Chapter 47: The March Begins

Spring, 301 AC

The wind howled over the cliffs of Dragonstone, carrying the scent of salt and smoke as the banners of House Targaryen rippled in the morning breeze. Below, the Blackwater Bay churned with the restless movement of ships—war galleys, transports, and supply vessels—each bearing the sigil of the dragon or the sun and spear. The time for waiting had passed. The march had begun.

Aemon Targaryen stood at the edge of the balcony, clad in black and red armor, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His Unsullied legions, the finest warriors of Essos, moved in precise formations across the docks, preparing for departure. Behind them, the Dornish spearmen, hardened by years of battle in the desert, mingled with Aemon's forces, their banners standing proudly beside the three-headed dragon.

Beside him, Daenerys Targaryen watched with quiet intensity, her mind split between the fate of their child and the coming war. Sansa Stark, dressed in deep crimson, stood nearby, her gaze hardening as she thought of King's Landing, where her enemies still held power. And then there was Arianne Martell, whose presence had added an unspoken tension to their court, her dark eyes often lingering on Aemon longer than was proper.

The War Council

The great hall of Dragonstone was alight with torches as the final war council commenced. Now, the weight of strategy rested solely on those in the room.

Luther Rlle traced a finger over the map, his expression grim. "We have the advantage of surprise, my king. The Lannisters are still licking their wounds from the unrest in King's Landing. If we strike before they can reinforce the city, victory will be swift."

Prince Oberyn Martell, who also arrived with Arianne's leaning against a stone pillar, smirked. "I say we burn them out. Fire and blood—the old Targaryen way."

Aemon, however, remained contemplative. "A quick victory means nothing if we inherit a broken realm. I want King's Landing intact. No unnecessary destruction."

Arianne's voice carried through the room, smooth as silk. "And when you take the Iron Throne, my prince, what then? Will you let the lions live, or will you rip their throats out?"

Sansa stiffened, but Aemon merely met Arianne's gaze. "The guilty will answer for their crimes. I will not be another tyrant who rules with fear."

Oberyn chuckled. "Mercy is a luxury in war."

Daenerys, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "Mercy is not the same as weakness. If we burn King's Landing to the ground, we will rule over ashes. My brother sought to unite the realm. We must do the same."

Aemon nodded. "Then we set sail at dawn."

Departure from Dragonstone

The next morning, the fleet began its departure. Ancalagon, Aemon's mighty dragon, soared above the ships, his wings casting a vast shadow over the waves.

Aemon stood on the lead vessel, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Missandei, her ever-calm presence by his side, read aloud the names of the lords who had already pledged fealty. The numbers were growing, but the real battle lay ahead.

Sansa stood at the ship's bow, her red hair whipping in the wind. Tyrion Lannister still rotted in the dungeons of King's Landing. Tywin Lannister sat upon a false throne, ruling through a child. The Freys, who had betrayed her brother, still drew breath. But that would change soon.

Arianne leaned against the railing, watching Aemon. "You are leading an army to reclaim your birthright. Does it feel real yet?"

Aemon turned to her, his expression unreadable. "It has always been real. But now, it begins."

The fleet pressed forward, black sails filling the sky. The March on King's Landing had begun.