Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

08

The screams and hollars of the Dothraki echo loudly across the large field as Percy watches them with amazement from his place next to Missandei.

It's the first time he has ever seen them on the battle field, and the frightening tales that his grandfather used to tell him definitely didn't do them justice. They truly are a sight to see as they near the man-made barrier made by Lannister forces.

Percy can see the soldiers shaking from a mile away, their fear evident as they prepare to inevitably be massacred. He almost feels bad for the soldiers, he might have if he didn't remember every single face from the HighGarden seige. Most of which are present.

It may he an awful train of thought, but he truly hopes their last seconds of life are as painful as his grief for House Tyrell. Just in the physical way.

The Dothraki grow closer, and just before they break the line is when Daenerys makes her presence known. Descending from the sky on the large and scaly back of Drogon as he screeches and roars at the enemies.

His large form casts a haunting shadow on the battlefield, an omen of sorts. The blackness of his body mixed with the subtle red makes the sun a blinding red. He's almost positive that by the time the dragon queen and her army are done, the battlefield will be an even darker scarlet.

Red with the blood of her enemies.

A sick sense of accomplishment spirals through him as Drogon burns the front line of soldiers, allowing the Dothraki to continue their assult. The screams of men reach his ears, agonizing pain evident as they're turned to ash by the dragonfire.

His plan had, as expected, gone exactly as he'd wanted. Although he knows he'll feel the guilt later, his actions not usually so harsh even when in war. The image of his mothers face as she realises her failure provides a temporary comfort.

Tyrion stands at his side, neutral faced as he watches the battle. Though Percy can tell from the way his face flinches and his eyes seem to shut for brief moments, blocking out the battle, that he doesn't find satisfaction in the already clear victory.

Percy almost wishes that he could be like his uncle at the moment. To not be glad to watch the men die a gruesome death. And despite his grief being the main reason for his satisfaction, he still finds the will to hate himself a little more.

Because as much as her hates to admit it, whether in his head or out loud, it is very Lannister of him.

The way a smirk tilts the corners of his lips while he looks out at the carnage of the battlefield. The burning hatred as he watches the army turn to ash on their knees, spreading with the wind like sand on a stone. The way he smiles a small smile, despite the horror of the battlefield. He'll allow this slight victory before he allows the guilt to consume him, for the time being.

His face falls however, as quick as it came, when a large, spear like arrow flies past Drogon. Missing him and his rider by mere feet. Percy's head snaps to the battlefield, eyes scraping for any signs of the weapon. They widen as he finds a large, almost harpoon-like weapon with Ser Bronn loading another.

Turning toward the Dothraki general that stands behind him, thoughts running a mile a minute, he growls out his command. "Kill the sellsword before he kills your queen!"

"Wait!" Tyrion attempts to tell him otherwise, but the Dothraki only hops upon his horse, riding quickly onto the battlefield. Small mumbles escape the dwarfs mouth as he watches with wide eyes, almost sounding like a plea for his friends life. Percy seethes. Just as the soldiers reaches the scorpion, Ser Bronn roughly pulls the lever, allowing another one to fly.