Middle Earth, The Lonely Mountain
2942 TA
What were the words of Darrow O'Lykos? I would have lived in peace but my enemies brought me war? A beautiful yet sorrowful sentiment, one Aemon wishes he can empathise with; for it would mean that he does not seek conflict. It would mean that he is a good man forced to war by the actions of others. A man who does not thrive in it. A man that he is not.
Aemon is not a good man, at least he does not believe himself to be. He is ambitious, vain, entitled, and conceited. Qualities that seem to only be present in him and him alone. None of the other versions of him that he has met seem to possess such qualities; not the one from the book continuity, not the one from the show continuity, and not even Jaehaerys who was raised as a prince of blood and is more 'Fire and Blood' as opposed to 'Winter is Coming'. No, among the various versions of Jon Snow these qualities seem to belong to Aemon and Aemon alone.
Unlike his counterparts, Aemon seeks war like a parched man in a desert seeks an oasis. He thirsts and hungers for, and drinks deeply from its cup when he finds it. It is a result of upbringing he thinks; he does not have the sense of duty that drives his book counterpart, nor the honor that informs his show counterpart's actions. He is 'Fire and Blood' and 'Winter is Coming' mixed into a single mortal body. Fire and Ice waging war within him without the sense of duty or honor to temper it. War is in his blood as surely as fire is in a dragon's; his ancestors, both Starks and Targaryens, were conquerors and as such it is where he is most comfortable. He knows the dance of steel, blood, and death intimately from the tender age of eight when Ser Rodrik Cassel taught him simple footwork and since then he has excelled at the reaping of lives, though he is no Reaper of Mars.
Unfortunately however, draconic warfare is not that dance. It is not the dance of steel, footwork, and leverage that he is used to, but rather one of wingbeats, fire, and dimensions that he has never experienced in battle and it shows.
As Caraxes barely avoids being gutted open by Smaug's claws, Aemon cannot help but think of how badly his performance shows that he is not accustomed to the dance between dragons. It is a travesty, an embarrassment, a humiliation for one who claims to be a Dragonlord. No doubt Visenya and all the dragonlords of his bloodline look upon this display with obvious disgust.
"Insignificant humans!" the dragon bellows, "How you have tamed these brethrens of mine I do not know, but do not think for one moment that it will save you from my wrath. They are merely drakes, still young and lacking in intelligence. Whereas I…I am grown, my armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!" he says as a smack of his tail sends Jaehaerys and his dragon careening through the air.
Even through the roaring of the wind Aemon hears Rhaenys' cry of fury as she and her dragon charge towards Smaug and already he can see the disaster that is set to unfold. Throwing hesitation to the wind, Aemon slips his skin for Caraxes' hoping that the melding of their minds will allow for a performance as impressive as the last time he committed the gamble.
However, it goes not as he expected, for rather than slipping into Caraxes' skin he finds the dragon's mind open and slipping into his skin. Unlike last time where Aemon's mind found itself sharing Caraxes' body, this time he finds their spirits merging and their minds becoming one as they share both bodies, the fae and the dragon.
Their senses, both fae and dragon, melds together as they begin to experience the world in ways never experienced before. Their eyes see all, every angle around them with no blindspot for miles, they pierce through the different layers of reality allowing them to see the feywilds beyond the physical plane, and surprising but not completely unexpected by them, they see movements of all around them in such a way that it becomes easy to determine their next act. And yet it does not end there. Their noses can smell emotions, their ears can hear heartbeats, and their sense of touch is so precise that they can feel the slightest shift in air currents. THey taught themselves god before, but they were wrong. It is now that they are god.
With a triumphant roar they fly towards their enemy, nay their prey. This embarrassment of a dragon, it claims to be the terror and calamity of his age but it knows nothing of terror. It is a sloth, a vermin, a mere worm that dares bare its fangs before a god and injure their blood, it knows nothing of terror but they will teach it.
With the full might of they're spirit they roar out their challenge and like the lowly vermin that it is, the drake recoils in fear, missing Rhaenys and her dragon entirely with its attack.
Without further delay they set upon drake with their full might by flying high above but their prey proves that it is not without a brain for it does allow them the higher elevation and rises along with them, or so it tries. Unfortunately for it they are mightier than it, if not in body, at least not yet, then in mind and spirit; and so for a brief moment, not even a second, they slip into the feywilds before slipping back into the mortal realm miles higher in the sky. With a screech from their physical body they turn and dive towards the drake, wings folded back so as not to catch the air and body straight as an arrow for optimal results.
They catch the drake unaware, its lesser mind still trying to process how it lost in a contest of speed, and claw out one of its eyes with their claws as they pass by it. With a victorious roar they spread their wings, catching the wind and turning their plummet into a glide. From below they hear a roar as their brother rejoins them in the battle.
And so they dance through the air, claws, teeth, and tails aiming to cripple, maim, and kill the bigger drake while also breathing flames in an attempt to weaken their opponent' scales or burn the membrane of its wings. With them serving as the vanguard and drawing the bigger drake's attention, their brothers and sisters can focus on aiming for weak spots with precision rather than simply flailing about in the hopes of landing a lucky hit. It is not their preferred form of combat, using teamwork, for they have grown to be lone wolves rather than pack wolves, but still they cooperate for comes in many forms and cunning, and teamwork are two such forms.
And so they dance their dance of teeth, claws, tails, and flames. A dance that their fey part is unaccustomed to yet compensates with its knowledge of combat and physics. Paired with their draconic knowledge and experience, it becomes easy to avoid the drake's attack, for while it is faster than they, it is not as agile or nimble. As such it is no trouble for them to slither in and out of the drake's range or around its attacks while delivering blows of their own.
Still, they accomplish naught other than scratch the drake's scales and further enrage him into a frenzy, for while he is not the terror he claims to be, his words are not lies. His armor is truly sturdy and they are still young in age.
But they do not let that stop them, for they are Blood of the Dragon and no foe has escaped their wrath. If they cannot slay their enemy through physical might alone then cunning will have to do, especially when the first phase of their plan has been accomplished.
With a roar that channel's their spirit, they stagger the drake once more, allowing the biggest of their siblings, Shrykos, to clamp their mighty jaws around the drake's tail as it passes by in a powerful dive. With the aid of gravity she pulls the bigger drake down in an uncontrolled fall, causing it to flail as it combats both the disorientation of their Conqueror's Roar and its and Shrykos' combined weight.
Swooping in from below, Balerion and Silver set the membranes of the drake's wings on fire while Winter smashes into its chest from above just as Shrykos lets go of its tail to glide away; causing the drake to smash onto the ground below and cratering it. Not giving the drake time to recover, they fly past its head and claw out its remaining eye, causing roar out in pain and rage.
It opens its mouth to retaliate but Shrykos' massive form lands on its snout, shutting it. Balerion, Silver, and Winter are not far behind as they roughly land on its wings and chest, immobilizing the dragons. It will not last long, for despite being big in their own right none of his siblings are strong enough to hold the massive drake down, not even together. But a brief moment is all their agents need for not long after the drake has been grounded, a massive obsidian arrow pierced through the only weak point in the dragon's scales.
The drake attempts to retaliate, but it is already dead, its mind simply has not caught on yet.
Triumphant, they turn their head to the sky and let loose a roar that announces their superiority to all with their siblings joining in not far behind.
This worm taught itself mightier than they but it was wrong, it was merely older and despite possessing such an advantage it could not stand up to their might, nor their cunning.
Aemon knows warfare, it is in his blood and his upbringing. He seeks it out like a parched man in a desert seeks an oasis. He thirsts and hungers for it, and drinks deeply from its cup when he finds it.
This dragon thought itself safe from him due to its might, but it is vain, entitled, conceited, and slothful. It has a single weakness that it never bothered to secure and it thought itself safe from them? He who reaps the lives of men as if they were wheat? Who has extinguished Great Houses as old as House Stark? He who has made creatures of winter and death clench in fear upon laying sight on his visage? He who rules a court of fey thousands of years older than he with an iron fist?
He is Gwyn hen Suvion se Perzys, King of the Unseelie Court, Lord of Winter, Lord Commander of the Wild Hunt and no worm shall ever be a threat to him.
…
…
…
He did not expect the elf's warning to prove true, though perhaps he should have, all things considered. The dwarves entered the mountain with the intent of stealing from the dragon, no doubt the dragon would be wrought with rage and seek to retaliate. Still, even with the elf's warning they were woefully unprepared for the dragon's retaliation and would have suffered for it had those smaller five dragons not arrived and intercepted Smaug.
Bard had never seen a dragon before in his life and now he bore witness to five besieging the calamity of their age and battling it to the death, though had he no context Bard would not have named what they are doing a battle, and certainly not to the death. It looked to be more of a dance, a beautiful and graceful dance of roars, screeches, and flames. Still, despite outnumbering Smaug and hitting him with numerous attacks the smaller five dragons did little to no damage to the bigger dragon
And so Bard had turned his eyes from their dragon dance and decided to focus his efforts on evacuating the people in case the smaller dragons could not slay the bigger one, or so that was his plan until the elf spoke to him once more; telling him of coming opportunity to slay the dragon, an opportunity for him to strike with black arrow. Bard had not believed him, but the elf's sheer conviction and belief in that opportunity had swayed his mind.
"That is my liege upon that crimson dragon which glows gold. He is a dragonlord with no equal, a slothful worm like Smaug shall never be a threat to him. He decreed that he shall create an opportunity for you and so it shall be." the elf had said with confidence, never had Bard seen such conviction, trust, and belief from a servant for their Lord, and so he had believed the elf and delegated the task of evacuating the town to his subordinates while he had nocked the black arrow to his bow and bided his time.
Still, he did not know of any weakness that would allow his arrow to slay the dragon, or at least he did not until a thrush came to rest upon his shoulder and whispered it to him, a hollow by Smaug's left breast.
And so he waited and watched as legends danced high up in the sky, the calamity of their age against five dragonlords; beings who have long since been believed to be naught but myths of a different age. An age where elves roamed the world freely and in untold numbers while great kingdoms of man dotted the land and seas.
True to the elf's words an opportunity came, and what an opportunity it was. For as long as he lives Bard knows that he shall never forget the sight of that maneuver executed by the dragonlords, a maneuver that grounded the calamity that is Smaug, blinded him, and immobilized him long enough for Bard to plant his black arrow squarely in the hollow by Smaug's left breast. And as life leaves Smaug's body Bard cannot help but add his own feeble voice to the roar of the other dragons.
Little does he know that while he thinks himself feeble the image of him roaring to the heavens as he holds his bow high with a thrush resting on his shoulder leaves a striking image in the minds of his fellow villagers, an image that will be passed down from parent to child for generations to come.
AN: Here's the latest chapter, tell me what you guys think.