A/N: Hey all, hope all is going well.
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Chapter 33: Battle
Practical to the core, Visenya knew herself inhabiting a dream. The surroundings were too idyllic, a grassy field with a gentle breeze in the shadow of a snow-capped mountain. Her appearance wasn't the wrinkles or the growing stiff fingers but her in her prime, fighting leathers and tunic over a body toned and slender. One that made men lust after her and fear her presence at the same time. It felt great.
No, what truly surprised her was how… real everything felt. As if she were in an actual plane of reality rather than the surreal haze dreams often were. Her blood was magic, she figured. Perhaps this was a dragon dream as Daenys once had?
"Gods… Vis!"
Hearing the voice calling out to her from behind, Visenya swiveled around. Just managing a tearful gasp before Rhaenys leapt into her embrace. The two women crying and laughing and hugging tightly. "Rhae… sister." Visenya trembled with joyful tears as she held her sister-wife. "You look more beautiful than I remember."
Rhaenys pulled back, her smile wider than Visenya had ever seen. "Ditto." They both chuckled before the younger Targareyn captured Vis' lips in a kiss. A kiss eagerly returned, quickly growing heated.
"I do hope you won't start something without my presence." Visenya had barely managed a breath before she lurched for Aegon's own mouth, the kiss just as heated and ever more powerful. The Dowager Queen drinking her fill as if dying of thirst. Aegon was breathless afterwards. "You don't know how much I missed that."
"You've been getting plenty all your life," Rhaenys teased, swatting him in the arm. "Especially from me these last few years."
"Not the same without the both of you." Both wore sad smiles, first at each other and then to Vis.
It brought her elation down to earth. "Oh, issa jorrāelagon…" There were no tears, but Visenya collapsed into their shared embrace all the same. "How I've missed you."
"Whatever feelings you feel, they burn in us just as strongly," replied Rhaenys. "Muna and kepa are here as well… they send their love and their pride in you." It made Visenya smile as she rested her head in the crook of Egg's neck. "Yet our time is short."
She looked up, giving a raised brow. "What is there that we must discuss?"
Rhaenys looked nervously to Egg before fidgeting with her fingers. "That… we cannot tell you. Not explicitly - the gods don't approve of it."
"The gods?"
Egg shrugged. "We cheat their rules in the mortal realm, but not here. Ironic, no?"
"So what can you tell me?"
"Just to be cautious… and ensure that our son finds his dragon as we each did." Rhaenys took her hand. "That is the key, Vis. Only then can our family truly survive."
Seeing Egg nod as well, Visenya's eyes narrowed in determination. "Of course." She bit her lip. "Does that mean this is over? I… I miss you too much to let you go so soon."
The reply was a sultry grin from Rhaenys. "Well… I believe we have some time." Smirking at Egg, who was just starting to unlace his tunic, Rhae captured Visenya's lips in another kiss...
Reaching out, when Visenya registered her squeezing fingers… it wasn't the warm, supple flesh of her sister-wife she gripped but the soft yet cold mattress she slept on. Eyes fluttering open, the Dowager Queen realized quickly the nature of her life. No longer was she blissfully in the field with Egg and Rhae - his cock deep inside of her while she laid in between her legs - or even simply Egg as were the days when she truly was happy. Alone again, the last of the conquerors.
Clinging to life when those that she loved were long dead, an existence leaving Visenya's heart - one commonly suggested by those of court and the population as a myth or obvious falsehood - empty and pained.
Yet she wouldn't cry.
Visenya Targaryen couldn't cry. Without Egg or Rhae there, she didn't have anyone to comfort her when she did.
A knock on the door finally managed to push her to sit up. Stretching out the kinks in her back and legs. "Who is it?"
"Tyanna, your Grace."
"Come in." The beautiful Pentoshi was rather shabbily dressed that morning, unlike her. "You seem like you've only slept well after the hour of the wolf," Visenya stated tersely.
"Forgive me, my Queen," Tyanna replied. "I have been up, but it was not wasted time." Visenya raised a brow, expectant. Not since Rhaena left has she been wasteful with her duties, and even then she didn't dawdle. Given Visenya's tastes, she couldn't fault either her granddaughter or Lady in Waiting for their illicit affair, even if Tyanna wasn't whom Visenya had in mind for Rhaena in the end. "I tried again with reconnecting the trail of whispers."
This drew Visenya's interest. "After you almost died the last time? I trust you were more careful." Not only did she like Tyanna, but she was competent. Losing her would be a huge blow.
A nod. "I've learned from my mistakes, your Grace. The girl didn't give me much yet, but she knew certain whispers of arms shipments from the armories of King's Landing to the port of Oldtown."
"Hmmm… I would think Oldtown has armories. Which one is involved?"
"The main armory of the Poor Fellows."
To this, Visenya listened, thoughts of her dream pushed back for the moment. There would be an eternity with her loves in the afterlife. While still in the mortal realm, her children and grandchildren drew importance. And Visenya knew that Egg and Rhae felt the same.
"No."
Hands on her hips, Rhaena glared at her uncle as he shut the door to his chambers. "You will not deny me this chance, uncle," she hissed. After what had happened at the war council meeting prior to dinner - a dinner each took separately as a result - she had sought him out late at night once the keep turned in.
She is much like her muna… and my muna. The thought almost softened Maegor, but he remained resolute regardless. "The answer is no, plain and simple. Niece." Given their new closeness, her calling him 'uncle' rather than 'Maegor' hurt - he'd live with it if she was safe.
"I am a woman grown, trained by Queen Visenya and your own mentor, Ser Gawen." Rhaena didn't back down either, the epitome of draconic stubbornness. "You may be the Hand of the King but you do not command me."
"You are my charge, and that means I command you," he shot back, toeing off his boots. Getting ready for bed. Wasn't like there was any mystery left between them and he was tired. "It is simply too dangerous for you to lead this ambush on your own."
Raising a brow, she looked over his actions and decided to mirror them. Slipping off her sandals and going for the laces of her dress. "I will not be on my own, uncle. Ser Gawen and his cavalry will be there, as will Dreamfyre." The dress came down, revealing her undertunic and thin breeches. "You just want me cloistered like a Septa!"
"Gods know not like that… but you almost died, Rhaena." Maegor tried not to raise his voice, nor dive into matters that were best not to be revisited. "I'm not risking you again." Off went his own tunic, leaving his scarred chest bare with just a loose pair of breeches blocking his nude form.
Rhaena, doffing her tunic and breeches leaving naught but a nightgown, softened. "You don't risk me… I'll be fine." She approached him, hand on his chest. "Ser Gawen and Ser Dick won't let anyone harm me, nor would Dark Sister or Dreamfyre."
Trailing up, Maegor cupped her cheek. "You can't begrudge me for worrying. The plan… it is an audacious one with many moving parts that can go wrong. We cannot even be sure that the Vulture King is in the area."
Clarisse Dayne's information was partially verified, but there were still holes as Dick Bean presented rather competently for a hedge knight and former man-at-arms. The ambush party that Rhaena insisted on leading would be going into some very dangerous waters. She knew the risks though and was willing to take them. "This is likely our only chance to end the war, and I cannot let the Realm see me as some weak woman."
"You're not."
"You know that, I want them to."
Sighing, Maegor knew when he was beat. Those two pleading violet eyes… they entranced him. He couldn't say no to her. "Alright, but full armor, and I want a guard around you the whole time of my choosing."
The terms were acceptable. "Done." With that, Rhaena threw herself into her uncle's arms, unabashedly kissing him. "I love you, Maegor…" It was easy for her to come to his chambers because it was a nightly occurrence. It was easy to strip down because for weeks now his bed was in actuality their bed. The Tarly servants didn't come into the guest wing, leaving Maegor with only the most trustworthy of his own retinue to service the area. All could keep a secret, and they still were discrete anyway.
What desperate, frenzied passion accompanied their initial couplings hadn't cooled in the slightest, but familiarity bred a more… gentle pace. Their lips were melded powerfully, Maegor with experience, Rhaena with boundless youthful energy, and both with dragonfire igniting in their veins. The exhaustions and irritations of the day were forgotten, both simply comfortable in each other's embrace.
Maegor guided them to the large bed, draping her over the furs. He smiled as she laughed throatily, bidding him forward. Pulling him heavy atop her when he climbed above onto the bed. Kisses deepened in intensity and reach, hands wandering and exploring their most intimate areas. Her nightgown and his breeches joined their other clothes upon the ground, leaving them bare as their nameday.
Thus leading to their current configuration.
"Kessa…" Rhaena moaned, one hand fisting the furs underneath her while the other speared through Maegor's silver hair. Silently begging for him to continue. "More… I need it…" His lips hot along the curve of her neck. Sucking her nipples, the sensitive nubs nearly making her shatter on their own. How he trailed his tongue down her belly and then between her legs. "Gods… you're wonderful."
Maegor smiled to himself, blowing air on her wet cunt and watching her squirm. "Do you want it, Rhaena?"
"Oh, yes please, uncle. Please, avy jorrāelan." Rhaena was rewarded right after, her dragon's tongue licking a slow strip up her slit. "Kessa... please..." She tried not to moan as he swiped through her folds, finger flicking at her clit and making Rhaena want to scream.
So primed by his touch, by the sheer love they had come to share for each other, Maegor grinned against her heat as she came onto his face. Her soft mewls music to his ears. "I love you, Rhaena." A gentle kiss to her cunt led to a trail of kisses up her body, ending with a languid one on her lips. Tongue plunging into her mouth as his cock slipped inside her. "Oh gods, I love you so much."
She kissed him hard in lieu of an answer, biting on his bottom lip. Rhaena rocked her hips into his thrusts - he was her only male lover and the one that took her maidenhead, but weeks upon weeks of practice had led her into a rhythm. Was this normal, or just them? Rhaena thought the latter and simply let go. Enjoying both her pleasure and the bliss that overcame Maegor's expression each time they made love.
Limbs tangled together, Maegor's thrusts began to deepen. He bottomed out with each stroke, making her mewl loudly and grip his muscular back. Their lips never broke, fused together in a tangle of love and passion. Eyes never wavering from each other as they screamed their climaxes into each other's mouths.
Sighing in contentment, Rhaena snuggled against him. Never feeling more loved or secure as when she laid in her uncle's arms. Her lover's arms. Maegor's arms. If this was all a dream she never would've wanted to wake up.
"The war will be over soon, if we catch him," she heard him speak.
"Aye, an end to the fighting and dying."
But he sighed. "That is true, but also an end to our being away from King's Landing."
Suddenly Rhaena put it together. "So… what of us?"
"I don't know, Rhaena." Feeling her tremble, Maegor tilted her head to his. "I love you… gods, I've fallen for you deeper than the greatest abyss."
"Yet we can't be together." A tear pricked at her eye in spite of it all.
He cupped her cheek. "I… I don't know. Ceryse… she doesn't deserve this and I love her still, yet imagining you married to someone else makes me…" Maegor clenched a fist. "When we return, we will need to break from this."
"Forever?" The thought made her react as if struck.
Maegor kissed her. Pouring his heart long enough for her to relax in his embrace. "Not forever… just long enough for me to find some solution. Muna would help, as would Rhaenys if I asked."
"Kepa wouldn't support us… definitely not muna." Rhaena hugged him tighter. "I don't want to hurt you, uncle."
"You don't. You are the greatest balm for me." Rhaena said nothing, just leaning up and kissing him again.
Dulled blades clashing together, Prince Aegon feinted retreat, forcing his opponent to come after him and disrupt his footing. He quickly took advantage, twirling and hacking down… just barely parried and countered, Aegon leaping to the side.
Rogar Baratheon kept his greatsword up, but smirked. "Impressive, your Grace." He and Aegon circled each other, eyes peeled for any movement. "I see much of your grandfather in you."
"I share his might as well as his name and looks, Ser Rogar," the Prince observed, trying to fight his exhaustion with a burning fury. Easing his wrist, he twirled the longsword to keep ready to strike - determined to show the gathered crowd he truly was worthy of his namesake. That Blackfyre should've been his.
Only the best of instructors, the finest of training in swordsplay arts from all over Westeros and the east and yet he strained against the pure fury of Rogar Baratheon, already a veteran of a dozen battles and fights. He still had a long way to go it seemed, but Aegon was certain he would… simply in his blood.
He would beat the future Lord of Storm's End this day.
"Waiting patiently, my Prince," Rogar taunted, halting in place and smirking provocatively at Aegon. "Are you waiting for me to sing you to sleep?"
Seeing his mother suddenly arrive, watching from the sidelines, Aegon felt an extra incentive to win the spar - to impress her, and reject the barbs sent his way by his new instructor. Bellowing a war cry, he raised his blade and charged… not a mad dash deprived of any thought, but calculating. Managing to dart down and sweep at Ser Rogar's legs.
A good move, but one Rogar had anticipated. He leapt up before landing a foot on the blade. Jerking forward, he forced Aegon back, causing the Prince to lose grip of his sword still pinned underneath Rogar's boot. The Baratheon knight then leveled his own blade at Aegon's chest, smiling. "Yield, my Prince."
Aegon burned with anger and embarrassment. "I yield," he ground out.
Rogar let his sword fall to his side, claps resonating from the onlookers as his posture relaxed. "You are improving daily, your Grace. Soon you shall be as fine a swordsman as your uncle."
Those weren't the right words, making Aegon roll his eyes. "Thank you, Ser," he nevertheless stated. His father wanted well-mannered children, and it wouldn't do Aegon any bit of good if Aenys found out he insulted the Baratheon heir. Bowing… to which Rogar did as well, Egg tossed his blade to a servant and stormed out.
"My darling son." Before he could leave he was intercepted by Alyssa, hugging him close. "You are my warrior son - I'm so proud of you." She kissed his cheek.
"I lost, mother," he replied.
"You are still so young and Ser Rogar is an experienced warrior. It would be like losing to Lord Commander Gawen or Lord Myles Smallwood."
"Or uncle Maegor."
Alyssa swallowed, trying not to grimace. "Yes, like your… uncle." She sighed. "A word of advice from your loving mother, please try and keep your temper in check. You have no need to rush or prove yourself, just to become better. Better each day until you can claim your grandfather's mantle."
He glowered. "Easy for you to say, mother. You have your prodigy with her dragon and her military command." Before Alyssa could respond, her son stormed off - leaving her alone.
Wiping an errant tear from her face, Alyssa clasped her hands together. He is too much like his father for his own good. Once that would've given her heart nothing but flutters of happiness at the thought of it, but now…? Aenys and I tried to raise him, but such personalities always arise. Just like him, which was why the Queen prayed Rhaena would come to her senses.
Then again, seeing his elder sister and youngest siblings gain dragons of their own was likely creating jealousy and inadequacy in Aegon. Perhaps he is like Maegor… ready to bond with a living dragon. Perhaps Vhagar would be his, as Visenya couldn't last much longer. Right?
"Forgive me, your Grace, but I find that worrying so plainly can cause beauty to fade." She turned to see Rogar next to her.
"Oh, Ser Rogar." Alyssa greatly enjoyed the young knight's company, not to mention his rather competent advice raised in the Small Council sessions. Polite and decisive in fighting, he was like Maegor… only without the sadistic, callous streak Alyssa knew all too well. "You shouldn't be so informal with me."
Rogar bowed. "Forgiveness. I merely find myself in ease of serving you and his Grace. We are kin, as well." The Queen was beautiful… age not having harmed a single percent of her looks, but such wasn't why Rogar was here. "You need not be worried about the Prince. He is progressing perfectly for a young royal in the art of war."
"Thank you, good Ser." That was a relief. "I am hoping my husband sends him to his first campaign. The wildlings are massing and it is worrying my goodsister."
The North? No, cannot have that. "The frozen wastes are not where a Prince should be. There are rumblings of resistance against House Qoherys in the Riverlands. Perhaps I can make sure he's stationed there as co-commander alongside Myles Smallwood."
"You would do that?" Alyssa smiled. "Thank you, Ser Rogar." She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was chaste, but lit a fire in her belly.
One he noticed.
Ser Rogar was in a good mood after that, it even improving when he saw almost a minute after he left the sparring grounds just the person he wished to visit next. "Ah, Ser Damon. How are you this fine day?"
"What do you want, Baratheon?" the Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons asked him gruffly. "I am a very busy man."
"Nothing major," Rogar replied. "Just was hoping that I could seek a prayer to the warrior before the tourney next week. When conducted by his most holy servant, I am sure he'd listen to my pleas for victory."
Damon Morrigen shook his head. "The Warrior doesn't concern himself with your tourney winnings, so run off and pray yourself if you so desire for it. As I said, I…"
"Am a very busy man, yes, I know." Rogar found Ser Damon rigid and stupid, but even those people had their uses. "Perhaps my solo prayer will find his favor. My father speaks otherwise, but the decree of the Seven's most holy servant to take up the sword outweighs his in my view.
Blinking, Ser Damon was confused. "Wait, what did Lord Orys say?"
Rogar shrugged. "I never see him in the sept, though I'm sure he keeps a shrine to the gods of Old Valyria as his Targaryen ancestors did - while that is all well and good, I find myself called to the Seven." At Morrigen's barely concealed anger, Rogar wanted to laugh. This was only too easy.
"Your father should repent, good Ser… I mean no offense," Damon hastily added. "The Seven will bless Lord Orys' soul if he repents and accepts the Father's light."
"I will let him know, thank you." Rogar left the Grand Captain in the corridor, saving the hidden smirk for when he turned the corner.
It was a narrow valley in the Red Mountains, one that received some actual rain on occasion. Thus, there was a sparse scrub that hid the camp from dragon scouts… but also hid the ambush party from those in the camp.
Currently there was a buzz of activity. Men hefting crates of supplies while others sharpened swords or dipped arrows in poison. About half were gathered under a thatch roof for the midday meal, blissfully unaware of what was taking place.
Hiding in the crevices and overhangs were dozens of fighters. Most were lightly dressed, archers and crossbowmen prepping their weapons for the coming attack. Twenty men-at-arms wore tunics and surcoats over their armor, stifling in the heat but quiet in the advance. Among them was someone slight, wearing a dragon-helm and scaled armor. The ruby-pommeled Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister was sheathed by her side.
Princess Rhaena led them herself - Dreamfyre perched on a mountain peak nearby, out of sight and Lord Commander Gawen on the opposite ridge with another detachment of archers and swordsmen. Lady Clarisse's information was good, and the trap had been set.
Sneaking down the ridge dressed in naught but boiled leather, Ser Dick Bean did his best to stick close to the trees and bushes, avoiding any sentries… though one had to go with a knife across his throat. It was his duty to cause a distraction, and in an ox cart still tied to the milling animals he found his chance.
When no one was looking, he smacked the haunches of one of the beasts hard. Startled and in pain, the ox bellowed and charged, spooking the second who charged as well. In no mood to bother with maneuver, they barrelled through the mess tent, scattering dozens of Dornishmen.
"Now!" With the far off roar of Dreamfyre, the men of Westeros erupted out of their hiding places. Crossbows and longbows unleashed a wave of missiles, bolts and arrows hitting their mark among the panicking raiders. Such a hail gave cover to the men-at-arms, Rhaena among them, as they erupted into the camp.
The Princess spun her blade and cut it across the front of an unarmored Dornishman, his chest bloody and sword falling out of his hand. A second charged at her, but she parried the lunge of the scimitar and buried Dark Sister into his stomach
In the distance, a crossbowman loosed at the hills, killing an archer of House Tarly. As he reloaded Rhaena ran towards him, blade at the ready. He swiveled it to fire at her but the dart only grazed her armor. The swing of Dark Sister didn't miss, beheading him then and there.
Before Dreamfyre could sweep down with her terrifying visage, it was over. Twenty bloody minutes found the campsite secure, only a half-dozen casualties compared to the entire band of partisans dead or captured.
Ripping her helm off, Rhaena wiped her forehead of the sweat drenching it - only for her palm to be drenched while her forehead didn't change. Some loyal trooper passed over a wineskin and Rhaena drank it greedily. It was Dornish horse piss, but watered down enough to dampen the kick. Gods, it felt good on her throat.
"Your Grace." Dick Bean approached. There was a cut on his forehead and his armor was gouged, but otherwise looked alright. "The place is secure. No escapes… least, no successful ones anyway."
Eyes finding a corpse strewn atop the boulders of the surrounding ridge with five arrows and crossbow bolts riddling him, Rhaena nodded. "Did we catch the big cunt?"
Ser Dick nodded. "Got him alive. Craven cunt didn't even put up a fight."
"Take me to him."
It turned out not to be hard to find him among the milling troopers and prisoners, the profane shouts and scuffling like a beacon. Four men were besetting a prone figure with kicks, especially savage. "Oi'!" yelled Ser Dick. "Get back! Get him up." Grumbling, the men complied, hauling the particular prisoner to his feet.
Though gagged and covered in dust, blood, and bruises, Rhaena was able to get a good look at him. He looked like a salt Dornishman, with olive skin and slick dark hair. He'd be pretty if not for the twin black eyes, broken nose, and hateful scowl. "Get that gag off him," Rhaena ordered as Dreamfyre landed close by, wingbeats washing them with dusty but cooling breezes. "So, you're the little cunt that started all of this."
"Fuck you, dragonspawn," the Vulture King spat at her, only for Ser Dick to ram the hilt of his knife into the man's back. He staggered with a wheeze of pain, but refused to fall. "You think I am the last of this land to challenge you monsters? You will rue the day."
Rhaena snorted. "And burn them we will, and the ones after that, and the ones after that - on and on until you realize the inevitable."
The Vulture King laughed, though it clearly was causing him pain. "Dorne didn't submit to you swine and it was us that emerged victorious."
"Two dragons nearly brought you to heel. Imagine what nine dragons will do." Eventually her little siblings' dragons would grow, as would her cousins'. "But in regards to you, death is the proper punishment for your crimes."
"I am no follower of your laws nor ever swore to you, bitch!" This time Rhaena let the men swing their fists at him for a few hits, smirking in satisfaction as he spat out blood and a tooth.
"No, you are not, but you are a man fighting not under the banner in the land of my father, the King of Westeros. Therefore, you are a bandit and I am under authority to kill you. But if you beg for mercy… I may send you to the Wall."
His eyes, barely visible beneath the swollen face, were livid. "Never will I leave the warmth of my sun."
"Have it your own way. Bring the block."
You wish not for me to have at him?
Watching his men drag a crate towards them, Rhaena shook her head at Dreamfyre. I want his head, girl.
Alright, then. Have at it.
As the Vulture King had his head shoved against the block, Rhaena drew Dark Sister and leveled it menacingly, sunlight glinting off the legendary blade. "Do you wish to inform us of your real name? For the records and songs of this day?"
He spat at her again. "My name means nothing, only what I represent. A Free Man in a Free Land!"
Groaning in irritation, in one swift stroke Rhaena chopped down. Valyrian steel sliced through flesh and bone as if it were paper, the head of the Vulture King lobbed off with barely a noise. Rolling off into the dust as the corpse toppled to the side.
Sheathing her sword, Rhaea walked to where the head was and picked it up by the curly hair. Holding it up for the entire detachment to see. "This is what happens to those that oppose House Targaryen. Fire and blood!"
The men cheered her, swords and spears raised high. "FIRE AND BLOOD!"
"I can't see shit!" grumbled Marlon Umber, hunkered upon the battlements of the gatehouse.
Next to him, the Free Folk warrior Ralla barked out a laugh. "Thought ye' southern in particular always brags about yer hearth bein' strong enough to handle the harshest blizzards." This one had come out of nowhere, but only after a few hours was powerful enough to extinguish campfires and drown out any noise or sight not within about a body-length of any man.
"Blizzards yes… demon-delivered howls of pure ice, no fucking thank you." He hated looking weak in front of the wildlings, even Prince Maegor's tame ones, but such brought testament to just how cold the storm was.
The northmen could take it, but it made them uncomfortable and sapped their fighting strength… not to mention grounding their most powerful weapon. Arrax.
Unfortunately for them, the Thenns, Naviri, Frostfangs, and Ice Rivers could figure that out as well. Boiorix wasn't about to let such an opportunity pass...
Through the swirling vortex of noise and snow, the black cloak of the Night's Watch made such a fashion choice appear obvious as to why it was selected. Umber and Ralla noticed it before the words he shouted were vocalized. "They're coming! Ambush!"
"Ease up, lad! What's goin' on?!"
"Wildlings! Came out of the woods and hit my men!" The Night's Watch drew picket duty at the bottom of the sloping ground that led up to the Fist of the First Men. "We're on a full run and them behind us!"
Ralla grabbed her spear. "Sound the alarm!" Umber complied - one thing that did resonate over the howling wind was the shrill ringing of the warning bell.
Boiorix and his underlings were crafty as they were fierce, quickly developing a plan once the blizzard eliminated the threat of the dragon for the time being. Knowing they had a limited window of opportunity, each contingent formed up in a single battle line ten men deep to cover a wide front… just wide enough to traverse the entire upward slope. The Naviri and Ice Rivers under Gelimer on the right, the Frostfangs under Gelina in the center, and Boiorix's Thenns on the left. Concealed in the woods by both the thick brush and the blizzard, it wasn't until they could see the pickets changing shifts when they attacked their old 'Crow' enemies.
Many were butchered, many more fled in panic with the wildlings in hot pursuit, spilling out of the woods in their war paint and shouting guttural battlecries. They needed to reach the barricades and fortifications before the heavier northmen could form a coherent line.
Leaping from his tent and onto his mount, Brandon Stark quickly moved to rally his force. "All coming at once?!"
"Aye," was the curt reply of the First Ranger, blood coating his cloak.
"They'll swarm over the ramparts in this weather," Lord Bolton commented.
Brandon had assessed that, especially with Rhaenys and Arrax out of commission. "Then we'll fight them outside of it, at the crest of the slope." Order given, the commanders went to their respective forces.
While surprised, trumpets and bells cried out into the howling storm as the men raced for their banners. There was little time, but these men were crack forces, veterans of many a fight with the wildlings or serving the Crown in volunteer missions warring with bandits or Dornish raiders. They spilled out of the camp and into a rough battleline. The Boltons facing off against the Naviri and Ice Rivers, the Umbers against the Frostfangs, and the Starks against the Thenns with the Night's Watch in reserve.
They needn't wait long for the enemy to close.
Emerging out of the swirling ice, the defenses and killzones created for the attacking wildlings were useless in the immense snowdrifts. Acting as obstructions, they divided the Northern formation into three distinct parts, ones the wildlings were happy to exploit. Blizzard hampering the archers that normally began battles south of the Wall, immediately the battle was joined by spear and sword. Shield wall against shield wall.
The lines shuddered, absorbing the impact of the wildling charge and the wind slamming into them. Feet tried to find purchase in the snow and keep from skidding back, weapons clashing as swords and axes hacked down, spilling blood on both sides and felling men where they stood. "Hold fast!" screamed Brandon, riding in between each of the three contingents and shouting encouragement. "Who holds the North?!"
"We do!"
"Who holds the North?!"
"HAAA WOO! HAAA WOO!"
It was on the left that the first decisive assault was formed. Just as the wind began to change course, the wildling archers of Ralla's group managed to release a hail of projectiles upon the Ice Rivers and Naviri. Staggered, the Bolton phalanx managed to properly lower their sarissa pikes and advance, scything through the lightly armored Free Folk warriors. The cries of the Flayed Men were met with victory, as the wildlings broke and ran for the bottom of the slope - Rogar Bolton in hot pursuit to finish them off.
In the center, Gelina was having a better time of it against the banners of Marlon Umber but she was also being driven back. Sweeping through men with her axe, slowly the Frostfangs gave ground against the heavy men-at-arms of Last Hearth. Very slowly, making the Umbers pay for every yard taken in blood.
Yet, the battle was still very much on a knife's edge thanks to the crisis developing on Brandon's right wing, which received his greatest attention. Being his own direwolf banners, the men of Winterfell and Wintertown were having a tough time of it - facing against the best enemy forces, Thenns led by Magnar Boiorix himself. Fearsome spearmen were in a phalanx of their own, piercing the shield wall broken by the snowdrifts and allowing the Thenn axemen to exploit the breaches.
Closer and closer did the Starks get pushed to the palisade itself, and with it certain death and disaster for the entire army.
Leaping off his horse, Brandon shoved his way towards the front, Ice gripped in his hands. Things looked bad… utterly disastrous to his eyes. Crammed into a tight mass barely able to maneuver, many of the men were leaderless. The Winterfell master-at-arms was dead, as were half the officers. Others were wounded, though the leader of the Household Guard fought in spite of his wound. Thinning their line, Boiorix sent groups of Thenns to wheel around and attack the flanks. If they broke, the Starks would all be butchered and Brandon was not about to have it. "Men! We are winter!" Reaching the frontline, immediately Ice hacked through the sinew and muscle of an immense Thenn warrior. Blood spurting everywhere as Brandon rallied his men. "WINTER IS COMING!"
"WE ARE WINTER!" His arrival bringing hope and a needed morale boost, a new vigor arose in the men of Winterfell. Shields locked tightly, they pushed forward, stunning the Thenns and gaining back some lost ground before a resumption of the attack halted them in place.
Brandon was in his element. Grey cloak tight about his shoulder, he parried blow after blow. Stabbing and hacking back at the enemy coming for him. A spearman thrust forward but Brandon jinked aside, hacking the tip before wheeling around and cutting right through the Thenn's shield to hack his shoulder into a bloody mess. Another one, swinging an axe, missed. Brandon's counterswing didn't. A blur of white charged past Brandon, Blizzard sinking his teeth into another Thenn. Good boy.
And then the winds died down slightly, the swirling snow beginning to dissipate. Just as sudden the blizzard descended upon the Fist of the First Men, it started to abate and reveal the true nature of the situation. Out of the camp came the Night's Watch. Dismounted, they nevertheless stabilized the flank to protect the Northmen from encirclement. At the base of the slope, Rogar Bolton's phalanx had massacred the last of the Ice Rivers and began to wheel around, charging back up to hit the Thenns from the rear.
But the ear-splitting roar was what decided the battle for good. Wingbeats thumping in the clearing skies, Rhaenys dove for the wildling line. A tongue of dragonfire destroyed the cohesion of the Frostfangs, leading to their encirclement and grudging surrender to the Umbers. Banking, Rhaenys aimed for the center of the Thenn line and bathed it in fire. Incinerating many… including Boiorix. With Rogar closing in on the rear, the Thenns broke. Some surrendering, some fleeing and running the gauntlet of steel and dragonfire, and others staying to fight and being massacred.
All in all, five thousand enemy dead and an additional seven thousand captured in comparison to just five hundred casualties for the Northmen. Bodugnatus of the Ice Rivers had escaped, but Gelimer and Gelina were both captured and bound by rope when presented to Brandon. Gelimer was defeated and his head hung, while the soot-covered Gelina merely glared. Her spirit not broken.
"No matter," Rhaenys would tell Brandon, now sporting several new scars that added to his allure. "We won." Brandon chuckled and kissed her deeply, the two of them celebrating in their tent the way only a couple in love could.
A/N: Rhaena and Rhaenys prove themselves in combat.
Battle of the Fist is based on the Battle of the Sabis River
Enjoy and see you next time! if I can get 15 comments, I will update in a week.