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Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Great Pretender
Sea mists rolled in from the eastern coast, reducing visibility to mere yards. From Shipbreaker Bay, shrouding Storm's End and creeping swiftly over the surrounding lands, it had descended so fast it took Jon completely by surprise. He lit an old oil lamp, but the flame only caught the fog and diffused a useless fuzz of light. Cursing the weather, he called Ghost to heal before he could get lost in the fog and sought out his brother.
All night, Robb had been tense and nervy. Jon put it down to pre-battle nerves. After all, neither of them had fought before. Not properly. Not outside the sparring yard in Winterfell, wrapped in layers of padding and using blunted tourney swords. Overnight, it seemed, they had both gone from that to live swords and steel breastplate. But there was more to his brother's agitation than that. When Jon found him, he was still pacing the interior of their tent and biting his nails, agitated more than nervous.
"We can't stay here," he said, as soon as Jon appeared. "We need to move."
Jon was puzzled. "And where do you propose we go?"
Mid-pace, Robb changed direction and pulled out an already dog-eared map and spread it out on a trestle table.
"We're here and the Golden Company are there," he pointed to the relevant places on the map, marked out in red ink. The Golden Company attacking from the south, while they attacked from the north-west. "If they're going to retreat, they have two choices: south, toward the Dornish Marches or the east coast, where they have ships waiting in the bay."
"It's not exactly ideal," Jon agreed. "But it's dawn already, what can we do about it?"
"Leave a small force here while we manoeuvre into a better position, cutting off their coastal retreat," he said. "But we've got to do it now, before the light improves and or the fogs lift."
Jon hesitated, unable to take his eyes from the map. What Robb was saying made sense, but it was a risk. If they left a small force where they were all supposed to be, it split the army and guaranteed those left behind would take heavy casualties. But most would live and would be defending the stronger position, cutting off the most likely point of retreat into the bargain.
However, much he tried to argue otherwise, the worst thing that could happen was Aegon escaping. He would flee to the free cities, where the rich Merchant bankrolling him would merely do it all again. Sansa had told them about this Ilyrio Mopatis. A man so wealthy he practically owned Pentos and was now using the Golden Company as his own private army. If Aegon fell back into the hands of Mopatis, in a few years they would be back here, fighting the same battle again.
But even Robb's plan wasn't perfect in terms of containing the enemy.
"What about the Dornish Marches?" Jon asked, tracing his finger over the rugged buffer zone that separated three warring kingdoms: The Stormlands, The Reach and Dorne. "Even if we do cut off the coastal retreat, they can still flee across the Marches and be back under Doran Martell's protection by evenfall if they ride hard enough."
Robb's expression darkened. "The Marcher Lords positioned there might be able to hold them. Aegon would probably be able to slip through, however. It's him we need. All the damn Golden Company could go sailing into the sunset, for all I fucking care. As long as we get the Pretender. But, is the Pretender really betrothed to Princess Arianne? Are the Dornish really supporting him?"
Jon sighed and shrugged. "I wish I knew, brother. Aegon bragged to Sansa about the betrothal. Martell let the Golden Company use his ports before they landed in Shipbreaker's Bay. It doesn't look good. But, where are they? They're not with the Golden Company and they're certainly not with us."
However, there was no escaping the fact that having just one dubious escape route was better than two. And although Robb's plan was hasty and a risk, Jon had agreed to it. At the eleventh hour, they changed their position under the cover of thick fog, clinging to the trees that hadn't been burned away.
Under the command of Ser Davos Seaworth, what remained of Stannis' fleet was blockading Shipbreaker Bay. But it wasn't enough to stop all the Golden Company fleeing with the Pretender on board. And as the bulk of the royal forces trudged across the rough terrain, Jon had to repeatedly remind himself they needed backup on land. All the while, the heavy fog persisted. While it afforded them cover, he was aware of the fact that they couldn't see their enemy just as their enemy was oblivious to them. For all he knew, Aegon and what was left of his command had had the same idea.
It was too late to back out now. By mid-morning, they were closing in on Storm's End while, hopefully, the Golden Company were still creeping up on the original site, hoping to take them by surprise. While engaging the smaller host, emboldened by the small numbers, Jon hoped Robb's plan to take them by surprise from the back end would work.
"What if they have more wildfire rigged up in Storm's End?" Jon asked as the Castle appeared on the south-eastern coast.
"Unlikely," said Robb. "Sansa said there was only one vial and it looks like they used it all up on Stannis."
"And it hardly matters," said Ser Barristan, who'd been tailing Jon closely all the way across land. "They would need access to Storm's End to ignite it and we aren't going to let them back in."
Jon realised he was worry about things not likely to happen, small matters and technicalities. His father always said the worst part of any battle was just waiting for it to begin, and this fretting was just a symptom of that. Then circumstances once more turned in their favour as the sun rose properly, slowly burning away the sea mist that had closed over them at daybreak.
Shortly before noon, they left the woods and formed up along the east, barely a mile from Storm's End. The wind had picked up and Jon briefly worried the region might soon be living up to its name. But that would be for later. Right at that moment, they were forming up several miles from their original position and their enemy was looking the other way, just as Robb had planned.
"How long do you think it'll be before they turn around and realise we're here?" asked Ser Barristan.
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Jon looked across the field to where the Golden Company was preparing to attack their small, diversionary forces. He could see their golden banners flapping in the brisk wind, armoured elephants taking pride of place among the cavalry and row after row of indistinguishable armoured troops. If they left it too long, the Company would smash through the lines of their diversion and still put them at a disadvantage.
"Let's not leave it too long," he cautioned. "Form up now, let's end this mummer's farce."
All he needed was Aegon. As soon as the Pretender was dead, the battle would be fought and won and he had to be among that throng of people somewhere. It crossed his mind that Aegon might be in hiding already, but he soon ruled it out. When it came down to it, both and he and Jon wanted essentially the same thing: each other dead. This was their was only chance to settle the score.
His generals had their squires make last adjustments to their armour, Jon doing likewise for Ser Barristan. Until decreed otherwise, he was still the old knight's squire and he took his responsibilities seriously. As he did so, Ser Barristan imparted some last-minute words of advice.
"Remember, you're the finest swordsman of your age," he said, tilting Jon's chin up so they held eye-contact. "But don't be rash and don't take unnecessary risks. You're not immortal and if you're going to die on a battlefield with a sword in your hand, make sure it against a worthier opponent than this up-jumped pretender. All right?"
Jon smiled, suppressed a laugh. "Understood, ser."
"There's no shame in falling back among your men if things get too rough," the old knight continued. "That's what we're here for: to cover your arse if you make a mistake."
All around them the vanguard took shape and the cavalry moved into position. Jon briefly squeezed Ser Barristan's hand as he gave back the old knight's sword, assured all was as it should be. Back on their horses, they galloped to the front lines as the Lannister forces rose and fell under Tywin's austere command. Jon watched him for a second, wondering how he really felt about all that was happening. If ever there was a man in a no-win situation, it was Lord Lannister. But, to all intents and purposes, he carried on as if he'd never betrayed Aerys at all.
Jaime Lannister riding to Jon's side took him out of his musings. He wasn't entirely comfortable with it, he felt like he was being coddled, but it was expected of him that he'd ride into battle with the Kingsguard at his side. But if it came down to him and Aegon, he knew he'd shake them off somehow.
Their cavalry fell still and silent for the duration of a single heartbeat before the war horns shattered the silence. They sounded again, cutting over the strengthening winds, and Aegon realised he had made his first major mistake of the battle.
Already Eddard was regretting his decision to remain at the camp. The place was deserted, with just four kingsguard left to guard Lyanna, Sansa and Margaery. From that, Eddard could only surmise that the latter was to become their new Queen, in good time. He could see her now, pacing nervously, her face pale and drawn. Her father, two older brothers and her possible future husband were all doing battle that day and her anxiety was more than understandable. Words were empty at times such as these, so he left her to her pacing and muttered prayers.
Sansa was in Lyanna's tent, working steadily at her sewing. In times of stress, she fell back on the familiar to keep her occupied and she seemed quite happy. Whatever it was she was making, it was fashioned from white wool, trimmed with white fur and seemed to have ears. He bent down to kiss her head as he passed. Briefly, she paused mid-stitch and looked up at him, smiling brightly.
Lyanna was sat at the table, sipping warmed wine and maintaining her composure admirably. Unlike the other women, this wasn't the first time she had watched her menfolk riding off to the battle and, in her heart of hearts, knew full well it wouldn't be the last. As he neared her, she put down the goblet and used her foot to push over a chair. An indication that he should sit with her.
"Yesterday, you said we needed to talk about Septa Lemore," she said. "Now's a good a time as any."
By the entrance, Sansa once more put down her needlework. "She said she knows you, father. I was meant to say, but I forgot."
Ned raised a smile, reassuring his daughter it was perfectly all right. Getting killed tends to take most people's minds off things. Usually permanently, but he would always be grateful that his daughter's death was altogether more temporary. That, on top of the mysterious Septa, had given him and everything he believed in quite a jolt.
"Is she a real Septa?" he asked, looking from Sansa to Lyanna. "She showed little inclination toward the faith when I knew her."
"Who is she?" Lyanna asked, taking up her wine again. Her voice was sounding a lot better, at least.
Meanwhile, Ned felt the stunned fog settle around him again. "Lya, she's Ashara Dayne."
Lyanna spluttered the wine she had been about to swallow, inadvertently sending a fine misting spray of the stuff over the tablecloth. Unperturbed, Ned calmly wiped a droplet from his face. She looked a little embarrassed, but shock and disbelief soon overwhelmed her.
"Can't be!" she gasped. She paused, her brow creased into a frown as she thought it over. "But they never did find her body, did they? And, really, no one ever did fully explain what happened to her. The whole thing was very strange."
Sansa's mouth was hanging open, but she soon realised and closed it again. "She said she was serving a Septry in the Dornish mountains."
"There you go then, Ned, she is a real Septa," Lyanna said. "What else has she said? What did she tell you?"
Ned thought back on the encounter. At the time, he thought Sansa was dead herself and not really in the mood to listen. "Well, not much. I thought I might go and find her again."
"Rightly you will," Lyanna retorted. "Go. She's packing up your old tent. Go find her now. Then come back and tell me everything she says."
He gave his sister what he hoped was a disapproving look. All the same, he was still reluctant to leave her for more serious reasons. "You'll be alright, won't you? On your own, I mean."
"I'm not on my own," she pointed out. "The dragons, Sansa, Boros and Meryn. Just go, Ned."
Given little choice in the matter, he soon found himself back out in the deserted camp. Margaery still paced, but a small dog had come to join her. She looked up briefly, nodded an acknowledgement as he passed and resuming her anxious wait. He wished he could find a way to alleviate her worry.
As for Ashara, she was where Lyanna said she would be. She was washing a set of Septa's robes in a stream that ran past the camp. Many had been using that stream for clean drinking water, but it felt churlish to point that out now. It took her a full minute to realise he was standing there, watching from the embankment. When she did, he unintentionally gave her a fright.
"I'm sorry," he said, leaning against a tree. "I should have announced myself."
Ashara soon gathered herself. "No, Lord Stark. It's quite alright."
The sodden septa's robes were clutched in her hands, dripping heavily as she waded ashore in a linen shift that reached her knees. The stream was deep enough to have wet her hems.
"Do you mind if I join you?" he asked, reaching out to give her a hand up the muddy bank.
He pulled her up the bank with a firm tug, bringing her to a halt just inches from himself. For a long moment, they both stood nose to nose, looking at each other closely as if they suspected some trickery.
At length, Ashara answered. "I'd like it if you did."
The cavalry charge seemed to take forever. An endless sprint across empty ground, the enemy drawing closer and closer and closer still. The minutes ticked by in what felt like hours, until it ended with a deafening crash of steel on steel and horses whining on impact. Spears cut through armour and the battle claimed its first blood from the very fist second of engagement. Luckier men simply had their horse's legs cut from under them and they leapt from the saddle just in time. Mercifully, Jon was not among them but he fell against the wall of the enemy, bringing him to a standstill.
His sword was already drawn and his shield was barely up before he deflected the first blow of an enemy weapon. It felt like a morning star and the spikes thudded against the oak, chipping the painted wolf. Despite his head reeling, he thrust his sword out from under the shield and took down his first casualty. He didn't see who it was, he didn't try to look. But he knew the man was dead when he pulled his sword back and it was red with blood. The man dropped to the ground to be trampled under Jaime Lannister's horse.
Behind them, thousands of light infantry were now running into the fray. Armed with whatever they could find, swords, spears, axes or even pikes, they dodged under the cavalry's horses and began hacking at the foe, cutting a path through the press of bodies. Heavier infantry stayed by the mounted knights, protecting them as best they could as they pressed through the Golden Company's lines.
Jon struggled to keep up with what was going on and who was where. He saw Robb, still mounted, already cutting a path through the enemy and leading the Northmen ably. But up front, the press of fighting men was so tight, Jon could barely breathe. The press only seemed to intensify as more and more of the enemy reached the front, adding their weight to the ever-growing pressure.
Then the archers unleashed the first round of arrows. Jon didn't even hear the command, then the air was suddenly think with quarrels and arrows as they rained down from somewhere far behind him. The roar of an elephant informed him at least some had hit a good target. But the beasts had thick hides and armour to boot. If he looked up, he could see three of them still lumbering through his own lines, crushing infantrymen underfoot as they advanced.
He cursed, falling back as Ser Barristan advised him before anyone else could hit him. A mace had already glanced off his helm, but that was enough to make his ears ring.
"Will someone take down those fucking elephants!"
It was Jaime Lannister who cursed, aiming the sentiment at no one in particular. But, as someone who had taken them on before, Ser Barristan kept a cool head.
"Aim for the riders!" he commanded. "Aim for the elephant's riders and let them run free. They'll wreak havoc on their own side as much as ours."
No sooner had he said it than the command to nock, draw and loose went up again. Lannister archers unleashed a volley of arrows, sending them raining over the Golden Company. Only one or two needed to hit home. And it did. Square in the elephant's eye, it was impossible to tell who took the lucky shot. But the elephant, blinded and in agony, began to run amok. Half a hundred other arrows seemed to be lodged between its plate, but it was the eye-shot that finished it. The rider on top, a man who looked the size of a pin from on ground, was thrown helplessly as his mount no longer obeyed his command.
The animal's cries of pain were gut-wrenching, easily smothering the sound of the fighting and dying men the lumbering creature crushed underfoot. But suddenly, the front lines broke as even their enemies fled the out of control elephant. Jon could breathe again and his view of the battlefield opened at last.
"We're in," Ser Barristan called out, his voice amplified by his helm. "Go now. Don't waste time."
The horns blared, signalling the advance. Jon dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and galloped through the opening now spreading through the human wall. Every man he ran past he swung his sword at. He took a man's head off with one blow, took out another's horse but had to dodge a third he lunged a spear in his direction.
Now, all he needed was a sight of Aegon. Just one glimpse of the pretender to give him something to work toward. He thought he saw him fighting among the foot soldiers of the Golden Company, but when Jon cut that man down it turned out to be someone else. It happened again and again as he sought his adversary. He began to worry that his initial assessment had been right: Aegon had been too craven to fight, after all.
Somewhere in the distance, war horns blared again as their advance on the enemy continued. Another elephant had been felled already, its foot hacked off and its rider crushed beneath the falling weight. It was as the crowds parted that Jon finally saw him. Even now, in the heat of a losing battle, the Pretender had the sheer nerve to be fighting beneath the banners of House Targaryen.
Affronted and furious now, Jon advanced on him. He was flanked by two generals, but Jon had no idea of who they were. Nor did he fear them. Aegon raised his visor and Jon did likewise. They found each other from across a press of fresh fighting. The war horns blasted again, much louder than before. Quickly, Jon glanced toward the renewed commotion and noted with a jolt to the heart, the sun spear banners of House Martell surging across the field, thousands strong.
Who had they come out for? Right now, it was impossible to tell and Jon was taking no chances.
"You didn't give me the chance to explain," said Ashara, wiping a tear from her lilac eyes. "I wish you had."
"I was a little distracted," replied Eddard. "Sansa. Lyanna and Robert. Jon. Everything was happening so fast, and suddenly you were back."
Nothing seemed to fit. He remembered the last time they saw each other, just before she was supposed to have drowned herself in the Torrentine, her body allegedly washed out into the Summer Sea, never to be seen again. He had grieved for her and she didn't seem to know how much.
"You helped me," he continued. "You kept our secret all these years. You gave us Wylla and you let us leave Dorne unhindered. Was it because of Aegon? Is that why you joined his side? I don't understand any of this. You were with him, then you started helping Sansa, now you say you're on our side."
"Like I said," she repeated. "I tried to explain all this yesterday. Listen, Ned."
They had left the riverside and returned to his tent. Already, whoever was left in camp was starting to pack up. Either they would retreat to safer ground, should the royalist forces be defeated, or they would be advancing on Storm's End by evenfall. The castle would be retaken and given back to Robert's heir, Shireen Baratheon. For now, however, Eddard was all ears for what justification Ashara had for being caught up in this mummer's farce.
"I'm listening," he assured her.
"It was never meant to be permanent," she explained, her gaze growing distant as she recalled events from long ago. "When I left Starfall, not long after you came to see me there, I was sheltered by the Martells. I stayed first in a residence close to Starfall, then at a Septry where I was looked after by the septas and the Septon himself. I didn't want them knowing who I was, I didn't want special treatment, so Ashara died and Lemore was born.
Everything was fine, until a few years after that. Doran learned of Aegon's survival. He had been about to wed Princess Arianne to Prince Viserys, a contract had been drawn up and plans were afoot to travel to the Sea Lord's Palace in Braavos to sign the contracts. But Varys put a stop to it, claiming he had a much better suitor for Arianne."
"Aegon," Eddard guessed as Ashara fell silent.
She nodded. "If Aegon was indeed who he said he was, he came before Viserys in any succession. And, naturally, the Martells had no idea about Jon. But if Aegon was real, he came before Jon anyway. Even the annulment was secret."
"The Dornish would be quite prepared to overlook that matter," Eddard said.
"Quite," she confirmed. "But Doran's too clever by half to accept anything on faith alone, Ned. He sent a messenger to me at the septry, wanting to know if I was in on the plan and if that was the real reason I wanted to live quietly. I knew nothing of it but, since everyone believed me dead, I agreed to take holy orders and join Aegon's retinue as a Septa. I hate to use the word 'spy', but…"
Eddard finished the sentence for her. "But you were a spy for Doran Martell,"
She smiled sheepishly. "I was reporting back to him the whole time. He only let the Golden Company use his ports so I could speak with his agents and Areo Hotah."
"And what did you tell him?"
Ashara looked him in the eye for the first time. "I forget the precise wording. But needless to say, he's very angry that certain people have been using his dead sister and nephews to destabilise the realm."
"It's over, Aegon," said Jon, looking his rival in the eye. Not far away, the Dornish forces were demolishing the Golden Company's vanguard. The Stark and Tyrell forces, those that had made it in time, were routing the rest. "You never had Dorne, you can't retreat south and you can't get back to your ships in the bay. Call it off and lay down your sword."
Not only did Aegon have the nerve to fight under the banners of Targaryen, he also had the brass necked audacity to be wearing Robert's old crown wedged on to his helm. It had been stolen before Varys fled King's Landing. The sword he carried, now wet with blood, was Blackfyre. Like everything else about Aegon, from his name right down to the armour he wore, it was all stolen and borrowed, pilfered and taken without right. Only Aegon's pride was his own and Jon knew he would never surrender.
"This ends only when one of us is lying dead in the dirt, bastard" the Prince of Pisswater Bend replied. He dismounted his horse and wiped Blackfyre in the grass. "Perhaps it's true, what they say about you, that you're my brother. And they say that kinslaying is a terrible curse. But I'm prepared to take that chance."
Jon shrugged. "It's not something I have to worry about. You're not my brother. You're nobody."
He drew his sword and lowered his visor. The blade was crusted with drying blood, but Rhaegar's old ruby winked at him in the pommel where it caught the sunlight. The blade had been Rhaegar's too. Dimly, he remembered his mother wishing him better luck than its previous owner. Just as his father had before him, this decisive battle was coming down to single combat and he'd be needing all that luck on his side.
While Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan took care of the generals at Aegon's side, Jon went straight for the great pretender. He blocked the first blow, but Aegon kicked out at him, sending him reeling head over heels in the dirt. He rolled over, pushing himself up with all his strength so he could spring back up again and attack before his adversary could do any real damage. He thrust the blade at Aegon, only for him to parry almost lazily.
Realising he was being made to do all the hard work, Jon relaxed his sword arm and dropped his shoulders. Turning to one side, presenting the narrowest target, he let Aegon come at him. He parried blow after blow, letting the pretender wear himself out. But he was too good to fall into that trap entirely and soon slackened. The two of them ended up circling each other while the others fought all around him. Jaime despatched one of the generals while Ser Barristan fought three at once.
Somewhere close by, Jon just caught sight of a Dornish spearman skewering an elephant through the belly. Its guts spilled out, showering down on the spearman who ran between the falling beasts legs with a roar of triumph, covered head to toe in blood and gore. The spectacle distracted Aegon as well and Jon seized the opportunity to launch another attack.
The blow was not parried in time and he struck Aegon's helm so hard the pretender staggered back. Angered and thrown off guard, Aegon was no longer luring Jon into a trap. He attacked and attacked again, but Jon had wrong footed him already and quickly did so again. He darted around a lunge, fast on his feet and struck out from behind, knocking Aegon to the ground. Jon raised his sword and thrust it with all his might, only for Aegon to roll out of the way just in time.
Cursing, Jon quickly gathered himself and swung the blade once more. Aegon met it and, just for a moment, their blades met and scraped against each other. Until Jon lashed out with his right foot, kicking his opponent as hard as he could. Once more, Aegon staggered back like a drunk falling out of a winesink in the early hours. But he gathered himself and fought back, striking Jon's helm again.
The stolen crown Aegon wore had fallen off. Jon couldn't see where it went, but that hardly mattered. He smiled to himself as the symbolism hit home and renewed his attack once more. He dodged another blow, spun around his opponent and lashed him across the back of the neck. Aegon cried out in pain as he sank to his knees. Deaf to his suffering, Jon swung the blade again and sent him crashing into the dirt.
Felled and dazed, Aegon's laboured breathing echoed from within his helm. Breathless himself, Jon stood over him and used the toe of his boot to raise the visor. His father always said you owed it to a dying man to look him in the eye, but he had no interest in hearing Aegon's final words. Too much had been said already. His sword point found the weak spot under the gorget of the helm, he bored down heavily with all his might and drove the blade through the pretender's throat.
Aegon died quickly, choking on the blood that bubbled up around his mouth. It was over and Jon wrenched his blood father's sword free of the pretender's corpse. Above their heads, the skies cleared again, reflecting the rays of the sun in the dead man's eyes. Whoever he really was, Jon no longer cared. Exhausted and dazed, he pulled off his own helm and watched as the last of the Golden Company were routed and cut down.
Ser Barristan was the first to realise it was all over. Voices called out, horns sounded, Jon once more lost track of what was happening. He was only grateful for the fact that the world was once more slowing down, returning to normal as the fighting ceased. All around him, exhausted men were pulling off their helms and collapsing to the ground through aching exhaustion. The only thing keeping Jon on his feet was the blood still coursing through his veins and the rush of exhileration it gave him.
He was dimly away of Ser Barristan hunkered down by a Hawthorn Bush. When he reappeared again, he had the crown in his hands. It had rolled there when Aegon lost it. Now he was holding it out in front of him as a wide circle of people formed, all looking on in silence.
"Kneel," Ser Barristan told him.
Me? Jon wondered: why? It came to him a second too late, but it all felt so unreal. He tossed his helm aside and knelt as asked, letting himself be crowned at last. Aching all over and with the taste of blood on his tongue, Jon arose again as a king in name and proclamation. The chorusing voices calling out: 'long live the king', rang in his ears.
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Next Update: Sunday, 8th April, 2018.