A/N: Thanks for being patient for this chapter. Worked a lot on it!
Enjoy and please comment :D
Chapter 57: The Sunrise Dragon
Blood matting his face and soaking his leather cuirass, Ned slammed his sword across the shield of a Hightower knight. Wood gave way to the Valyrian steel, Ice continuing its journey through the arm and to the breastplate, the heavy blade punching right through it and cutting deep into the chest. Screaming, the foe went down in a heap, Ned finishing him off with a thrust through the sword.
"Come on!" yelled Jorah Mormont, cutting a man across the face with Longclaw. "Hold the line!"
"Shield wall!" Ned ordered, but the response was half-hearted. With the mad attack spearheaded by House Tarly, apart from the still beleaguered Bolton phalanx the northern shield wall had descended into a brutal melee. A brawl over who could take the most blood. Normally a fight the Northmen could win, but with their archers badly outnumbered by the Reach crossbows, it was getting dodgy.
Parrying the thrust of a Merryweather knight, Ned slashed diagonally across his shoulder, kicking him down with spurts of blood joining the rest staining Ned's leathers. Another came at him, only for Ned to dodge the attacking sword and bury his blade through the back of another. His efforts aside, it was clear the Northmen needed a miracle or else they'd be overwhelmed.
A trumpet blared in the distance.
Drawing out his blade from a flower knight, Ned looked up. His eyes spotting movement far off erupting out of the woodlands to the north.
More trumpets, their collective noise overwhelming the bells of Stony Sept and the intense clash of the two armies crashing against each other. What in the… Eyes tracking to the North, Jon Connington's blood ran cold. Trembling as he saw what had to be the most terrifying sight in his entire life.
Hoofbeats pounding at the grass below them, thousands of armored horses thundered into the plains of the western Riverlands. Mounted knights dropping their lances or drawing maces and swords from their belts. One continuous sheet over a quarter mile wide, three lines deep before behind them charged equally heavy infantry. Shields almost as tall as they were, they and the red-gold of their armor exposed exactly who they were. All who stood before them spotting the golden lion on red whipping from their charge.
House Lannister had arrived… and they fought for King Rhaegar I Targaryen.
Moreso than most for reasons obvious to few, the sight of the golden lion filled Ned's exhausted body with a new vigor. "FULL ATTACK!" he screamed, racing forward to bash a dismounted Tarly knight with his shoulder. Ice swinging down to cleave his skull apart. "BREAK THEIR FLANK!"
"FOR QUEEN LYANNA!" With a furious roar the Northmen rallied. Their steadfast Lords were in the van, from Roose Bolton leading his phalanx in rolling over all that opposed it, Rickard Karstark in a manic haze cutting down all enemies without mercy, to Jorah Mormont taking on four men at a time with his trusty Valyrian steel blade, Longclaw. No man could resist the pull of their lieges. Could resist the victory that they could so taste. Axes swinging, swords thrusting, maces smashing, where once they gave ground now they took it without anything stopping them.
It didn't take long for the Marcher Lords of the Reach to break, and break they did. Pursued by the Northmen not east towards the city, but north towards the loyalist center.
And the awaiting lances of House Lannister.
Atop a hill only a mile away, Lord Tywin leaned to the side on his steed - watching the battlefield commence in full dress armor. He looked a mighty conqueror on the scene of his moist glorious triumph, which perhaps this was. Lips curling in satisfaction as the first of three waves led by Loren Payne crashed into the Crownlands forces on the loyalist right. "Aerys you fool…" he chuckled, watching his brother Kevan swing the second wave around to complete the envelopment. "You know I always have the last laugh."
"Careful, Lord Tywin," came the seductive, foreign voice of his companion. "Hubris is disfavored by the Lord."
He took his eyes off the triumph unfolding before him, casting the Red Woman a raised eyebrow. "Are you trying to deny me my victory, Lady Melisandre? Or your King's, if he planned with my arrival accordingly?"
Witnessing the meeting of destiny with her own eyes, Melisandre's smile was cryptic as it was serene. "You mistake me, Lord Tywin. Your victory here is complete, but it is not over yet." She looked back at the fighting, bells still echoing over the battlefield as the fight turned into a slaughter. "There is still one clash that needs to be won. R'hllor has ordained it."
Turning away from the Red Woman, Tywin muttered under his breath. Not taking this from me. Already, the infantry had joined the fight, nothing stopping them. His smile returned. Fuck you, Aerys.
Nothing was stopping the Northmen, a haggard defense turning into a scythe upon the Reach. Ned swung hard, catching a crossbowman in the neck as he gurgled and fell to his knees.
"Eddard Stark!" Out of nowhere charged a Tarly knight with sword held high, armor dotted with various icons of the Faith. Ned dug his feet into the ground, eyes narrowing as he readied Ice. The downward chop was blocked by the Valyrian steel, Ned shoving forward and tripping up the top heavy knight. A blow of his own crashed against the knight's shield. The more nimble Ned managed to dodge away from a swing, while the knight wasn't as lucky when the Quiet wolf bashed Ice's hilt into his helm - felling him.
When his foe tried to bring up the sword, Ned pressed his boot against the knight's wrist, coaxing a groan. Blinking, Ned looked at the sword. Rippled steel, dark and without even a chip along the blade. Valyrian steel… Heartsbane? He looked at the knight. Tarly… Reaching down to remove the helm, Ned was greeted with the Lord of Horn Hill in the flesh. "Randyll Tarly!"
All around, the bulk of the Tarly bannermen stilled their fighting - as did the Northerners.
"I claim thee as my prisoner. Now surrender your men or watch them die."
Randyll, sighing as the strength left him, nodded. "Weapons down, men. It's over."
In the center, the streaming, panicked hordes of Crownlands men-at-arms had drawn Stannis' notice, the second son paling at the immense wall of Westermen bearing down on top of them. Having lost his horse in desperately trying to break through the Corbray frontline, his legs pumped towards the heralds. He knew just as Randyll Tarly did that it was over. The choice not victory or defeat but rather capitulation or slaughter. "Sound the surrender!" he bellowed.
"But Lord Robert…"
A punch fell the lead herald, others staring at Stannis in fear. "Robert's not fucking here! Sound the surrender!"
It still didn't truly sink in… How… how… Jon Connington was too numb to feel his insides twist in on themselves. Only moons ago he was on the vanguard of bringing House Targaryen to its redemption - the most glorious moment in the sun. Now, at the lance of Tywin Lannister all those dreams had collapsed.
Already the trumpets of surrender were resonating across the field. "Rhaegar," he murmured, almost a gasp. "Rhaegar… why?"
Horse racing at a fast gallop, Ser Jonothor thundered right in front of the Lord Hand - blood drenched his armor, as it did the two dozen men that accompanied him. "Lord Hand! The battle is lost!"
The words seemed to snap him out of his haze. "No… what about reserves? We can send them in…"
Slap!
Darry's hand stung from how hard he struck Connington. "There are no more fucking reserves! It's hopeless… Randyll and Stannis have already surrendered." Connington's eyes widened in understanding. "If we don't leave now we'll all die!"
He didn't wait for an answer before grabbing the reins of the Hand's mount and leading him away, the other knights following in the long trek back to King's Landing.
Away from the gallows that ultimately would await them from the rebel commanders.
Decisive couldn't begin to describe the victory for the forces of King-Claimant Rhaegar I Targaryen. The steadfast strength of the main army allowed for the new arriving Westermen to complete the double envelopment, Stannis Baratheon's surrender announcement preventing an utter slaughter by following the flight of Lord Connington. In one fell swoop, the outcome of the Rebellion was decided. Only time and distance blocking the victors from the Iron Throne itself.
But sundered from the arrival of House Lannister to the field was the most crucial portion of the battle. The one that would not only decide the fate of the current war, but set the fate of the known world behind it.
Before the first blow could be delivered, both Rhaegar and Robert were tossed off their mounts. Kicking with his front hooves, Moondancer's jerks nearly snapped Rhaegar's spine - only his expert riding skills allowed him to steer into the jerking and roll off, hitting the ground with a sharp ache in his chest and limbs. Ears ringing from where his helm thudded on the grass.
Robert's horse had the worse of it, a well placed kick to the right front leg crippling it. Neighs turned to actual screams as the horse collapsed, Moondancer in a panic trying to trample all over it. So intent on killing Rhaegar with his hammerblow that Robert paid little attention to his posture, and ironically it saved his life. Legs loose on the stirrups were jostled off and it sent him to the ground. The Stag Lord was nimble for his bulk and rolled out of the way as his mount crashed dying, leaping to his feet and snatching Stormbreaker.
Fury burned hot in his veins. It masked any pain he may have felt. "Come to me, Dragonspawn!" Robert didn't even wait for a response to lunge, armor-piercing spike aimed directly for Rhaegar's face.
The King-Claimant, by the grace of whatever gods were in his favor, found Blackfyre laying on the ground only a foot away from him. Hearing the guttural war cry charging at him, he grabbed the sword of his ancestors and scrambled upright. Rhaegar dodged the swing, leaning back and launching his own attack - the duel continuing on foot where it started on horseback.
All around them the battle raged, but none noticed nor cared. As if by magic or evil vapors the knights and men-at-arms on both sides gave the dueling highborns a wide berth - a fight worthy of the greatest histories, a battle between the descendents of those that forged the Targaryen monarchy. Truly a tragedy if one could think about it, but in rage and desperation respectively, Robert and Rhaegar threw themselves at each other in a flurry of frenzied attacks.
Rhaegar chopped diagonally, knocking Robert's hammer down to the right. Blackfyre far more maneuverable than the heavier Stormbreaker, he aimed for Robert's thick thighs, hoping to cripple the Stag early on. Cutting through flesh with ease, the distance was too long and the cut was shallow.
Blue eyes dark with hate, Robert's warhammer thundered into the ground. Bashing through the grass and dirt where Rhaegar had once stood only moments before. The King evaded the strike, only for a surprising speed bringing the top spike to cut across Rhaegar's shoulder - drawing blood. The man had strength unparalleled, and would not go down easily.
But Rhaegar was faster, armor light and longsword quick. Footwork fluid, he danced out of the arc of the swings and chops, not allowing Robert the same chance he had at Harrenhal to hit him close in. He darted a thrust at Robert's knee, but the Stag rallied quickly into a defensive stance and bashed Blackfyre aside with the staff. Clang of metal ringing through the air.
Leaning back, Rhaegar kept his balance by swinging his shoulders. Hurling Blackfyre up to knock Stormbreaker to the side, quickly twirling it into a double back and making a quick slash at Robert's face. He kicked in quick succession, sending Robert stumbling with a grunt.
A blur to his left drew Rhaegar's attention, just enough time to spin Blackfyre around and catch the bastard sword of Ser Cortnay Penrose. The bald knight, helm lost in the fighting and armor dented and cracked, nevertheless threw himself into the fight beside his Liege Lord. Fast swings battering Rhaegar - forcing him back while Robert redoubled.
I can't face both of them. Drenched in sweat and his cuts and wounds stinging, Rhaegar shoved Ser Cortnay back and drew Catspaw - Blackfyre facing the onrushing might of Robert, blade parrying a straight thrust with the sharp head. Cortnay lunged as well. Staggering atop the grass almost towards his own tent, Rhaegar just managed to deflect the swings. His dagger was powerful but short, a great disadvantage.
Suddenly Ser Cortnay howled in pain, both Targaryen and Baratheon halting in place as bright crimson blood gushed from a stump where his swordarm had been. The flash of a greatsword ended the pain with a clean beheading, the knight of Parchments falling like a sack of meat to the ground. "Back away from the King!" Gerold Hightower bellowed, the Old Bull strong and imposing as ever - as tall and fearsome as Robert on his best day.
If Robert showed any sign he trembled at being outnumbered, that was put to bed quickly as he charged. Aggression unbothered with his furious swing, trying to gut both King and kingsguard in one mighty blow of his warhammer. "You don't scare me, old man!" he snarled, gripping stormbreaker as a staff and batting aside Gerold's thrust… only for Blackfyre to cut across his side. "Fuck!" He managed to leap back, only for Gerold to slice upward and gouge a large cut in the faceplate of his helm.
Time stood still, the orange glow of the sun casting the field as if engulfed in flame. Rhaegar glanced at Ser Gerold, the Old Bull nodding to the latest in a line of Targaryen Kings he served faithfully against even his own family. Both waiting for Robert as the Stag Lord removed his helm, rugged face and flowing brown locks plastered in the hate he felt for his cousin. "Leave Bull, lest you die with the Dragonspawn."
"I can think of many worse fates, Lord Robert," Gerold replied evenly.
"So be it then."
Each lunged at the same time. Blow after blow traded with clanging steel and strained muscles, Rhaegar looking for an opening to end this while Gerold guarded his flank. Countering Robert's nimble parries and wide arcs. "Pin him!" yelled Rhaegar, wrist starting to twinge but still twirling Blackfyre from defense to attack. "Hold him," he ordered Gerold, needing some sort of opportunity to break through the Stag's ferocity.
But hours upon hours of fighting were starting to take their toll on the Old Bull. The repeated impact of Stormbreaker to his blade began to tire his arm. Veteran of many fights and wars, against someone of equal strength and with the vitality of youth, he was at a disadvantage.
It was this that Robert noticed - shifting his strategy in a split-second. Thrusting at Rhaegar to force him back, his legs propelled him forward - charging right into Gerold's center mass. In mid-swing, his greatsword fell from his hand. The Old Bull, wind knocked out of him, fell to the ground in a heap of aches and coughs.
Weak link neutralized, Robert turned back to Rhaegar - a manic grin of triumph on his face. felt the drawings on his skin burn and gave a roar, swatting the hammer to the side. He narrowly missed the space under Robert's helmet, stabbed at him again and almost hit his armpit.
His foe swinging high, Rhaegar managed to duck under the warhammer - head clipping off the dragon wings off his helm. He took the opening, gripping Blackfyre in both hands and thrusting. The Valyrian Steel longsword missed Robert, but the Stag Lord was thrown off balance. Faster and lighter, Rhaegar charged, beating back two parries to swipe low. Blade slicing through a gap in the breastplate at Robert's side just above his kidneys.
Feeling the hot blood soaking his tunic and trousers, a bellow akin to a charging bull stag erupted from Robert. He charged, little consequence to his defenses… the gamble worked, Rhaegar forced to give ground to escape the powerful assaults. Rhaegar's heart slammed against his breastbone, pumping so hard that it almost hurt. A swing was barely dodged, while a dual grip on Blackfyre parried two others - just.
Voiding his stomach all over the bloody grass, Gerold shook the stars from his head. Finding his King in a bad way - his eyes widened as he took in the scene. You will not take his Grace…
He could not seem to get his footing. Vision blurring, unable to focus, only instinct kept Blackfyre parrying blows. But Robert wasn't keen on using just Stormbreaker. Each moment brought another furious fist against his chest and shoulder, bruising and cracking ribs even through his armor. Pitching back in a daze, his mind suddenly erupted into focus… crying out in agony as the warhammer head crashed directly to his side. Helm flying off. Forcing him to his knees. Blinking beneath his helm, teeth clenched in pain - Rhaegar felt the cruel irony of history repeating itself as the warhammer's spike swung to him – right upon the ruby sigil upon his breastplate.
Steel sheared, followed by the slap of pierced flesh and the crunch of broken bone… but Rhaegar felt none of it. Only a grunt of pain. A moment later he understood. "NO!" In front of him, Robert was just as shocked even in his bloodlust.
A flash to some, the three involved saw it in slow motion… as if the gods intended they see every instant. The warhammer thundering through the air, a hand pushing the King back with all force imaginable, the thick bulk of Ser Gerold Hightower stepping in between the spike and his King. Eyes closed, he felt the thud against his chest, mercifully free of pain as he collapsed to the ground. He gasped in his last breaths as blood gushed out of the hole in his heart. Stormbreaker's spike having punched clean through his breastplate - giving his life for his King. As was the oath, but a tremendous sacrifice that many wouldn't bother to do. My King is safe... The last of his strength tilting his head to the side, Gerold gave Rhaegar a weak smile before the light left the White Bull's eyes for the last time.
Rhaegar had no chance to mourn his dead friend and comrade in arms. Full of rage and caring not of the bugles and trumpets heralding the arrival of the Westermen, Robert yanked the Targaryen King by his breastplate and slammed his fist into his cheek. Only just keeping hold of his blade, Rhaegar stumbled back through the flap of his own tent, only then falling back to his knees. Robert kicked his hip. Expression revelling in the hiss of pain from his enemy, he raised his warhammer and brought it down with a mighty swing. Foolish Ned isn't here to save yo…
Recovering, Rhaegar brought Blackfyre up. Levelling horizontally to catch the join of Stormbreaker's shaft. He thrust his left arm up, palm pressing against the cold metal of his blade, muscles clenching hard to hold back the continued fury of the Stag Lord as the head of the warhammer drew closer to its target.
Teeth clenched, Robert pushed harder. His hand pressed right at the head of his warhammer. Forcing it against the length of Blackfyre, the sharp blade slowly approached Rhaegar's neck. Ever closer to ending the life of his enemy. "Give up, dragonspawn!" he bellowed, spit flying onto Rhaegar's face. "You are beaten."
His arms burned, bones stretched to the breaking point - but Rhaegar wouldn't give in. "Fuck… you…" Lungs throbbed with agony as it was hard to even breath with the might of the Stag Lord assaulting him. "I fight for my family."
Robert lashed out, smashing a fist into Rhaegar's side before the hand joined his other. Desperate to overcome the surprising strength of the more nimble Targaryen. "Fuckin' rapist!" he hissed. "You will pay for what you did!" The tip of Stormbreaker touched Rhaegar's forehead, splitting the skin even as the King pushed harder on his blade, though seemingly in vain as Robert laughed. "You're a fuckin' failure. Two brides and you fail the both of them."
Pain searing through his head, yet again his life flashed through his shut eyes. Playing with his mother, being knighted by Ser Barristan, marrying Elia, holding his babes, seeing Lya for the first time, learning she was pregnant with Jon… No. You can't let them down… you have to live. But every second brought him closer to collapsing - closer to Stormbreaker cleaving in his skull.
Images assaulted him. "Fight, Rhaegar!" The voice of the warrior in his visions. "Fight, you fucking cunt!"
The feminine tone of the gorgeous maiden followed. "You are the dragon. Remember your fire… remember your blood…"
A twisted grin stretched on Robert's face. "You deserve neither, dragonspawn!" He laughed. "Perhaps I'll take them both after I kill you."
Something snapped inside him. "Rhaegar… Rhaegar…"
About to go for the killing blow, suddenly Rhaegar's eyes flew open. A violet so bright as to glow, streaks of red-orange dancing within - as if staring into the eyes of a demon. Robert found himself being pushed back, the dragon miraculously charging like a cornered rat in a sudden burst of strength. "Why won't you fucking die!" he bellowed, though his heart pounded with a sudden fear.
Gripping Blackfyre so hard that he could crush any lesser form of steel, Rhaegar's fingers dug into the sharp blade. Skin nicked and blood trickling down the fine surface, but he didn't notice. A heat welled inside the Targaryen King, one pumping his veins with an overpowering energy. A glorious energy… one not seen since the Rogue Prince made his sacrifice.
"My Prince Daemon… I am blessed to have you…" Lya...
"I've never said this enough… I love you, Rhaegar…" Elia…
The streaks of blood reached the carved runes atop Blackfyre's blade. In an instant, the etched lines began to glow white hot, the symbol of Old Valyria coming alive.
"I'm a dragon, kepa!" Rhae…
"Kepa… kepa…" Somehow he knew it was Egg.
"Fortune is on your side, my love. It's in your blood." Muna…
And one last… "Higher, boy, higher! I'm doing it, kepa!"
Already, the blood seemed to evaporate off Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror almost glowing a bright white as Rhaegar slowly pushed Stormbreaker back.
The feminine voice roared with an intensity never heard before. "You are a dragon!"
Promise me...
I am a dragon!
Promise me...
"I AM A DRAGON!"
Roaring, the fire in his veins brought Rhaegar an almost superhuman strength. He angled his arms and pushed forward with his left, throwing the head of Stormbreaker aside. Surging forward, his forehead connected with Robert's chin. With a howl the Stag Lord pitched back. Enough for Rhaegar to leap to his feet. Eyes still glowing a bright violet.
Recovering his footing, Robert readied his warhammer. "Why won't you fucking die?!"
"You will not have them!" came the dragon roar, Rhaegar charging. Rage and fire overtook him as his vision turned red - Blackfyre crashed into the shaft of Stormbreaker, beating aside every jerk and swing. Doubling back to assault on his own accord. An extension of the fury that burned with the power of the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria. "THEY!" He clanged against Robert's weapon. "ARE!" Clang! "NOT!" Clang! "YOURS!"
Terror finally found the blue eyes of Robert Baratheon. Brute strength was always his advantage, but here the Targaryen was fighting with the power of ten men. He struggled, balancing saving himself from the unearthly glow of Blackfyre to searching frantically for an opening… none of which was forthcoming. Bringing Stormbreaker back to swing, he was caught unprepared as Rhaegar's fist crashed into his chest, ribs bruising as he was forced back.
His entire soul filled with dread as Rhaegar twirled Blackfyre, ready to deliver the killing blow that only moments before had been Robert's to lose, the Stag Lord out of desperation and panic swung blindly… knocking over a brazier filled with hot oil onto the ground. Eyes widening in realization as the fiery liquid spread over the grass. I'll have you yet, Dragonspawn!
Instinct and reflex were overpowering, Rhaegar jumping back with his hand shielding his face. Blackfyre unable to block the wild swing of Stormbreaker that knocked over another brazier, and another and another. Spilling burning oil and crackling coals everywhere - spreading flame, the flames licked up the sides of the tent. It carved through a path of destruction as if a raging inferno.
The last thing Rhaegar saw of Robert was a wicked grin upon his face as he ducked out the tent flap, fire racing high behind him.
Heart pounding… the fire starting to catch upon his trousers, Rhaegar raced for the exit… only for the inferno to roar ever higher. And there it was. Rhaegar was trapped, no hope of escaping the flames. Sweat began to drench him, mixing with blood and grime into a potent mix that quickly evaporated in the growing heat. He gripped Blackfyre. Perhaps if he cut through one of the sides…
"Rhaegar… Rhaegar…"
Stilling, the King looked to his left. Finding the precious sphere resting about the ground… smoldering. The beautiful green egg, calling out to him. Easing his pounding heart and calming his fear.
"You are a dragon," it whispered, voice soft and elegant. "You are fire and blood, and neither should faze you."
Already the flames were roaring - consuming everything around Rhaegar. Any other man would be screaming as the pain began, but for him, nothing. No pain, no agony, no burns. Even as Rhaegar stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them about the ground.
"Come, Rhaegar Targaryen, claim your destiny."
Breathing the superheated air into his lungs, it invigorated him. Filled him with a powerful energy. Rhaegar sat upon the ground, Blackfyre placed upon his lap. Without a word he pulled the egg into his arms and cradled it close - as if it were his newborn babe. It was searing hot, yet his palm remained unblemished with the fires engulfing the entire tent.
"Fire and blood. Fire and blood. Fire and blood."
"Fire and blood," he whispered, caressing the smooth scales. "Iksan se ānogar hen uēpa Valyria." The words simply came to him, the flames now assaulting his tunic and trousers. "Ñuhon iksis se lentor hen zaldrīzes." Rhaella Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, Jon Targaryen… Rhaegar Targaryen. All of the House of the Dragon, the blood roaring hot within their veins.
Eyes closed, Rhaegar could have sworn he heard a cracking in the midst of the roaring inferno.
Blood.
Pain.
Sorrow.
Death.
A surreal quiet had descended over the battlefield, haze settling upon the ground as the fighting petered out. Sullen troops of both sides collapsed onto the ground, tending aches and wounds long ignored or simply sleeping out their exhaustion upon the churned soil - fully armored Westermen milling about. Ensuring compliance. The sun was just straddling the western horizon and the evening star taking its place in the night's sky. Serene, gentle…
But reality was anything but.
Ice hung limply at Ned Stark's side, grime and brain matter staining the fine Valyrian steel from hours of brutal combat. The Lord of Winterfell trudged through the carnage. His hair was matted from a cut to his forehead, dried blood affixing the light brown cowlicks to the curve of his skull. Eyes sunken, he stared at all before him - the horrors. The atrocities.
The agony of a war between the very Kingdoms that formed one country.
A father and son pair, the latter having moved from the Stormlands to around Riverrun years before. In the midst of the fighting, they found each other - discarding their weapons onto the ground and embracing tearfully.
Lord Oakheart and Lord Piper, each having married a daughter of the same Lord, sharing a wineskin provided by their goodbrother, Lord Lefford of the Westerlands.
In the midst of a bloody patch of ground, Ned spotted the fat figure of Mace Tyrell, hunched over with tears streaming down his cheeks. On his knees in front of the Lord of Highgarden was young Garlan, the boy bawling his eyes out as he clutched desperately at a still body… gods, is that young Ser Willas? It was, slain upon the field by an unnamed man-at-arms clean off his horse. At least the boy's face was undamaged, a closed interment not needed.
There are no victors this day… no glory on this field.
Suddenly two stretcher bearers passed him, followed by a troop of horsemen carrying the banner of the rearing lion. House Lannister. Finally sheathing Ice in its scabbard, he jogged after the Westermen, their banners filling his heart with longing.
"Is this him, my Lord?"
Closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, Tywin nodded. "Aye, that's Ser Loren Payne." A crossbow bolt had pierced his throat, instant kill… one of the few casualties his bannermen had taken in their decisive victory upon the field of battle. He fought to kill the tears that welled in his eyes, the mighty Old Lion of Casterly Rock not keen on exposing his emotions to the outside world. "Have him taken back to the Rock, and clean him up… he deserves better than those over there." Tywin pointed to the mass grave of corpses the noncombatants were already filling.
"Of course, my Lord. It shall be done."
Slumping in his saddle, Tywin buried his face in his hand. Wishing he were anywhere but here. "Your bannerman is in a better place, Lord Tywin," Melisandre told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "He served the will of the Lord of Light, and now will be rewarded for it."
Looking up at her, the dull green eyes nevertheless had a sparkle of hope. "Against my better judgement, I seek comfort in what you're telling me." A better fate for his only friend than an endless sleep, life torn from this world far too early.
At that moment Ser Gregor Clegane strode forward, his massive bulk intercepting an unknown arrival. "Leave Lord Tywin's presence," he ground out in his halting speech. The Mountain that Rode wasn't known for his sharp tongue.
But Melisandre quickly noticed who had come. "Lord Stark." A tiny smile came to her face. So he has survived.
"Lord Stark?" Tywin's brow rose. "Gregor, aside. Let him to me." Ground shaking as he stepped aside, the Mountain made way for Ned to approach the Lord of Casterly Rock. "Eddard Stark," Tywin stated flatly at the father of his bastard grandson - not that Ned needed to know that fact as of now. That comes later. "I would congratulate you on your new title, but given the circumstances I won't."
Considering how Cersei acted the first few times they met, there was no doubt as to her parentage. "Lord Tywin." He bowed respectfully. "Thank you for coming to our aid… I do not suspect we would have survived without the might of the Westerlands." Ned noticed the woman sitting upon the steed beside him. "Lady Melisandre."
"I am heartened by your survival, Lord Stark. The Lord of Light has more in store for you, I can tell."
Nodding, Tywin motioned to his goodbrother. "Emmon, give him your horse. It's time I find the King." He turned his head, glaring at the man his father forced on his beloved sister. "Give him your horse. Do I have to tell you again?" Without delay he scrambled off his horse, handing the reins to Ned.
Surrounded by the red-gold armored guards, Ned turned to Tywin. "I would ask you why you chose to side with us, but I take it was due to Lady Melisandre's… particular talents."
"You do not know the half of it, Lord Stark," was Tywin's cryptic reply.
Ned pursed his lips - Cersei's father was a hard man to hold a conversation with. "How is your daughter?" He wanted to smack his own face. Smooth, Ned. Very smooth.
A neutral look was tossed his way, scowl on Tywin's lips. "I don't see why my daughter would be your business, Stark." A lie. Tywin knew exactly why, but the game had to be played for another had been bound to Ned in matrimony. Someone with a child in her womb. "Frankly, aside from a single dance at their Graces' wedding I don't think you've even met."
Explicit memories flashing in his mind of locked lips and tangled limbs, Ned tried to hide his flush. "I met her before the wedding… at the Tourney of Harrenhal. We formed a cordial companionship." He bit his lip. "I'm worried for her"
You missed your chance, it seems. How unfortunate for the Lord of Winterfell. "Don't worry about her. She's safe with her true family. Worry about your own wife, Lord Stark." That seemed to shut him up, Ned withdrawing into his own brooding silence. Above, a blood red comet appeared just below the orb of the moon. Many men gawked at the miraculous sight, though mostly out of curiosity than auspicious mysticism. Hmmm… that's odd.
Something did end up perking Ned from his brooding… and it wasn't the comet. Instead, a raging orange-yellow fire that had consumed one of the tents in the camp… not just any tent. "Myles!" Ned yelled, catching the attention of the solemn knight of Maidenpool. "Is that…"
He didn't need to finish, for Ser Myles nodded. "Aye, the royal tent." Heart pounding, Ned spurred his mount forward. Rushing to the scene.
It was a scene of controlled chaos. The flames rose high, at least the height of five men as it engulfed the massive royal quarters - now just a pyre. Gathered around were dozens of knights and Lords from all armies, weapons lowered and gazing at the fire with sunken, resolved looks… apart from Lord Robert Baratheon. Watched over by a grim Alliser Thorne, his eyes danced with a greedy mirth, the most satisfied of smirks on his lips. "Ah, Ned!" he called out as he spotted his friend and brother. "Come here and enjoy the show!"
Ned didn't hear him. He slowly dismounted, feeling as if his consciousness was split from his body while approaching the fires. "Lord Stark." It was Ser Oswell, his face hard and expression grieving. Devoid of his helm, Ser Barristan's was the same, while the unseeing gaze of the prone Lord Commander Gerold would never give off emotion again. Another casualty of the war.
A thousand different emotions crossed Ned's face… all ones of pain and grief. "Is he…"
"Aye," Barristan spoke. "He is."
"Oh hells," Tywin muttered, shaking his head. "What a waste." Melisandre said nothing, her red eyes reflecting the flickering flames.
Jaw trembling, eyes glassing over at the sight of the blazing tent, Ned suddenly lunged toward the fire. Blocked by both Kingsguards. "No… let me go! Let me the fuck go!"
"Ned, stop… it's too late," Oswell ground out, struggling to keep composed as it was.
"Rhaegar! You promised her!" he screamed, arms reaching out in vain to drag the King out of the tent and towards safety. But with Barristan and Oswell holding him back, he merely collapsed to his knees, blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "No…" His sister was a widow, his niece and nephews orphans… Yet more loss for the House of the Dragon and House of the Direwolf. I am sorry, Lya. I'm so sorry. Burying his face in his hands, Ned felt as if the world ended. Rhaegar was dead, body cooked alive by the sheer conflagration consuming his own tent.
A sharp laughter caught his attention - breaking through the agony. "Get up, Ned. Celebrate the justice given to us by the gods!"
His trembling morphed into something far from pain. Slowly Ned stood, eyes narrowed as he stalked towards Robert. "You?"
Robert scoffed. "Think anyone else could kill a dragonspawn?" Defeated and a prisoner, the Stag Lord nevertheless felt triumphant. "Lyanna's honor has been avenged, brother."
Vein trembling in his temple, without a second thought Ned's fist flew out. Smacking into Robert's jaw with an audible crunch. "You cunt!" he hissed, grabbing his childhood friend by the scruff of his tunic. "You godsdamn fucking bastard!" Blow after blow rained on Robert's face and shoulder, blood spraying on the ground as the stunned Baratheon swing his arms, catching Ned in his ribs. The wolf cared little.
"Lord Stark, stop!" Ser Alliser cried, joining with Richard Lonmouth in trying to pull him off of Robert, but Ned shrugged them off.
"You left my nephew an orphan!" Snarling like the direwolf he was, a bloody fist raised up, ready to deliver another blow…
Only for an inhuman screech to echo across the battlefield.
The fist stilled, Ned's hate rapidly defusing into a stunned curiosity. Dropping Robert as he rose to his feet. Lord Tywin stepped off his horse, armor clinking as he walked towards the tent, blinking at yet another screech that pierced the din. "What in the hells?" he murmured…
Melisandre was on the ground as well, lips curling into a wild grin as her red hair billowed in the gentle breeze. The fires were slowly dying, but still burned hot - roaring within her as she felt the inner flame surge with a mystic energy… something she hadn't felt in nearly two centuries. You have done it, your Grace…. You fulfilled your destiny.
Beams collapsing in a cacophony of groaning death, it served as the greatest shock when a black shadow slowly plodded from out of the entrance to the tent. The cloth was burned into smoke and ash and only the wooden frame remained, but out the figure did walk. Covered in ash, hair streaked with greasy-black soot, King Rhaegar Targaryen nevertheless walked out with a purpose. His shoulders heavy and form dripping exhaustion, but the ancient blade Blackfyre tightly held in his grasp.
Armor smoldering from the searing heat and undertunic and breeches long since burned away, he seemed not to be close to death. In fact, underneath the ash and soot the King looked free of injury. Not a single burn on his body. Without delay, Melisandre fell to her knee, bending her head before her King.
No other moved. No other breathed. Simply staring at the Targaryen that was trapped in an inferno and emerged unscathed. "The fuck is this?' Robert asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his eyes as if he was seeing things "This… this is impossible. He can't be alive, you'd have to be, a… a…"
"A Targaryen," Ned finished for him.
EEEEEAAAAAAARRRRRRRCCCCCCHHHHH!
But even this sight could be topped, all words torn from Ned's tongue at what came next.
The smoldering armor moved. Shifting and squirming atop Rhaegar's body… no, it wasn't the armor. A tiny creature gingerly hooked itself to the little bumps and ridges on the chestplate, scrambling up towards Rhaegar's neck and shoulder. Its long, elongated neck poked out from its perch on the Targaryen King, a pair of amber eyes suddenly visible against the glowing tongues of the dying fire.
It was a sight that hadn't been seen since the doldrums of Aegon III, but there was little doubt to those that watched as to what it was.
"Gods…" breathed Barristan.
"By the Seven," murmured Yohn Royce.
"How…" babbled Robert.
"I can't believe it," Alliser Thorne trembled.
"Brother?" Ned wondered, awe filling his face.
"Is that…?" asked Myles Mooton.
"A fucking dragon," Tywin finished, the Lord of Casterly Rock for once struck completely gobsmacked.
Claws hauling itself atop Rhaegar's shoulder, the dragon chirped, nuzzling the warm skin of the Targaryen to whom it was born in the embrace of. Its scales were a mottled green, a mix of light and dark patterns unaffected by the flames. No bigger than a cat, the hatchling still radiated the power of Old Valyria as much as that of Balerion the Black Dread.
His breaths even, in and out, Rhaegar reached up with the hand not holding Blackfyre to stroke his dragon's head. Feeling it curl into his touch, comforting him even as he shook from the ordeal of it all. As much a part of him as his own children. So this is what the dragonlords felt? Gods, it brought him such knowledge of his family.
"Remember your blood… remember your fire…"
"You are the dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen."
Jaw dropped, curled in a gentle smile, Ned slowly lowered himself. Bending the knee for his King. He was followed not long after by Tywin Lannister, brought to his knees by sheer reverence. Barristan and Oswell came next, joined by Alliser Thorne and dozens of others to bend the knee for the King - the King that returned dragons to the world. Even Robert Baratheon, terror and awe forcing him to humble himself.
Word spread like wildlfire through the armies, of the Targaryen King hatching a dragon. Drawing thousands and then tens of thousands to their knees, under the red light of the comet as if proclaimed by the gods.
Knees shaking from exhaustion, Rhaegar nevertheless stood tall. Letting the power of Old Valyria burn through his blood. Atop his shoulder, the first dragon in centuries spread out his wings. Screeching to the heavens.
No longer did House Targaryen answer to men or gods.
A/N: The dragons have returned to the world.
Not much else I can say, lol.
The more reviews, the sooner I'll update :)
