Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
Chapter 46: The Great Game II
The Last Hearth
Lord Umber looked from the balcony to the training ground where his bastard grandson took on the largest and meanest guards along with his son, the Greatjon Umber. Even then his fifteen year old grandson, Cregan Snow, was not bothered. The boy stood at almost eight feet, with hands as muscled as thighs and a broad chest along with an imposing presence. Lord Umber was proud that his grandson was the largest Umber ever recorded, and just like their banner his strength was prodigious, but what astounded him most was the boy's speed, just like the bastard's father, the Red Death, it was inhuman.
Even now Lord Umber remembered the slaughter at Nightfort when the bastard unleashed his rage at the death of Lord Stark at the hands of the wildlings. Umber knew the boy would reach that level when he became a man. He had kept an eye on the curious abilities of his beloved grandson from a young age. Even before the people of his castle acknowledged him as "the Mountain" for his enormous strength and frame, Umber knew he was special. The boy had never fallen sick, was immune to fire and cold, and learned everything faster than any Umber before him. Then there were the magical abilities. The boy was a warg and had a strong bond with animals.
Umber had heard tales that the Umbers were descended from giants, and watching his fifteen year old grandson fight made him believe those tales. Daemon Snow's blood had awakened whatever lingering potential ran in the Umber line. More than that, Umber knew the boy carried a certain pride even for a bastard, yet he loved his family fiercely. The clearest proof of that came five years ago.
Umber had been on a trip to one of his lesser lords when wildlings who had climbed the Wall somehow kidnapped his granddaughter outside the castle. The eight year old Serenna Umber was the beloved cousin sister of the Mountain. The boy, then only ten, had taken a warhammer from the armoury, mounted a horse, and followed the trail of the wildlings. Serenna had been accompanied by guards and the Mountain's own mother, but they were all killed trying to fight off the raiders.
When Umber had heard the kidnapping of his sweet granddaughter along with murder of his daughter, he followed it as soon as possible and what they find when the wildlings was discovered was something legendary.
The boy had somehow befriended a two year old mammoth the size of a warhorse, and together they had assaulted thirty wildlings alone. The mammoth went for the girl immediately, lifted her in its trunk, and ran off with her while the boy remained behind to wreak his bloody slaughter. By the time Umber reached them, the boy lay in the middle of gore and human paste, a rusted sword buried in his stomach and arrows lodged in his hand. The warhammer's steel head was caked entirely in human flesh.
To the amazement of his soldiers, there was a clear line in the snow just a few steps behind the boy. Serenna slept peacefully beside the baby mammoth, which stood guard among the trees at the edge of the clearing. Hearing the tale from Serenna herself later, the men at arms named the giant boy "the Mountain" from that day forward.
Umber smirked in pride as the name became truth. The bastard grew a hatred for wildlings so fierce it made even his family's hatred look like love in comparison. Even Umber's own loathing could not match the Mountain's burning fury, born from his mother's death. It was then the boy expanded his warg powers and began watching for wildlings. From that day, no raider ever crossed Umber lands, for they could not pass the Mountain that was Cregan Snow.
Now, Lord Umber looked down at the scroll before him. It was a summons from Lord Cregan Stark, the man for whom the bastard had been named after.
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Lord Umber looked at his favourite grandson, who was sitting opposite him at the table. Even though the boy sat with respect and affection toward him, there was something in his gaze and posture that screamed casualness and arrogance. He studied the boy and saw only the colours of the North in him, yet his face was strikingly handsome. The boy bore the features of House Umber, but somehow they seemed naturally enhanced.
Maybe all the Targaryens are born with arrogance and beauty, Umber thought, reminded of the casual posture of Prince Aemon and even Daemon Snow, the boy's father.
"Grandfather," Cregan called. "Why did you summon me? It seems important."
The Mountain knew enough to realise this was not a casual meeting.
Umber sighed wearily, knowing the upcoming conversation would change everything between them. The boy had increasingly inquired about his father, but it had never been confirmed that it was Daemon Snow. Even the servants had not been foolish enough to reveal the truth, respecting Daemon's wishes.
"Cregan, look at this letter," Umber said, handing him the summons.
The chair groaned as the Mountain leaned forward to take it. Umber watched as the boy read, noticing the intrigue on his face.
"Why now?" Cregan finally asked.
Umber groaned again in sadness. He knew the truth had to be revealed here, not in Winterfell. The boy had long tried to hide his feelings regarding his absent father, but Umber knew resentment lingered within him. He didn't want Cregan to lash out at Lord Stark, or worse, at Daemon Snow himself when they reached Winterfell. For all the boy's strength, Umber knew he was no match for Daemon—or even for Cregan Stark, who had been trained by Daemon for years.
"My boy," Umber began gently, "you have been summoned, and we are the most loyal lords under the wolves. We will answer gladly, but before you go, I must tell you the truth about your father."
Cregan's eyes widened in shock before recognition flickered across them.
"So the rumours are true," the boy scoffed. "My father is the previous Lord Stark."
Even Umber was surprised by that and snorted before breaking into laughter. The boy frowned at the sound but held his tongue.
"No, my son. Though you have Stark blood, it is not from the Lord of Winterfell. Your father is the Red Death—Daemon Snow. He seduced my daughter all those years ago, and the only reason I did not challenge him was because I knew such a fight would be useless. More than that, I knew any son or daughter born of him would be a prodigious addition to my house, someone I could be proud of. Time has proven me right. You are exceptional, and you are destined for great things."
The boy remained silent, struck mute, though his eyes darted rapidly as though he were seeing something unseen. Umber knew his grandson was prideful and expected him to lash out, but the rage that followed the shock and silence in those eyes unsettled even him. It reminded him of the feral look he had once seen in the boy's face when he find him after the wildling slaughter.
"Cregan," Umber snapped, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts.
Cregan closed his eyes, drawing sharp, rapid breaths. After a dozen, he opened them again, and to Umber's surprise, there was nothing there—no anger, sadness, or surprise. It was as if he were staring into Daemon Snow's eyes when the bastard was planning how to win. Umber remembered that look well: when Daemon planned what to do with the traitors at the Wall, when he led them against the wildlings, and again when he marched on Skagos to crush the scum there.
"I ask again, Grandfather. Why now? Why is he calling me now?" Cregan asked evenly.
Umber had already guessed the reason, ever since his own warg spies had reported happenings around Winterfell. Though they could not pierce the castle walls, Wintertown and the surrounding lands were free game—and the sight of a bloody dragon flying to and fro was hardly subtle.
"I can hazard a guess. Daemon Snow has always been rebellious against any authority, and even the late Lord Stark struggled to control him," Umber said, his voice heavy with memory. "My own men have informed me that Daemon has claimed a dragon and flown it to Winterfell. The Old King is not a forgiving man, and I am almost certain the crown will retaliate. There will be war. Likely, Daemon is gathering the exceptional children he left across the North to fight beside him."
Cregan remained silent before a roar of rage tore from his throat.
"Do I look like a dog, ready to run back to him with my tail wagging at his call?" Cregan snapped. "That bastard has not seen me even once in my life, and now he dares call for me? What horseshit is this! Worse still, he summons me now, after openly loving and coddling the Mormont girl? I have heard the tales of that black direwolf—whether it belongs to him or to Lyanna, because of how much time it spends with her. I will never fight for him. I do not even wish to meet him unless it is as an equal."
"Enough!" Lord Umber barked, slamming his palm onto the table so hard it shook. "We are loyal subjects of Lord Stark, and the summons comes from him. We will answer, and we will hear him out. After that, you may choose your own path. But I strongly urge you not to start a fight with either Lord Stark or Daemon Snow. You were not there the day he earned the name Red Death. You are no match for him yet, and I do not know what he might do. Now go—cool off, and prepare for the journey. We leave at dawn."
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Lord Umber nearly had a heart attack when his grandson did not immediately bow as tradition dictated when they were welcomed by Lord Stark himself at Winterfell. Umber watched Lord Stark closely; he saw that the Mountain's reluctant show of respect had not gone unnoticed, but to Umber's relief there was a mirthful smirk on the lord's face rather than anger.
They were led at once into the Godswood for the talk. Umber already knew from his spies that Daemon Snow had left Winterfell on his dragon many days ago. The Mountain looked about the vast Godswood with surprise and awe as they drew near the heart tree. Without pretense, Lord Stark explained the events of the past days: how Daemon Snow was no longer merely Snow, but Targaryen; how he had been declared heir.
Umber stared at Lord Stark, beginning to understand the weight of it and he was awed by the ability of Lord Stark. The southern lords had preened like peacocks in Harrenhal and voted for their king; the North had ignored it. Now the great council's efforts lay invalidated — the North had won even without taking part.
"So, nephew," Lord Stark asked as if the answer were given, "shall I inform Daemon that you have accepted the position of leader of that band of half-brothers?" He turned toward Cregan to congratulate him on having raised such a fine warrior — and then a voice cut through the Godswood.
"No, my lord."
Lord Stark's smile vanished; he tilted his head curiously and looked toward his nephew.
"That is… rather surprising. Do you really mean to refuse? Even if I bemoan the loss of a fine warrior for the North, this is the best opportunity for you, nephew. Daemon will look after you and reward you more than anyone from the south." Lord Stark said, then frowned as he realized he had spoken poorly.
The Mountain's face contorted with rage and his muscles tensed.
"Daemon will look after me?" the Mountain's voice hissed. "I am fifteen years old and I have not seen that bastard with my own eyes until now—while he raised and loved the Mormont girl. He has not given a fuck about any of his other children, and now that I have a name for myself he asks for my service and loyalty? He can go and fuck himself on the rusty Iron Throne."
Lord Umber almost rose to stand between Lord Stark and the Mountain to intervene, but to his surprise Cregan Stark remained stoic, his unreadable lordly mask in place.
"Nephew," Cregan said, "I know Daemon has wronged many of his children, but I assure you he has kept an eye on all of you to protect you. He has financially supported every one of his children until now. Are you completely sure you want to refuse such a chance to raise your status?"
The Mountain openly scoffed and then laughed. "Protect me and my family? Then I wonder if what happened to my mother was a dream and she is still alive. Or was the bastard prince too busy between the legs of the dragon-bitch to notice—"
Slap.
The Mountain had accumulated a huge store of pride about his abilities as a warrior and more than that he is especially proud of his speed. For a man of his size he appeared inhumanly fast compared to every other warrior he had met. But the slap he received from Lord Cregan was faster still; he couldn't even turn his face to lessen the impact. To add insult to injury, he tasted iron in his mouth—he had lost a tooth to the blow. Then the pain hit him, and as if to complete the humiliation, Lord Stark seized his cheek and forced his mouth open, stopping him from speaking.
With rage, mountain immediately grabbed the hand holding his face trying to remove the hand, but to his complete surprise, he couldn't overpower the lord stark's hold. He had never met a person with more strength than him until now and he couldn't wonder how the man get so much stronger than him even with lesser muscles.
"Nephew of mine, I could ignore you venting your anger at Daemon because he does not give a rat's ass about someone badmouthing him, but I assure you, my boy, you will suffer the consequences if you badmouth our future queen, moreover my own sister in law twice over." Lord Cregan said in a calm voice that sent chills down the spines of both Umbers.
"My lord," Lord Umber said as he dropped to his knees, "please forgive him. It is just youth's folly, coupled with the hot blood of his fathers. He did not mean anything by it."
By now the Mountain had stopped trying to tear Lord Cregan's hand away from his face, and Lord Stark removed his hand from the Mountain's face, forcing the boy to stumble back as he spat out pooled blood and loosened teeth onto the floor.
To no one's surprise, the ground drank the pool of blood and even the teeth greedily.
Lord Stark watched the Mountain pointedly, and the Mountain bowed his head.
"My lord, I apologize for my words about Princess Gael. Her grace had nothing to do with what my father did to me, and she does not deserve my hatred or harsh words. I regret disrespecting her."
"I see," Lord Cregan said. "Nephew, I understand your lack of motivation to serve Daemon, but I must advise you to at least go and meet him. You can reject the proposal directly and then return with his permission. Without that, I could not excuse you staying in the North without answering the crown prince's summons. I assure you that if you explain your reasons, he will understand and set you free." Lord Stark also knew how charming Daemon could be and how he could sway the Mountain if needed.
To Lord Stark's immense surprise, the Mountain scoffed. "Do you think I want to meet the bastard on my knees with my head bowed? He can exile me and I do not care. I have already decided what I am going to do. If we ever meet, I want it to be as equals."
"Equals?" Lord Stark asked, curious.
"Aye, equals," the Mountain replied, barely containing his rage. "Ever since my mother was killed by wildling scum I have learned about them. They fool themselves by calling themselves free when they are barely more than animals, and they mock us as kneelers. I will make them kneel and break their spirit, mind, and body for what they did to my mother. I will be their king, and only then will I meet my so called father."
Lord Umber gasped at the words. Cregan Stark observed the boy with a frown.
"No single man can conquer such a vast place," Lord Stark said pointedly.
"Well then, it is very good that I have many half brothers here," the Mountain snapped back. "Maybe someone agrees with me and wants to be more than whatever pitiful things are handed down by the great Daemon Snow."
Lord Stark grimaced. "Nephew, I suggest you do not follow through with this. I would like nothing more than to end the wildling threat and to be allied with you, but there is more than just wildlings beyond the Wall."
The Mountain just scoffed in irritation. "Do not be overly clever, my lord. I know no one wants a king as their new neighbour; your tricks do not work on me."
Lord Stark smirked. "Nephew, if I wanted to stop you I have far better ways than trickery. Do not be a naive fool. Our ancestors did not construct such a great Wall fearing only savages. Anyway, since you wanted to try to recruit your brothers, you will stay here in Winterfell for now. I must consult with Daemon and see whether your official exile for disobedience should be to Essos or beyond the Wall."
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King's Landing
Ser Otto Hightower.
Just as his dreams had warned him, and as the letter had indicated, the return of the King from Dragonstone was eventful and memorable in the history of the House of the Dragon. The entire court was assembled in the grounds of the Red Keep where Vermithor and Silverwing usually rested. The Small Council, along with Ser Otto, stood at the front while the rest of the court gathered behind, leaving ample space for the dragons to land.
Ser Otto looked to the sky as the distant roars of dragons echoed above. Even though he had tried many times to remember and distinguish the sounds of each dragon, he could not tell which ones he was hearing now. Perhaps it was the combined thunder of their roars. At first there were only distant black dots in the sky, and Otto tried to hide his grimace. There was more than one dot, and immediately his mind raced. There should only be a maximum of four, yet when he counted again there were six. Even as the thought struck him, the dots grew larger and larger, approaching swiftly.
There was something awe-inspiring even for a man like Otto in seeing six dragons flying toward them together. As they drew nearer, even Otto's composure broke, his face betraying open panic and anger. For the life of him he could not identify the two additional dragons. As if to worsen his ignorance, those two flew with a speed and agility that surpassed the others, and they were larger than all except Vermithor.
When the dragons reached King's Landing, a cacophony of roars resounded as though to awaken the entire city. From the streets below came both terrified cries and awed cheers at the sight of dragons wheeling through the sky above.
Otto was thankful when Vermithor landed first before them. He swallowed his surprise to see the supposedly frail King dismount almost effortlessly, walking down with a spring in his step. It was an impossibility, and even the dullest members of the court whispered in shock.
As the King stepped forward, the entire court bent the knee while Ser Otto offered the traditional welcome.
The King dismissed the court, though many lingered at the edges. He advanced toward the council, the crowd parting before him. To confirm Otto's suspicion, Vermithor soon took flight again while the other dragons began to land.
Otto watched intently as Rhaenys arrived with Maester Vaegon, Daemon with Viserys and Aegon, and then one of the smaller new dragons descended. The moment it landed, a chill ran down Otto's spine. There was something different about this beast. Its eyes swept across the assembled crowd as though they were nothing more than playthings, and there was a mocking mirth within them. To see Princess Gael dismount with a bright, innocent smile, so at odds with the dragon's malicious humor, made Otto sweat, his heart pounding like a drum.
He was glad seeing the princess dismount. Though his relief was brief. He noticed, with no small shock, that there was no proper saddle or harness on this dragon. Gael had ridden it with nothing but a rope tied to one of its horns or spines. Such exceptional talent in dragon riding is not something helpful in any of the Otto's plans, of course, he will pray that the princess may suffer an accident fall for such arrogance and maybe it will be helpful to make Viserys restrict the newer generation from flying all the time reducing their skill.
That shock ended the moment the girl stepped forward and the dragon soared back into the sky. Then the black beast from hell descended and landed upon the ground. It was exactly as in his dream, and Otto almost wanted to flee as the malice and cruelty radiating from the dragon struck his senses. It reminded him disturbingly of the black stone at the base of the Hightower. Even without his modest knowledge of dragonlore, Otto's instincts screamed that this creature was unlike any other dragon he had ever seen—save for Balerion. There was something otherworldly about it. And the rider, unlike others who carefully slid or climbed down from their mounts, leapt from the dragon's back. It was a drop nearly three men in height, the leap adding another man's worth to the fall.
To the astonishment of Otto and everyone else present, the man landed on his feet with only the slightest bend in his knees. Otto, who knew enough about the human body, understood that from such a height the man's bones should have shattered, yet he stood as if nothing had happened. Studying him more closely, Otto's frown deepened—the man looked no older than the Rogue Prince himself.
His scrutiny was interrupted when another figure climbed down from the dragon's back. It was a girl, a sword at her hip with a bear pommel gleaming in the light. She was clearly of the North, yet possessed a beauty that stole the breath from even Otto.
All eyes turned to the king, as though awaiting his judgment, but no answer came. At last, the king called for an immediate meeting of the small council and dismissed the gathered court.
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The Small council
Ser Otto looked at the members assembled and at the intruders in the meeting. He was angered by it, but what he could not swallow was seeing the bastard Daemon Snow sitting in his seat, on the right-hand side of the king. Otto took two deep breaths to control his anger and scanned the room, taking in the intruders. For the life of him, he could not understand what Princesses Rhaenys and Gael, and Prince Daemon, Aegon, were doing sitting in a Small Council meeting. More than that, Otto and even the other council members could hardly believe their eyes. Gael looked healthy as an ox, and there was none of the dreamy, foolish look on her face. Her eyes were far clearer and more cunning than even the good queen.
Otto also had to swallow his complaints at seeing the bastard dragonrider, and of all people, the northern bastard dragonrider.
"Your Grace," one of the members asked humbly, seeking an answer.
"Members of the council," the king began, "this is Daemon Snow, son of Aemon Targaryen and Lady Lyarra Stark. I had given him a quest to earn legitimization, and my firstborn grandson has completed it. He tamed the untameable dragon Cannibal, no Morghul, and now I have legitimized him as Daemon Targaryen. More than that, my daughter Gael has fallen in love, and they married in God's Eye in the Isle of Faces. The reason they were missing was while they were travelling to Dragonstone via ships they were recognised and kidnapped by my enemies. I approved the marriage and for Daemon's overwhelming contributions to the prosperity of my realm and for defending it from a slaving party of thirty ships in the Stepstones, I declare him my heir and the next king."
There was a momentary silence before the surprised shouting started.
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There are said to be many great players of the Game of Thrones, but none played it better than King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Conciliator. The man had been a legend in the game from the very beginning, the one who truly united the kingdom and ruled wisely after the Conqueror and his sons had made many administrative mistakes.
Yet the Bastard King had remarked that it was precisely because of Maegor, his tremendous cruelty, and his own hatred toward King Jaehaerys that Jaehaerys became so beloved and accepted by the wider realm and the Faith. The bastard king even joked, when I was interviewing him for this book, that it was a conspiracy devised by Maegor himself. Whether there is any truth to it is irrelevant, since the entire realm has accepted that Jaehaerys would have been the best king if not for the blessed bastard king. Even now, anyone sane would not wish harm upon the kindly, godly, and healing hand of the king. The current Targaryens, descended from lesser branches, also agree that if not for King Daemon Targaryen, the realm would have been destroyed by the threats it faced. I shall digress on this matter to later chapters; for now, let us return to the greatest player.
When the rumor of the missing Princess Gael spread throughout King's Landing, it was said that the king had finally succumbed to his age and weakness. It was therefore almost miraculous for the court to see the old king rise and fly to Dragonstone one day while at rest. The lords and people whispered that it was the gods' blessing, but what they only realized years later was that it had been the bastard king's healing potion that made it possible. If the king's departure was surprising, his return and the subsequent events were nothing short of shocking, with consequences that would affect every single person in the realm.
King Jaehaerys returned with his grandson and daughter married, declared the marriage valid, legitimized Daemon Targaryen, and then named him his heir. No one knows exactly what transpired on Dragonstone, but it is widely believed that protecting his beloved daughter Gael from slavers played a major role in his decision to choose Daemon as heir. Jaehaerys legitimized Daemon Snow and acknowledged him as the son of Prince Aemon and Lady Lyarra Stark.
Why I consider Jaehaerys the greatest player is his subtlety. There were rumors that Daemon's mother was herself a bastard and not a trueborn daughter, but when the king officially called her Stark, and with the lack of northern records in the south, it became very difficult to verify the truth. The fact that Prince Aemon had taken the tongue of a noble lord and punished a Grand Maester for insulting Lady Lyarra points to the truth of her trueborn lineage. And just like that, King Jaehaerys ensured that the only reason Daemon was born a bastard was because Lady Stark had died in childbirth before the Good Queen arrived to oversee the marriage in Winterfell.
Excerpts from The Bastard King. Chapter 5: The End of the Beginning. Written by Maester Theon in 200AC
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Author's Note: yeah jae pulled a fast one for the records and history.. there is no written records as aemon and baelon had confiscated it when they went through citadel when they overstepped… the truth of aemon siring daemon on a stark bastard girl instead of a stark girl became a rumour and the persons who could confirm it remained silent enough that later on, the lie became the truth.
See u in chapter 47: The Great Game III
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