Daemon & Rhaenyra are thrown into the War of the Five Kings
Title: The Night Is Dark And Full Of Terrors
Author: MohskiBroski
Rating: M
Language: English
Length: 15 chapters (ongoing)
Status: In-Progress
Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14579570/1/The-Night-Is-Dark-And-Full-Of-Terrors
https://archiveofourown.org/works/89144306/chapters/236658941
Summary:
Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen are torn from the Dance of the Dragons and dropped into the yard of Winterfell on the morning Robb Stark calls the banners. Two living dragons. A North marching to war. And a Long Night that neither side fully understands yet.
Chapter One
Robb Stark stood in the yard of Winterfell with the wind cutting at his face and the weight of the North on his shoulders.
The host was nearly ready. Fifteen thousand men, give or take. Banners snapped in the cold air—direwolf, sunburst, flayed man, giant, and a dozen more. The smell of horses and oiled leather and men who had not slept enough hung over everything. Grey Wind paced at his side, ears pricked, low growls rolling in his throat every few breaths. The wolf had been restless all morning.
Robb's hands rested on the pommel of his sword. He had already said the words. I am calling the banners. We march south. The lords had accepted it, some with fire in their eyes, some with quiet calculation. Greatjon Umber had roared loudest. Rickard Karstark had simply nodded once, face like carved stone. Roose Bolton had watched him with those pale eyes and said nothing at all.
His father was a prisoner in King's Landing. His sisters were hostages. The realm had crowned a boy who was no king, and the North would not bend.
Robb drew a slow breath and opened his mouth to give the final order to mount—
The sky tore open.
There was no sound at first. Only a pressure, like the air itself had been struck by a hammer. Then the light changed. Two vast shapes unfolded above the castle, blotting out the pale morning sun. Wings the size of longships beat once, twice, and the wind that followed nearly knocked men from their feet.
Grey Wind snarled and pressed against Robb's leg. Horses screamed. A dozen men dropped to their knees. Someone shouted the name of the old gods. Someone else began praying to the Seven in a voice that cracked.
Robb's first clear thought was that the stories had been true after all.
The nearer dragon was long and lean, scales the deep red of fresh blood, its body serpentine, its wings membrane stretched over bone. A rider sat the high saddle at its shoulders—silver-gold hair whipped by the wind, a sword at his hip that caught the light like Valyrian steel. The second dragon was broader, its hide a rich gold that seemed to drink the sunlight. Its rider's hair was silver-gold, long and unbound, and she sat her mount as if the sky itself belonged to her.
They circled once over the yard. The red dragon's scream split the air. Men covered their ears. The gold one answered with a deeper, rolling cry that vibrated in Robb's chest.
Then they began to descend.
Robb forced his voice to work. "Hold!" he shouted. "No arrows! Hold, damn you!"
The command carried. A few bows that had risen slowly lowered again. Greatjon Umber was already at Robb's shoulder, massive and red-faced, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Those are no birds, boy," the Greatjon growled.
"I know what they are."
The red dragon landed first, heavy as a falling tower, claws scoring deep furrows in the frozen earth of the yard. The gold followed a heartbeat later, more graceful, wings folding with a sound like heavy sails. Heat rolled off them in waves. The smell of sulfur and hot metal filled the air.
The silver-haired rider swung down first. He moved like a man who had never doubted that the ground would accept him. The silver-haired woman followed, slower, her eyes sweeping the host with the calm assessment of someone who had commanded armies.
Robb stepped forward. Grey Wind came with him, hackles raised, but the wolf did not charge. The dragons' riders watched the direwolf with open curiosity.
The man spoke first. His voice carried easily over the wind and the restless murmuring of fifteen thousand men.
"This is not King's Landing," he said. The words were accented, older somehow, the vowels shaped differently. "Nor is it Dragonstone."
The woman studied Robb's face, then the banners, then the castle itself. Something like recognition and confusion warred in her expression.
"Where are we?" she asked.
Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell in his father's absence, looked up at two living dragons and the last Targaryens the world had known, and answered the only way he could.
"You stand in the North," he said. "Above Winterfell. And the man you see before you is marching south to war."
The red dragon shifted its weight, and the frozen ground cracked beneath its claws.
Somewhere in the host, a man began to laugh—high and thin and more than a little mad.
Robb did not look away from the woman with the silver-gold hair.
"I am Robb Stark," he said. "And I would know your names before those beasts decide whether we live or burn."