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

Death leaves a trace, Ser Barristan had said after the Battle of the Black Tree. Jae thought he understood – how wrong he'd been

The banks of the Blackwater Rush had turned into killing fields. Corpses covered the ground, arrows and sword and pikes jutting from them, and Jae had to watch his step for there were few places where a man could step without wading into a pool of blood, or crushing a skull beneath his foot. Already he had tread upon eyeballs and severed hands, always looking down on instinct, expecting to find a root, only to find horror in its stead.

His army had moved across the river; when the bloodlust left them, they wandered the battlefield like ghosts and beat a quick retreat from the grizzly sight. The palisades became pits for the dead; so many corpses filled the trenches that the pikes could scarcely be seen.

Crows circled overhead, blotting out the afternoon sun, and the Stranger walked the land. Jae could taste it at the tip of his tongue, and sometimes the shadows fell in queer ways. A dozen times he flinched when he saw a shape move from the corner of his eyes only to find nothing there.

The Lannister army had broken within the hour of Lord Orys' devastating charge. They had tried to break out of the encirclement, tried to earn a favorable surrender, but his men never gave them the chance. In the center, ten thousand men tried to surrender. Five thousand of them laid dead by the time his men noticed.

The flanks retreated even before that. Jae had seen the chaotic flight back across the river; men, their eyes wild with panic, dropped their swords and their shields and ran for their lives, scattering in every direction.

This time, Lord Tarly did not come asking permission to pursue. The implacable Lord had looked pale and sickly, his eyes haunted, when he asked permission to lead the army across the river.

Now only the select few roamed the field, gathering swords and armor, slaughtering injured horses, and putting doomed men out of their misery.

Jae moved towards the river with Orys at his side and Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur at his back when Ser Loras came, stumbling over the corpses, jumping from one opening in the ground to the next. "Your Grace," he said with an awkward bow. "We found him."

"Where?"

"Just beyond the palisades, there," Ser Loras pointed out the right flank. "He was in charge of their left flank."

"Is he alive?"

"He's hurt, Your Grace." Ser Loras could not bear to look him in the eye. "Badly."

"Take me to him." They walked together, as fast as the ground allowed, Orys shooting concerned glances his way the entire time. They found him lying among the corpses, right in front of the ditches, his golden armor covered in blood. A young squire knelt on the ground, Ser Jaime's head in his lap, as he poured wine into his mouth.

"Jaime!" Jae breathed and rushed to him. "How bad is it?" he asked as he knelt by him, the squire terrified by his presence, yet bold enough to remain in place.

"Your Grace," Ser Jaime gasped and coughed up some blood. Jae looked down at his body. In spite of all the dirt, he saw the dents in his armor, the deep hole in his chainmail beneath the arm.

"Get a Maester!" Jae thundered, and heard someone run to do his bidding.

"Your Grace," Jaime repeated and his emerald eyes found him. His face was covered in grime, and so Jae clearly saw the trail of tears running down his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Jaime, it's alright," Jae took his hand. "We'll get you a Maester and you'll be fine."

"No," Jaime shook his head and that small act proved enough to bring a grimace to his face. "It's too late for me, but... please... spare the innocents. Please," he begged and his hand gripped Jae's arm in a vice. "Please."

Wind rippled his hair. The flutter of crows' wings could be heard overhead. Jae felt his eyes grow hot, desperate to deny what laid clear before him. "Don't worry about that, Jaime, you're going to live! Just fight, you bloody bastard!"

"I'm sorry, Jae." Ser Jaime coughed again. More blood. All Jae saw was the shining young knight who told him to fight back, to find power any way he could. All so I could help. It seemed such a long time ago. "I should've—fought by yo—your side. Not—not my father's. I'm so sorry."

His breath grew ragged. He latched onto his arm and raised himself up a little, forcing Jae to look him right in the eyes. "Remember, Jaehaerys. Remember what we fought for!" he gasped and fell back into the squire's lap, his entire body spasming from pain. "Remember," he breathed one last time.

"No, no, no." Jae grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where's the Maester!" he shouted, looking around in vain, shaking Jaime so his eyes might open once more. "Jaime! Jaime!"

But his chest went still, and his hand dropped from his arm, and his body went limp as though a great pressure had been taken off it. "Your Grace." The weight of a hand settled on his shoulder. "He's at peace now, Your Grace."

Yes, at peace. Jae thought himself far away, and another pulled at the strings of his body to make him stand up and walk away without a backward glance. Jaime, dead. His first friend. My only friend. A brother and a father in one man. He'd taught him to ride, to joust; how to swing a sword, and why to avoid drawing it. He'd even explained the basics of sex when the batting eyelashes and secretive smiles of Red Keep's women became too obvious. Dead.

"Where are the prisoners?" he asked of the men trying to keep up.

"Lord Tarly's got them, Your Grace, across the river," someone answered. Jae nodded and took a right, straight down into the trench. He waded straight into the mess of bodies, holding onto the pikes to keep upright, ignoring the shocked cries from behind him. The horrors beneath his boots held no sway over him.

No mad rage took him. No desperate desire for violence and bloodshed. Instead, it felt cool, clinical.

I'm just going to gently press Blackfyre to a couple of throats. And blood would flow. Each man another victory, each man offering his own small share of relief. Easy. Simple. Like taking a piss.

When he reached the water Lord Orys jumped into his path. "Your Grace," he said, but did not get a chance to continue, for Jae shouldered right past him and waded into the river. That there might still be some caltrops in the river bottom did not register in his mind.

But Baratheons did no discourage so easily. He felt a hand on his arm and Lord Orys pulled him back, forced him to face him. He heard the song of four swords leaving their sheaths. "Please, Your Grace, I beg of you, wait."

"You presume to tell me what to do, Orys?" To Jae, it sounded as if another man had spoken.

"I presume nothing, Your Grace. Kill them all if you want, but kill them later. When we take the Red Keep. Seven Hells, kill them tomorrow, just not now!" Orys pleaded, ignoring the four blades of the Kingsguard pointed at him.

"What difference does it make?" Jae could not see. Orys spoke of nonsense. Dead man is a dead man. The timing hardly matters.

He turned right back into the river only to find Lucas from behind them, dragging Jae's horse along. "Your Grace," he said. Right. He could ride. The boy handed over the reins with trembling fingers; he had a look in his eyes, the look of a boy who did not understand, yet knew the explanation to be terrible.

Jae mounted up and rode forth. His Kingsguard followed. Water splashed at his ankles. He heard Lord Orys shouting for his own horse and by the time they came across the river, Orys once more moved at his side. "Where are the prisoners?" he asked of the soldiers standing guard at the edge of the camp.

"The soldiers are held to the west of the camp, Your Grace," one of them, a tall, grizzly man said. "The nobles to the east."

Jae nodded and took a right, riding past the first of the tents to come up. Men looked up when they saw him pass. Some cheered, some lifted cups of ale, most only bowed with dead looks in their eyes. They were all covered in dirt and blood.

He found them at the edge of the rapidly forming camp, at the edge of the forest. Tarly had set up a fence around them and put two dozen men to guard them. They were herded inside like sheep, and so the tired and the wounded sat right down on the grass, while those too proud to do so paced.

One of them was tall and bald, and covered in the finest armor money can buy. Snarling lions on his shoulders, snarling lions of his breastplate, the cloth-of-gold cloak hanging off his shoulders retaining its brilliance in spite of the mess it had been through. Tywin Lannister carried himself with the same dignity and power that hung over him like a shroud when he'd taken King's Landing.

Seeing his one great foe brought low, defeated, woke him up. The hum of the river, the croaks of the ravens, even the overpowering stench from the battlefield; it all came back. Remember what we fought for! It shamed him to admit his delight over his victory overcame his rage at his loss, but the deed was done, his wits returned and he blinked and glanced around as if he'd just woken up.

He looked at the tense lines on Orys' face, the blood-splattered white cloaks of his Kingsguard as they sat their horses behind him, entirely willing to let him go and slaughter everyone in the pen.

He vaulted off his horse to find all their eyes on him. Tywin, and his little brother Kevan, smaller in every way. Lords Darry and Hayford and Rosby. Swyft, Crakehall, Brax and Banefort. Half a dozen knights he'd never seen in his life. "Where's Ser Edmure?" he asked Lord Orys.

His eyes went wide, and his shoulders sagged in relief. "Dead, Your Grace." He dismounted.

"Dead? In battle?" He moved before the pen, the eyes of the prisoners following him. Only Lord Tywin showed no fear.

"No, Your Grace, they found him in his tent, his throat slit," Orys told him. His eyes spoke of a story of unrest within Tywin's own ranks, unrest that did not turn out as the defectors might've wished.

"And Aegon?" he asked, his eyes on the Old Lion. There was rage in those pale, emerald eyes. Rage and murderous intent, but Jae saw the weight of defeat pressing down on Tywin's shoulders no matter how much the Old Lion tried to keep it at bay.

Aegon had been with him in the reserve and ended up captured after Orys' first charge. It spared him the slaughter where Jae's men might've chopped him to pieces before they realized who they'd killed.

"Lord Tarly probably isolated him," Orys answered. Some of the wariness remained. "Do you wish to..."

"No." Jae shook his head. "He'll be coming with us to King's Landing." The aura and mystique of Kings loses its power when the people see them dragged through the streets with a chain around their necks. Jae would show his humiliation for all the world to see and only when drunks laughed at Aegon in their cups, and beggars thought themselves looking kingly in comparison would he allow Aegon to die.

"Your Grace," the greying Lord Swyft got to his feet and approached the fence. The guards snapped to attention, their spears at the ready. "What's to become of us?"

"Death, I imagine." He never took his eyes off Lord Tywin. Lord Swyft reared and fell back on his arse. All his strenght left him. The other men only averted their eyes and looked to the ground; they knew the price of defeat, that's why they didn't order the surrender the second Jae's men encircled them.

"You murdered your son, Lion," he finally told him, and Tywin flinched at his words. He didn't know. "Soon you'll be dead. Your traitor brother will be dead. Cersei will serve at the Silent Sisters while her children rot at the Wall. There'll be as many Lannisters at Lannisport as there are Casterly's at Casterly Rock. A fine legacy, no?"

"You've come to gloat?" Lord Tywin rumbled. He took slow steps to approach the fence, but the commanders that sat on the ground did not scramble to get out of his way. Tywin had to step over some, shooting them icy glares only to find they cared little. "You may call yourself a King, and some may be fool enough to believe it, but all I see is a boy!"

They stood merely a foot apart, only the fence keeping Tywin from wrapping his long fingers around his throat. The Old Lion towered over him, at least a head taller than Jae, but Jae thought he'd never loomed larger. A defeated foe has that effect, a humbled bully even moreso. Reminds me of Viserys. "Gloat?" Jae repeated. "Why should I need to gloat? This morning you were a great man, respected by some and feared by all. Now, you are but another over-reaching Lord who thought himself the equal of a dragon. 'Great for a season, the fool thought he could fly.' Mayhaps I shall make that your epitaph."

And there came the snarl and the averted gaze, for the great Lord Tywin Lannister knew Jae would do such a thing, and knew he could do nothing about it. He lost, and now he had to live with the consequences. A tough thing to do for a man who'd won every battle life threw his way, except for the one that mattered.

"Rest easy now. Your example shall hold up the Crown for a long time." Jae did not wait to see what Tywin had to say. He turned on his heel and walked back to his horse. Jaime's dead, he mounted the horse. But Jaime made me remember.

His enemies laid dead, or in chains. The road to the Red Keep stretched before him and there was no one left in his way. He had done it. All agreed taking King's Landing would be a mere formality. All the armies of the Realm swore their allegiances to him and soon all the Lords would too.

He had dragons, and he had a Realm. Now let us see what I can do with it. "Ser Elmar," he called and reined his horse to face the young knight. "Find the principal commanders. Tell them they're to meet me in an hour."

"Aye, Your Grace." He bowed in his saddle and rode off in search of them.

Jae thought about visiting Aegon but decided against it. He wasn't ready yet. He might kill Aegon in a fit of rage. He sighed, and said, "Now, someone show me to my tent. I need a wash."

The meeting ended up taking place three hours later. Jae had fallen asleep and Lucas had refused to rouse him, valiantly keeping back all the Lords who'd wanted to talk to their King. When Jae finally came to, Lucas had a cold bath ready for him and a plate of ham and apples to go along. Jae lowered himself into the water and grabbed the brush Lucas had provided, scrubbing his skin until it turned rosy and the water became muddy, the dirt sediment gathering at the bottom of the tub. Then Jae dried himself off, threw on a fresh white tunic, brown breeches, and leather boots, and allowed his principal commanders into the tent.

The realizations slowly began to hit him, one after another, and the nervous energy of the battle was replaced by the peaceful knowledge that he'd won the war. He was the only King left in the land. Now's the time to mop up.

He looked up from the desk where Lucas had laid out the map of Westeros, various pieces indicating the position of different armies still in the field. The commander had a chance to rest a bit, to recover, and now they stood with their shoulders back, carrying themselves with the assurance of men who knew they'd won a war.

"Lord Tarly," Jae opened up. The Reacher Lord had his sword slung over his shoulder. His plain breastplate had already been scrubbed clean, and the no-nonsense look had returned to his eyes. "What's the situation?"

Lord Tarly put his hands behind his back, the light of the candles glimmering on his bald head. "The main army's broken, that much is beyond doubt, Your Grace. In theory, we control the Seven Kingdoms."

"In theory," Jae repeated.

Lord Tarly nodded in agreement. "There will be holdouts. Most of the Riverlands pledged themselves to the Pretender. Unless some deal is struck, we will have to root them out one by one."

"And that might spread us thin," Jae said, more to himself than his Lords. "What's the situation with the Greyjoys?"

Ser Arthur spoke up. "Lord Tywin forced them to retreat from Seaguard. They don't have a toe-hold on the land anymore."

"And the Blackfyres did us the favor of destroying the Iron Fleet," Jae said. "They might be willing to consider peace."

"They might, Your Grace, yes."

Jae drummed his finger on the table, looking down at the map. They had to do their mopping up quickly or other problems might find the opportunity to come to the forefront. "We still have to take King's Landing, as well."

Lord Baelor shook his head. "They're broken. I don't see why they'd resist us, or even how."

"Mayhaps." Jae inclined his head.

"There's also the matter of Edmure Tully. House Tully is gone in the main line."

Jae waved that problem away. "Lord Stark's got three sons. One of them can inherit. Gods know Robb Stark looks like a Tully anyway."

The men chuckled and it surprised Jae to hear it. He did his best to keep from peering at the men in suspicion. He hadn't even meant it as a joke. Jae decided to examine the Riverlands on the map again, wondering if Lord Stark would even allow one of his sons to go South. And what might the other Lords say, to have one House control two positions of Lord Paramount? A nasty little problem, but then who else could he give it to? The Darrys? The Freys? That would be ridiculous. The Freys didn't have the respect, and the Darrys – well, Lord Raymund had been killed in the battle, leaving an eight-year-old in charge of the House.

"The Tullys are a problem for another day," he said. "I want riders and ravens to go out immediately. Those who surrender will be shown mercy. But those who choose to resist will be stripped of their titles and sent to the Wall."

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Orys spoke up for the first time, claiming his position as the King's Hand.

"The same goes for King's Landing. Sent riders to the city, let them infiltrate it, and ensure everyone knows the choice before them. If they force me to take the city by storm, there will be slaughter."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Very well. That's it for today, then. I'm going to get some rest now. We'll give the man a day to rest, but we march the day after tomorrow."