The Rush was theirs. He had won it for his father.
The Lannister fleet had led the on a merry chase up the Rush. Retreating further and further from the city. He kept pursuing them. There were more than enough ships left behind to shuttle his father's army across the rush, he could keep the enemy from swooping on their flank.
They had taken all but one of the enemy ships. The last ship opposing them was King Robert's Hammer, the largest warship in the fleet, larger even than the Fury. It had tried to anchor itself with the warships Lucky and Bright Star, but they were only a hundred oars each, and Lucky was floundering in the water, listing perilously to one side, it was likely not long for the water anyhow.
The oarsmen were still pulling, moving them forwards. His father's vessel, the Fury could match King Robert's Hammer head on. Loosing that vessel would be a loss, claiming it would be a worthy prize for father. "Move on the Hammer!" He called out. "Ready weapons!" He notched an arrow to his bow. "Archers, with me, everyone else, draw swords!"
They rowed on the Hammer, drawing closer with every beat of the drums, with every pull of the oarsmen. He raised his bow and loosed his arrow at the nearest enemy crewman, the arrow punching through his chest.
His archers released their arrows as well, most slamming into the wooden vessel, though a few found their marks on men. An arc of shafts flew back at them in reply, but every one fell short.
As they got closer, the men readied their grapples. This matter would be sorted in ship to ship combat.
"Now!" He roared, when they were within range, the grapples flying through the air as the enemy's did the same. Two clashed and fell like stoned crows into the water, their hurlers pulling them back up to try again. "Archers ready. Shield us as we cross." He took up his mace and gave it a few practice swings, for it would not do for the captain to stay behind. The weight felt good. He slid his pot helm over his head. Visors were good against archers, but in close combat you wanted to be able to see, and on a ship, it could be fatal to do otherwise.
He crouched bellow the gunwales with the rest of his boarders, clutching spears, axes, mace and swords. They heard the low loud thump of hull against hull, like a great boom of thunder over the waves. When the boarding bridges were lowered, he gave the order. "Charge! For King Stannis!" The first to cross the bridge bore the heaviest of weapons, large two handed battle axes, and long greatswords of dark steel. They rushed over the boarding bridges like crazed berserkers, leaping off the bridges onto the deck of the Hammer, raining down blows that could have split planks. Lyonel himself led the main force across the bridges. The enemy tried to board themselves, but his archers saw to them before they could threaten his father's vessel. His fist wave had cleared a safe area around the bridge, but their weapons were unwieldy, and on the rolling deck of a ship, they could be fatal. Now it was up to him and these men.
"KING STANNIS!" He roared, charging forwards. He met the first foeman of the day, a lanky youth with an axe in one hand. He ducked under the swing of the axe and used his mace to trip him up. He brought the mace around and sank it into the enemy's chest, feeling ribs shatter and flesh give way to the steel. He felt a blow across his back, and yelled in pain, rolling away. Another enemy had struck across his back with a sword, the metal grating on his mail. He raised his mace and checked the next strike with it, pushing himself onto the attack. He rained four blows on the enemy, feeling his stony skin crack and flex as he pressed his attack.
The enemy retreated under his onslaught towards the other side of the ship. Lyonel followed him wherever he went. He brought his mace down on the enemy, who caught his strike with the sword. He used his strength to push down. A flash of blue and he was blinded. He tasted the cool sweetness of water and fell to the ground, gasping. Suddenly blinded, he flailed madly, swinging his mace around to keep all away from him while he blinked the water from his eyes.
His arm caught as a foeman blocked his mace and stepped closer. Lyonel dropped his weapon and seized him.
"Stop, my Prince!" The man he had seized called and he felt a cloth drag across his face, taking the water from his eyes. The man he had seized was one of his own. The enemy crew had put up resistance, but it was now broken. A few fanatics holding out, but it would not be enough. "The battle is won."
He released the man. "Yes... good... thank you," he said, looking away in shame. He had nearly harmed one of his own crew. He looked for his mace, which had rolled away along to the gunwales. He looked around, the man who had attacked him was on the ground with a dagger in one side and blood spilling from his lips. His body was by a water barrel. He felt his face flush. His foe had lured him to that barrel specifically to blind him, and like a beast to bait, he had followed blindly. "Bind those who refused to surrender, and the officers, replace them with some of our own. And take down that disgusting flag."
"At once, my prince," his crewman said.
"Turn the ships around as well, it is time we returned to the city." A look east told him that the city was out of sight. They had pursued the enemy further than he had thought. They had to be far away now. Perhaps an hour's fast ride, maybe two. Luckily, ships moved faster than horses.
Back on his own ship they separated from the Hammer and began to turn, the rest of the ships that had followed him doing the same.
"My Prince," one of his men called to him. "There's something coming."
"More ships?" He asked heading over as they began rowing east, towards his father's army.
The man shook his head. "I'm not sure what it is, but it's not on the water, it's on the banks."
Lyonel squinted to the west. There was a shimmer in the air, like often happened on a summer's day, but it was glinting and fluttering, and it was too cold on this autumn day for such a shimmer. "Order the rest of the ships forward, tell them to begin without us. Oarsmen, back water, we'll see what's happening. Archers notch your arrows, and man the scorpions." His men hastened to their position as they started rowing backwards to see what was coming.
The shimmer cleared up as they approached, and his own ships began to make their way slowly back towards father's army. It was no haze of heat and water, instead one of dust it seemed. And the glints were made not from the sun reflecting off water, but steel.
His heart caught in his chest. On both sides of the river there was an army. What was this? "No," he whispered. The army on the north bank, the same side of the river as King's Landing, was marching under a lion banner, golden on a field of blood. The Lannisters were coming to relieve the city. He took deep breaths. It was okay, they were still half a day away to ride. He was on a ship, and had the current of the river; he could make it back well before they arrived, and get father's army ready. The Lannister column was headed by a huge force of armoured knights, with war lances held tall in their hands, and full plate mail covering their bodies, perhaps five thousand men in total, with three or four times that number following on behind on foot. Their legs were working hard, this wasn't just a march, it was a forced march. Even better, the Lannister foot would be tired... although his father's army had already been fighting a battle.
But who was coming on the other bank of the river? He rushed to the other side of the ship.
Roses. Roses everywhere. Roses of gold on fields of green fluttered above the Tyrell host. His lips curled into a snarl. So, they would side with two traitors would they? This time they would not be forgiven, when his father defeated them, they would be stripped of their lands. He was sure of it.
Then his heart froze. "Impossible," he whispered. "It can't be."
The battle was lost. The gods themselves had ruled against them. His sin had been that great? That they would make him think that they had victory, only to take it away from them there and then? All he had done, he had done for father, to ensure that the rightful, gods-given king sat the Iron Throne.
"I killed you," he whispered. He had done it to prevent a battle. A battle which they may not have won. One life against thousands. Against his father's. Against his sister's! Did they not see that? Yet they had risen him to life again. The Tyrells were attacking, and they were led by Renly Baratheon. The uncle he had slain.
"My Prince!" The voice was a distant echo, carried across an ocean of shades. Were there any knights in the army at all, were they the steel clad ghosts of the men he had killed before. Was the Targaryen Prince there? Were the pirates he had killed before? Were they all there, gilded in holy steel to bring holy retribution upon him for his sin. "My Prince?!"
He didn't respond. He felt his heart harden in his chest, his father's face, stern and strong, wearing the crown that was his by right.
He notched an arrow to his bow, taking breaths to steady himself. Then he drew his bow and shot his arrow at his uncle. I killed you once, I can do it again. But what could an arrow do against a shade? The shaft seemed to pass through him, and all it did was make his uncle look his way.
One more time, he thought, notching another arrow to his bow. He calmed himself, steadying his feet and relaxing his limbs. "Come back to me" he heard Shireen"s voice break through all distractions, all sounds of battle and war. "And be my brother again." He drew and released his arrow. This time, the shaft flew straight and true, punching into the head of the horse his shade-uncle was riding and making it rear up, throwing him to the ground.
In an instant, everything snapped back to normal. The Tyrell and Lannister hosts were backing away from the rush as arrows, bolts and stones were shot at them from the ships. Knights were moving away the fastest, their steeds carrying them. A look told him that his shade-uncle was regaining his saddle, but he held no power over him anymore. He was no shade, no shade could be harmed by a mortal arrow. Even so, the army descending on them was vast, tens of thousands on either side of the bank. Their army had been divided by the crossing, unless... had his father crossed with his entire host by now? No, he'd taken the ships, those that should have been transports to pursue the Lannistes, he couldn't have cossed yet, it wasn't possible. "Back Water!" He roared. "Back water now! Get me back to the city!" He had the current of the river flowing with him, and he had three hundred oarsmen trained and drilled to work together. He could make it before the army if they moved fast and the enemy stayed at a march. "Beat the drums and bring us back to the King... the one true King."
They had the current of the Rush with them and the oarsmen were veteran sailors. The enemy had been disrupted by the attack and were still reorganising, as well as fending off the attacks from the ships behind him. They pulled ahead, rushing back towards the city. But even as he looked back the enemy horsemen were charging forwards, the footmen rushing on behind, even if he got to father before them it wouldn't be by much.
If they were in a sept he would have dropped to his knees to pray that his father had been able to cross the rush entirely. But he would have to make do with hoping... hope... did he really have to resort to hope?
But no hope could help him. When they pulled within sight of the city, he saw that the lion banners still flew from the walls. His ships were swarming over the wrecks of the Lannister vessels crewing them with loyal men and taking them over. The fools. They should have been helping father cross the Rush. The Longboats were trying to avoid floating green fire on the water, slowing them down, and more than one charred husk also blocked the way.
The gods may not have punished his father with shades, but defeat, that was still theirs, the army was split evenly, if anything, most of it remained on the southern bank.
"Prepare a longboat," he said. "I must get to father."
The royal yellow banner with it's flaming heart was still on the southern bank, as he expected, in a place where King Stannis could oversee the battle. His men rowed the boat with all haste, nearly crashing into another one taking men across the water, but he was able to land on the southern bank. So many men were still here, and some tried to pour into the boat that had just landed. But his men rowed out to wait for him. He had to push his way through the men at arms and knights and footmen who had yet to make the crossing. They were like dogs at the slips, the battle so close yet so far, and all eager for but a taste of the glory. He had to force his way past them, so many shouting encouragement across the water or cheering as a fresh longboat arrived on the southern bank to gather them up for the crossing. He pushed past a gaggle of men at arms in Estermont livery and reached his father, sat stern and tall upon his horse in grey plate mail, watching the battle intently.
"Father!" He called, breaking through the men and reaching him. His father looked shocked to see him there, it wasn't often one saw Stannis Baratheon caught off guard, but he had done so.
"Lyonel?" He asked over the din of battle. "What are you doing here?"
He ran the last few steps. "Father, you have to retreat. There are enemies coming, from the west."
"What are you talking about?" Stannis asked.
Lyonel gritted his teeth. Don"t be stubborn, not now father. "The Lannisters and Tyrells, they are coming on our flank, from the west and we can't stop them."
Stannis looked him in the eye for a second. "How many?"
"What?"
"How many were there?"
Lyonel shook his head. Did his father not understand, they had to retreat. "Thousands," he replied. "Tens of thousands, on both banks of the river, father, with the army divided you can't win this battle. You must retreat."
Stannis' jaw was clenched hard. "No," he said.
"Father!"
"No, I will not be the King who Ran, I will not run away, not when I am so close, we will stand and fight."
"Father!" His voice was beginning to crack. "Please, I'm telling you we cannot win, there are too many."
"We fight!" He said. "I will not be denied what is mine by rights, not by anyone!"
"Father!" He pleaded. He bit his tongue to stop himself blurting out that Renly's shade was coming for them as well, his father was not a faithful man, it wouldn't make him listen.
"Your Grace!" They both looked up, a bedraggled outrider was approaching them, spurring his horse onewards. "There is a huge force descending on our flank, and even more on the other side of the river. They'll be here shortly."
Stannis looked over his army. Then froze, his eyes narrowing. Lyonel followed his gaze and saw what had caught his father's attention, on the north bank of the river a dust cloud was gathering, the king of dust that only an army could kick up.
"No," he muttered. "NO!" His father roared. "Not now! Not when I'm so close."
"Alert the army," Lyonel ordered the rider. He turned to his father. "Father, please, this battle is unwinnable. Retreat while you can."
"No," his voice was breaking as well. He was in sight of his goal and the recognition that he deserved, but now he had to retreat. "I can't, not now... not now."
"Please, father. There will be another time, another place, but not here, not now, not with your army divided and scattered. Please father, I'm begging you."
His father looked longingly at the city that should have been his. "Turn the army around." He said finally. "We will make a fighting retreat back to Storm's End."
"At once father," Lyonel said, his heart lifting. They would survive this day, they would win, they would be victorious.
"Lyonel!" He turned back to his father and king. "Half my army has crossed the river. Save them. The fleet is yours."
"I will father, I just need you to tell the boats to pick men up rather than drop them off."
Stannis Baratheon nodded. "Go now, save the men... we will need every one of them."
He nodded and rushed to the shore. He had to save the men on the north bank before the Lion swallowed them whole.
The battle was lost... he had lost it for his father.
