Rhaegar I
"TARGARYEN!"
On horseback, Robert Baratheon roared at the Prince of Dragonstone. He hefted his warhammer of cruel black iron and raised it, challenging the prince. Jason Mallister stepped forward with his liege, but Robert held him back with one outstretched hand. "The dragon is mine." He spat out vehemently. Rhaegar steeled himself. Robert was a brash and arrogant man, to be sure, but it could not be denied that he was a fierce warrior. The prince said nothing to the Baratheon, only raising his sword in turn.
The ground below them was more mud than dirt, watered by the blood of the fallen and the nearby ford. The battle raged around the two, confused and chaotic. Soldiers fought and died in the mud of the Trident, slogging through the battlefield, killing and drowning in the waters of the river. The banner of the three-headed dragon waved above, and alongside it were the rose of the Tyrells and the sun-and-spear of the Martells, along with a host of lesser houses. Spurring his warhorse forward, Robert rode towards Prince Rhaegar. The Targaryen did likewise, unsheathing his bright sword. The din of battle around the two seemed to fade as the two challengers met each other.
His horse at a full charge, Robert raised his hammer as Rhaegar slashed at him with his brand. The hammer gave only a glancing blow to Rhaegar's side, while Rhaegar's blade did not pierce Robert's armor. The two passed each other. The prince quickly turned his horse to meet Robert again. The Baratheon's chest heaved underneath his steel armor. He had been fighting hard for more than an hour on the battlefield, and his exhaustion began to show. Rhaegar again brought his black warhorse to a charge, and this time Robert's warhammer slammed down like a bolt of lightning, but was met with Rhaegar's shield. He could hear the shield cracking, the heavy strength of Robert's arm apparent.
Rhaegar noticed the horse struggling to balance itself on the ground, which was becoming more muddied. In the corner of his eye, in the distance he saw Ser Barristan, his white cloak stained with earth and mud, battling two knights by himself. The bold warrior held his own, despite being wounded by sword and spear and arrow. The two others of the Kingsguard on the field were fighting their own battles against the rebel forces and Robert's bannermen. The two armies, rebel and royal, seemed about evenly matched.
The Prince of Dragonstone had no further time to look on the battlefield, as they both moved met each other for a third time. Rhaegar went on the attack, galloping his horse forward as he tried to slash at Robert's head. The Baratheon, seeing an opening in Rhaegar's defenses, brought his hammer forward with his full strength, slamming it right into Rhaegar's exposed breastplate. The Targaryen tumbled off of his horse with a great thud, landing into the muddy waters of the ford.
The wind knocked out of him, Rhaegar breathed heavily. His vision was tinted with red. Coughing up blood, he saw Robert Baratheon dismount in order to finish him. The stag horns on his helmet, his black hammer, and his towering figure made him look more monster than man. Striding over to Rhaegar's prone body, he gave a cry as he raised his warhammer to give the final blow. Quickly, Rhaegar grasped the shield which fell besides him and raised it towards the grey sky. His hands shuddered with the strength of the blow, and chips of wood splintered off the shield.
Enraged, Robert again raised his hammer and brought it down against Rhaegar. The shield gave a resounding crack and broke under the weight of the blow into several pieces. Useless now, he cast it aside. The Dragon Prince wildly looked around for something, anything. His eyes fell to his left on his sword, just outside of his reach, lying in the muddy water. He twisted leftward quickly to avoid Robert's next blow. Robert smirked as he saw the proud Prince Rhaegar like a worm writhing in the mud. He prepared to crush the cursed dragon-spawn under his feet. Rhaegar quickly felt the hilt of his sword, and grabbed ahold of it just as Robert's hammer began to fall. With a flash of steel, Rhaegar lifted the sword upwards. He felt the the blade meet flesh. Robert yelled out in pain, the sword cut to the very bone. Red blood splattered into the water. He fell to his knees in pain.
Rhaegar, leaning on his sword, rose up from the ground. Ever the chivalrous knight, he gave Robert a moment to stand up. The Baratheon spat, his face contorted with pain, but he lifted himself up nonetheless. The man's resolve was to be admired.
"For… Lyanna." Robert hefted his mighty warhammer, bringing it down in a deadly arc. Both were wounded, but Rhaegar was still agile. He stepped back, the warhammer swinging mere inches from his face. His swings and wild blows became increasingly desperate. His breathing became increasingly heavy and his thrashing with the warhammer more sluggish. Robert was clad in heavy steel armor, after all, and it took a man of great strength like him to be able to wear it for hours and still do battle. But he was still a man.
Rhaegar, mastering his pain, weaved in and out of the Baratheon's reach. A slash there, a stab here. Each cut Rhaegar made with his blade only served to enrage Robert. The thrill of battle still shone bright in Robert's eyes as the dragon and stag fought to the end. Robert gave a last thunderous swing with his iron hammer, throwing all of his weight into the blow. The hammer swung uselessly in the air. The Baratheon lost his balance, the hammer fell, sinking into the watery mud beneath the two. Rhaegar suddenly saw his chance. Rushing in close, in one lightning-swift motion, Rhaegar ran his blade through Robert's chest.
For one brief moment, their eyes met. Rhaegar was close enough to see the light leave Robert's eyes. Robert cursed him one last time in vain, his mouth bloody. The dragon-prince removed the blade from his chest, and Robert's body fell before him.
Battered and bloodied, Rhaegar Targaryen caught his breath. He leaned on his body of the would-be usurper was broken before him. It was finished. His silver hair was streaked with mud and his wounds still pained him, but he was still princely to look on. The Targaryen's violet eyes turned away from the sight before him. He knew his prophesies. He knew his duty. He must be a warrior. The sight of blood and killing and death did not please him. It was a duty, to be done for the realm and for his love. That was his fate. Ser Jonothor Darry snapped him out of his thoughts.
"My Lord Rhaegar." The knight of the Kingsguard said, his white cloak torn and tattered. "The usurper is dead." His eyes shone with hope.
Rhaegar's gaze was distant as always. "My horse fled during the duel with Robert."
Jonothor whistled at one of his squires, who ran off to find him one.
"How goes the battle, Ser?" Rhaegar asked as he looked around. Dead bodies strewn about the ground, more fighting and killing, but in the chaos he could not make out in which direction the tide of the battle was leaning.
"The men saw your duel with the Baratheon and saw him go down. It has given new strength to our men - the right wing of the rebel army is in rout already. Ser Barristan lead the charge, cutting down dozens of men, but he is gravely wounded. The Dornishmen are fighting, but their prince is injured. Their center is weak - if we can force them into retreat, the day is ours, my lord."
The squire brought the horse, which Rhaegar swiftly mounted. "I will lead the center. Ser Jonothor, lead the Dornishmen on the right wing. For the Ki- For the Realm." He snapped the reins of the horse, which went cantering forwards.
"For the Realm, my lord."
The setting sun shone as it fell in hues of dark crimson and fiery orange. In the golden light of evening, the Trident seemed to shine with its own light. It would be a beautiful sight, worthy of a song, perhaps, if not for the corpses of the fallen strewn about the field. The crows had begun to gather. They alighted on the battlefield in flocks, picking at the dead. The bodies of the highborn were being gathered for burial, and wounded men hobbled off the battlefield, glad to see the end of battle. The lowborn were left to rot on the field.
Rhaegar looked down at the sight in silence. His thoughts drifted far from the battlefield. They drifted towards his family. Those memories, however, were far from happy ones. King Aerys was but a shadow of his former self. He could lie to himself no longer - he was the worst tyrant the Seven Kingdoms had seen since Maegor the Cruel. And the stories about his him and his mother… he closed his eyes. His father, the king, the man he once was, had died. Only that... shadow on the throne was left now. At the tourney in Harrenhal, he remembered what he looked like. Pale and gaunt, his eyes bloodshot-red. His head a tangle of uncut grey hair and his nails long and twisted. He would laugh and cry like a man possessed. The Mad King indeed. His arms were slashed red with cuts and scratches from the Iron Throne.
A man who could not sit on the throne was no king.
He could only hope his father's infirmity had not become worse. For his mother's sake, for Viserys' sake, and and for Elia's sake. Hopes would not avail him anything. He knew what must be done. Already the blood spilt today was on his hands, though he dreaded the thought. Rhaegar tried not to think of what the future might hold as his thoughts drifted even further, beyond Dragonstone and the Red Keep.
Lyanna Stark. The mere memory of the name, despite his father, despite the war, despite everything, made him softly smile. The way she smiled. Her fierce spirit. Her raven-dark hair, the starlight in her eyes, the smell of flowers. It was madness. All of this war and killing and blood, and for what? For her? Yes, for her. A steep price it might be. But it was a price he was willing to take. But most of all, he did it for the realm and the child she bore. His was the Song, after all, the only song that mattered. He had seen it. The promised prince, he was sure of it. Aemon had told him. Already the cold breath of darkness was beginning to fall on the world.
The night had fallen, and the stars were beginning to shine down on him. Next to him he had his silver harp. He took it - it was an old friend to him now - and began to strum a song that was both soft and hauntingly sad, thinking of his love he left behind him.
Hello! This is the first chapter of a series I intend to continue. If any of you enjoyed it, (or, for that matter, if you didn't enjoy it) drop a review. I'm always looking to improve my writing, and this is my first fanfic, after all. I'm not sure how frequently I will update this - I'll try to keep it at a good pace, but sometimes life gets in the way. Thanks guys! ~ Moradhel