Frozen Flames: The Saga of the Ice Dragon (Completed)

A dozen candles flickered through his tent. In his lap laid the freshly polished Blackfyre – Lucas had been most keen to perform the task. Lord Fossoway sat to his right, Lord Tarly to his left for none could dispute their seniority as commanders of the army any longer. Other commanders and warriors who'd proven their mettle during the battle stood around the tent, glaring at the prisoners while his Kingsguard stood at his back. Even some newcomers joined his fledgling Court in the last two days, Lord Rowan and Lord Tyrell chief among them. Scouts reported Hightower a day's march away, twenty thousand men at his back.

To the left of the table, the entire treasury of the Golden Company had been piled up, a dozen crates filled to the brim with gold. The men who escaped the battle tried to take the treasury and make a run for it, but Lord Tarly quickly put an end to all such notions. How much more wealth they'd pull off the bodies of the dead and the captured, Jae could only guess. Enough to buy the Golden Company and then some. Enough to buy a kingdom. Jaehaerys had all sorts of plans for it.

On their knees before him knelt the principal commanders of the sellswords and all those who joined the cause of the Blackfyre pretender. Harry Strickland glared up at him with the look of a man who meant to go to his grave shouting insults and cursing everyone around him. Ser Barristan nearly cutting off his hand probably hasn't helped his disposition.

The rest of the sellsword commanders looked much the same. They had nothing to offer him; all of the captured men they commanded, if they weren't maimed or dead, had already offered to buy their freedom by fighting for Jaehaerys. There weren't many, a thousand or so, but Jaehaerys had no intention of wasting their desperation.

The allies of the Golden Company, on the other hand, looked much different. Ser Errent Florent trembled like a leaf, having found himself the Head of House Florent at its historic low point. His brother Ser Axel had the bright idea to challenge Ser Arthur to single-combat and lost his head for it. Not much of a loss, come to think of it. He wasn't using it anyway.

To the left of the little group knelt the two surviving Oakheart men, Ser Artys and Ser Arys. The eldest brother, the one who had led them into the entire mess, got himself killed on the initial charge and Jaehaerys apparently killed the second-eldest brother himself. I can barely remember it. He had to give the two men credit, though. They did not cower before him nor did they glare hatefully. Solemn-faced and grief-stricken, they stared into the middle distance, awaiting his judgment.

Outside the tent, his victorious and weary army rested for the night, having spent the day looting corpses and preparing to march from whence they came.

"That's the rightful King of Westeros your men killed, boy," Strickland accused, spitting at his feet.

Jae gave him a look of utmost indifference. The times when Blackfyres could spin such nonsense had long passed. He had expected that they might label him a kinslayer, while conveniently forgetting how desperate they had been to kill him.

A guard put the butt of his spear into Strickland's stomach when the man went to get up, sending him into the ground face-forward, coughing and wheezing, hands tied behind his back.

He hadn't asked for the sellswords to be brought before him to listen to their bleatings. He brought them so the other traitors witnessed their fate and trembled in anticipation. "Your machinations fall on deaf ears, Strickland. Why anyone would listen to a sellsword's opinion on succession is beyond me, anyhow." The men around the tent chuckled at that.

"I am a knight!" Strickland thundered, trying to free his hands from their binds. "I come from a noble House of the Realm."

"Once-noble House of the Realm. It's been a century since anyone called a Strickland 'My Lord', hasn't it?" Jae's words cut deep, he could see it. "And I don't know how you can claim we've killed the rightful King of Westeros. The Florents are descended from Garth Greenhand, but you don't see Ser Errent claiming Ser Arthur also killed the King of the Reach."

That got him a full-blown round of laughter from the men, all of them savoring the humiliation of their fallen foes. That's not right, he immediately chastised himself, noticing Mace Tyrell's gleeful grin and Ser Arthur's grim expression. I shouldn't have said that.

"Is that it?" Strickland asked. "You've brought us here to mock us?" The other sellswords watched him through hooded eyes.

"Not at all. I've brought you here because it is only proper to look a man in the eye before you give out your sentence." He straightened in his seat and cleared his throat. "As commanders of the Golden Company, I hereby find you guilty of invading the sovereign Realm of Westeros, of causing the deaths of thousands, and attempting to place the Pretender Daemon IV Blackfyre upon the Throne of Westeros. As such, I hereby sentence you to death. The execution will take place at dawn."

He nodded to the guards. They each grabbed one of the commanders and dragged them out of the tent, kicking and shouting. His eyes fell on the three remaining men. There were more men outside in the bullpens, knights and minor Lords who'd sworn their swords to traitors, fearfully awaiting his decision.

The three of them watched the Golden Company commanders leave with terror plain in their eyes. "Now then," Jaehaerys said, wiping imaginary lint from his doublet. "If you all have some great story to tell me, one that might come close to explaining why you thought it a good idea to side with a Blackfyre pretender and rebel against the Crown, now's the time to tell it."

They kept their silence, but Jae saw the discreet glance between the two brothers, saw the way Ser Ryam went to look up but stopped himself at the last second.

"Come now," Jaehaerys prodded. "Tell me tales of Varys' schemes to get you into this war." He wagered Ser Ryam would break first. "Lord Florent?"

Ser Errent flinched at his new title, hesitantly meeting Jae's eyes. "There is no excuse, Your Grace."

"Oh, I know," Jaehaerys agreed. "I'm merely looking for an explanation."

"I—I don't have that either, Your Grace. My Uncle, Ser Axel, hoped he'd be named Lord Paramount of the Reach in exchange for his support of the Blackfyre boy," Ser Errent said, his voice growing steadier as he talked.

"And he was so convinced of his success?" Jaehaerys asked with a frown. War's a dangerous gambit, even idiots knew that much.

"He thought with you dead and Lord Tywin busy dealing with the Northerners and the Valemen, we would win, yes." Ser Errent nodded. Ah, so Lord Varys expected his last scheme in the capital would end with my head on a pike. Pity.

He knew he would not kill the man. I've killed enough of them as it is. Besides, attainting a Major House would bring an untold amount of headaches. But Jae could admit that it might be amusing to watch men try to stake their claim on Brightwater without admitting to any familial relations to the Florents.

But he couldn't tell the man he'd live another day yet. He had to deal with the Oakhearts first. Gods above, let them have a better story to tell. "And you two, what did Varys do to entice your brother to join the Pretender?"

The two shared a look with a thousand words behind it. Surprisingly, the younger of the two spoke up. "Lord Varys provided proof that Lord Tyrell had been involved in the death of our father, Your Grace. Jon sided with Blackfyre for vengeance."

"Lies!" Lord Tyrell erupted. "I'll have your tongue pulled out, man!"

"You will do nothing of the sort," Jaehaerys continued in his calm voice. Lord Tyrell, of all the men present, could be put down most blatantly. I'm fucking his daughter, what else could he want?

He looked for Ser Arys to elaborate. "I didn't say it was true, merely that my brother considered it to be," Ser Arys said, but the passing glance at Lord Tyrell told a different tale.

"So your brother had no intention of seeing himself named Lord Paramount of the Reach?" he asked, internally praying the man would put on a display of humility for the ages.

"He did not, Your Grace. Jon never much cared for politics or power," Ser Arys said.

"Yet how am I to believe you still do not shelter desires for vengeance against Lord Tyrell? You were willing to go to war on the belief that he had a hand in your father's death."

"Even if I had, and I must stress I've always had my doubts, we both did." He looked to his brother who nodded along. "I would consider the matter to be settled by combat. The Gods have spoken."

Jaehaerys nodded, choosing not to point out that Lord Tyrell did not take part in the battle as any sensible Septon might have.

Jae looked down at Blackfyre, a tingle traveling down his spine at the thought of it. He considered the men before him. One of them had been led by his oaths, the other two fought for vengeance. Not much, but it's something.

"My decision is as follows," he began and the three of them straightened up and the attention of the Lords of the Reach became palpable. "Both Houses shall lose the majority of their lands to those who remained loyal. Both Houses shall give up hostages to the Crown to vouchsafe future loyalty. And finally, both Houses shall add all of its remaining forces to my army, to serve under me until this war's completion."

Should be another couple of thousand men. The three of them exhaled in relief, the greedy looks in the eyes of his Lords temporarily sated. Good enough.

"The specifics shall be arranged at a later date, but know that none of you shall be leading your men directly and your banners shall not fly in this army." He had to divide the men and spread them out among his army. If he tried to have thousands of men marching in his army under the Oakheart leaves, there'd be in-fighting in his camps by the morning. "Until then, you'll be kept prisoner in circumstances that befit your station."

He nodded to the guards. The three of them were escorted outside as opposed to being dragged out.

"A wise course of action, Your Grace." Lord Fossoway nodded from his side. The rest of the Lords and knights voiced their agreement. How one victory turns proud Lords into bootlickers, though Jae believed Fossoway's compliment to be genuine. The young Lord had proven his worth in the battle – he'd been instructed to hold the right flank at all costs, but he disregarded those orders by crushing the Oakheart flank and meeting a mildly startled Lord Tarly in the middle.

"Keep that one close, Your Grace," The Lord of Horn Hill had told Jae after the battle.

"Glad to see we are in agreement, my Lords," he said with a smile. He saw no reason to squander the popularity he'd killed thousands for. He looked to Ser Arthur and said, "Bring him in."

The man he'd been waiting for the entire evening. The man responsible for the entire affair. Four guards brought Lord Varys into the tent, the man looking much different from what Jae remembered.

Funny things happen when you interrupt an actor's performance. Punch a man mid-sentence and you'll see if he's pretending. The Varys Jaehaerys knew had always maintained an image of detached interest. He'd had the look of a man who kept his mask on the privy and would hold onto it on the executioner's block. Jae had thought Varys the type who would glide through a storm with ease, always keeping his hands in his sleeves, always holding that faint smile.

The man who walked into his tent looked nothing of the sort. His immaculate robes had been replaced by a dirty tunic and trousers. He looks different without his costume, weak even. His eye-watering perfumes no longer clung to him, replaced by the stench of shit. The powder on his face gave way to his true pale skin, and for the first time, Jaehaerys saw a bead of sweat trail down the Spider's face.

When the guards forced him to his knees, his shoulders hung low, the picture of a man defeated. This is him. This is the man who made fools out of Kings and dancing monkeys out of Lords.

He would have to be erased from history, forgotten by the world. Jaehaerys meant to do it himself. A commoner, from Essos of all places, who rose up so high he embroiled Westeros in a war from Sunspear to the Wall. People must forget all about him, lest they get a glimpse of the possibilities.

The narrative of God-given rights to rule might have been constructed by powerful men tired of being challenged, but Jaehaerys knew of no better alternative. If the nobles can be such savages when they're well-fed, what would the commoners do if given half the chance?

No, Jaehaerys would strive to make the nobles truly noble and do his best to improve the lives of the smallfolk. But no more.

"Varys," he said, purposely avoiding the man's honorary title. "Anything you care to tell me?"

Varys looked up, a bitter smile on his lips. Sixteen years I've known him, this is the first time he's shown any genuine emotion. The discipline! "What would you like to know, Your Grace?"

"You do not dispute my right to the Throne?" Jaehaerys asked.

"You've been the King since the day you were born, Your Grace. I am but one of many who wanted to deny you your birthright," Varys said.

Jaehaerys nodded, pleased by the effect his words had on the men present. "And care to tell me why you've chosen to plunge Westeros into chaos?"

"I did nothing of the sort, Your Grace. I merely took advantage of the chaos caused by others."

Well, Varys had them there. "And why did you choose to do so?"

"Blood is thicker than water, Your Grace," he said, his eyes falling to Blackfyre. How much grief one bloody sword could cause. Jae recognized the appeal of it, the sense of power it exuded, but he doubted he'd start a war over it.

"Never expected such a complex man to be driven by such basic desires," Jaehaerys said.

"I've always wanted what's best for Westeros, Your Grace," Varys said, some of that old passion back in his voice. "But I admit to wishing it under certain conditions."

Jae nodded in understanding. The rest of the men present may have glared at him for his words, choosing to forget each and every one of them had killed, lied, and stolen for the sake of their own families. Jae did not spare himself such hard truths. How many have I killed to keep the Targaryens on the Throne?

"Your sentence is clear, I'm sure you know that much, Varys," he said. He could not even muster the hatred he should have felt for the man. I was always going to fight a war.

"I do, Your Grace," Varys said, his eyes hooded. "But if I may, perhaps I could try to offer one last service to Your Grace. Mayhaps the Gods shall look more kindly upon me once I descend to the Seven Hells."

"So you may drip a final dose of poison in my ear, Varys?" Jaehaerys asked, but his nails scraped the armrest of his chair.

"Come now, Your Grace. We both know you would never act on my word alone. I merely wish to push you in the right direction." His eyes had that gleam to them, seemingly savoring the last occasion in his life when he knew something others did not.

Jae stared at him in silence, weighing the options and playing out games in his mind. If I give him the chance to talk, he'll cast suspicions on one of my allies, no doubt about it. If I don't, I might end up blind-sided like I did during the Council. Not really much of a choice.

"Everyone out," he barked. Most left without a word, a sign of his growing prestige and power, quickly bowing and leaving the tent. Lord Tyrell went to argue, bur one look from Jaehaerys had him reconsider.

When all the Lords and knights had left, and his Kingsguard took positions around the tent so that no one could eavesdrop, Jaehaerys said, "Well, then, Varys – time for your last dance."

Jae came out into the cool night air and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Gods above, can it be? Aside from a few flickering fires, the camp was shrouded in darkness with only the occasional sentry disturbing the quiet. And me.

"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan's voice came from the side. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, quite all right," Jae replied, though he knew he had a monumental decision to make. No point in worrying about it now.

He moved away from the camp, his Kingsguard falling behind him like silent shadows. His feet guided him back to the rise where the battle had been fought. The reek of the rotting corpses remained, though men had been tossing them into the river the entire day. The entire field felt wrong, in a way it hadn't before the battle.

"Death leaves a mark wherever it goes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan had told him. The venerated knight had taken him from the battlefield after bestowing Blackfyre upon him. Jaehaerys had expected they'd go back to his tent, but Ser Barristan took him into the woods instead, away from the eyes of the army.

Once there, he pointed to a tree and nodded. One moment, Jaehaerys wanted to ask what it was all about, the next he was puking his guts out, one hand against the tree. Ser Barristan had taken control for the rest of the afternoon. He had demanded a bath be prepared for Jaehaerys and told him to scrub his skin until he had it red and raw. Jae had obeyed, his eyes listless and face blank, before Barristan sent him off to bed as though ordering a petulant child.

He woke up in the middle of the night, his tunic drenched in sweat, shaking and shivering. Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, and Ser Oswell had all been there for him then. They had seen his embarrassment, noticed how weak he felt to have them see him in such a state, and so they told him all about what had happened the first time they took a life.

Ser Barristan's first kill came unexpectedly, during a Tourney. A Tyroshi man, lance through the heart.

"The knight I squired for took me away from the people and did for me the same thing I did for you," Ser Barristan said with a smile as Ser Oswell handed him a cup of wine.

"Mine was not long after I was given Dawn," Ser Arthur continued. "We'd gone out to track some bandits on our lands. I'd never so much as cut a man intentionally before that day. I knew what I could do with a sword, but I didn't understand what I could do to other men. I killed half a dozen bandits before it dawned on me that these weren't sparring partners, and they'd never get up again. I didn't notice how Dawn had turned red until it was all over." He looked Jae right in the eyes then. "It took a week locked in my chambers and a barrel of wine for me to get myself together. The day I came out, I announced I wanted to join the Kingsguard."

"Why?" Jaehaerys asked, more a little boy asking about a fascinating story than a King.

"Because if I was going to kill again, I wanted to do so for a greater purpose, Your Grace."

"But—But—" He hiccupped from the crying,."This wasn't the first time I killed."

"Then you are stronger than any of us," Ser Oswell said with an encouraging smile, eager to dispel Jae's embarrassment.

"You killed in pursuit of peace until today, Your Grace. Now you kill to make war. These are two entirely different things," Ser Barristan told him. "But as long as you fight toward that same end, you need never hesitate to look in the mirror."

Jaehaerys had felt a knot ease in his chest and the sense of sickness wither away. He had remembered that field of corpses and men with sharp blades he'd seen riding out of Cider Hall. I've come a step closer. This is but a nightmare. The only thing to do is put your head down and win.

Jaehaerys had made his peace with the crimes he had committed, the crimes he had yet to commit. A startling reality became clear; my feelings do not matter. He served the people of Westeros and the ends would always justify the means. No matter how bloody, no matter how vile. He'd been born to burn in the Seven Hells and the realization had made him square his shoulders and lift his chin – he would do it gladly if it meant others got to live in peace if it meant his children would never walk a field of corpses.

Jae stood at the top of that rise, his silhouette illuminated by the pale moonlight, his expression resolute. Varys' words echoing in his mind, he chartered the next part of his dance, one destined to leave countless bodies in his wake. Power. Absolute power is within my grasp. All I have to do is reach out and take it.

He turned and approached Ser Barristan. "Go to the command tent. Find a blood-red casket in the pile of Blackfyre loot and bring it to me."

Without another word, he walked into his tent. He had a long night's sleep ahead of him.