Glass and Sand

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The desert sun beat mercilessly upon Robert's armor, each metal plate absorbing and radiating the blistering heat. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes beneath the heavy helm adorned with antlers—the proud sigil of House Baratheon. He raised his Warhammer high.

Around him stretched a sea of men, thousands strong, their armor a patchwork of colors reflecting the diverse banners they served. Standards bearing the crowned stag of Baratheon, the golden lion of Lannister, and the fiery heart of other lesser houses snapped sharply in the hot wind. The gusts carried stinging grains of sand that bit at exposed skin. The Snake's Pass loomed ahead—a narrow, winding defile flanked by sheer cliffs of red stone, notorious for its treacherous terrain and the countless armies that had met their end within its confines.

"COME ON, YOU BUGGERS!" Robert roared, his voice a deep bellow that rolled across the assembled ranks like a crashing wave. "WE'LL SHOW THESE DORNISH SNAKES HOW STAGS FIGHT!"

A ragged cheer erupted from the men, a sound more for their king's benefit than from true fervor. Robert could sense their unease, feel it in the way they gripped their weapons a little too tightly, in the nervous glances they cast toward the shadowed maw of the pass. Whispers had spread through the camp the night before—tales of Dornish ambushes, of poisoned spears and deadly traps. But Robert Baratheon had never been one for cautious strategy or heeding the fears of lesser men. He was a warrior born, and warriors faced their enemies head-on.

"Ned should be here," he muttered to himself, his gaze momentarily distant as he thought of his old friend. The letter from Winterfell had arrived weeks ago—Ned was marching south, but the North was vast, and the distance greater still. "Always late to the fight, eh, Ned?" He allowed himself a brief, fond smile before it faded, replaced by a scowl.

His thoughts drifted to the other letter—the one that had made his blood boil and his hands shake with rage, bearing words that cut deeper than any blade.

"Your Grace," the letter had read, "I am Jaehaerys Targaryen, trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen..."

"LIES!" Robert bellowed suddenly, startling his horse and causing nearby soldiers to flinch. "ALL LIES!" His shout echoed off the cliffs. He could not—would not—believe that Lyanna had gone willingly. That she had loved Rhaegar. The thought was a poison seeping into the core of his being.

But doubt gnawed at him like a rat in the dark. He remembered Lyanna's face with painful clarity—the wild beauty of her gray eyes, the way her laughter rang like bells, her fierce spirit like a wolf. Could she have...? No. No, Rhaegar had stolen her, raped her, and then that madman had killed Brandon and Rickard Stark without mercy, and then ordered the deaths of Robert and Ned.

A horn blast cut through his thoughts. From the Snake's Pass, riders emerged—Dornish cavalry, their spears tipped with steel. Their horses were swift and lean, bred for speed and endurance in the harsh desert heat.

"FORM UP!" Robert shouted, his massive frame straightening in the saddle. "FORM UP, YOU SONS OF WHORES!" His commanders echoed the order, and the army shifted into battle formations—infantry raising shields, archers nocking arrows, cavalry lowering lances.

The Dornish cavalry charged. The ground trembled, a cloud of red dust rising in their wake. Robert spurred his horse forward without hesitation, plunging headlong into the fray. His Warhammer rose and fell like the wrath of the gods.

The first Dornish rider who reached him met a swift end—the hammer connected with the man's chest, the force shattering bone and armor alike. The rider was flung backward as if struck by a giant's fist, his body crumpling lifelessly to the ground.

"WHERE ARE YOU, BOY?" Robert roared as he smashed another rider from his saddle, the man's scream cut short by the crunch of steel against flesh. "WHERE'S LYANNA'S SON? COME FACE ME IF YOU'RE TRULY OF HER BLOOD!"

Around him, the battle descended into chaos. The clangor of steel on steel rang out, mingled with the cries of the wounded and the dying. The stench of sweat, blood, and fear permeated the air. Dornish spears found gaps in armor, slipping between plates to deliver fatal thrusts. Storm lords' swords clashed against shields painted with suns and spears, the emblems soon obscured by spattered blood.

But Robert was in his element, a whirlwind of destruction. Each swing of his hammer was accompanied by a thunderous battle cry, his voice carrying over the din. His armor bore the dents and scratches of numerous glancing blows, but none had yet pierced his defenses.

"You want to claim her name?" he shouted between strikes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Then face me! Face the man she was meant to marry!"

A Dornish spearman lunged at Robert's mount, aiming for the vulnerable underbelly. With lightning reflexes, Robert swung his hammer downward, the weapon connecting with the attacker's shoulder. The impact shattered bone and sent the man spinning to the blood-soaked sand with a strangled cry.

Robert's horse reared, hooves lashing out as more Dornish fighters pressed in. The animal's eyes rolled with panic, but Robert held firm, using his knees to control the beast. Arrows whistled past, one narrowly missing his helm.

"YOUR FATHER WAS A RAPER AND A MURDERER!" Robert's voice boomed across the battlefield, filled with venom. "IF YOU'RE TRULY LYANNA'S SON, PROVE IT WITH STEEL!"

But even as he fought, even as he felled foe after foe, a small voice in his mind whispered treasonous thoughts. What if Ned was marching South to fight with him? What if he had fallen for this ploy?

"No," Robert growled, his hammer crushing through an opponent's shield as if it were kindling. "No, it can't be true." He refused to accept it.

Robert's armor was splattered with blood and sand, the once-proud stag emblazoned on his breastplate now obscured. His arm ached from the weight of his hammer, muscles burning with exertion. Still he fought, still he called out challenges, but Jaehaerys did not appear.

Then came a sound that stopped every fighter in their tracks—a sound not heard in Westeros for over a century. A roar that shook the very mountains. It was a terrifying sound that stilled hearts and sent a chill down the spine, even in the searing heat.

A shadow fell over the battlefield, turning day into night. Men on both sides paused, weapons lowered, faces turned skyward in disbelief and awe. Horses reared and whinnied, eyes rolling with instinctual fear.

Robert looked up, his face draining of color as the massive form of a dragon passed overhead. Its scales were as red as blood. Each wingbeat stirred the air into turbulent gusts, the sheer size of the creature eclipsing any beast he had ever known. Flames licked at the corners of its maw, and its eyes glowed.

On its back sat a figure clad in dark steel armor etched with patterns that caught the light—a rider astride the beast as if born to it. Even from this distance, Robert could see the rider's bearing—the way he sat with effortless grace, the confidence in his posture. There was something hauntingly familiar about him.

"Lyanna," Robert whispered, his hammer lowering slightly as if suddenly too heavy to hold.

The dragon's shadow passed over them like a dark omen. Robert watched in horror as the beast soared toward the Lannister host. Even from this distance, he could see the golden lions of the West turning their gaze skyward, shields raised in futile defense. A deafening roar shook the very air, followed by a torrent of dragonfire that cascaded upon them like a molten waterfall. The screams were immediate and harrowing—men engulfed in flames, armor glowing red-hot as flesh seared beneath. The proud lions scattered like leaves in a storm, their perfectly ordered formations dissolving into chaos as horses reared and bolted, their manes ablaze.

"TO THE LANNISTERS!" Robert bellowed, raising his hammer high, its steel head glinting ominously. "WE CAN'T LET THEM—"

His words were cut short by bloodcurdling war cries erupting from all sides. As if materializing from the very sand itself, Dornish spearmen emerged from hidden trenches and rocky outcrops. They formed an ever-tightening circle around Robert's forces.

"STAND TOGETHER!" Robert roared, his voice a thunderclap amid the cacophony. A Dornish shield-bearer lunged at him, but Robert swung his warhammer with lethal precision, the weapon connecting with a sickening crunch. The man's chest caved in, ribs splintering as he was hurled backward like a ragdoll. "FORM RANKS!"

But it was too late for organized resistance. The trap had been perfectly laid, and they were the prey ensnared. Above them, positioned on the high ground, Dornish archers unleashed volley after volley. Arrows darkened the sky like a swarm of ravenous locusts, their barbed tips seeking flesh. The arrows found gaps in armor, piercing throats, eyes, and the vulnerable joints of limbs. Men fell screaming, clutching at mortal wounds as the sands turned crimson beneath them.

"My lord!" Ser Justin Massey screamed, blood streaming from a gaping wound in his shoulder where an arrow had torn through muscle and sinew. "We're surrounded!"

Robert's horse shrieked in agony, an arrow protruding from its eye socket. The beast reared violently before collapsing, nearly crushing him beneath its weight. Robert rolled clear of the thrashing animal, sand gritty against his sweat-soaked skin. He rose with a snarl, swinging his hammer in a brutal arc that caught a charging Dornish spearman in the chest. The impact shattered the man's breastplate, bones snapping as he was flung backward into his comrades, blood spraying from his mouth.

"STAND AND FIGHT!" Robert shouted, his voice raw. Around him, his men were being cut down. Multiple spears impaled a young squire from Storm's End, the points erupting from his back as he gasped his final breath. Ser Beric Errol took an arrow through his visor; the shaft punched through the steel, embedding deep into his skull. He dropped like a marionette with its strings severed, blood pooling beneath his helm.

The screams of the dying Lannister army carried on the wind.

"My king!" someone shouted desperately. "We must surrender!"

"NEVER!" Robert's hammer swept in a deadly arc, caving in the skull of a Dornish warrior whose helmet offered little protection. Bone and brain matter splattered across the sand. "I'LL NOT BEND TO A DRAGON!"

But even as he fought, his tactical mind—yes, he had one, despite what people thought—assessed their dire situation. Five thousand men, now probably less than three thousand, completely surrounded. The Lannisters, their only hope of reinforcement, were being decimated by dragonfire. He could see their banners ablaze, the golden lions consumed by flames. Somewhere out there, Ned was marching south, unaware that he was marching to find his friend's corpse.

A spear glanced off his pauldron, the force jolting his arm and drawing blood. Another caught him in the thigh, the sharp point tearing through mail and flesh alike. He stumbled but gritted his teeth, ripping the spear out and using it to impale the next enemy who charged at him. Still, he fought on, each swing of his hammer sending men to their graves.

The screams of dying men filled the air as arrows blackened the sky, each deadly arrow finding its mark. A young soldier barely had time to look up before a barbed shaft punched through his eye socket with a wet squelch, the arrowhead erupting from the back of his skull in a spray of gray matter and bone fragments. He dropped, twitching, as blood and vitreous fluid leaked from his ruined socket.

Robert's Warhammer sang its song of death. A Dornish spearman's face ceased to exist as the massive weapon connected, turning features into a crater of shattered bone and pulped flesh. Teeth and fragments of jaw scattered like gruesome confetti, blood and brain matter painting those nearby in a crimson mist.

"Seven save us!" screamed a Lannister soldier before a sword took his arm off at the elbow. The limb flew through the air, still gripping its shield, while arterial spray painted the ground in pulsing arcs. He stared in shock at the ragged stump, white bone visible among the mangled flesh, before a spear thrust opened his throat to his spine.

The dragon made another pass, and men died screaming as their flesh melted from their bones. One soldier's eyes literally boiled in their sockets, bursting like overripe grapes as the superheated fluid expanded. Another's armor fused to his skin, the metal becoming one with melting flesh in a grotesque amalgamation of man and steel.

The Dornish spears wreaked terrible havoc, punching through plate armor like parchment. One man was lifted off his feet, impaled through groin to shoulder, his internal organs shredding as the spearhead carved upward through his body. Another took a thrust through the mouth, the point erupting from the base of his skull in a shower of bone splinters and gore.

A series of wet thuds marked where Robert's hammer found its mark again. A Dornish soldier's ribcage collapsed inward, piercing his lungs with sharp fragments of his own bones. The man fell, drowning in his blood as his shattered chest struggled to draw breath.

Robert watched as a soldier near him caught an arrow through the throat, the shaft pinning his tongue to his spine. The man clawed at the wood protruding from his neck, making hideous gurgling sounds as blood bubbled from his lips and nostrils.

"This is madness," he muttered, witnessing a Dornish blade cleave a man from collar to navel, entrails spilling out like obscene ribbons.

The dragon's shadow passed overhead again, and more men. Flesh sloughed from bones, muscles cooked and contracted, causing bodies to twist into impossible positions as they burned.

Blood soaked into the earth until the ground became a crimson swamp, flesh and gore mixing with mud under the trampling of thousands of feet.

A soldier stumbled past, half his face missing where a mace had caved in his skull, brain matter visible through the splintered bone. He took two more steps before his body realized it was dead, collapsing into the gore-soaked earth.

"My lord," Ser Cortnay Penrose managed to fight his way to Robert's side, his sword slick with blood up to the hilt. A deep gash above his brow bled profusely, partially obscuring his vision. "There's a weak point in their line to the east. If we strike hard and fast—"

"Then that's where we go," Robert nodded grimly, spitting blood. He turned to what remained of his men. "FOLLOW ME! FOLLOW YOUR KING! WE'LL CARVE OUR WAY OUT OR DIE TRYING!"

He thought of Ned then, of their youth in the Vale, scaling the treacherous cliffs and laughing in the face of danger. "I'm sorry, old friend," he muttered under his breath. "Seems I won't be there to greet you this time."

"CHARGE!" Robert bellowed, pushing off his wounded leg and surging toward the eastern line of Dornish soldiers. His remaining men formed a wedge behind him, shields locked tightly as they advanced. The ground was littered with the dead and dying, limbs severed, eyes staring lifelessly at the sun.

The Dornish met their charge with spears lowered, their faces set in grim resolve. Robert was unstoppable in his fury. His hammer smashed into the line, the force of his blows shattering shields and breaking bodies. One man's head exploded like a ripe melon under the crushing weight, fragments of skull and brain spraying those nearby. Blood ran down his armor, some his own, much of it his enemies', the warm stickiness seeping into the joints of his armor.

"FOR THE STORMLANDS!" he roared, his voice hoarse. He brought the hammer down upon another foe, the Dornishman's chest collapsing inward with a wet crunch. "FOR HONOR!"

But for every Dornish soldier they felled, two more seemed to take their place. Arrows continued to rain down, whistling through the air before finding flesh. A man beside Robert took an arrow through the throat, blood spurting as he clawed at the shaft in vain. Another screamed as a bolt pierced his groin, collapsing to the ground where he was trampled by those behind him.

A spear found a gap in Robert's armor, sinking deep into his side. He grunted in pain but wrenched the weapon free, the barbed tip tearing flesh anew. Another spear grazed his shoulder, slicing through muscle. A third embedded itself in his already wounded leg, causing him to stagger. Still, he fought on, his hammer rising and falling like the tide, each swing exacting a deadly toll.

"YOUR GRACE!" someone screamed behind him. "LOOK OUT!"

Robert turned just in time to see a Dornish cavalry charge barreling toward their flank. The riders wore cruel grins, their lances leveled. The wedge formation shattered upon impact, men and horses colliding in a maelstrom of blood and steel. His remaining men were scattered like dust in the wind, their screams piercing the air as they were cut down.

Through the chaos and pain, Robert could see the dragon making another pass over the Lannister army, which was now little more than a fleeing mob. The beast's shadow seemed to mock him, reminding him of all his failures. He watched as dragonfire engulfed a cluster of knights, their armor melting onto their flesh as they writhed in agony.

"Lyanna," he whispered, his hammer feeling heavier with each swing. "Was it true? Did you choose him?" The question hung in the air, unanswered and torturous.

Another spear struck him, this time plunging into his back between the plates of his armor. Pain exploded through him, his knee buckling. Robert fell to one knee, still swinging his hammer with waning strength. Blood poured from a dozen wounds, soaking the sand beneath him. His vision blurred, but his grip never wavered.

"COME ON THEN!" he shouted at the approaching Dornish soldiers, his voice a ragged snarl. "COME AND FINISH IT!"

Instead of charging, they formed a ring around him, spears pointed inward. Their eyes held a mix of respect and caution, as if he were a wounded beast still capable of a deadly strike. A figure pushed through their ranks—Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, his lithe form clad in armor etched with swirling patterns. His spear was wet with blood, droplets falling to hiss upon the hot sand.

"The mighty Robert Baratheon," Oberyn's voice carried a mocking edge, though his eyes betrayed a hint of admiration. "Not so mighty now, are you?"

Robert spat a mouthful of blood onto the sand, the crimson stark against the pale grains. "Kill me then, if you've got the courage for it," he growled, lifting his hammer in a defiant gesture.

"Oh no," Oberyn smiled coldly. "Death would be too kind. You're going to live, Robert Baratheon. Live to bend the knee to Lyanna Stark's son. Live to see everything you built crumble."

Robert tried to rise, but his legs refused to obey.

"Finish it," he snarled, though the words came out as a whisper. His strength was leaving him, his hammer slipping from his grasp to thud heavily onto the sand.

The last thing Robert saw before unconsciousness claimed him was the dragon soaring overhead, its scales glinting like obsidian mirrors in the sun. The rider's black armor shimmered, and for a fleeting moment, Robert thought he saw Lyanna's face gazing down at him, her expression one of sorrow.

Then darkness enveloped him, a merciful abyss free of pain and regret. Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, toppled forward, his body striking the blood-soaked sands of Dorne.

Later

"Well, it seems the Lannisters finally learned what it means to burn," Oberyn remarked, his voice carrying across the charnel field as he guided his horse carefully between the corpses. The heat still radiated from the scorched earth, making the air shimmer like a mirage. "Though I doubt this is quite what they meant by 'hear me roar.'"

"Father," Nymeria called out, her usual confidence wavering as her mount stepped delicately over a partially melted breastplate, still containing its previous owner's charred remains. "I've seen battlefields before, but this... this is something else entirely."

Oberyn nodded grimly. "This, my dear daughters, is what happens when you wake the dragon. The real dragon, not that golden pretender Tywin Lannister likes to parade about."

A soldier nearby retched as he attempted to loot a corpse, the flesh coming away with the jewelry he'd tried to steal. The sickly-sweet smell of cooked meat permeated everything.

"Seven hells," one of his captains muttered, "look at their faces. The ones that still have them, anyway. Pure terror, frozen in death."

Obara rode up beside her father, her spear resting across her saddle. "They deserved it," she declared firmly, though her knuckles were white on her reins. "After what they did to Aunt Elia and the children..."

"Perhaps," Oberyn replied, watching as a raven descended to feast on something he preferred not to identify. "But remember this sight, daughters. Remember what real power looks like. The lions thought themselves apex predators, but they never faced true fire and blood before."

Tyene, usually so composed, struggled to maintain her serene expression as they passed a cluster of bodies fused together by their melted armor. "How many do you think survived, father?"

"From this host?" Oberyn surveyed the carnage. "Maybe a few thousand fled early enough. The rest..." He gestured at the devastation around them. "Well, I suppose Tywin Lannister finally learned what it means to lose everything in a single day."

A pained scream drew their attention. A soldier had foolishly tried to grab a golden chain from a corpse, only to find the metal still hot enough to burn. "Careful with your looting, you idiots!" Oberyn called out. "The dragon's gifts tend to keep giving for quite some time."

"My prince," one of his commanders approached, looking slightly green. "We've found some survivors. They're... well, they're in bad shape. The dragon's fire..."

"Show me," Oberyn commanded, following the man to where several Lannister soldiers lay groaning, their flesh bubbled and blackened. One man's face had partially melted, leaving him a grotesque mask of agony.

"Please..." the man wheezed through ruined lips. "Water..."

Tyene dismounted, reaching for her waterskin, but Oberyn stopped her. "Save your mercy, daughter. These burns... death would be kinder."

"Mercy..." another survivor croaked. "Kill... please..."

Oberyn drew his dagger. "The gift of a quick death - the last courtesy between enemies." He moved efficiently among the wounded, ending their suffering with precise strikes.

"Was that necessary?" Nymeria asked, though her voice held understanding rather than accusation.

"In war, sometimes mercy wears a sharp edge," Oberyn replied, cleaning his blade. "Remember that too."

They continued their grim procession through the field of death. Here and there, valuable items glinted among the carnage - rings, chains, weapon hilts - but most were still too hot to touch. The dragon's fire had been so intense it had turned some patches of sand to glass.

"Look there," Obara pointed to where several horses had fused together with their riders, creating a nightmarish sculpture of flesh and metal. "The Stranger himself couldn't have crafted a more terrifying sight."

"Speaking of sights," Oberyn mused, scanning the horizon, "has anyone spotted our dear friend Tywin? I'd so hate to miss the opportunity to offer my condolences on his loss."

"Reports say he fled north," a scout reported, "along with what remained of his command group. The Imp was with him."

"Ah, the little lion survives. Good - he was always the most interesting of that pride." Oberyn's smile held no warmth. "We'll find them soon enough. The dragon's shadow tends to flush out even the most stubborn prey."

They reached a point where the carnage was freshest, the bodies still smoking. A soldier's hand lay clutching a sword, separated from its owner who lay several feet away. The blade had melted into the flesh of the hand, creating a grotesque union of man and steel.

"This is what father meant," Tyene said softly to her sisters, "when he spoke of the difference between playing at war and true power. All our training, all our skills with spear and poison... they mean nothing against this."

"Not nothing," Oberyn corrected. "But you're right - this is power on a different scale. The kind that reshapes kingdoms and breaks the wheels of history." He paused, watching another raven join its feast. "The kind that ensures no one ever forgets what happens to those who wrong our family."

A wind swept across the battlefield, carrying ash and the stench of death. In the distance, they could hear the dragon's roar.

"Gather what supplies can be salvaged," Oberyn commanded his men. "And send word to our forces holding Robert. I want him to see this. I want him to understand exactly what his rebellion has wrought."

"And Tywin?" Nymeria asked, her composure returning as she focused on the hunt to come.

Oberyn's smile was as deadly as any poison. "Oh, we'll find him. The old lion can run, but he can't hide forever. Not from us, and certainly not from the dragon." He turned to his daughters, his expression serious. "This is justice, my loves. Delayed, but finally here. For Elia. For Rhaenys. For Aegon."

As if in response, the dragon's roar echoed again, closer this time.

The massive shadow of Rhaenix darkened the ground before the dragon landed with a loud thud, his red scales glittering like blood. Jaehaerys barely had time to dismount before Nymeria crashed into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

"You reckless, magnificent fool," she whispered against his armor, which still radiated heat from the dragonfire. "Are you trying to get yourself killed up there?"

Jae's tension visibly melted as he held her close, his dragon-rider facade falling away to reveal the young man beneath. "I'm alright, Nym. Though these Lannister archers have surprisingly good aim." He ran his fingers through her hair, seeking the comfort of her presence after the horror he'd just unleashed.

"Good aim?" Oberyn strode forward, his eyes quickly assessing Jaehaerys for injuries. "Show me where they hit you, boy."

Jae reluctantly separated from Nymeria, pointing to several dents and scratches in his black armor. "Three arrows would have found my heart. Another nearly caught my neck."

The massive dragon snorted in agreement, steam rising from his nostrils. Tyene took an involuntary step back, earning a gentle nudge from Obara.

"What's wrong, sister? Scared of our little brother now?" Obara's voice carried pride rather than mockery. "You should have seen him up there - like Aegon the Conqueror reborn!"

"I'm not scared," Tyene protested, though her eyes kept darting between Jae and the countless charred corpses surrounding them. "It's just... different, seeing him like this."

Jaehaerys noticed her discomfort and softened his expression. "I'm still me, Tyene. The same brother who helped you perfect your poison techniques, remember?" He opened his arms, and after a moment's hesitation, she joined him and Nymeria in an embrace.

"Speaking of techniques," Oberyn interjected, placing a fatherly hand on Jae's shoulder, "that was some impressive maneuvering up there. Though perhaps a bit more risk than I'd prefer for my son."

"Your son?" Jae raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. "I thought I was your prisoner; that's what you used to tell me."

"Yes, well, you were a very annoying prisoner." Oberyn's eyes twinkled with affection. "Always asking questions about everything, following me around like a lost puppy, and I told you that you were our prisoner to scare you away..."

"I was five!" Jae protested while his sisters laughed.

"And now look at you," Oberyn gestured to the battlefield. "Making the mighty Tywin Lannister run with his tail between his legs. Speaking of which..."

"He's heading for Harrenhal," Jae's expression hardened. "With about ten thousand men, maybe less. The rest..." He looked around at the carnage, his voice growing quiet. "The rest are here."

"Thirty thousand dead in a single day," Nymeria squeezed his hand, feeling him tremble slightly. "The songs they'll sing of this..."

"Songs?" Jae's laugh was bitter. "They won't sing of the screams, Nym. Of the smell of burning flesh, of men begging for mercy as their armor melted into their skin..."

"Hey," Oberyn grabbed his shoulders, forcing Jae to meet his eyes. "This is war. They chose their side when they supported the man who would have murdered you in your cradle. When they protected those who killed your sister and brother."

"I know," Jae whispered. "I know they deserved it. But knowing doesn't make it easier to hear their screams."

"Good," Oberyn replied firmly. "The fact that it affects you, that you don't revel in it - that's what makes you different from the Mad King. That's what makes you worthy of that dragon."

Rhaenix rumbled in agreement, lowering her massive head to gently nudge Jaehaerys. The young man reached up to stroke the dragon's scales, drawing strength from the connection.

"And Robert?" he asked, his voice steadier now. "Did he survive?"

"Oh yes," Obara grinned wickedly. "Though he's not too happy about it. Lost quite a bit of blood, but our maesters say he'll live."

"Good. Keep him alive and well-guarded." Jae's eyes grew distant, calculating. "I might use him to force Storm's End to surrender."

"Already thinking like a king," Oberyn nodded approvingly. "Though perhaps we should get you out of that armor first. And you need to eat something - dragon-riding works up quite an appetite, I'm told."

"Food can wait," Jae started to protest, but was immediately confronted by four identical looks of stubborn insistence. He sighed, knowing when he was defeated. "Fine, fine. But first I want to check and see if Rhaenix is injured anywhere..."

"I'll help," Nymeria volunteered, already moving toward the dragon who had become surprisingly tolerant of her presence over the years.

"Me too," Obara declared, never one to be left out.

Tyene hesitated before stepping forward. "I... I can check if any of the bolts were poisoned. Just in case."

Jae smiled warmly at his adopted sisters, feeling the weight of the day's violence lifting slightly from his shoulders. "What would I do without you all?"

"Probably get yourself killed trying to take on the entire Seven Kingdoms alone," Oberyn quipped, then turned serious. "We're family, Jae. All of us. And family stands together."

As they began checking the dragon for wounds, a soldier approached with news about Robert's condition. Jae listened while continuing to run his hands along Rhaenix's scales, his touch gentle despite the power he had unleashed mere hours ago.

"Tell the maesters to keep him comfortable," he commanded. "But watch him carefully. Robert Baratheon's strength isn't just in his hammer - his mind can be just as dangerous."

The soldier bowed and retreated, leaving the family to their task. Above them, the smoke gradually began to clear, revealing patches of blue sky. The war wasn't over - Tywin still lived, and there were other battles to come. But for now, surrounded by his chosen family, Jaehaerys allowed himself a moment of peace amidst the aftermath of destruction.

Tyrion Lannister

The wine skin had become Tyrion's closest companion over the past three days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw men burning, their screams echoing in his ears. Next to him, Podrick Payne swayed in his saddle, looking more ghost than squire.

"Come now, Pod," Tyrion slurred, taking another deep pull from the wine skin. "Nothing builds character quite like watching an army turn to ash. Though I must say, I preferred the metaphorical burning my father usually provides."

Pod merely nodded, his face pale and drawn.

"Look at the bright side," Tyrion continued, gesturing toward the looming shape of Harrenhal. "We're heading to the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Burned by dragonfire once before, and soon to be burned again. There's poetry in that, don't you think?"

Pod's face went even paler.

"Oh, for gods' sake," Tyrion sighed. "Go clean something, Pod. My armor, your armor, the horse's arse – anything to keep your mind occupied."

After riding inside the courtyard. Tyrion practically rolled off his horse, his legs numb from riding. "Pod, remind me to invent a saddle better suited for dwarfs. Preferably one with a wine dispenser."

Pod rushed to steady him, still pale but managing a weak smile. "Perhaps with cushions too, my lord?"

"Now you're thinking! Though at this rate, we might want to add fireproof padding as well." Tyrion gazed up at Harrenhal's twisted towers. "Look at this architectural disaster, Pod. Harren spent forty years building the biggest compensation project in Westeros, and Aegon turned it into modern art."

"At least the wine cellars survived, my lord."

"Pod! Was that actual wit? Perhaps watching an army burn alive has finally brought out your inner cynic." Tyrion patted his squire's arm. "Keep this up, and you might survive this war after all. Though I must say, watching forty thousand men try to outrun a dragon puts my drinking into perspective. Usually, I drink to forget my father's disappointment. Now I drink to forget men cooking in their own armor."

"Like a giant metal oven," Pod muttered, then looked horrified at his own words.

"Gods, Pod, that's dark. I'm so proud." Tyrion wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Next thing you know, you'll be making jokes about my height."

The Hound's massive form appeared, blocking out the sun. "If you two are done giggling like maidens..."

"Ah, Clegane!" Tyrion raised his wine skin. "Come, join our little support group for traumatized survivors. Though I suppose you're used to the smell of burning flesh."

The Hound's burned face twitched. "Careful, Imp."

"My apologies. Too soon? Or too burned?"

Pod choked on his wine, earning a glare from the Hound that quickly softened to something almost resembling amusement.

"That dragon kid is going to burn all of us," the Hound said, accepting the offered wine. "And defeating him on a sword fight will be equally dangerous."

"Really?" Pod's eyes widened. "How do you know?"

"Last year when we visited that fancy place called Highshit," The Hound took a long drink. "I heard he used to call himself Jon Sand. And that kid butchered my brother like the pig that he was."

"Oh," Pod shifted uncomfortably. "I'm... sorry for your loss?"

The Hound let out a bark of laughter that made nearby servants jump. "Sorry? Fuck sorry. Only thing I'm sorry about is that I didn't get to watch longer."

"Not feeling particularly brotherly then?" Tyrion asked dryly. "And here I thought I had the monopoly on family dysfunction."

"Your brother's a cunt," the Hound replied, "but at least he never held your face in a fire."

"No, though he did once convince me to jump off the walls of Casterly Rock." Tyrion paused. "Actually, that might have been my idea. The details are wine-soaked."

"M'lord," Pod ventured, "shouldn't we be... I don't know, more careful talking about... enjoying the death of the Mountain?"

"Careful?" The Hound snorted. "Boy, we're sitting in a castle that's already been burned by dragons once. Careful's a bit late."

"He has a point," Tyrion noted. "Though I must say, you seem rather... unbothered by the dragon's presence, Clegane. Planning to face it in single combat? Avenge your beloved brother?"

"Do I look like a fucking idiot?" The Hound spat. "Dragon boy did me a favor butchering Gregor. Did everyone a favor. If there's a hell, my brother's in the deepest pit, and the world's better for it."

"Rather treasonous talk," Tyrion observed, though his tone was thoughtful rather than accusatory.

"Treason?" The Hound leaned closer. "Tell me, Imp, what's more treasonous – serving a mad kid, or choosing to live?"

Pod's eyes darted between them. "But the Lannisters..."

"The Lannisters are proud," the Hound cut him off. "Pride burns just as pretty as anything else. Smart men know when to change the horse. Loyal men end up as ash."

Tyrion studied the Hound's face carefully. "Are you suggesting..."

"I'm not suggesting anything," the Hound growled. "Just saying a man who survives is worth more than a loyal corpse. You're supposed to be the clever one – figure it out."

A harried-looking soldier interrupted them, practically tripping over himself in his haste. "Lord Tyrion! Your lord father has called a war council. He demands your presence immediately!"

"Ah, duty calls," Tyrion sighed dramatically. "Pod, find us more wine. Lots more. And maybe some clean smallclothes – I suspect this meeting will be thoroughly shit-inducing."

"Watch yourself, Imp," the Hound called after him. "And remember – sometimes a dog knows when to find a new master."

As Tyrion waddled toward the meeting, he couldn't help but think that perhaps the most sensible person in Harrenhal was the man everyone called the King's Dog. The irony would have been delicious if it wasn't so potentially fatal.

As they walked away, Pod leaned down to whisper, "My lord, are we really considering..."

"Pod, my faithful friend, we are considering everything. And right now, everything includes not being turned into the world's shortest torch." Tyrion patted his squire's arm. "Now, about that wine..."

Walking toward the meeting hall, Tyrion's mind was already racing with possibilities. Perhaps it was time for the clever lion to consider a new pride. After all, dragons had always fascinated him – preferably from a non-flammable distance.

Great Hall

The great hall of Harrenhal was thick with tension as Tywin Lannister stood at the head of the table, his face like carved from stone. Kevan sat to his right, while an oddly present Joffrey fidgeted in his chair, the Hound looming behind him.

"Ten thousand," Tywin stated flatly. "From forty thousand, we have ten thousand."

"Nine thousand eight hundred and seventy-three, to be precise," Tyrion corrected, earning a withering glare from his father. "Though I suppose the exact number of survivors matters little when discussing how many men can be turned to ash in a single afternoon."

"Silence," Tywin snapped. He turned to the assembled captains. "Ravens will be sent immediately. Their armies should have been here by now. Sends ravens To Highgarden, Storm's End, every major house in the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North. They will send their armies, or they will be considered enemies of the crown."

Tyrion couldn't help it – he laughed. A sharp, bitter sound that echoed off the melted stone walls.

"Something amusing, Tyrion?" Tywin's voice could have frozen the Seven Hells as Tyrion pulled out a letter and started writing with a quill.

"Oh, several things, Father." He said while still writing something in the letter and not looking at his father. "Shall I list them? First, the notion that anyone would send their armies to join our glorious cause to fight a dragon because trust me, the word is spreading like wildfire already ironic. I'm sure that by the end of the week, every lord worth a shit in Westeros will learn about the existence of the dragon, and trust me, no one wants to become dragon food. Second, the fact that we're sitting in the very castle that demonstrates what happens when you defy dragons. And third..." He gestured to Joffrey, "even our beloved prince hasn't made his usual bold proclamations about destroying our enemies. Haven't heard a single threat about mounting anyone's head on a spike in hours."

Joffrey's face reddened. "I'll have your tongue for that, Imp. My father is dead, so that makes me King Joffrey, not a prince anymore!"

"There's the Joffrey we know and tolerate," Tyrion raised his cup. "Though I notice you're not threatening the dragon."

Even the Hound's scarred face twitched in what might have been amusement.

"The Lannister name still commands respect," Tywin insisted. "Fear—"

"Fear?" Tyrion interrupted, earning gasps from the captains. "Oh yes, people fear you, Father. They fear your gold, your armies, your reputation for dealing with defiant vassals. But do you know what they fear more? Being cooked alive in their own armor. Even our dear Joffrey, who has all the tactical acumen of a particularly slow sheep, understands that. Face it, House Lannister is doomed."

"House Lannister does not surrender," Tywin's voice was deadly quiet.

"Okay, we die then." Tyrion wrote in the letter.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing to all my precious whores." Tyrion answered as he wrote the same words on the letter. "Your favorite cock is not coming back." he added with a little smile and finished the letter before letting the ink dry and looking up at his father. "Maybe we should just run, and let Joffrey fight the dragon."

"I am the king!" Joffrey stood, his face purple with rage. "I'll show that dragon what happens to those who defy me! I'll—"

"You'll what?" Tyrion challenged. "Feed it your crossbow bolts? I'm sure that will give it terrible indigestion before it turns you into royal kindling."

"Enough!" Tywin's fist crashed onto the table. "The situation can be salvaged. The beast cannot be everywhere at once. If we coordinate with our allies—"

"What allies?" Tyrion emptied his cup. "The Reach is already considering Jaehaerys's offer. The North marches for him – he is Lyanna Stark's son, after all. The Vale sits behind its mountains, and the Riverlands..." He smiled grimly. "Well, Catelyn Tully is married to Lord Stark, so I don't think I need to point out how that will go."

"Grandfather," Joffrey whined, "make him stop talking! He's a traitor!"

"For once, Your Grace, I'm the only one speaking sense," Tyrion replied. "There are times to fight, times to negotiate, and times to accept that we're well and truly fucked. Guess which one this is?"

"House Lannister does not surrender," Tywin said the same words again.

"House Lannister has never faced a dragon before," Tyrion countered. "Unless you've got one hidden away in Casterly Rock? No? Then perhaps we should consider that our words are not 'Hear Me Roar' but rather 'Watch Me Burn.'"

The Hound actually snorted at that, quickly covering it with a cough when Tywin's glare found him.

"I won't bend the knee to some dragon spawn!" Joffrey declared, though his voice cracked slightly.

"Then don't bend it," Tyrion suggested. "Keep it straight and proud right up until the flames reach you. I'm sure it will be a great comfort as you die screaming."

"My lord," one of the captains spoke up hesitantly, "Lord Tyrion might have a point. The men... they're terrified. Many are deserting. They say no amount of gold is worth—"

"Cowards," Tywin cut him off. "We will restore order. Double the guard on the gates. Any deserter will be executed."

"Wonderful plan," Tyrion nodded sagely. "Kill our own men to prevent them from being killed by the dragon. That will surely improve morale."

"Perhaps," Kevan suggested carefully, "we should at least consider opening negotiations?"

"Yes," Tyrion agreed, finally someone with common sense, that was rare to find nowadays. "Though I suggest we lead with something other than 'We're the people who murdered his family and usurped his throne.' Maybe mention how lovely the weather is?"

Tywin stood slowly, his green eyes flecked with gold fixing on each person in turn. "We will fight. We will rally our forces. And we will crush this pretender like we crushed his father."

"His father didn't have a dragon," Tyrion pointed out. "Rather an important detail, I'd say. But by all means, let's repeat the tactics that worked against men wearing armor against a beast that breathes fire. I'm sure it will work out splendidly."

"Get out," Tywin ordered. "All of you. Except you, Tyrion."

As the others filed out, Joffrey pausing to shoot Tyrion a venomous look, Tyrion reached for the wine pitcher. "Wonderful. Just the two of us. Should I assume this is where you explain your brilliant plan to defeat a dragon with stern looks and disappointment?" As Tyrion said that, he wondered one thing. Where was Jaime? How did he know the dragon was real? And why did he not tell them sooner?

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