother to Prince Doran. On his behalf, I pledge Dorne's spears to your cause. We've mustered five thousand as swiftly as we could, but more will come if you grant our price."
Aemon's gaze was steady. "Name it, Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn's smile was sharp. "Tywin Lannister, Gregor Clegane, and Amory Lorch. Their heads for Elia's justice. Give us that, and Dorne is yours."
Aemon extended a hand, his voice firm. "You have my word. Their lives for your fealty."
Oberyn clasped his hand, his grin widening. "Then let's spill Lannister blood, Your Grace."
The lords returned to Harrenhal, where Oberyn joined the council, his presence a spark in the grim hall. Greatjon Umber clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "A Dornishman's worth ten Tyrells! Welcome to the fight, Red Viper!"
Oberyn's eyes twinkled. "And I hear your king's worth a hundred. Ice and fire, they say. I'll believe it when I see it."
Rickard Karstark grunted, skeptical. "Dorne's late to the war. What kept you, Martell? Sipping wine in Sunspear?"
Oberyn's laugh was low, dangerous. "Plotting, Lord Karstark. Dorne doesn't rush to war—we strike when the moment's right. And with Aemon's powers, that moment's now."
Edmure Tully, still stung by the talk of his sister, nodded to Oberyn. "Your spears are welcome, Prince. But can five thousand turn the tide against Tywin's host?"
Oberyn leaned back, his fingers drumming his spear's haft. "Numbers aren't everything, Lord Tully. A viper needs only one strike. Your king's sorcery and my spears will make the Lannisters bleed."
Roose Bolton's voice was a whisper. "Your hatred for the Lannisters is known, Prince Oberyn. But vengeance clouds judgment. Will Dorne stay loyal if Tywin falls?"
Oberyn's eyes flashed. "Loyalty? I'm here for justice, Bolton. Aemon's cause aligns with mine. Tywin's head rolls, and Dorne fights to the last."
Aemon, listening, spoke. "Enough. With Dorne, we have fifty thousand swords. We march for King's Landing. And say we attack."
The lords exchanged bewildered glances, their murmurs rising. Greatjon roared, "Attack? That's a plan I can drink to!" but Rickard Karstark's brow furrowed. "Your Grace, their numbers dwarf ours. Even with your powers—"
Oberyn's wild grin cut him off. "I've heard tales of your ice and fire, King Aemon. I'd wager my spear to see it firsthand. Let's burn the lion's den."
Aemon nodded, his expression unreadable. "You will, Prince Oberyn. Prepare your men."
---
For twenty days, the alliance of Stark, Tully, and Martell marched south, a river of steel and vengeance. The northern winds gave way to the warmer air of the Crownlands, and King's Landing's spires rose on the horizon. The army made camp a mile from the city, their tents sprawling across the fields, the Red Keep a distant shadow under the setting sun. Aemon, standing atop a rise, surveyed the capital, his mind sharp with strategy. The lords gathered, their men sharpening blades and stringing bows, preparing for the war to come at dawn.
Oberyn, leaning on his spear, joined Robb and Edmure by a fire, his voice light but edged. "So, Young Wolf, how does it feel to march with a Targaryen who bends ice and fire? Not the bastard you grew up with, I'd wager."
Robb's smile was tight. "He's my brother, prince or king. His powers don't change that. But I'll admit, seeing him shatter the Twins was… humbling."
Edmure chuckled, though his eyes were wary. "Humbling? Try terrifying. I thought I knew war, but Aemon's no ordinary man. The Lannisters won't know what hit them."
Oberyn's grin widened. "Good. Let Tywin shit himself when the dragon comes. I want Clegane's head on my spear before the moon turns."
Greatjon, overhearing, lumbered over, his voice a bellow. "You'll have to fight me for it, Dornishman! I want ot see what the mountain is worth of!"
Oberyn laughed, raising his hands. "Plenty of Lannisters to go around, Lord Umber. Let's carve them up together."
As night fell, Aemon walked among the camp, his presence calming the men. Whispers of his sorcery spread, bolstering their courage. The alliance, fifty thousand strong, stood ready to face the Lannister-Tyrell host, their king's ice and fire a beacon in the coming storm. Across the sea, in Uruk, Domonic Augustus's conquests reshaped Essos, but in Westeros, Aemon Targaryen prepared to claim his birthright.