It is said that the strength of an empire lies not in its gold, nor its castles, nor even in the dragons that darken its skies—but in the men who march beneath its banners, willing to die at the whim of a being they shall never meet, for a cause they scarcely understand. The Drakarmar were such men. And yet, they were more.
In the long annals of the Targaryen reign, their name stirs whispers still, though the dust of centuries lies thick upon their deeds, dulled only by peace, the passage of time and the erosion of memory. The Drakarmar were the spine of the empire, its mailed fist and iron heart forged in dragonfire. They were not a rabble of sellswords drawn together by greed, nor proud knights adorned with bright banners and songs sung in their name. No songs were sung of the Drakarmar. Their names did not pass from bard to bard, nor were their deeds etched in the hearts of poets. Their glory was quieter, carved into the bones of the empire itself, written in blood and smoke upon fields long forgotten.
They were bound by oaths, as all soldiers are, yet their oaths were not to lords or lands. Their loyalty belonged to the Vezarys, the High Castellan of Dragonstone, the keeper of the empire's flame, and through him, to the very idea of Targaryen dominion. A strange thing, to swear fealty to an idea. Stranger still to keep it. But keep it they did, with a fervour that outlived kings and conquered kingdoms alike.
Wherever the banners of the dragon unfurled, their shadows followed—disciplined, relentless. They were the empire's breath drawn in sharp, measured cadence, exhaled with intent upon battlefields that sprawled from the jagged shores of the Lost Islands to the wind-scoured edges of the Grey Waste.
The chronicles speak of them as an institution, but this is a simplification borne of ignorance. The Drakarmar was not a thing; it was a design, a structure woven into the fabric of the empire itself, sustained not by the strength of arms alone, but by the precise alignment of loyalty, ambition, and the calculated dispensation of power.
Consider the empire as a living organism. The Drakarmar was its musculature, taut and disciplined, composed of two distinct fibres: the First Sons and the Oathsworn.
The First Sons were not sons in the literal sense, though the metaphor holds—citizens born to the empire's bosom, their lives given over to service before they had ever drawn breath. They were not soldiers so much as bricks in the empire's wall, indistinguishable from one another save for the scars they bore and the battles they'd survived. They were trained from boyhood to stand, to march, to fight, and most importantly, to obey. A hearthband of eight men lived, ate, and bled together until they moved as one creature with eight hearts and a single mind. Ten hearthbands made a company, and six such companies formed a battalion. Stacked one atop the other like stones in a wall, until the wall itself became a weapon.
Above them stood captains, chosen not for the accident of noble birth but for their ability to hold the line when others faltered. There were sergeants and watch commanders, ensigns to bear the banners, though it was said the Drakarmar needed no banners—only the grim set of their faces, the disciplined drum of their march. A Lord-Commander ruled over all, a man as much lord as soldier, for what is an army if not the sharp end of a realm's ambition?
But the Drakarmar's strength did not lie solely in the uniformity of the First Sons. It breathed also in the fractures—the spaces where difference grew fertile. The Oathsworn filled these spaces, drawn from dusty towns and distant shores where the dragon's shadow fell faint and thin. They were not citizens when they arrived, but the empire was patient. They came with their strange tongues, their strange gods, their skills honed in strange lands, and the empire took all of it, kneaded it into shape, and called it loyalty.
Riders from the grass seas, archers from sun-baked isles, light-footed skirmishers who knew how to vanish like mist and strike like vipers. The Oathsworn were mercenaries only in name. In truth, they were aspirants. Their service was a transaction, yes, but the currency was not gold—it was belonging. After ten years beneath the empire's banners, after a decade of spilled blood and swallowed pride, they could claim the prize denied to most: citizenship. A reward that did not end with them but spilled forward into their children, and their children's children, binding foreign blood into the empire's endless lineage.
It was a clever thing, that promise. Gold runs out, but hope endures. A man will die for coin, but he will live for a future. The empire knew this well.
And so the Drakarmar marched, century after century, across continents and histories, leaving behind not songs, but the mundane peace that follows conquest. They were not heroes. They were not villains. They were the empire made flesh, the dragon's breath given form, the long shadow cast by ambition across the face of the world. And in the end, perhaps that is legacy enough."
―Grandmaester Rhoggo
…
Alicent descended the stone steps with slowly, her hands gathering the folds of her dark green gown. Aemond did not look up at her approach, but she knew he was aware of her, for there was a slight shift in his posture—a quiet acknowledgment, though no words yet passed between them.
She stopped a few paces away, watching as he secured the last of his gear, his expression betraying nothing of the thoughts that surely occupied his mind. The council meeting from the week prior remained fresh in her memory, and with it, the sharp lines of tension that had settled upon the faces of those present. Aegon's fury had been evident, the storm of his temper roiling behind every word, and yet Aemond had remained as he ever was—serene, unshaken. Seeing her sons at each other's throats, even now that they ought to be more united than ever, had left her very uneasy.
At last, when the prince had made his final adjustments, he turned to her with the smallest of inclinations of his head. "Mother."
"Aemond." She folded her hands before her, studying him.
There was a pause, and then, with an exhale softer than a sigh, she allowed herself the question she had carried from the moment she had been dismissed from the council chamber. "And your brother?"
Aemond tilted his head slightly, as though he had expected the inquiry but found it of little consequence. "We have reached an understanding," he replied simply.
An understanding.
The words were delivered with such casual finality that she nearly let them pass unchallenged. But she knew better than to take them at face value. She knew her son. She knew his manner of speaking, the deliberate way he chose his words. Understanding could mean many things.
"And that is all you will say?" she pressed.
Aemond fastened the clasp of his glove with a small, almost indulgent smile. "What more is there to say? Aegon is king, and I serve him. That has not changed."
It was an answer, and yet not one at all.
She frowned, stepping closer, lowering her voice. "I know what you think of him, Aemond. I know how you—" She hesitated, glancing about, as though wary of unseen ears. "You must not treat him with such… disregard. He is your brother, and despite his flaws, he is still your king. You must be gentler with him."
Aemond let out a soft hum, his expression unreadable, though there was something in his eye that flickered—not quite amusement, but something adjacent to it. "Gentler," he echoed, as though tasting the word and finding it unfamiliar.
"Yes," she said firmly. "You may have the will and the mind for governance, but Aegon is the one who wears the crown. He—" She exhaled, shaking her head. "He needs you, Aemond. And I would ask you not to make an enemy of him. Not now. Not ever."
At this, Aemond did something unexpected.
He reached out, cupping her face with gloved fingers, his touch as light as the fall of a feather. For all his coldness with the world, there was warmth in him yet, if only for her.
"Mother," he murmured, his voice a low reassurance. "You worry too much."
She caught his wrist, holding it there for a moment longer, as though she could will him to hear her plea, to understand it. "Promise me, Aemond."
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, with a sigh that was almost indulgent, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"As you wish," he said softly.
It was not quite a promise.
But it was all she would get.
She stepped back, watching as he mounted his horse with the fluid grace of one born to the saddle. The morning mist curled about the courtyard as he gathered the reins, the great black beast shifting beneath him with restless energy.
He cast her one last glance, and then rode off.
Through the gates, past the waiting banners, and into the city beyond, disappearing into the pale morning light.
Alicent stood in the courtyard long after he had gone, the hush of the keep settling in around her once more. There he goes, she thought quietly to herself. My sweet son, off to wage another of his many wars.
A sigh escaped her then and she cupped her hands in supplication.
"Mother above," she prayed, "hear my plea. Shield my son, Aemond, from the shadows that follow him. Grant him wisdom to temper his wrath, strength to carry the weight he bears, and mercy, where his heart grows cold. Father, guide his judgment; Warrior, guard him in battle; Smith, fortify his spirit; Maiden, keep his heart from ruin; Crone, grant him the sight to know friend from foe; Stranger, turn your face from him a while longer. Keep him safe, I beg you—Not for the realm, not for the crown, But for a mother who cannot bear to lose her son."
✥✥✥
Treatise: The March of the Dragon's Hostas Written by Tharo Thaen Qo'Zir, Historian
It is written that the strength of a kingdom is measured not in its victories but in the rhythm of its march—the steady cadence of boots upon soil, the breath drawn in unison, the slow, relentless advance of men shaped into something more than men. So it was with the host that left King's Landing beneath the shadow of Vhagar, the largest force at the time ever single-handedly marshaled under the green banners of House Targaryen. The records of the Citadel, kept by those who had never lifted a sword nor marched to war, would call it a campaign of swift and calculated devastation. Others, closer to the blood and dust, whispered of it as something altogether different—a tide of men and iron, methodical, unrelenting, as inexorable as the turning of the seasons.
The dawn was thin and brittle as they departed, the air sharp with the salt tang of the Blackwater Bay. Aemond Targaryen was said to have rode at the van, Vhagar above him, her wings carving slow, lazy arcs across the pale sky. The city emptied to watch—smallfolk pressing against one another, faces upturned in silent awe. They did not cheer. There was nothing in this host that invited celebration.
Twenty thousand strong, the army uncoiled from the city's gates like a great wyrm. This was no feudal levy, hastily gathered and ill-disciplined. It was a host shaped by reforms both subtle and sweeping, drilled into cohesion by a doctrine alien to Westerosi tradition. Three great standards of six thousand men each formed its backbone, supported by auxiliary units numbering two thousand more. They did not march as the lords of Westeros had marched in ages past, a ragged tide of banners and boastful cries. This was a different thing altogether—silent, their cadence a steady, measured rhythm that echoed across the cobblestones and out into the open fields beyond.
The vanguard moved first: light cavalry and scouts spreading like fingers into the land ahead, probing. Behind them came the First Standard, the elite of the host. Aemond's command followed—a retinue of High Marshals, scribes, and officers. The Lord-Commander was rumoured to not have spoken as they rode, his mind perhaps not with the city they left behind but with the lands ahead, where rebellion took root like rot beneath the skin.
The day's march was relentless. It carried them beyond the rolling pastures and farmsteads that fringed the capital, following the ancient road that led south toward the Wendwater. The cadence, steady: one hundred paces per minute, the army stretching for a mile and a half behind its vanguard. The men did not falter. They had been trained not to. Rest was brief, meals taken standing or in the saddle. By mid-day, the river came into view, its slow, dark current cutting a line across their path. The bridge there was old, its stones worn by centuries of feet and hooves, but it held beneath the weight of the army as the host crossed in disciplined silence.
Upon reaching the Wendwater bridge, the army's first encampment was established. Site selection was no matter of whim; it had been scouted in hours advance, its perimeter already marked, its strategic merits assessed and confirmed. The process unfolded with mechanical precision. The First Standard fanned out, forming a defensive zone while engineers marked out the camp's grid: streets for the orderly arrangement of tents, designated zones for supply depots, command quarters, and livestock. Hearthbands moved as one, driving stakes, raising tents, digging shallow ditches where needed.
The second day saw the host divide according to the strategic design laid out before the campaign began. The First Standard was detached, tasked with marching westward to seize Haystack Hall, the seat of House Errol. Yet their mission did not end there. Orders directed them to press on to Parchments, the stronghold of House Penrose, to secure the surrounding territory before rejoining the main host.
Simultaneously, the Second Standard veered southward, its battalions advancing toward Felwood. This maneuver served a dual purpose: to neutralize a potential staging ground for enemy forces and to create the illusion of a broader front, sowing confusion among Lord Borros Baratheon's bannermen regarding the Crown's true objective. Upon completing their task, the Second Standard was to double back, converging with the main host in preparation for the final assault upon Storm's End.
The Third Standard, along with the auxiliary forces, continued the primary advance toward Bronzegate. This route was chosen not solely for its ease but for its necessity, as Bronzegate controlled a key crossing point and served as a strategic gateway into the deeper reaches of the Stormlands.
As the army advanced, its logistical apparatus cycled relentlessly. Supply lines stretched behind them for many miles. The auxiliary engineers proved invaluable, repairing roads where necessary, constructing pontoon bridges when needed, and clearing obstacles that might hinder the host's progress.
As they neared Bronzegate, the terrain grew more rugged, the rolling hills giving way to dense thickets and rocky outcrops. Yet the army's formation adapted seamlessly, its columns shifting as needed to accommodate the changing landscape. Scouts reported sporadic sightings of enemy scouts, but no significant resistance materialized. Whether this was due to fear, disorganization, or the simple inability of Lord Borros's bannermen to coordinate an effective response, the records do not say. Perhaps it was all three.
The encampment outside Bronzegate was established with the same efficiency as before, though the proximity of the enemy dictated stricter security measures. Pickets were doubled, patrols increased, and siege towers constructed and positioned under the cover of darkness to mask the army's true strength. Fires burned low, their light shielded by makeshift barriers to prevent detection from afar.
The host rested then in anticipation of battle. Bronzegate would fall, as would Felwood, Parchments, and, in time, Storm's End itself. That much, as history had quite obviously proven, was certain.