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

Ser Jaime had gone to great lengths to explain the art of sleeping in a saddle once upon a time. Jaehaerys had not paid too much attention, but luckily he remembered the most important part. Keep your bloody helm on. It worked wonders to stabilize one's head. Combined with the neck brace, you could lean your head to the side and relax your neck. The gentle rocking of the horse lulled a man to sleep and as an added bonus, the helm made sure the soldiers did not see their King dozing off on the march.

It had served Jaehaerys well on the long march to the Stormlands. He'd ordered his infantry to Bitterbridge, some fifty thousand men. The commanders had been given orders to tell everyone their King rode with them. Even the people at Bitterbridge were told to announce loudly and to anyone who would listen that the King was on his way. Likely it wouldn't do much, but perhaps the Lannister spies wouldn't bother confirming the rumors.

Fifteen thousand horsemen followed him in pursuit of the next battle. Half of them had taken part in the Battle of the Black Tree, bloodied warriors whose trust Jae had earned. The other half of the cavalry consisted of knights and warriors drunk on tales of Jae's brilliance, eager for the chance to be a part of his next great victory. Desperate not to miss it.

Lord Tarly had called them foolish boys. Jaehaerys called them useful. If he could justify their conviction, they'd be his men for life. Such men are hard to beat in battle.

They marched from dawn 'till dusk. They covered nearly fifteen leagues per day, pushing their horses to the brink of exhaustion. Jaehaerys knew he would have to afford his men some rest before the fighting or risk making the same mistake as the Blackfyre boy.

In the evenings, they made camp, dozens of scouts spreading out in every direction to ensure there would be no surprises. Jaehaerys feared Oberyn's aggressive disposition.

"I imagine we are about three days away, Your Grace," Ser Baelor Hightower muttered from his side in the evening, after they crossed the border into the Stormlands. He'd been sent by his father to command the Hightower troops in his stead. Brightsmile, men called him, yet Jae had yet to see him smile, let alone a brightly.

The nature of war, I suppose. He knew he liked the man, though. When thanked for his House's support, Ser Baelor replied, "My Lord Father thinks you're going to win, that's all."

Jaehaerys would have laughed were he not in the presence of all the Lords of the Reach. He did not remember the last time he'd seen an honest man, let alone one who looked so formidable. That Valyrian sword at his hip is not to be scoffed at either.

Vigilance, the Hightowers called it. An appropriate name for a House who kept to their bustling city, ever-watchful of the next great threat to their domain.

"What's the latest report on Prince Oberyn's position?" he asked Ser Arthur. They all sat around a campfire, night having fallen long ago. Whatever small luxuries Jae allowed himself during the march to fight Blackfyre disappeared this time around. They had to move light, and so he shared a tent with his Kingsguard. Lord Rowan might have frowned when he heard about it, but the rest of his men watched him with stars in their eyes.

"Sacked Blackhaven. Lord Dondarrion is dead, his younger brother Oberyn's prisoner," Ser Arthur said, his eyes locked on the fire.

"What?" Jaehaerys sat up from his place, leaning against a tree trunk. "Why wasn't I told of this?"

Ser Arthur forgot himself in the fire, weariness getting the better of even the Sword of the Morning. He stood up, hands behind his back. "I waited for a second confirmation, Your Grace. I apologize for not bringing you the news directly."

Jaehaerys took a deep breath, knew he suffered from exhaustion as much as the rest of the men. "And Lord Orys?" he asked, sitting back down and rubbing his temples.

"Scouts reported he's begun his march from Summerhall. Oberyn will have to meet him in the field since there's little left of Blackhaven," Ser Arthur said, watching Jae closely.

"Sounds like we'll be there right in time if we keep our present pace," Lord Rowan muttered, half-asleep.

"Doubtful," Ser Baelor countered. Jae's heart soared to hear him say so. "Lord Orys has proven he's as fond of speed as His Grace. Prince Oberyn has just finished a bloody sack. If I were the Baratheon boy, I'd rush south to take advantage."

"Ser Baelor is correct," Ser Barristan agreed, giving the Heir to the Hightower a respectful nod. Ser Baelor didn't puff up his chest or anything of the sort. He seemed bored. Am I a lucky bastard or what? "Lord Orys will be aggressive."

Jae thought it an unspoked fact of war. The nobles of Westeros in particular did not like to mention it. They wanted the world to fear them based on the number of men they could call on, not on the competence of the men leading them. "My thousand men will defeat his five hundred," they liked to tell themselves. A folly.

Soldiers won wars, that much was true, but commanders lost them. If Jae gave an idiot a thousand men and a brilliant man one hundred, he could show everyone the true workings of the world. Whether people cared to admit it or not, the truth remained simple – in the heat of battle, when arrows fell like rain and the Stranger began to lurk close by, most men cowered while some stood tall.

A good commander was worth thousands of soldiers. Jae had tens of thousands of soldiers under his command, but he still worried about his safety. He had eighty thousand men with swords and four men who could tell who to stab.

So Jae had to sacrifice one. Leave a commander he needed by his side, behind. Simple subtraction answered the question for him. It couldn't be Lord Tarly –the rigid Lord couldn't deal with the politics even on a fundamental level. It couldn't be Ser Arthur or Ser Barristan because they had to be seen riding by his side. So Lord Fossoway had stayed behind to lead the infantry to Bitterbridge, the only one Jae trusted not to do something stupid while he warred in the Stormlands.

Yet now the Gods have seen fit to send a man to take his place, he thought as he watched Ser Baelor chew on a piece of salted beef. I have to keep them alive. These are the men that will keep my kingdoms together once the war is over.

"Lord Orys does not know we ride to his aid. He will have a plan of his own," Jae took a swig of ale.

"You do not mean to say we should let him fight the battle on his own and sweep up whoever remains at the end?" Lord Eustace Bulwer asked. One of Hightower's bannermen, the last of his House in the male line. A boy of three-and-ten, in command of five thousand men. Jaehaerys could not blame him for his zeal or his bravado. He sat in the presence of men he considered legends. If he were but another squire, he'd gawk at them, tongue-tied. As a Lord in his own right, he wanted to prove himself their equal.

Jae kept his mouth shut, the glares of his companions chastised the boy well enough and took another swig of ale. He wanted to get drunk so he'd fall asleep the moment he laid down. "We must give Lord Orys the chance to play out his plan. Observe and attack at the most opportune moment."

"Hit them when they're at the breaking point," Ser Baelor agreed. He's had the same plan in his mind the entire time, only waited for me to bring it up. "The Dornish will break on account of the surprise alone."

"But for that to happen, we'll have to get there in time. Tomorrow, we'll rest for an hour at noon, then ride on all through the night." Jae climbed to his feet with a groan, leaning against the log for support. "I suggest you all get a good night's rest, my Lords."

With a nod, he walked off into the night, Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan quickly falling at his side.

He hadn't initially planned to assist Lord Orys in his war against the Dornish. He counted on the boy being capable enough to keep Prince Oberyn busy while Jae went off to win the war. Robert Baratheon had assigned Lord Stannis a similar role. A messenger from Lady Olenna changed his mind.

Lord Royce had led an attack against the forces of Aegon, thinking to rout the Usurper and lift the siege of Maidenpool before Lord Tywin came to his aid. Not a bad idea, and one that would have worked, if he hadn't gone up against Aegon.

No one knew the details. Some implied sorcery, Jae suspected trickery, others claimed Aegon to be a beast in human form. All agreed, however, that Aegon had given Lord Royce a thorough thrashing. Though Lord Royce eventually forced Aegon to retreat through the sheer strength of numbers, he had lost thousands of men first.

It worked well for Jaehaerys still. Tywin and Aegon wouldn't march against him with Royce at their backs. On the other hand, he couldn't count on Royce to swing through the Crownlands and join his army. Thus, Orys Baratheon.

That one had proven himself to be far more formidable than anyone anticipated. More than Jaehaerys anticipated. I should have known. Stannis Baratheon raised him.

Prince Oberyn had marched into the Stormlands but did not seek out his young opponent as everyone had expected. Deciding to take advantage of Orys' unproven track record, Oberyn sacked every castle on the way north, Blackhaven being only the latest casualty in a trail of destruction. He must've wanted to prove to the people of the Stormlands that their young Lord could not protect them, thinking Orys would rush south to face him. Lord Stannis never cared what people think of him, why should his son?

Lord Orys chose to thank the Red Viper for his folly and marched to Summerhall where he crushed all the bannermen who'd taken the side of the Dornish. Never a popular thing to do in the Stormlands. Now Prince Oberyn and his twenty thousand men stood against Lord Orys and his fifteen thousand. Or so the rough estimates claimed. Jaehaerys believed the difference in strength to be greater. He'd been hearing about sellswords fighting in Oberyn's army and smelled Lord Tywin's influence. Casterly Rock gold can buy a lot of killers.

Jae didn't have much trouble finding his tent, walking through a tunnel of darkness between the campfires. Jae's tent glowed yellow in a sea of white spots, Ser Oswell standing guard outside. He imagined Ser Loras had passed out in his bed at the first chance.

"Ser," he greeted the knight. "Everything going according to my instructions?"

"Aye, Your Grace," Ser Oswell responded. "The brazier has been lit since we made camp. They're glowing again."

"Very well." He held up the flap of the tent and walked in to find two dragon eggs in the brazier, snuggled neatly among the glowing embers. One the color of screaming red, the other one the color of ice. Am I to take this as a sign?

Ser Loras snored on the cot to the side – even the heat in the tent couldn't keep him up. Jaehaerys approached the brazier, quietly drawing his dagger. He pricked his finger and watched a drop of blood form.

"Seven drops of blood for seven days." That had been the first part of the instructions. He first completed the process for the white egg, the blood sizzling when it hit the shell, sending a puff of smoke into the air, then repeated the process for the red one.

He placed his hand on the white egg when it was done. He couldn't remember if he ever had such a relationship with fire. He seemed to recall getting burnt on a candle once or twice as a boy. But on the second night of his little experiment, something drew his hand to the glowing egg and Jae hadn't felt a thing aside from a pleasant warm tingle.

His Kingsguard had watched the spectacle with no little amount of trepidation, but they had wisely kept their mouths shut. Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, and Ser Oswell because they had a healthy amount of respect and awe for Targaryen dragonlore. Ser Loras because he had known better than to protest on his own.

He'd chosen to trust the young knight with the information and thought he'd made the right call. Whatever his misgivings, Ser Loras did so love to be part of the small circle entrusted with the knowledge. Tickles his pride, as Ser Oswell put it with a laugh.

Jaehaerys didn't stay up any longer to stare at the glowing eggs in fascination, as he'd done the previous nights. Weariness got the better of him, so he chose to forget about Lord Varys' words and opted to consider their validity another day. I need to sleep.

He unbuckled his sword belt, placed Blackfyre next to his cot, and laid down for some much-deserved rest.

What to do? What to do?

"Your Grace, the two armies will be coming to blows at any moment," the scout informed him, his voice frantic as his eyes took in the state of the army behind him. Jaehaerys turned in his saddle. Some men had fallen from their saddles, others looked half asleep – all looked bone tired, their former parade-groud form long gone.

The sun peeked over the horizon in the distance, the grey light of the overcast sky waking up all the killers in the land. They'd ridden throughout the night, leaving behind more than few stragglers who couldn't keep the pace. Only his naps in the saddle kept Jae on his horse.

"Are they aware of our presence?" Ser Arthur asked, the most alert man in the army beside Lord Tarly.

"They are not, Ser. We've taken out a few of their scouts, but they'll think it to be the work of the Baratheons," the man assured them. "I'd stake my life on it, Ser."

Ser Arthur nodded and looked to Jaehaerys for a verdict. Jae bit his lip, and glanced back at his men one more time.

"They'll wake up soon enough when it's time to fight, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said from his side. Ser Barristan had been the most staunch supporter of the forced march and a major reason Jae agreed to it. Talking about marching throughout the day and the night was one thing, doing it another. Ser Barristan assuaged his fears that the men would be useful once they got to the battlefield.

"Aye, Your Grace," Lord Tarly agreed. "In times of war, when in doubt, the aggressive option is always the wiser one."

He's not wrong, Jae simply did not want to fight himself. His arms felt heavy, his shoulders burdened. The prospect of a long fight did not appeal to him in the slightest. He remembered his long fights with Ser Jaime well enough. He did not want to see his strength leave him in an actual battle. But then if we time our appearance right, it won't be a long fight.

"Tell the men to get back into line," he barked for the sake of waking himself up. "It's time to fight."

"Aye, Your Grace." Lord Tarly bowed in his saddle and rode back down the line, shouting instructions.

"You know the plan," he told the rest of his commanders, too tired to pontificate. "Join your units and don't charge until I give you the fucking signal. We ride in silence from now on."

Ser Arthur, Ser Baelor, and Ser Barristan nodded and rode off, shouting their own orders. He heard the men behind him stir to life. He'd have liked to keep Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan by his side, but the presence of legends turned even cowardly men into lions. That Ser Barristan now wielded Dark Sister only furthered their awe.

They had told him repeatedly, Ser Barristan most of all, that Dark Sister had exclusively been wielded by Targaryens throughout history. Jae appreciated the sentiment, but at the end of the day, Dark Sister was a weapon, not just a symbol. A very deadly weapon. He wouldn't leave it to gather dust when it could be on the battlefield, killing his enemies in droves. A painter, who only uses red.

He clicked his tongue and gestured for the column to continue its march. Where in the Reach, they were surrounded by lush forests and endless open fields, the terrain of the Stomlands consisted of never-ending wind-swept hillocks followed by small depressions. Constant gusts of wind had him on the verge of shivering, creeping through the cracks in his armor to finish the job the night's rain had started. A man could never see more than two hundred yards ahead of him and it had worn on Jaehaerys, made him worry about what awaited him beyond the next hill no matter how much the scouts assured him of Oberyn's location.

"They'll spot us the moment we ride over that rise over there," the scout pointed out the hillock in question, some half a league away.

"What does the terrain look like?" Jaehaerys asked.

"More or less even ground, Your Grace," the scout replied. Jae didn't know his name, but everything about him screamed of steady competence. "Baratheon got here first, fortified his ground."

"At the front?"

"Aye, Your Grace, and only at the front."

"Oberyn knows about it?"

"I doubt it, Your Grace. Baratheon had a line of men standing before the trenches. I wouldn't know it myself if I hadn't had the right vantage point."

So he wants to bleed Oberyn on a frontal charge, then funnel him to his flanks. That's when they would strike, Jae knew at last. If that is Orys' plan. With Oberyn's forces split between the sides of Orys' army, the Dornish wouldn't survive a charge at their back. There's the infantry to consider. They'll be able to overcome the trenches.

He wanted to send orders to his commanders but opted to have a look first. They rode on in silence, Jaehaerys calmed by the lack of screams in the distance. He looked up, the gloomy grey sky serving as a backdrop for the grim atmosphere in his army. The men rode in silence – palpable fatigue pervaded the army, but Jaehaerys saw the alert looks in the eyes of his men, the determination to finish the job. They smell victory. They know tiredness is the only thing that stands between them and glory.

For a brief moment, he wondered how his men would react if certain doom ever looked to be their fate, but dismissed such thoughts. A worry for another day.

They rode down into another depression and then Jae ordered the scouts to fan out in every direction, bows in hand. He gave the order for the column to halt and dismounted his horse. "Come," he said to Ser Loras and Ser Oswell, and followed the scout to the top of the hillock. He drew Blackfyre and advanced slowly up the small hill, almost slipping in the moist grass, ever wary of unexpected attacks.

None came, though the blaring of trumpets from the other side of the hill nearly made him kill his scout. He'd never seen the man before and he wouldn't put it past the sneaky Dornishmen to plant a man into his council.

They arrived at the top of the hillock to find a glorious sight unfolding before them – the might of the Dornish army charging the lines of the Baratheons. He saw the banners of half a dozen Dornish Houses flapping in the wind, Aegon's dragon banner most prominent of them all. Like a wave they moved beneath him, the uneven terrain ruining their perfect formation, screaming like furies.

Many times had Jae imagined a battle, but never did he think he'd feel like a spectator, watching from afar. He spotted the fortifications the scout had told him about and considered, in a sort of morbid fascination, how many Dornishmen didn't know they were about to die. I don't think Lord Orys will even need us to win this one.

He turned to Lucas and said, "Ride down the lines. Tell Ser Arthur he's to hit their left flank. Ser Baelor he's to hit their center with me, and Lord Tarly to wheel his men around and hit their right flank."

"Aye, Your Grace." The boy sprinted to his horse, riding away with all haste.

He stuck around long enough to see Baratheon's front lines pull back before the Dornish charge, revealing their trenches at the last second. The first line of the Dornish charge never stood a chance. Is Oberyn among them? He'd given specific orders to capture the Dornish Prince, not kill him. Lord Orys may have rendered those orders moot.

Launched out of their saddles straight into the waiting pikes of the Baratheons, those screams he'd been waiting for began. Dornish formations shattered, while Baratheons held, calmly killing every Dornishman that came flying into their ranks. The third and fourth lines of the charge slowed down and began trickling to the flanks where archers and armored knights awaited them. Jae saw the shining armor and knew men do not fall off horses on their own even if he didn't see the arrows that killed them. Another horn blared from the Dornish lines, signaling the advance of the infantry. Whoever's commanding them knows they fucked up. Only strength of numbers can win it for the Dornish today. The time had come.

He ran to his horse, Ser Loras and Ser Barristan hot on his heels. "Find me if you survive. I'll make you a Lord!" he shouted to the scout and galloped back to his men. Ser Arthur, Ser Baelor, and Lord Tarly had already deployed the men in four columns, stretching for hundreds of yards back. Four lances to put the Martells to bed.

Jaehaerys hadn't intended to make any speeches, but his men needed one last kick in the butt to wake up. "The Baratheons are slaughtering the Dornish!" he screamed as he rode the line, to the shock of his soldiers. "Will you let them steal all your glory?!"

Oh, that woke them up all right. An indignant cry rose from their throats. We haven't fucking ridden all this way for nothing, they seemed to say. "Glory awaits us over that hill. Who shall ride with me?"

The following scream might have given Martells some warning if they weren't too busy being slaughtered to notice.

His heart pounded in his head as he rode to the head of his own column; his limbs, so sluggish only moments earlier, pulsed with energy, and he knew what Ser Barristan meant. No one wants to be asleep for his own death. The adrenaline would carry them for a while, but not forever.

He rode to the head of his own column, full of men who'd followed him in the Battle of the Black Tree. Perhaps some of the finest soldiers in all the realm. Exceptionally trained men who'd seen the horrors of battle. One glance at them and Jae knew none of them would hesitate.

He took his position at the head of his column, Ser Arthur's column to his left, Ser Baelor's and Lord Tarly's to his right.

He drew Blackfyre and held it high into the air. The blade still felt unfamiliar in his hands, though Jaehaerys took to it far better than he did Dark Sister. Mayhaps it was its greater weight, its length or it simply being a two-handed sword but the fact stood – his duels with Ser Arthur had become noticeably longer.

"For Westeros! Let us put these Dornishmen to bed!" he shouted, the sounds of battle from the other side of the hill spurring him on. A battle cry answered his words. With a nod, the trumpets blared the order to charge and the four lances of steel and flesh sprung forth.

The frantic beating of his heart did not surprise him this time around so he did not fear losing control. Instead, it assuaged his fears, knowing his men had to feel the same.

With a glad cry he rode up the hill, Ser Loras and Ser Oswell right at his side, Blackfyre leaning against his shoulder. His speed slowed as they crested the hill to see the horrors it had been hiding.

Down below, the Baratheons were surrounded on three sides. Their flanks looked to be holding, Jaehaerys could see only corpses and fallen horses writhing on the ground and other riders who were about to join them. The center looked much different. The fighting in the Baratheon middle told him brave Dornishmen had jumped the trench, and more jumped every moment, ranks upon ranks of men eager to follow.

"Sound the horns!" he screamed, pointing Blackfyre right at the enemy. "Charge!"

He gave his horse a kick and his canter turned into a gallop, his knights right behind him, a thousand names on their lips. His horse raced down the hill, and this one knew what would come next as well as Jaehaerys did, and seemed much steadier for it. Makes two of us.

Wind whistling in his ears, the slit of his helm allowing him to focus only on his enemy, Jaehaerys saw the pause in the fighting. Men looked up the hill to find the source of the horn. He faintly heard a cheer come from the Baratheon lines, though he could not be sure, focused more on the Dornish spearmen trying to get in line.

Commanders screamed at their men to move, their men frozen at what they knew to be a glimpse of their doom. He glanced to his left; Ser Arthur kept up the pace, his white cloak billowing behind him, as the Dornish cavalry desperately tried to form up and face him. Ser Baelor rode beside him, waving Vigilance high in the air, not a hundred yards away while Lord Tarly had already begun his maneuver to the right. Mounted cavalry couldn't corner, so Lord Tarly had to give himself room before he could wheel them to the left.

Jaehaerys had been passive when charging the Blackfyre lines and later knew he'd made a mistake. This time around, he leaned forth in his saddle, pushing the black steed beneath him to the limit. Crouching low in the saddle, he twirled Blackfyre through the air, picking a spot in the row of spears he meant to hit. Right in the middle of what looked like the world's deadliest thorn bush. At the last second, two of his flapping banners overtook him, Ser Oswell and Ser Loras aiming their lances right at the men positioned in front of Jaehaerys so as to clear a path for him.

He swung down with Blackfyre blindly. His horse barely lurched as it mowed down the front line. A flash of white flew by the corner of his eye. He'd thought he hit nothing but air, but when he brought Blackfyre up again, blood dripped from it.

A spear came at him. He lopped its head of and rode past the man before he could retaliate. He passed another dozen men ripe for killing before he could muster another swing and took the arm of a knight. He rode on, kicking his horse a dozen times, knowing he had to push as far into the Dornish lines as he could. He did not dare look back to see if his men had followed.

A mounted commander looked like the perfect way to find out. Changing course to the right, Jae rode down another half dozen men fleeing in panic, before he came upon the commander; a man with a vulture on his yellow shield. Straight at one another they came and Jae feigned a strike, pulled back before they hit, and leaned to the side. The Blackmont knight's sword passed over his right shoulder. Jaehaerys lurched back into his saddle and swung at the back of the knight's head before he passed him. He did not know what, but he knew he hit something.

He pulled on the reins and wheeled around to find the commander had fallen from his saddle just as the charge of his cavalry swallowed him. With a shout, he rejoined the charge and pushed on. In the distance, he saw Lord Tarly's charge decimate the Dornish right flank and suddenly nobody fought back anymore. They ran, all of them, dropping their weapons and running the only way open to them – back to Dorne.

His men rode down most of them, sparing some and killing the rest. Shouts of victory on their lips, they screamed his name, though the loudest came from the men behind the trenches. Dirty and bloodied, Baratheons howled like wild men.

"Your Grace! Your Grace!" Ser Loras shouted as he rode up to him, "Are you well?"

"I am," Jae said, not comfortable enough to pull off his helm. He looked around. "Where is Ser Oswell?"

As it happened, Ser Loras did feel comfortable enough to take off his helm, and his face said it all.