The Targaryen Legacy

Tywin Lannister truly hated having his offers thrown back in his face. King Aerys the Mad had done it to him twice, when the Lion of the West offered his maiden daughter Cersei first to Rhaegar and then to Aelor, with the intention of his grandchildren sitting the Iron Throne one way or another.

And now it seemed Quellon Greyjoy had done the same.

Words could not describe the feeling Tywin had had when he'd learned the rebel lords had bent the knee to Aelor Targaryen mere days before he escaped the black cells. The Lion of Lannister still had thirty thousand men in the Westerlands, having taken only his personal retinue and the retinues of several of his lords to King's Landing for the sake of speed. He'd intended on using those thirty thousand to link up with Robert Baratheon's army and utterly annihilate the dynasty that had insulted the Lion so, killing every Targaryen man, woman or child. It was why he'd sent the men after the boy Aegon and his sister after they'd killed the Martell woman, who had had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But even that feeling of anger paled in comparison to the one he had now. He had barely been in Casterly Rock a day when he sent an envoy to the Iron Islands, offering the last region unaffected by the war mountains of gold for their aide in overthrowing a dynasty that had grown only stronger during Tywin's imprisonment despite the death of two kings. He had patiently awaited their response, rallying his bannermen outside Lannisport-a mere mile from his seat of power at Casterly Rock-as his son and heir Jaime scoured the hills of the Westerlands for potential places to ambush the Royal army. Now, at last, he had his answer.

It came in the form of his burning fleet.

The ships at Lannisport, over thirty galleys and several smaller craft, had been raided during the night, put to flame by the sleek longships of the Ironborn. Their raid had been quick and vicious, laying credence to the Ironmen scum's experience at pillaging, not a single ship or her crew spared, burned to the watermark and sinking to the bottom of the port.

It was particularly damning considering Tywin had, however briefly, had naval superiority. Reports from his spies in the capital-and he still had many, even with his puppet Pycelle reduced to a rotting head on a spike-had reported the Royal Navy and Redwyne Fleet had both been severely damaged by the massive storm that racked the eastern coast. While Tywin knew his best strategy was to fight defensively in the favorable terrain of the Westerlands, he had been tempted to board his ships and wreak havoc on the lands of the Targaryen loyalists.

He'd hoped the Ironborn would assist him. Instead, they'd assisted the second son of Aerys. Tywin knew the Targaryen whelp had struck a deal first, a truth that irritated the Lion all the more.

While their attack had been a surprise, they'd had no hope of carrying Lannisport. The city was too well defended by its curtain walls and highly trained City Watch, and with Tywin's swelling armies camped in the flats outside her gates they'd have been hurled back into the sea. Quellon Greyjoy seemed to know it too, and subsequently had settled for burning the fleet and pillaging the few locations outside the city before pulling back to his longships. The reavers had vanished almost as soon as they arrived, doubtlessly sailing for other locations along the coast of the Westerlands.

Already his coastal lords were restless, fear for the families they'd left relatively undefended a constant threat to the stability of his force. Tywin knew many harbored doubts of whether there was even a flicker of hope in this war, only the fear of his reprisal should they dither in their duty-something Tywin had made a point of instilling in his bannermen-keeping them in line.

Matters were made only worse by the lack of response from Lord Leo Lefford of the Golden Tooth. None of his men, outriders or retinue, had made an appearance, and reports indicated they had yet to be raised. The Targaryen armies were on the move, having left King's Landing a month earlier or roundabout that time, but his scouts were not returning, being systematically picked off by the Targaryen outriders.

In truth, they had backed the Lion into a corner.

It was time to show them that a predator was never more dangerous than when trapped.

"Tybolt." One of his countless Lannisport cousins, Tybolt Lannister bore all the normal Lannister features, from golden hair to attractive build. A supposedly pious man-though Tywin knew he had an utterly cruel streak, one he was about to use-he had taken particular offense to the Ironborn raid, considering the 'heathens and their fish god' to be utter devils, the wrongs of the world made into flesh. The Lord Paramount of the Westerlands had told him the attack was all Aelor Targaryen's doing, and the one dimensional mind of Tybolt had as expected developed a hatred for the second son of Aerys as a result.

Tywin could work with hate. Sometimes it was nearly as good a motivator as fear.

Nearly.

"My Lord?"

"The spikes. Do it."

Tybolt Lannister smiled cruelly. "At once, my lord."

His cavalry covered a lot of ground in a short amount of time, and he soon found himself entering the foothills east of the Golden Tooth.

Edmure Tully, a stocky boy of twelve, wasn't proving near as useful a squire as Alaric had been, but the lad was learning and Aelor supposed he couldn't ask for much more than that. The heir to the Riverlands was mainly here as a hostage after all, and Aelor knew he should be thankful for the lads desire to be of help.

Still, you'd think the lad would at least know how to properly rub down a horse.

Aelor reprimanded Edmure gently, for the third night in a row showing the lad the correct way to rub down a stallion after a long ride, before adjourning to his tent. Alaric had earned the knighthood Aelor gave him at the Trident, surviving when many much more experienced men had died despite his youth of five and ten. He'd saved Aelor when Baratheon's charge had unhorsed him, holding off men twice his age and experience while the dragonlord regained his feet. As a knight the lad was entitled to his own pavilion and squire, yet he still slept in the same corner of Aelor's tent as he had when he was a squire, sharing the space with the Tully boy.

Alaric had proven near as loyal as Manfred Darke, the mean knight that Aelor knew was rather poorly suited to this particular venture. The squat man, despite his knighthood, hated horses with a passion-though in truth Manfred hated most things with a passion, so it shouldn't have been surprising-and rode like the boulder he was. As they lead the column through the Riverlands Aelor was constantly buffeted by the big man's curses as he swore at his bloody stupid courser, the bloody stupid wet, the bloody stupid Lannisters and any other bloody stupid thing the knight could think of to complain about.

This was a duty much better suited for Barristan, but Aelor wasn't having that.

Oberyn Martell was seated at the table in Aelor's tent, Ellaria Sand as always in his lap. The bastard of Uller had taken a motherly interest in both Aegon and Rhaenys, assisting Ashara with their care during their brief stay in the capital, but she had followed Oberyn back on campaign when the cavalry had ridden out. Aelor had gotten the notion that she followed Oberyn everywhere the Prince of Dorne went, and while their clear intimacy made the dragonlord happy for his friend, it also tore at his heart.

Another figure sat the table near Alaric, methodically slicing off hunks of the salted pork before him with a dagger. Baelor Hightower, the heir to Oldtown, was commonly known as Brightsmile due to his attractive features. In his late mid to late twenties, he also was no slouch with a sword, proving so at the Trident. He had been one of less than a hundred men to survive from Aelor's front line-all of whom were with the cavalry now-slaying in single combat both the Vale Lord Wydman and his heir among others. Those facts had led to a healthy dose of respect for the Reachman from Aelor, and the Hightower knight had slowly been integrated into the command chain.

"The scouts?" Aelor asked as he entered, armor clanking. Most knights forsook their heavy plate when battle wasn't nearing, the steel plates capable of pinching all sorts of areas a man didn't want pinched, but Aelor felt at home in his. The armor had nearly become a second skin, as familiar to him as the sword and dagger sheathed at his waist.

Oberyn reached a hand out to Hightower, the very same man he had dubiously christened 'Breakwind' when he and Elia had visited Oldtown in search of potential betrothals. While the nickname had certainly ended any chance of Baelor being a suitor, Oberyn and the Hightower had developed an odd friendship, and Brightsmile sliced off a hunk of ham and handed it to the Dornishman.

All of Oberyn's friendships are odd, I suppose. Hell, my friendship with Oberyn is odd.

"My outriders claim there is no sign of a force at the Golden Tooth," Oberyn said as he popped the salted pork into his mouth. "The man hasn't even raised levies."

"Ser Manfred killed the raven to him, we know, but Lefford surely must know by now what is going on." Brightsmile offered another slice of the ham to Aelor as he took his own seat, the Dragon Prince waving it away and instead reaching for pitcher of wine.

"A war is certainly a hard thing to ignore," Aelor agreed.

"Do you suppose he intends to let us march through?" Alaric had grown more vocal after his knighthood, at times even a bit cocky, but he was still a good lad at heart, and he had thrown his entire being into learning strategy. Aelor knew quite well he was a poor choice as a teacher, much better with a sword than with a formation, but the Prince Regent was trying to improve as well, learning as much if not more than Alaric did.

"Perhaps," Oberyn said. "Maybe all of Tywin Lannister's vassals aren't as afraid of him as everyone seems to believe."

Brightsmile was methodically destroying the chunk of ham, prompting Aelor to wonder just how a man who ate as much as the heir to Oldtown could maintain his thin figure. "Maybe they aren't all stupid . Any man who believes the Lannister's have a chance in this are fools, especially after the Greyjoys came through with their end of the bargain."

Aelor took another gulp of the Arbor gold. "As loathe as I am to admit it, if any man can turn this situation around to his advantage it is Tywin Lannister."

"He'll have a hard time turning this one around," came the stone breaking voice of Ser Manfred as he stomped into the tent, white armor shining and face shockingly less of a scowl than normal. It was still very much a scowl, showing his hatred of everything with every line and contour, but for Manfred Darke the expression very nearly passed for a smile. "There is someone here to see you."

Lord Leo Lefford was every bit as scared of Tywin Lannister as the next man, but he wasn't stupid.

Middle-aged and greying, Lefford felt no shame in admitting his fear of his liege lord. Only a complete idiot wouldn't fear the Lion of the Rock, Lannister both fiercely intelligent and utterly ruthless. Leo had been there when they'd redirected the river to flood Castamere, knowing that every Reyne inside, man, woman or child, would die. Tywin Lannister's face, even in his youth, had shown no sense of remorse as the waters flooded the underground castle, only the clenched-jaw sternness he had shown in all the years since.

Leo's fear had begun then, and it had only grown in the decades after.

But enough was enough. The Lord of the Golden Tooth was unsure why he hadn't received a raven as the other Lords of the Westerlands had seemed to-though he was willing to wager it was due to the men he was about to meet-but the fact remained that he had not, and by the time he had learned that the war had reached the Rock reports had begun pouring in that a Targaryen host was nearing his lands from Riverrun.

Tywin Lannister would have his head and the heads of all his family, few as they were, if Lord Leo was to forsake his liege lord, but Tywin Lannister was miles away at Casterly Rock, and Prince Aelor Targaryen was at his doorstep.

The decision wasn't nearly as hard as one might expect.

He'd taken no one with him and offered no explanation when he'd ridden out of his small but stout castle guarding the pass through the mountains. He hadn't said a word, other than ordering his castellan to assist as best he could Leo's daughter Alysanne should he never return, saddling up and riding down the valleys and spurs of the foothills he ruled to the Targaryen camp.

The sentries were good, shouting out warnings for him to identify himself long before he saw any sign of them. Dornishmen, they had eyed him warily when he'd identified himself, one disappearing and bringing back a Kingsguard knight. Lord Leo couldn't saw what the white cloak's name was, but he was perhaps the broadest and ugliest man the Lord of the Golden Tooth had ever seen this side of Gregor Clegane.

He was certainly a sharp contrast to the figure the Kingsguard led Leo to.

Aelor Targaryen had all the Valyrian features Lefford had heard about, violet eyes, silvery hair and fair skin. Taller than average with broad shoulders, he looked every bit the warrior Prince rumor had him to be, down to the scarred countenance and the authoritative air that hung around him. His scar was an undeniably ugly thing, broad and jagged, but the beauty the blood of Old Valyria so often possessed was still visible beneath it.

Alysanne would be enamored with him, Lefford knew. That was when his plan began to formulate.

"Lord Lefford," The Targaryen Prince said, flanked on one side by another Dornishmen and the other by a tall, fairly attractive man a decade Leo's younger. "As you might imagine, this is quite the surprise."

Leo bowed at the waist. "Prince Aelor Targaryen. I see you have an army nearing my castle."

The Prince cocked his head slightly to the side. "Your eyes certainly don't betray you, though I wonder if perhaps your mind has. Normally, a man doesn't ride unaccompanied and without a flag of truce into an enemy's camp."

"And who said we were enemies, Prince Aelor?"

"Your liege lord Tywin Lannister, for one." The dragonlord gestured to the Dornishman beside him. "Prince Oberyn for another."

Leo met the Prince of Dorne's eyes, holding Martell's slight glare easily. You are a man to be feared, Prince Oberyn, that I know, but your glare has nothing on Tywin Lannister's. "I do not blame him. I heard of Princess Elia's murder around the same time that I learned you were nearing my lands. I am sorry for your loss, though I myself had no hand in it."

The Red Viper said nothing, though his glare lightened ever so slightly. Targaryen spoke for him, tone both intrigued and wary. "Why are you here, Lord Lefford?"

Leo turned to the Targaryen. "I will admit, if I had been aware of this new development in the war sooner I likely wouldn't be. As it is, I received no raven from Lord Tywin until it was far too late to prepare for you and your knights. I don't intend for my people to suffer and die because I was ill informed."

The Dragon of Duskendale pointed behind Lord Leo, where the short and stout Kingsguard knight stood with his hand on his sword. "You have Ser Manfred Darke to thank for that. He cut the head off of raven meant for you."

Leo glanced at the scowling knight briefly. "That is quite the shame, at least for Tywin Lannister." Lefford turned back towards the dragonlord. "But I daresay it was a blessing for you."

The Prince nodded lightly. "Go on."

"As I'm sure your scouts have reported, I have not raised my levies. The Tooth is a stout castle, and even with only my retinue and household guard to defend it you and your men would have quite the battle on your hands to breach it. But you would breach it, sooner or later, and I and my family would be held accountable for my liege lord's crimes."

The Prince of the Iron Throne nodded again. "Yes, you would."

"Call me cowardly if you will, but that doesn't sit well with me."

Prince Oberyn Martell spoke for the first time then, still sizing Leo up. "It is not cowardly to admit fear."

The other man, who still hadn't been introduced and Leo wasn't going to ask after, nodded his head in agreement. "Nay, it takes its own kind of courage."

Leo charged on. "Your father was not a good King, Prince Aelor, and I understand the reasons behind this rebellion. But your father is dead, as is your brother and the man he insulted. My liege lord made his own mistakes, ones that he cannot redeem himself of, and I don't intend my family to suffer for his follies." Leo gingerly sank to one knee, the old arrow wound he'd taken in the Stepstones flaring up with the motion. "The Golden Tooth is yours, Prince Aelor, as is my sword and the swords of my men."

Aelor Targaryen nodded, gesturing for Lord Leo to rise. With a grunt the Lord of the Tooth did, cursing for the millionth time the Tyroshi who shot him. "You are a smart man, Lord Lefford."

Prince Oberyn's tone had lost its venom, turning curious. "You would willingly disobey Tywin Lannister? I thought all you Westerlanders feared him."

Leo shrugged. "I do fear him, more than I fear either of you, Princes. But Tywin Lannister is miles away and you are right here, with a larger army as well. If I am to be afraid, I would fear the dragon at my doorstep rather than the lion in the leaves."

Aelor Targaryen was smiling. "You are a blunt man, Leo Lefford. I daresay I am going to like you." The Dragon of Duskendale gestured to the open pavilion behind him. "I suppose you would like a glass of wine? It seems customary for these sort of agreements."

Leo Lefford smiled lightly. "I would very much like one, Your Grace." He turned around to gesture the way he had come hours earlier, the moon silhouetting the growing hills and mountains behind him where deep within his castle lay. "But I believe I have a much more comfortable venue."