299 AC - Kings Landing - Third Person POV
Dawn broke over King's Landing, painting the Red Keep's spires in hues of gold and crimson. Outside the Dragon Gate, the combined Lannister-Tyrell army—130,000 strong—stood in disciplined ranks, their banners of lion and rose fluttering in the morning breeze. Tywin Lannister, astride his warhorse, surveyed the field with cold precision, his crimson cloak a stark contrast to his golden armor. Beside him, Mace Tyrell, alongside his son Garlan Tyrell, puffed up with pride, adjusted his ornate helm, while Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, gripped his sword, his eyes burning with resolve. The city's walls bristled with archers, scorpions, and catapults, ready to repel the northern threat.
Within the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister stood in the Tower of the Hand, her green eyes fixed on the horizon. "They come to die," she said, her voice low, to Tyrion, who leaned against a table, a goblet of wine in hand. "Aemon's sorcery won't save him from our numbers."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes glinted with doubt. "Sorcery broke the Twins and Riverrun, sister. Underestimate him, and we're all corpses."
Cersei's lips curled. "You always were a coward, Tyrion. Father's army and the Tyrells will crush this bastard."
Joffrey, slouched in a chair, sneered. "I'll have his head on a spike! He's no king, just a traitor's whelp!"
Tyrion sighed, sipping his wine. "Keep dreaming, nephew. Aemon's no ordinary foe."
Outside, Tywin turned to Mace Tyrell. "Your men are ready, Lord Tyrell?"
Mace nodded, his voice booming. "The Reach stands firm, Lord Tywin! Margaery's betrothal seals our cause. We'll smash these northern dogs!"
Loras, his voice sharp, added, "Aemon's powers are tales to scare children. Steel will end him."
Tywin's gaze was unyielding. "Tales or not, we take no chances. Hold the line, and let their charge break against us."
Randyll Tarly, commanding a wing, spoke gruffly. "My men are positioned, Lord Tywin. If the sorcerer shows himself, we'll bury him in arrows."
Olenna Tyrell, in her solar, muttered to Margaery, "Men and their boasts. This Aemon's no fool, child. Watch closely."
Margaery, her eyes calm, nodded. "If he's as powerful as they say, Grandmother, we may need more than swords."
Petyr Baelish, lingering nearby, smirked. "Power shifts like sand, Lady Margaery. Aemon's sorcery is a card to play, not a throne to win."
Varys, his voice soft, murmured, "The realm whispers of ice and fire, Lord Baelish. Whispers can topple kings."
Inside the city, Bronn leaned against a battlement, grinning at Tyrion, who had joined him. "Big day, half-man. You think your northern king's got enough magic to crack this nut?"
Tyrion snorted. "If Aemon's half as good as the tales, we're in for a long morning. Stay sharp, Bronn."
Bronn's grin widened. "Sharp's my middle name. You paying extra for this mess?"
Tyrion chuckled. "Survive, and I'll drown you in gold."
---
A mile away, Aemon Targaryen's army of 50,000—Starks, Tullys, and Martells—marched toward the Dragon Gate, their banners of direwolf, fish, and sun-and-spear snapping in the wind. Aemon, clad in black armor, rode at the forefront, his grey eyes fixed on the city. Beside him, Eddard Stark's face was grim, Robb Stark's hand rested on his sword, and Oberyn Martell's spear gleamed, his grin predatory.
Eddard spoke, his voice low. "Their numbers dwarf ours, Your Grace. Tywin's no fool—he'll try to crush us in the open."
Aemon's voice was steady. "Numbers mean nothing today, Lord Stark. I have a plan."
Robb raised an eyebrow. "Care to share, brother?"
Aemon's lips twitched. "Attack."
Oberyn laughed, his voice rich. "That's a plan I like! I've heard of your ice and fire, Your Grace. Let's see it paint the field red."
Greatjon Umber, riding nearby, roared, "Aye! Let's gut these lions and roses! Show 'em what a true king can do!"
Edmure Tully, his face tense, said, "Your powers are mighty, Aemon, but 130,000? Even you can't—"
Aemon cut him off. "Trust me, Lord Tully. The Dragon Gate falls today."
Rickard Karstark, his voice gruff, muttered, "Sorcery or not, I'd rather have another 50,000 swords."
Roose Bolton, ever quiet, spoke softly. "Your plan is bold, Your Grace. But Tywin's cunning. He'll have traps."
Aemon nodded. "Let him try. Ice and fire will answer."
As the army neared the gate, the men steeled themselves, their breaths visible in the cool air. Aemon's presence, amplified by tales of his sorcery, kindled their courage. A northern soldier whispered to his comrade, "They say he blasted the Twins' gates. Think he'll do it again?"
His friend, gripping his spear, replied, "Gods, I hope so. I'd rather not face Tywin's host without it."
A Dornish spearman, overhearing, grinned. "Our Red Viper says the king's a dragon. I'll wager he burns the lions to ash."
---
The Lannister-Tyrell army charged, a tide of steel and silk, their war cries echoing across the field. Tywin's voice rang out, "Hold formation! Break their charge!" Mace Tyrell shouted, "For the Reach! For Joffrey!" Loras, leading the cavalry, spurred his horse, "Cut them down!" Randyll Tarly's men advanced in tight ranks, their shields locked.
Aemon, atop his horse, raised a hand, halting his army's march. His lords exchanged confused glances. "What's he doing?" Edmure muttered. Robb's eyes widened. "He's going alone."
Aemon dismounted, his black cloak swirling, and broke into a run toward the enemy. His super soldier serum-enhanced body moved like a warhorse, covering ground in seconds, his boots barely touching the earth. The northern army watched, awestruck, as their king charged 130,000 foes single-handedly.
Tywin, spotting the lone figure, narrowed his eyes. "Archers! Loose!" Arrows rained from the walls, a deadly swarm, but Aemon didn't falter. Oberyn, grinning, said, "Here it comes, lads. Watch the dragon roar."
Thirty seconds from the enemy, Aemon stopped, knelt, and slammed his right hand into the ground. His Todoroki ice powers surged, unleashing a glacier of unprecedented scale. A wall of shimmering ice, hundreds of feet high, erupted across the field, freezing a quarter of the Lannister-Tyrell army in an instant. Soldiers, horses, and banners were encased in frost, their screams silenced.
Tywin's face paled. "What in the Seven Hells…" Mace Tyrell stammered, "Sorcery! He's a demon!" Loras, his horse rearing, shouted, "Regroup! Hold the line!" Randyll Tarly roared, "Shields up! Advance!"
Aemon's army snapped from their stupor. Robb bellowed, "Charge! For the North!" Oberyn spurred his horse, spear raised, "For Dorne!" Greatjon's voice thundered, "Gut 'em!" The 50,000 surged forward, their formation tight, exploiting the chaos in the enemy ranks.
The Lannister-Tyrell formation shattered, men stumbling over frozen comrades. Aemon wove through the fray, his ice powers raising walls to block cavalry, his fire powers incinerating entire companies. A fireball consumed a Tyrell knight, who screamed, "He's no man!" Another, frozen mid-charge, gasped, "Ice… gods save us…" before shattering.
Oberyn, spearing a Lannister, laughed wildly. "Look at him, Stark! Your king's a bloody storm!" Robb, cutting down a sellsword, shouted, "Keep up, Martell! He's clearing the way!" Edmure, his sword bloodied, yelled, "Push forward! The gate's in sight!"
Aemon's onslaught was relentless. His super soldier strength let him cleave through armor of every foe. He froze a Tyrell Vanguard, their leader crying, "Mercy!" before ice claimed him. A fireball roasted a Lannister captain, who wailed, "Fire… dragon fire!" Aemon's tally climbed—10,000, 20,000, 30,000—his powers decimating the enemy.
Tywin, rallying his men, shouted, "Form ranks! He's one man!" But Aemon's ice walls trapped his cavalry, his flames scattering infantry. Mace Tyrell, panicking, cried, "We're lost! Fall back!" Loras, defiant, charged Aemon, "Face me, sorcerer!" Aemon parried, freezing Loras's sword, and knocked him out with a fist.
Randyll Tarly, his men breaking, growled, "Hold, damn you!" but Aemon's fire swept through, burning his banner. A Tyrell soldier, fleeing, sobbed, "He's a god!" Another, frozen, muttered, "No hope…" before collapsing.
Aemon reached the Dragon Gate, arrows raining from the walls. He raised an ice shield, arrows splintering against it. A gold cloak archer screamed, "He's unstoppable!" Another, loosing futilely, shouted, "Save the king!" Aemon blasted the gate with fire, the wood and iron melting into slag. "Inside!" he roared, and his army poured through.
The northern alliance stormed King's Landing, cutting down gold cloaks and sellswords. Robb led a charge through Flea Bottom, shouting, "Take the keep!" Oberyn, spearing a knight, yelled, "For Elia!" Greatjon, his axe dripping, bellowed, "The city's ours!" Edmure, at the rear, called, "Secure the streets!"
Aemon carved a path to the Red Keep, freezing or burning any who resisted. A gold cloak, trembling, dropped his sword, "I yield!" Aemon spared him, his eyes on the prize. The highborn were taken prisoner: Tywin, his face impassive; Cersei, spitting curses; Joffrey, whimpering; Tommen and Myrcella, silent; Mace Tyrell, blubbering; Olenna, sharp-eyed; Margaery, composed; Alerie, Loras, and Garlan Tyrell; Baelish, grim; Varys, calm; Pycelle, trembling; Randyll and Dickon Tarly. All were locked in their rooms under guard.
Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, frozen on the field, were thawed and chained in the dungeons. Aemon summoned Oberyn, his voice firm. "They're yours, Prince Oberyn. Do as you will."
Oberyn's eyes gleamed, his voice ecstatic. "They'll wish for death, Your Grace. I vow it." He turned to his men, "Prepare the cells. Their screams will sing Elia's justice."
In the Red Keep's throne room, Aemon stood before the Iron Throne, his lords gathered. Eddard spoke, his voice heavy. "You've done it, Your Grace. The city's yours."
Robb grinned, blood on his cheek. "Never seen a battle like that. You're a bloody legend, brother."
Oberyn clapped Aemon's shoulder. "Ice and fire, just as promised. I'd follow you to the Seven Hells after that."
Greatjon roared, "King Aemon! The dragon's come home!" The hall echoed with cheers, the northerners and Dornish united in victory.
Cersei, in her locked chamber, hissed to Tyrion, "This isn't over, brother. He's a monster, not a king."
Tyrion, sipping stolen wine, shrugged. "Monster or not, he's won. You might try smiling next time you see him."
Tywin, alone, stared out a window.
Oberyn, in the dungeons, faced Clegane and Lorch, his spear ready. "For Elia," he whispered, and their screams began.
The Battle of the Dragon Gate was won, but Westeros's wounds ran deep. Across the sea, Uruk's shadow grew, and Aemon Targaryen, now master of King's Landing, prepared to forge a new realm.