Chapter 21

Inside the walls of Storm's End, it was another typical overcast day. Sharp gusts of wind battered the massive stone towers, causing the Baratheon banners to flutter violently. The cold castle walls were damp with moisture, and a faint smell of mold rose from the wet floors. Aeryon, listening to the sound of the sea beyond the fortress, tried to keep his composure while awaiting important news from Duskendale. He understood that the main event must have already occurred, turning the days of waiting into pure torment for him.

During the midday meal, a breathless messenger burst into the hall, and everyone present immediately fell silent. His breath was wheezy, and his face was flushed from running. Steffon and several of his loyal knights watched the messenger intently. Lord Baratheon took a letter from his hands, broke the royal seal that confirmed the message's authenticity, and began to read. Soon, a tense silence settled around him. Moments later, Lord Baratheon's massive fist slammed down on the table with ferocious force, leaving a dent in the sturdy oak wood, causing everyone to flinch. The infant in Cassana's arms began to cry out of fear, while Stannis and Aeryon focused their gazes on Steffon.

After a moment of thought, Lord Baratheon handed the letter to the prince, believing he had every right to know. With each word he read, the Targaryen's face grew darker, and his hand clenched the letter tighter. He had known about the events long before they were reported, but he was obliged to play his part.

"Aerys is a prisoner," Aeryon said through gritted teeth, his eyes filled with hatred. "Denys Darklyn has broken his oaths and risen in rebellion against the Crown. Gwayne Gaunt is dead."

His voice, full of anger, echoed throughout the hall. But inside, Aeryon was elated — everything had gone according to plan. Steffon, however, rose abruptly from his seat, watching the prince closely.

"Those bastards must pay. What do you plan to do?" he asked, trying to understand what was going through his ward's mind.

"We must act quickly, Lord Steffon," Aeryon replied, turning to him. "This rebellion must be crushed before it spreads further. Allow me to take three and a half thousand men, and I will lead them to the walls of Duskendale on Solarex."

The prince paused, gauging Lord Baratheon's reaction. Steffon frowned, seemingly pondering what he had just heard.

"Isn't that too few? And I wanted to smash Darklyn's head myself."

Aeryon looked at Steffon and seemed to ponder for a moment. It was very important for him to lead the Stormlands forces himself; that's why he proposed a number of troops that he would be entrusted with. However, the prince understood he could not be too pushy. Excessive confidence could raise suspicions. Instead, he needed to play his game carefully, keeping Lord Baratheon ensnared by his words.

"Three and a half thousand is the perfect number for rapid movement," the young dragon responded, maintaining confidence in his voice. "We will catch them by surprise before they have a chance to fortify their positions. But if you, Lord Steffon, wish to join, we will need more time for preparations. Every minute could cost our king's life. Besides, I'm more than certain that the West and Crownlands will send far greater forces."

Steffon squinted, carefully observing his ward. His eyes burned with rage, but behind this mask, a cold calculation was visible. He knew Aeryon was right. Time was their enemy.

"Fine, have it your way," Steffon replied, his voice slightly subdued, as if he had made an important decision. "But know this, boy, you will be responsible for my men. And if anything goes wrong..."

Upon hearing this, the prince nodded confidently, his face remaining serious and focused. Deep down, he already anticipated the chaos and benefits his plan would bring. But outwardly, he was the embodiment of prudence and loyalty.

"I will not fail you, Lord Steffon. We will save the king and punish the traitors."

Baratheon was silent for a few moments, then rose and, placing a hand on Aeryon's shoulder, added:

"I'm counting on you. It's been a long time since the day you first sailed to my lands. Before me now is no longer that spoiled boy, but a worthy prince. Stannis will join you — it's time he sees for himself what a real battle is like."

For the first time during his time in the Stormlands, the Targaryen bowed in gratitude for all the training provided to him here. He understood perfectly that every word, every movement now mattered. Steffon Baratheon was a man accustomed to seeing weakness in people, so not a shadow of doubt should arise about the prince's motives.

"You will be proud of me, Lord Steffon," Aeryon added confidently, skillfully concealing his true joy at the successful move in his game.

The Lord of Storm's End nodded, his stern face slightly softening. In his eyes was the look of a fatherly pride, but also a shadow of concern. Too much depended on this young dragon.

"I hope so." Baratheon released Aeryon's shoulder and nodded approvingly. "Go. Gather the men, and I'll order provisions and weapons to be prepared. Remember, Aeryon, always be on your guard — anything can happen on the way."

Targaryen nodded and turned to leave the dining hall. As he exited, he noticed Stannis's intense gaze. Aeryon was glad that after the tournament in Highgarden, Robert had returned to the Eyrie, or else Steffon would not have hesitated to appoint him as the leader of the army.

Crossing the main courtyard of the castle, Aeryon quickly found Ser Oswell and Barristan, then instructed them to find Harbert Baratheon and assemble the forces of the Stormlands together. Storm's End, though an impregnable fortress, was always ready for possible mobilization.

Within a few hours, the entire castle was abuzz with activity. The soldiers' forged boots thudded dully on the wet ground of the courtyard, knights shouted sharp commands, and blacksmiths tirelessly forged the final pieces of armor and weapons. Horses neighed loudly and stomped their hooves on the cobblestones, as if sensing the coming storm.

Aeryon watched the preparations from a high tower, gazing at the horizon. He watched every movement closely; although he was ready for action, the young Targaryen had never had such experience before. The prince understood that to earn Steffon's and his men's trust, he needed not only to lead but to show determination. Of course, he also had one significant advantage...

The next moment, from beneath the overcast clouds, a majestic golden dragon emerged, larger than a war galley. Its terrifying roar echoed throughout the castle, startling both people and steeds. Naturally, the inhabitants of Storm's End had seen Solarex more than once, but even now, many of them looked up at the sky with fear and awe. The massive creature hovered over the fortress for a moment, then soared upwards, disappearing into the sky. Aeryon knew that its presence would give their troops additional confidence and instill fear in their enemies.

The next day, when the assembly was complete, Targaryen decided to personally inspect the troops. The gold on his dark armor shimmered in the dim light of the overcast day, and his footsteps echoed heavily against the stone walls of the courtyard.

Soldiers squared their shoulders and stood up straight as he approached, while commanders barked out final orders. The prince walked along the rows of warriors, his gaze evaluating their faces. Many of them were grim and battle-hardened, having spilled blood in battles more than once.

Others were young, barely of age, but their eyes burned with the same fire that could ignite any campaign for justice and vengeance. Aeryon understood that such men would be needed in the future, and now he had the opportunity not only to practice but also to earn a proper reputation.

Approaching a group of fighters, he nodded to them, and his voice sounded firm:

"Today, we march to Duskendale. I expect precise execution of orders and full commitment from you. We have little time, and every minute counts. Lord Steffon has entrusted us with this task, and we must meet his expectations."

The knights responded with curt nods, and one of them, a rather young commander with clear blue eyes, said:

"We are ready, Your Highness. Everyone here knows what needs to be done."

"Excellent."

He turned and headed toward his horse, black as night, already held by a groom. Aeryon confidently mounted the saddle and took the reins. It seemed important to him to travel at least half the way to Duskendale alongside his men and only switch to the dragon at the end.

Soon, the column slowly moved south, leaving the high walls of the castle behind. Targaryen rode ahead, his black cloak billowing in the wind, followed by neat rows of steel-clad warriors. Next to him rode Stannis, who, though trying to appear confident, showed tension in his eyes.

Their horses trod steadily on the road, and the heavy wheels of wagons laden with provisions and weapons creaked under their weight. The wind from the sea brought with it the sharp smell of salt and seaweed, mingled with the faint scent of rain.

POV Denys Darklyn's

Meanwhile, in the stone chambers of Duskendale, lit only by the flickering of candles, Lord Denys Darklyn paced back and forth, occasionally stopping at the window to peer into the horizon. His wife, Lady Serala, sat by the table, nervously entwining her fingers.

"Do you think they will truly storm us?" she asked, carefully choosing her words.

Denys smirked, but there was an unease in his eyes that could not be hidden behind bravado.

"You seem to have forgotten that we have the king, and the prince is not as mad as his father to ignore the consequences. Of course, they will come, but the question is, how long can they hold out?"

Lady Serala looked at her husband; her face was anxious. "And us?"

Denys did not reply. At that moment, the door burst open, and a breathless knight rushed into the room. His face was pale, and his voice trembled with excitement.

"They have come, my lord. The royal forces are at our walls."

Darklyn froze for a moment, then quickly headed for the exit. His heart was pounding, not from fear, but from the awareness that the moment had come. As he ascended the sturdy walls of Duskendale, he felt the cold wind whip against his face. When he reached the top, his gaze fell upon the vast army spread out before the castle.

Thousands of soldiers in heavy armor were lined up in rows; their banners fluttered in the wind. But none of this mattered, as what caught his attention the most was one thing — a blood-red dragon soaring in the sky, its wings reflecting a fiery glow even through the gray clouds. On the dragon's back sat Rhaegar Targaryen. His silver hair billowed in the wind, and his dark indigo eyes were fixed on Darklyn.

Lord Denys involuntarily clenched his teeth, fear and hatred merging into one sharp feeling.

"Let him try," Darklyn muttered under his breath, gripping the hilt of his sword. "We are ready."

He glanced back at his men, seeing fear in their eyes but also a determination to fight to the end. Now, everything would depend on how long they could hold out against fire and blood.