Chapter 75: The North Calls and the Dragon's Compassion
Another month had passed in the relentless march of time. The Duchy of Qehes was an unyielding fortress, its armies now trained to a razor's edge under the tireless command of Jorah Mormont and Gareth Blackwood. The crimson cloaks of the city watch now patrolled the streets of Noronos, instilling an order the city had never known. Maegor sat upon his throne in Pyrefall Castle, his mind turning to the final preparations for the invasion of Daarno. The five months of preparation had molded his forces into a truly terrifying instrument of conquest.
Then, he felt it. A new presence, a quiet, professional dignity that belied the hardship of a long journey. Maegor looked up from the parchments on his lap. A man stood in the great hall, a figure in worn leathers and a simple steel breastplate, his red hair flecked with grey, his face a road map of battles won and lost. This was Ser Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully.
The Blackfish walked with a grim purpose, his gaze sweeping over the Valyrian Swordsmen who stood guard, over the ornate tapestries, and finally, settling on Maegor. He saw the silver hair, the purple eyes, and the dark, malevolent presence of Blackfyre at the young king's side. His own famous sword, Longclaw, was not with him, but his bearing spoke of a thousand duels. He dropped to a single, stiff-legged knee, a gesture of respect and weary loyalty, not fear.
"My King," the Blackfish rumbled, his voice gravelly but clear. "Ser Brynden Tully of House Tully, in exile. I have answered your summons. I have seen enough of the Game of Thrones to know a player from a pawn. My sword, and what is left of my honor, are yours."
Maegor's cold, assessing gaze swept over the man. This was a Hero. A master strategist, a true warrior. "Rise, Ser Brynden. Your loyalty is accepted. Your reputation precedes you, and your presence here is a gift." He then motioned for the Blackfish to sit, offering him wine and food, and bade him speak.
"Tell me, Ser Brynden," Maegor commanded, his voice filled with a stark urgency, "of the state of Westeros. Tell me of the chaos I hear so many whispers of."
The Blackfish's face, usually so impassive, hardened with a deep, personal grief and disappointment. He delivered his report with the detached precision of a commander. "The Riverlands are ashes. The North is broken. Your brother and his kin, my nephew Robb Stark, fell at the Red Wedding. The Iron Throne has consumed itself. Renly was slain by sorcery. Joffrey was poisoned at his own wedding. Baelon fell from a horse. The boy Tommen, a pawn, is now dead as well. The crown is now held by Cersei Lannister, the widowed Queen, who has seized power for herself, a queen-regent to a throne of ghosts."
The news was a confirmation of Maegor's intelligence, but the details, the human cost, were a sobering reality. He listened, his face a mask of cold fury.
Then, the Blackfish's voice dropped, a subtle, but profound, tremor in it. "And there is another. A Targaryen. Not of your line, but the line of Prince Rhaegar." He paused, as if trying to find the words. "The boy… Jon Snow. Your half-brother. Ned Stark's supposed bastard. He is a Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen. I witnessed the aftermath of the Red Wedding, my King, and I saw the banners of the North rallying not to a Stark, but to a Targaryen. He now holds the North, and is fighting a defensive war against Cersei Lannister."
Maegor's mind flashed back. A cold, damp castle. A quiet, honorable boy, younger than himself, with the solemn, northern grey eyes of a Stark, but a face that held a deeper truth. A boy Maegor had occasionally seen in the mess halls of the Night's Watch. A boy who had been a man of eighteen, pledging himself to an oath for a war that his own kin had started.
The Blackfish's voice broke his reverie. "He has a dragon, my King. Or rather, a hatchling, from an egg found in the crypts of Winterfell. It is no larger than a horse, still a child of fire. Jon is brave, my King. He has a fierce sense of honor. But he is outmatched. Without a true dragon to match the enemy's strength, he will fail. The North will fall. And a crucial part of our House's blood will be extinguished."
Maegor felt a profound, unexpected shift in his soul. The cold, ruthless pragmatism of the ancient Maegor, always ready to discard the weak, was suddenly challenged by the memories of his own youth, and the quiet honor of a boy he had known. The Lineage Focus: Progeny Drive flared not with a desire to conquer, but to protect. This wasn't a rival; this was family. This was a young, brave dragon, poised to be broken.
Maegor rose from his throne. His gaze, usually so calculating, was now burning with an uncharacteristic, almost reckless, urgency. He did not ask for counsel. He did not consult with his Hand. He had a Hero of Westeros sitting before him, but he did not ask for his advice. His decision was made in an instant, on an instinct more powerful than any strategy.
"Ser Brynden," Maegor's voice was sharp, "your report is noted. Your service here begins now. I am leaving. I am leaving for Westeros."
He did not wait for a reply. He strode from the great hall, making his way to the outer courtyard. He saw Balerion, now a colossal mountain of black scales, resting in the sun. He looked at Lord-Commander Jorah Mormont, who was drilling his Northern Qehes Army in the distance.
"Lord-Commander Jorah!" Maegor's voice boomed across the training grounds, imbued with Royal Authority. "Your armies are ready! You will lead the invasion of Daarno! You will leave in one month's time! In my absence, Ser Barristan and Hand Aegon will command this Duchy. Your task is to conquer Daarno and all its lands. Do not fail me! I will not be here to command your armies, but I expect nothing less than absolute victory!"
Jorah and his men, stunned by the sudden, unprecedented command, saluted with a fierce, unwavering determination.
Maegor did not look back. He mounted Balerion, the great beast's warmth a familiar comfort against his purpose. "To the North, my son," Maegor commanded, his voice filled with a powerful, familial resolve. "To Winterfell. We ride to save our kin."
With a roar that shook the very foundations of Pyrefall Castle, Balerion launched himself into the sky, banking northwest, a black shadow against the Essosi sun, streaking towards the distant, war-torn shores of Westeros. The Duchy of Daarno would be Maegor's next conquest, but the fate of his own family, and perhaps all of Westeros, had just taken a far more urgent turn.