A Clash of NEETs, Chapter 64 (Patreon)

Beta’d and edited by The Grand Cogitator, Yae Miko, and Philosphysics

Brought to you by my discord poll, who decided they wanted a bit more of the madness this month.

Like a jewel amidst the sands, Sunspear normally shone atop the cliffs of the Broken Arm, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the bright sun of Dorne. It overlooked the bright blue waters of the sea, and in its ports were ships of every imaginable kind, from the Swan Ships of the Summer Isles to Ironborn longships, each of them bringing in goods and buying up the products of Dorne. Within the walls of the city were many golden domes, from the Great Sept of a Thousand Arms, the center of Satella’s worship in Westeros, to the Old Palace itself, slightly smaller and less grand.

The streets of Sunspear were normally crowded with merchants, knights, and the townsfolk themselves, all sweating in the sun or waiting under the shade of the many colorful awnings in the bazaars. That was within the Winding Walls at least, and outside was the Shadow City, a collection of hovels and mudbrick buildings that housed the less fortunate of Sunspear.

Now, the sky above Dorne was black with ash as the Shadow City burned, and the streets were crowded not with trade, but with huddled refugees. The harbor itself was burning as well, with the ships that had tried to flee laying siege, their crews drowned zombies that had risen from the deep. The sands were black with blood and bile from the risen dead, and the Winding Walls were stained with battle.

Flocks of gargoyles and winged undead attacked from the sky, while a horde of undead spilled from the sands at the behest of the necromancers. And in command of it all, a figure of shadow and ice stood, a hulking behemoth who had smashed the Threefold Gate with his runeblade, and been driven off only when the Chief Septon of the Envy Cult himself along with the Sister-Captain of the Faith Militant Obara Sand had stood together against the Death Knight. Now the Septon was in Satella’s halls, and Captain Sand was grievously injured.

For now, the traitor Gregor Clegane oversaw his undead hordes as they fell upon the ruined gates, slowly wearing down the defenders. He had already recovered from his injuries and soon would lead the final assault to the keep, and the sacking of the city. Plague cauldrons were being prepared, and before the city even fell, her populace would fall and rise to serve him. He smiled, baring yellowed teeth behind decaying lips. Ice covered the sand where he stood, and he knew that the time of his triumph was nigh.

“My lord, there is a disturbance from the sea,” a necromancer said, shuffling forward as he leaned upon his twisted staff of bone.

“It matters not. Even if the entirety of the Royal Fleet were to arrive, Sunspear would still fall,” the Mountain growled, gripping his runeblade tighter.

“It is a lone ship my lord, but it seems to have members of the cursed Faith Militant aboard.”

“Then these new brothers can die with the rest,” Gregor sneered. He turned to face the gate again. “Ready the catapults. We strike as soon as the sun sets. Let the plague cleanse this city of life.”

He ignored the one small ship that was moving into the bay, and thus, missed the flash of flames as two of the raised ships went up. Nor did he see a boy leap across the water to the docks, spear at the ready.

Dust landed amidst splintering wood and ruined ships, his nostrils flaring in pure fury. A dozen ghouls rushed him, slavering for his blood, but he flowed like smoke and lightning, striking the monster down in a whirl of steel. Behind him, the ship slid into the dock, and Lean lept ashore, surrounded by half a dozen Brothers of the Faith Militant, Sandor Clegane at their head.

“RIGHT BOYS!” Sandor bellowed. “LET’S CLEAR THIS FILTH OUT!”

“FAITH AND FURY!” the Brothers roared, and they charged forward towards dust, even as more undead appeared from the ruined docks. Behind them, Lean pointed, and lightning struck from the dark sky, blasting several zombies to pieces. The battle was soon joined, the weapons of Sandor and his Brothers glowing with Athena’s power, while Dust raged like a whirlwind of death.

“Come on, Shae!” Lean called, even as Jory helped a cringing Varys out of the ship. “It’s not safe here!”

“I-I understand that, my Lady, I just…are you sure it’s safer there?” Shae asked, looking up into the city with clear dread. In the distance, they could see one of the defensive ballista fire, and hear the shriek of a gargoyle as it was struck and fell to earth.

“If we stay here my girl, then the Kvaldir are sure to find us,” Varys said, adjusting his iron skullcap and hefting a sturdy mace. He was no longer dressed in perfumed robes, but wore a leather jerkin and skirt, and carried an iron buckler. Jory was dressed in mail and leather himself, and bore his sword and shield emblazoned with the Wolf of Winterfell.

Shae nodded and clambered out of the boat, sticking as close to Lean as possible. Despite the fact that she was still no more than a slip of a girl and the smallest of the four, no one doubted that Lean was also by far the best qualified to face down the hordes of the undead, proven again when a hideous bloated beast with the head of a cow and the amalgamation of a dozen corpses of men and beast attempted to flank Dust and the Brothers.

Lean stretched out her hand, and with a short incantation, a ball of flames the size of her head struck the creature. It roared in pain as it was consumed, and attempted to turn to attack. Varys bashed it with his mace and Jory slammed his shield against it, but it did not fall until Lean sent a second ball of flame that took off the abombination’s misshapen head.

“I knew the desert was perilous, but surely it is not normally this bad,” Lean panted, flagging slightly. Shae hastily steadied Lean, but the young champion was steady again in moments.

“The deserts have been plagued by the undead since the time of the Kinslayer,” Varys said, stepping gingerly over the festering corpse. “But such an incursion has not taken place since the time of Baelor the Blessed and the Divine Twins.”

“This is worse than anything I’ve heard of, even beyond the Wall,” Jory agreed. “We must make haste for the Citadel.”

They fought their way through the docks, putting down risen corpses and fighting off shrieking gargoyles, even slaying a necromancer that had been attempting to raise the bodies of fallen small folk. Lean hastily cremated the bodies with her flames, and then they finally made it to the gates. A mob of zombies battered at them, but they were stoutly defended by Dornishmen and Envy cultists, whose powers had already put many of the undead to rest.

“BACK OFF MY PEOPLE!” Dust shouted, and dove into the fray, his spear whirling as Lean threw fire and wind before him. They charged through, Sandor and the brothers fanning out around them and striking down the undead in a wedge formation, Jory, Varys and Shae in the center behind the empowered heroes.

Before they even made it to the wall, the gates opened and several knights sallied forth, backed up by brothers of the Faith Militant and Envy cultists. The Undead were crushed between the two forces, and soon the area before the gate was clear. The lead knight raised his visor as he cantered up to Dust, his shield bearing a red cockatrice on a yellow field, a black serpent clutched in the beak. “Is that you, Prince Dust? Thank the Envious One, we feared for your safety.”

“It’s me, Lord Gargalen,” Dust said, waving and bowing slightly. “This is Princess Lean Baratheon, and Brother Clegane, along with Lord Varys and Miss Shay. Where is my father, Arianne, Quentyn? Are they OK?”

“Princess? Clegane?” Lord Gargalen’s eyebrows rose, but he shook his head. “Not the time for introductions or questions. Inside, quickly. The filth shall rally soon.”

Once they were back behind the walls, Lord Gargalen dismounted and bowed to Lean and Dust both. “We are grateful the Goddesses have sent such help in our time of need. Truly, this is a time for the Children of Destiny to arise. But…Brother Clegane? You must be Sandor Clegane then, called the Hound?”

“Aye, and what of it?” Sandor growled, resting his hand on the pommel of his axe.

Gargalan looked disturbed, as did several of the men at arms. One of the Brothers that had been defending the wall leaned close to Gargalan, and said in a voice that would carry, “He has the blessing of My Lady. He is no false Brother.”

“Do you question me?” Sandor sneered, his scared face contorting into a fearsome shape.

“No, no, I apologize. It is just…your brother. Do you know what has befallen him?” Gargalan asked, looking disturbed.

Sandor’s face contorted even further to that of a demon. “He’s here? My traitorous bastard of a brother is here?”

“Aye. He led the assault until Sister-Captain Sand and the Archsepton of Envy repelled him,” Lord Gargalan said, shaking his head slowly. “The Archsepton fell, but-”

“Cousin Obara?! Is she OK!?” Dust interrupted, looking stricken.

“She yet lives, but her wounds are grave,” Lord Gargalan said, shaking himself. “My apologies. You must go to your father in the palace at once. Horses! Horses for the Prince and his party!”

“No need,” Dust said, and scooped up Lean, who gasped but clung to his neck eagerly. “I can get there faster.”

Then with a leap that cracked the stone beneath him, Dust launched himself into the air, soaring high up over the city. He looked down with horror, seeing parts of the city burning, sections of the wall where men fought for their lives against swarms of undead. There was a shriek, and Dust swung his head as he began to fall, seeing a gargoyle swoop down at him.

“Fireball!” Lean blasted it out of the sky, but the force of her spell sent them tumbling down through the air. Dust managed to land on his feet, but he tripped and fell, spilling Lean and tumbling across the stone.

“The city,” Dust said, clutching his head with one hand as tears trickled down his cheeks. “Sunspear, it’s falling! Lean, who do we do!?”

“It’s OK,” Lean said gently, taking out a hankie and wiping the tears from Dust’s grimy cheeks. “We’re here to help and fight. We beat Gregor once, and we can do it again!”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dust said, sniffling slightly. He stood up, picking Lean up again, and lept up several more levels. A few more jumps brought him to the palace gardens, where Dust had spent much of his childhood playing amidst the palms and flowers. Now it was filled with the wounded and dying, with desperate doctors and septa’s trying to save people from succumbing to their wounds, and likely rising again. There was a burning funeral pyre, where dead bodies were immediately thrown, some of them already struggling.

As Dust and Lean landed, one of the Renewal septas looked up and gasped. “Prince Dust! The Children of Destiny have returned!”

There was a general clamor, and Dust blushed as he set Lean down. She tried to hide her tail at first, until one of the patients noticed it and cried out. “She’s one too! We’re saved! Satella has sent her champions!”

“Um, technically it was ah, Eris and Aqua,” Lean said, blushing at the comment. No one seemed to mind though, with the hue and cry being raised that the Prince had returned with another champion.

It wasn’t long until a Maester took the two of them through the palace, to where Dust’s father, Prince Doran Martell and his bannermen made their plans in the great hall. Doran was perched up on a platform where he could oversee the map of the city, sitting in his chair and issuing orders.

“Reinforce the southern walls, and direct our siege engines to target theirs. We have rumors of Plague spreading,” Doran ordered, and a messenger was dispatched and pieces on the map moved.

“My Lord,” the Maester called, “Prince Dust has returned with reinforcements!”

Doran looked up, and when he saw his youngest son, he looked relieved for a moment, then saddened. Dust wasn’t sure what to make with that, and hesitantly stepped forward, bowing to his father. “Um, I’ve come home, sir.”

“So you have, in our darkest hour,” Doran said quietly. He motioned for two servants to help him to his feet, then brace him as they lived the prince down to his son. Doran put a hand on Dust’s shoulder and smiled. “My heart wishes you had not returned, but were yet safe, but my mind knows you may be our last hope. You brought reinforcements?”

“Um, well, not much,” Dust admitted. “Six brothers of the Faith Militant, Jory, Varys, Shae, and Lean. And me too, I guess.”

“Lean?” Doran looked over to Lean, who blushed herself and bowed.

“Yes, I am Lean Baratheon, Prince Doran. I’ve come to help.”

“Not much?” Doran said, and then his body shook as he chuckled, then coughed. Dust looked up, horrified, until his father managed to speak. “My son, you have brought to this city not one, but two champions of the Divine. The only possibly better news was that you had come with the Stormborn herself. You are both needed sorely. I hate to press children into battle, but…needs must. You must go to the Threefold Gate. The assault will soon begin there anew.”

“You’re not mad? Or disappointed?” Dust asked, sounding uncertain.

Doran drew Dust to his breast and gave him a hug, even though the motion clearly pained him, and his servants had to struggle to keep him upright. “Never, my son. You have done well. We will talk later. For now, go, and do what the goddesses sent you to do.”

“You got it, pops!” Dust said happily. “Come on, Lean, let’s go kick names and take ass!”

Doran let out a heavy sigh of pain, though whether or not that was from Dust’s mangling of the language or his gout. He was eased back into his chair, and Dust and Lean both turned and raced from the citadel. Despite his pain, Doran smiled. “Be well, my son. You are our last hope.”

Outside, Dust carried Lean once more, leaping back down the summit to the lower gate, where the fighting was still fierce. Withered remains of those who had perished in the desert assaulted the gate in endless waves, sand scoured mummies that shambled forward with pitted blades or gnarled claws of bone. Individually the undead were no threat, but tens of thousands of them attacked the city now, and while they did not move swiftly, they were a challenge to put down for good. Hacking off a limb did not inconvenience them, only destroying their skulls or chests where the animating magic dwelled would put them down.

At the forefront of the battle were what remained of the city's best armored knights and Brothers, supplemented with what Axis or Envy septons and septas there were. Pikes and arrows tried to find off the gargoyles, the horrors carved from cursed sandstone and animated with foul magic. Rotting vultures dove into the defenses to spread contamination and rot, and necromancers chanted spells to drive their minions forward.

At the center of the barricade made from the shattered gates a tall man stood, his massive axe cleaving in the heads of ghouls one after another. Sandor roared challenges to his brother, demanding that Gergor come and face him. Jory stood at his side, and though he was but a mortal man, he fought as well as any on the line.

Dust and Lean landed on the ramparts above the fight, and both waded into battle right away. At Lean’s command, the winds whipped up, sending gargoyles crashing to the ground, and another spell sent fire raining down on the mass of undead below. Their dry skin and bones ignited easily, and the inferno was so intense that Dust had to shy back before he lept down.

Seeing the flames, Sandor let out an oath and shied back, his axe hanging down at his side as he looked on in horror. One hand went to touch the melted skin of his face, and for a moment he was not in the present, but the past, and was a scared boy who was pleading for mercy as his brother laughed.

But Sandor was no longer that beaten boy, nor a cringing hound. He felt the power of his patron stir in his chest, and snarling, he stepped forward, raising his axe.

Even as he did so, ice washed over the battlefield, and the flames were quenched. A dark armored figure the size of a Mountain stepped forward.

Brother. I would have thought you’d have run at the first sight of the flames. Since when does a beaten cur bite back?

A groan of despair arose from the defenders, white the undead moaned in triumph as their Death Knight took the field once more.

“I’m no one’s dog anymore, and the power in me is greater than the vile spawn you serve,” Sandor spat, stepping forward onto the ice. At his treat, it shattered and melted away, a soft golden light growing around Sandor. His axe began to crackle with power, and his eyes glowed with Athena’s blessing as he raised it. “Come at me! You’re no brother of mine anymore! Let us end this!”

With a bellow, the brothers Clegane charged, and their weapons struck one another, ringing with power as they collided. Both men let blows fly that were powerful enough to shatter bones and demolish armor, but the magic flowing through them and their mighty stature allowed them to meet and parry each one. The Mountain’s cold wrath met the Hound's desperate fury, and for a few moments, the two titans dueled alone before the Threefold Gate.

But it was not to last. The undead surged forward again, and Dust leapt down to meet them, his spear whirling as he cut down abominations that would have towered over even the Mountain, and ranks of endless ghouls. The Faith Militant stood with him, with the two champions dueling at the center. Any who came too close were bashed aside in the deadly blood feud, and the battle raged on.

Though at first Sandor’s attacks were the equal of his treacherous brother’s, he was the younger and smaller of the two, and the unholy strength of a Death Knight and the magics he commanded far surpassed the blessings Athena bestowed upon her cult. Sandor was driven back, and the living defenders were pressed back with him.

Then Dust was there, his spear flashing in the smoky light to bite at Gregor’s dark armor. “Hey, remember me? I’m the one who killed you!”

“Impudent child!” Gregor turned like a bear being baited, swinging his runeblade as it glowed with an unholy light. Dust’s spear met it, but this time, it was Dust who was beaten back. “When last we fought, I was but a weak man of flesh! Now I have been remade in the Lich King’s own image!”

“Yeah, but you’re still ugly,” Dust taunted, dancing back even as skeletal hands rose up from the glowing ice to grasp at him.

Sandor roared and pressed forward with his own assault, but such was the unnatural speed and might of a Death Knight that Gregor was able to fight both at once. Zombies and ghouls poured in at the Death Knight’s wordless command, and even the Faith Militant could not fight them back as Dust and Sandor fought for their lives against the unholy champion and his minions.

Then a fireball screamed down from above, crashing into Gregor’s armor. The magic runes warding him flared and dispersed the attack, but it gave Sandor an opening as his brother staggered. The Hound stepped in, his axe coming down right upon the Mountain’s head. His brother managed to jerk to the side, but he took the blow upon his gorget, and the metal screamed as the goddess-blessed steel struck cursed craftsmanship.

For a moment, Sandor grinned in triumph, but then he attempted to pull free his axe. The weapon caught, he was left vulnerable. Seeing his chance, Gregor swung his own weapon up, though his angle was bad, and he struck Sandor in the side. The steel shattered, and Sandor grunted in pain as the cursed weapon bit into him.

You’ll never be stronger than me, brother. Kneel now, and I will allow you to serve me in death, Gregor taunted.

Sandor responded with all the tact and diplomacy he was famous for. “Fuck off.”

Drawing his side sword, Sandor slammed it into his brother’s open mouth with all the fury of the Faith Militant behind him. The blade drove through the back of Gregor’s skull, and he slumped to the ground, dead again.

Staggering, Sandor was dragged to the ground by his brother’s weapon embedded in his side, gasping in pain as the unholy magic began to weaken him. All around him, more zombies attacked, and he grimaced. “Fuck. Shouldn’t that have killed them?”

But the zombies were not solely tied to the one Death Knight. Other runeblades were lifted, and the enemy siege weapons began to fire, sending spiraling barrels of Plague into the city.

Dust fought on, but even his supernatural strength and skill couldn’t let him hold the gate forever. Lean was growing weary, her spells coming less frequently, and having less impact. The defender’s hearst quailed, and they cried out in panic as the Plague began its foul work, striking down even those hale and uninjured, and bringing them back to live as slavering undead. Even with the Mountain brought low, all hope seamed lost, as the plague catapults reloaded for another shot.

Dust readied his weapon as another Death Knight strode forward to take Gregor’s place, but his heart trembled, and Lean screamed in frustration and fear as more gargoyles strike from on high.

Then, the Dragons Roared.

Out of the black sky, flame and death descended. Three dragons dove upon the enemy, their breath illuminating the battlefield in a flash of destruction. Lightning flashed, and smote the necromancers at their cauldrons, and the undead quailed.

At the Threefold Gate, an armored figure fell from on high, landing like a thunderbolt. Her sword glowed with power, her silver hair streaming behind her as she rose, lightning running down her limbs.

“Fear not! Your queen has returned! SACRED EXPLODE!”

The Death Knight was struck down at a single blow, and Dust and Lean looked on in awe as Iris Targaryen, the Storm Born, took the field.

Dust was good at fighting, always had been, and while Lean would have been the most potent mage in centuries to fight for Westeros, they would have fallen alone. But together? Together, they had been a significant portion of the strength of the defenders ever since they had arrived, barely holding back the tide of evil.

Iris did not hold back the tide. She annihilated it.

The spells she cast shattered entire formations, and her sword cleaved abominations in half by the dozen at a single stroke. Her dragons flew above her, their fire burning a path before their mother. Two more champions landed and strode beside Iris, one calling down lightning and fire, the other with a shining rapier that pierced any armor.

Feeling his heart lift, Dust scrambled forward to fight at Iris’ side. Lean was not far behind him. They took up a position on her left, the other two champions at the Queen’s right, and together the five of them scoured the undead from the battlefield. What few that did survive their onslaught fled back into the dunes, to be harried by the dragons until they were scattered to the winds.

At last, after hours of fighting, the Children of Destiny stood alone upon the field. Dust was breathing hard, leaning on his spear, while Lean was sitting down and looking dazed and drained.

“Thank you,” Dust gasped. “You came at just the right time.”

Lean nodded. “You saved us, your Grace.”

“I could not let Winterfell fall, not to the undead,” Iris declared.

There was an awkward pause.

“Ah, my lady,” one of the older women, Dust thought she was a Lannister by her complexion, said. “This is Dorne. Not the North. We’re in Sunspear.”

“Oh. I thought it was a bit warm,” Iris said, brushing it aside. “Well, I guess if we’re in Dorne, I probably won’t have to make anyone kneel by force, though I had hoped that saving the city would have been enough to inspire loyalty.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure my dad will just be grateful that you saved us,” Dust said with a shrug, not having noticed the geographic gaffe. Academics had never been his strong point anyway.

“Oh!” Lean hastily stood, brushing off her torn and stained dress, and bowed. “I am Lean Baratheon, your Grace. And this idiot is Dust Martell.”

“Hi!” Dust said, waving and smiling.

“I am Claire Grayjoy, and this is my wife, Rain Lannister,” the older woman with a sword and a funny suit said, bowing in return. Then she pursed her lips. “You are the daughter of Stannis the false king.”

“Uh, w-well, I uh, we need your help, Queen Iris,” Lean said, blushing and trying to hide her tail by reflex. “There were Red Priests, necromancers, and Death Knights in King’s Landing. We figured we needed all the Children of Destiny to fight them…I, ah…I didn’t tell my parents I was coming…”

“Stannis is kinda grumpy, but he’s not too bad. He let me fight the Mountain! We just killed him again before you got here,” Dust said, pointing. Then he looked up at the sky. “Are those your dragons? Can I ride one?! I’ve always wanted to ride a dragon!”

“You uncouth boy,” Claire rebuked, glaring at Dust. “How dare you speak to Her Grace in such a-”

“Peace, Claire,” Iris said, raising a hand. She smiled at Dust and Lean, sheathing her sword. “These two at least have fought beside me in battle and pledged their fealty, correct?”

Dust and Lean both hastily nodded their agreement, with Lean stepping close to Dust and holding his hand for comfort.

“Then they are my friends, not my enemies. Now, let us see to the city. Our work is far from done today.”

By sunset, the second of the Lords Paramount had bent the knee to Iris, though in Doran’s case it was a bit more metaphorical, Iris allowing him to simply kiss her hand. The undead had been dealt a serious blow, and it was hoped they would not be a threat to Dorne again for some time.

But up north, the icy winds of undeath continued to blow. And the Kinslayer began the next stage of his march south.

Cast of Characters:

Gregor Clegane as: 0-2

Sandor Clegane as: In an actually satisfying CleganeBowl for once. He even lived!

Dust Martell as: Missing Best Daughter.

Lean Baratheon as: The Little Princess Who Could.

Dorane Martell as: Still one of the only smart lords in the entire series.

Iris Targaryen as: Queen of the Asskickers.

And the Cast of a Song of Ice and Fire as somehow getting a better deal despite the Ice Zombie Apocalypse kicking off.