Chapter 26: Interlude - The Bane of Nine
Liomond smiled sweetly at Blackfyre. "My old friend, how are you? We haven't seen each other for far too long!"
The Westerosi and that impudent Velaryon boy had responded less than ideally to his generous offer. The boy had wanted to bargain so desperately back in Myr, and it was no secret he knowingly allowed the Myrish-in-Exile to adopt the Pentoshi way of things, so his own feelings agaisnt slavery could not be so strong.
Had he misread the boy?
As soon as Liomond saw the sunsetlanders trying to gain a march on him, he'd moved his army towards Blackfyre's, and the khal would receive his last gift before marching away not long after. One did not make threats one would not follow through on after all.
"Old friends are we?" Blackfyre asked, tilting his head at an angle to show Liomond the face of his stillborn twin. It was a gesture whose meaning Liomond had long deciphered: "I see through your lies."
Liomond's smile grew wider. "We swore oaths to each other, did we not, on that place beneath that tree? We are not nine any longer I admit, but the oaths still hold true."
"For some they do," Maelys said. "You've deigned to drag yourself out of Myr at last. What is it you want, Lashare?"
"The same as you, Maelys," Liomond said. "I want my prize."
"You've won your prize, nestled in its bosom all these months while I gutted the Westerosi," Blackfyre said. "Or do you claim to have been elsewhere when I fought at Naqes and Aegador's Scorch and the two score skirmishes between there and here? Where were you when our fleets were smashed at Pryr and Bloodstone and Lys?"
"Did you not receive my many messengers?" Liomond asked. "I was keeping your flank safe from Khal Yaggo's ten thousand screamers, at great personal cost to Myr and her tributaries. Or would you have preferred I left the Dothraki be, free to pillage and burn the Disputed Lands from the northeast while you had the Westerosi to the south and west doing the very same thing?"
Blackfyre narrowed his eyes. "Do not take me for a fool, Lashare. You dallied in treating with the khal. What ought to have been the work of a month at most turned into months of meandering."
Liomond shrugged. "Myr was devastated after the Night of the Myrmidons, what with that Velaryon boy and the treacherous magisters stealing away at night with their worldly riches. It was not easy finding enough trinkets and slaves to gift the Dothraki after such losses. Besides, I'm here now, am I not?"
"So you are," Blackfyre said. "Yet, like you said, you've been given your prize already. Are you ready at last to commit you and yours to this war?"
"I was not given anything," Liomond said. "I took Myr by my own accord. If you want my spears, I shall need another prize."
Blackfyre's body stiffened, then he snarled. "I ought to gift your treacherous tongue my sword!"
"And sully your beautiful Valyrian blade the day before battle is had?" Lashare tilted his head. "The Westerosi have occupied the Gateway, and I saw them send a small force to harry your new friends from the east. You need me Maelys, because you have no one else to face the forty-five thousand men screaming for your heads."
"Your ten thousand spears are even less than my own force, yet you think it'll win me this war, oh Lord of Battles?"
"Oh no, I don't think so highly of my men," Liomond said. "But it will give you a fighting chance. Without them, they'll drown you in bodies and still come out the victor. March away, and they'll turn around and smash the Volantenes. This is it, Maelys. This is the fight."
"What," Blackfyre asked, "do you want then?"
"What does any sellsword want before selling their sword?" Liomond asked. "A good price, punctual pay, and a prize for victory."
Despite the baseless rumors peddled by those who hadn't met the man, Blackfyre was not some dumb brute. He couldn't be if he'd managed to make himself captain of the Golden Company after slaying their previous one, his handsome kin too. "The Disputed Lands," Blackfyre said.
"You'll certainly have no use for some faraway farms once you cross the narrow sea," Liomond said. "Why not hand it over to me? Would you rather the coin counters take it?" It always struck Liomond odd how Blackfyre could disdain the merchants so thoroughly, yet still happily take their gold.
"You'll obey my orders," Blackfyre said, putting steel into his voice. "There will be no retreat from this battle."
"I'll do what needs to be done to win. I always have," Liomond said, extending his hand. "Do we have an accord?"
"The hardest choices… are they any less necessary?" Blackfyre said, more to himself than Liomond it seemed—then he seized the outstretched hand. "We have an accord."
Liomond nodded. "Let's go kill us some sunsetlanders."
Together, their armies went east where the host of Westeros offered battle. The land was relatively flat, grassy, and the soil under their marching feet had baked hard in the summer sun. It was good terrain for a thundering cavalry charge or the slow, methodical crush of a phalanx, and Blackfyre had the best of both in all Essos.
On their left flank, closest to the lake in the north, was Fossoway leading his Knightfall Company alongside knights and squires decked in gold. Tom the Butcher's Cleavers provided them support against the stags, wolves, and trouts.
The left, Liomond mused, that's where Maelys has bet this victory on.
Maelys took the center, of course, preparing to trample the flowers and falcons. Lashare himself was sandwiched between the Golden Company's phalanxes and their elephants ambling near the Adere River, where seahorses lied in wait. As if the gods themselves had ordained this fight, Lashare's ten thousand and the goldenheart bows would hunt Velaryon's host of lions and red dragons.
It was prudent of Blackfyre to put his men here, furthest away from the lake and Myr. If they broke, there would be no safe ships to board or an easy place to run to. They would fight, or they would die.
The principal commanders from both hosts rode forward for parley, one of the few customs the western barbarians had adopted from Essos. Liomond spotted Velaryon and the broad-shouldered Hightower from two days prior, now joined by a muscled beast of a man, a lithe, olive-skinned Rhoynar, and a boy with a too large crown.
From there side came the Band of Nine… the five that were left, that is.
"This need not be resolved at the cost of more lives, Blackfyre," Ser Hightower said. "Your life is forfeit, but your men may yet march away."
"This need not be resolved at the cost of more lives, Hightower," Blackfyre said. "I see the boy prince is among you, no longer cowering behind brave men. Let him and I settle this as the gods intended: trial by combat!"
The boy prince glared, opened his mouth—then quieted as Velaryon placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured something.
"The gods intended for you to die," the muscled man said, "and before this day is done, we will see to it, you slaving fucks."
Liomond grinned. "The fault of that was not mine. I offered a choice, and you chose… poorly."
"We will have to see about that," Velaryon said. "I killed three of your nine and turned another to our cause. I will not lie: it will be my pleasure finishing the rest of you off."
Blackfyre's face twisted into something dark, savage and monstruous to behold. It was the look of a man who'd destroy the world for his cause. "Lelouch Velaryon, you have been a thorn at my side since the beginning. Now, I will be rid of you at last."
"We have the numbers," the Rhoynar said. "Surrender Blackfyre, your cause is hopeless."
"We have the better men," Xhobar replied. "What you see before you is no mismatched gathering of green boys, old men, and fools dressed in gleaming steel. Ours is an army."
Hightower scoffed. "Better men? Yet you have a kinslayer for a leader, and a most wretched knight as his chief lieutenant. Can you even be called true men?"
"Battle is the true test, not playing at war in silly jousts and festivities," Fossoway said. "We won crushing victories at Naqes and at Aegador's Scorch, while your greatest victor is a boy of seven and ten?"
"Ser Lelouch Velaryon's age does not diminish his record," the muscled man said. "He is a true knight, leal in service and fierce in battle."
"We have spoken long enough," Maelys said, clutching the warmaul he preferred in battle, rather than his pretty little sword stashed back in the camp.
"I'll be looking for you in the battle, Lashare," Velaryon said, before he turned his horse around.
Liomond smirked, and rode away heedless.
Now it begins.
"Your flank must advance first," Blackfyre said before they parted ways. "It will be a feint to bait them in, an invitation to overextend. With the river anchoring one side, they won't be able to bring the whole of their strength to bear on you."
"Then when they've pushed too far forward, you'll hammer them with Fossoway's cavalry and yours," Liomond said, nodding. "Xhobar's goldenhearts will collect a bloody toll this day."
It was a sound plan, and he could not entirely bring himself to fault Blackfyre for using his men as bait.
He doesn't trust me, just my self-interest, Liomond thought. But my men will weather this better than his will, with our flank secured. He has given Fossoway the harder task: piercing through such deep ranks of men.
"Sound the advance," Liomond ordered as he reached his men.
Ba-Rooomm Ba-ROOOMM, blared the trumpeters, and his Battleborne and their Jolly Fellows marched ahead of the other slower flanks.
They were met by the marching cadence of Velaryon's men-at-arms.
At five hundred yards, the first of those yard long shafts the Summer Islanders launched began to fall on Velaryon's men. Fired from a goldenheart bow, each could skewer even plated knights, and tightly packed men could be killed in twos and threes.
A steady drumbeat sounded bam-BAM bam-BAM babaBAM.
Liomond looked to the river, where the seahorse ships were surging forward, the lead galley flying a flag black as night.
Another volley of knight's bane shafts loosed—then deep, bloody gashes appeared all over his own ranks, too large to have been caused by any warbow.
Ballistas, Liomond thought grimly. The shots were coming from the ships. Marching faster would leave his men the ones overextended, and loosening formations before the lines met seemed even more disastrous with that pack of lions preparing to charge.
Liomond needed as many of his own men living to continue having leverage over Blackfyre.
He grabbed a nearby rider. "Tell Xhobar to target their ships!"
"Yes, Captain!"
Liomond began counting in his head as he surveyed the rest of the field. With luck and a swift stallion, his message would reach Xhobar before they fire two more volleys. Maelys' phalanxes were advancing at a slower pace than he expected, and the elephants were held in reserve still.
He cursed. Am I the only one who wants to win this battle? The Golden Company often sent those beasts of war in first to disrupt their enemies, and its riders were some of Blackfyre's most fanatical followers.
The next rain of ballista bolts hit his men, and the only consolation Liomond had was that the sunsetlanders were faring no better under a rain of goldenheart arrows.
Unlike him, the sunsetlanders had opted to accelerate their advance in response.
Ninety, he counted, and glanced at the ships. Wooden streaks of death put holes into the ships now, courtesy of the Summerswans, proving again why the pirates feared to dwell too long in the summer sea.
Liomond unsheathed his sword. At least I don't have to worry about their ships anymore.
A cry of "Lock shields! Lock shields! Brace!" burst from his lieutenants without prompting.
—lances killed his men in droves while their spears took their own toll on the knights moving too fast to stop themselves now.
Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded Blackfyre's trumpets, finally committing to a charge.
We just need to hold, Liomond thought, watching the lions get bogged down at last, easy prey for his hyenas and—
His men began screaming. The men behind him began screaming.
Liomond glanced and his heart fell.
Some of Blackfyre's elephantry unit had taken the most direct path to the sunsetlanders—through his men! The fools!
It was enough to throw his own formation into chaos even as the elephants began trampling the lead elements Velaryon had sent. Ranks of sellswords and sworn swords mingled in the din of battle.
The other elephants started running into the center of the enemy formation, straight at where Liomond knew the boy prince would be.
It would be the perfect time to attack—but where were Blackfyre's phalanxes? Where were Fossoway's heavy horse?
Liomond looked to the north, behind him… and found himself alone.
Blackfyre had withdrawn further back, executing a maneuver only his Golden Company could have managed so close to battle. Blackfyre left him to die.
Liomond spat at the dirt and spied a man in red running up to him. With a deft flick of his sword, he left the man in a darker strain of red. The melee was growing fiercer and fiercer as more of Velaryon's men poured in, danced with his own men to the song of steel striking steel.
"Lashare!"
Liomond turned, eyeing the Velaryon boy.
Lelouch Velaryon pointed his spear at him like a viper would. "Now it ends."
-ZeroRequiem-
Ba-Rooomm Ba-ROOOMM, blared the trumpeters, and Lashare's men marched ahead of the other slower flanks.
"Forward!" Lelouch ordered, and the marching cadence of the crownlanders and westerlanders filled Tywin's ears.
At five hundred yards, lengthened shafts struck their men—and Tywin watched knights in full plate dropping like common men.
Those blasted bows need to be silenced, Tywin thought atop his destrier. "If we let them keep raining death on our foot, it will send the men into disarray!"
"We cannot let that happen. Ser Lelouch's orders were clear," Uncle Jason said, slamming the visor of his greathelm shut and looking the very ideal of knighthood in armor gleaming, gilded, and red. "We break their ranks and find every opportunity to do so.".
Uncle is everything Father isn't.
Uncle tugged at the reins of his mount, turning to face the contingent of heavy horse. "Knights with me! With me!" he cried, and they hugged the river's curves, swiftly overtaking the foot's advance. Then, Uncle led them into the beginnings of a thunderous, glorious charge.
Lashare's host looked overextended to Tywin, having pushed far too forward relative to the golden phalanxes of Blackfyre's center and left flank. With this one blow, we will end this upjumped sellsword at long last.
Their men lined up, lances raised, and their horses burst forward with explosive, violent speed. Neck to neck they rode, an inevitable, insurmountable wall of steel that would sweep aside anything in its way. Neck to neck they rode, packed so tightly Tywin couldn't turn.
Tywin blinked, and the knights to either side of him were snatched from their horses by the long fletched shafts of the Stranger.
Mother grant me mercy. Guide their shafts from my body until I have felled my enemies.
Their mounts kept moving, heedless, moving with the herd on instinct. Each second that passed, more and more armored men were felled by those infernal arrows Blackfyre had found.
Warrior grant me courage. Give my sword arm strength to fell my enemies.
At fifty yards their lances were lowered, aimed straight at the mass of throats crying, "Lock shields! Lock shields! Brace!"
Stranger grant me absolution. Give my enemies—
"DEATH!" Tywin screamed, driving his lance into the sellsword in front of him. His horse kept moving, its weight and the weight of all those behind it driving them deeper, deeper, deeper—
Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded some trumpets.
Tywin had a moment to glance as the lumbering elephants become thundering beasts, before he had to drop his shattered lance. He leaned away, dodging a spear thrust before bloodying his gilded gauntlet against the man's nose. Tywin drew his hand back—now splattered crimson on gold, like the Lion of Lannister he was—unsheathing his longsword. The sellsword that dared strike at him had collapsed into the dirt where he belonged, the holes in his face from the spikes of Tywin's gauntlet.
Uncle Jason was further ahead, biting deeper than a ballista bolt, an army unto himself with the pile of bodies he left in his wake. Roger and Reynard Reyne were between Tywin and his uncle, a pair of slicing, thrusting steel whirlwinds—
Something bounced into the back of his metal skirt—not a clean hit, though it would bruise in the night. That was all the chance the man got before Tywin swung his sword around to parry the next hit he'd sensed. This man was an officer of some sort, judging by stripes on his armor and the scar running down his left cheek.
Steel rang, steel sang, and sparks came to life as he exchanged hits with the man once, twice, thrice. On the fourth clash, their blades locked, and Tywin pressed his thighs against his horse, ordering it feets into the air and kick.
The officer was taken by surprise, helmet bashed in by hoof.
There was screaming further ahead.
The world's gone mad, Tywin thought, watching the elephants tear into Lashare's own ranks. The neat ranks of war had devolved into a furious free-for-all more suited to a tourney. Further afield, the same beasts were being driven into their center, sending rows of men into flight or frenzy.
But there were no men to follow through.
Has Blackfyre lost his nerve? Tywin thought from atop his destrier as he slammed his sword down over and over, sending chips of oak scattering before his blade found purchase in the man's shoulder. A few feet away a squire at Casterly Rock hesitated before dealing the death blow. Hesitation was a surer death than any broken sword.
Uncle Jason's advance was being bogged down, favoring his offhand...
Injured! Tywin urged his horse further forwards, slashing, stabbing, smashing with his kite shield, kicking out with the spiked tip of his sabaton. His line of sight was blocked for a minute, maybe two, as the fighting grew fiercer, the heavy press of bodies closing in.
For a fleeting moment, the Warrior and Stranger rewarded his offering of courageous acts and cowardly enemies. Tywin grasped sight of his uncle, crying havoc, determined to end this as he ran at Lashare.
"Here me roar!" Tywin roared, parrying one thrust, and catching another's axe with his vambrace. He drove his greathelm into the face in front of him, sending it reeling and red all over. The axeman swung again, causing his grip on his sword to slip. Tywin reached for another weapon—his morningstar, as he bashed the axeman's head with his shield. "Lannister! LANNISTER!"
He caught a glimpse of Uncle again—
"NO!" Tywin screamed, willing this damned destrier forward, faster, but it seemed a new man stepped in his way before the dumb beast could pick up any speed.
Lelouch was engaged with Lashare now with his spear, and he was losing too, badly. His friend was good with a spear, but better with a bow, and best on a ship. The hours of practice he'd spent could not make up for a lifetime's experience.
Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA.
Further afield, the golden phalanxes grinded forward and cavalry began to smash into each other on the other end.
He turned and—found himself looking up into the cloudless blue sky.
Tywin rolled, avoiding the elephant foot smashing down where his head was. Arrows, bolts, and javelins flew out of the beast's back like a giant porcupine shooting its quills out. Tywin gripped his weapon, and found his only weapon his spiked gauntlet and every part of his armored body. His horse had scampered away after throwing him off, scared witless by the elephant.
He made to throw himself to the side and—found himself hugging dirt, breathless, screaming bloody murder.
Tywin tried to push himself up, and couldn't. My foot! Tywin screamed, as the elephant walked away heedless of what it'd done to him. His throw had been a span off, and the grey giant's foot had stepped on his ankle, pulverizing it into a paste of blood, bone, and gore.
A man with yellowing teeth and a crooked nose loomed over him, thinking, pondering, if he was worth anything alive. Hesitating when hesitation was a surer death than any broken sword.
"Rans—" the man gurgled, his tongue turning into steel, spitting out blood. He fell to the side and Tywin looked up at the Great Bore of a boar.
"My lord!" Marthew Crakehall said, quickly eyeing his foot and grimacing. He sheathed his weapon, dropping low and lifting Tywin across his shoulders the way people in a fire did to their friends. One hand secured Tywin's body, and the other reached for a weapon. "Grip my armor tight. I will not see you fall today!"
The Great Boar really wasn't so bad. He'd sent him with the vanguard for nagging about his unwed sister, but Tywin could no longer find it in himself to blame the man. The Weasel Lord had latched his lecherous eyes on his sister after all.
As Marthew Crakehall fought and killed and killed for his sake, Tywin was helpless to watch. Helpless as Lelouch died a slow death to Lashare. Helpless as Aerys suffered the brunt of Blackfyre's assault.
Helpless like his father.
-ZeroRequiem-
Not for the first time that day, the Bastard of Driftmark cursed his trueborn cousin.
Lelouch has a death wish, Donnall grumbled as he sliced through two men in quick succession, easy as carving a cake. His steel plate armor was enameled a deep Velaryon aquamarine with highlights of silver, and its rondels were sand-orange shells like the color of his mother's house. It was armor fit for a lord, and Lelouch had given it to him before the campaign began anew.
How he'd found time to have it commissioned without Donnall knowing was frankly beyond him. He'd long ago accepted Lelouch had his secrets, that his mind ran at a different pace.
It was why he preferred the sword.
"Take the armor, Donnall," Lelouch said, grinning. "You're of more use to me keeping my own hide alive than all the gold it took to buy it."
How did Lelouch expect him to keep him alive if he kept charging into danger, headfirst and heedless?
Donnall scowled, and channelled his frustrations outwards, his sword flowing as an extension of his own arm. A man with a pig nose stood in his way, blocking his first two strikes where many of his friends failed. Donnall feinted, then spun around the hog, butchering him through the back with a precise slice.
"Driftmark!" Donnall howled. "SEAFYRE!"
Faster. Donnall barrelled forward, trusting his armor to protect him. It had to, for the steel weighed on him like debt and duty both.
Donnall caught a glimpse of Lelouch, struggling to keep Lashare away with his spear. Lelouch was clever, and so he thought he could think his way out of any problem. But sometimes, Donnall thought, weaving through the field like a tailor's needle, skill and raw physicality trumped any clever feints.
Give his cousin time, and he'd weave a tapestry of tricks, plots, and schemes that could bring down anything. Neither the Free Cities nor kings in all the names Essos called them could stand up to Lelouch.
But this battle, they had no time. There were no clever formations at play here, no wildfire or storms to call on. It was the simple, raw butchery of two sides smashing into each other with all the grace of Rolan Redmoore—who'd taken a spear between his eyes some twenty feet back.
Battles like this simplified a great many things, and Lelouch didn't do simple. It was anathema to his cousin to solve things in two steps when twenty would do just as well.
I should have kept a better eye on him, Donnall thought. When he'd asked what the plan of attack was after the war council, Lelouch had barked out but one word: Attack, before sending out a messenger and a small party of armed men, lying in wait to intercept Lashare's.
That should have been warning plenty.
I will not fall. Donnall danced around his enemy, landing a dozen nicks and cuts before choking the man with steel. Nor falter. He barrelled forward through the last of Lashare's guards, debt and duty woven around him like the Smith's blessing. Nor fail. His sword lashed out, catching Lashare's on its downward arc.
"Donnall," Lelouch said, seeming surprised.
"You should have known better," Donnall chided as he pushed Lashare and his horse back, stepping between his cousin's prone form and the sellsword. "You're the talker between us, but I swing the sword."
Lelouch got up to his feet, grasping for his spear with his right hand and settling into a one-handed phalanx stance. "Together?"
"Just like against Father," Donnall said.
Lashare growled. "Who is this whelp supposed to be?"
"I am my cousin's sword," Donnall recited. "His enemies are my enemies, and his friends my friends."
"You've got a mouth on you," Lashare spat. "I'll enjoy carving you a red smile."
"Save your words for the Stranger." Donnall shifted his weight, keeping both legs springy and his eyes on the sword and stance Lashare used.
Pay attention to weapons, not words, his father's voice echoed in his skull.
"Fight to win," Lelouch muttered.
"I'm no Corwyn."
Then the dance of three began.
Donnall grasped his greatsword, meeting the murderous weight behind Lashare's charge. Steel kissed steel in a shower of sparks, and Donnall pressed on, striking and stepping. Lelouch circled to the right, poking, prodding, but never piercing Lashare's guard.
Lashare shoved Lelouch's spear away with his shield, urging his horse back one hoof at a time so that he was never in threat of being between the two of them.
Mind your footwork.
Lashare struck against Lelouch, moving fast and hitting fierce, bringing his sword down once, twice, thrice, but Lelouch's guard held. Donnall had never been as proud of his cousin as when he beautifully blocked the harsh jab to his chest, transitioning from spear to quarterstaff style without blinking, though it was torn from his grip after the sixth blow.
At least Lelouch had learned one of their lessons well: Always have a knife.
Donnall seized the moment to step into his guard. Backhand, sideslash, parry, overhead the swings came quick and quicker still.
He pressed and pressed and pressed, and took Lashare's sword hand as a weregild for his father.
The man screamed, bringing his shield around to block his sword, but he took his eyes off Lelouch for too long. His cousin jumped on Lashare's back, and stabbed at the side of his throat before pulling it across.
A red smirk smiled on Lashare's neck, and his horse carried him away, headless.
Lelouch pushed the body off.
"Are you injured?" Donnall asked, releasing a breath he hadn't known he'd kept.
"I'll live," Lelouch said, nursing his bleeding hand. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been stabbed there. "Thanks to you."
"That was stupid of you, taking him own on your own. Don't do that again," Donnall said.
Lelouch had the decency to flush.
"Is it over?" Donnall asked.
Lelouch glanced at the field. "Not yet. We must ride to Aerys' aid before the Golden Company overwhelms him, just as Lord Baratheon will come from the north. There will be no more pretenders that can challenge House Targaryen after this."
Shouldn't be too difficult, Donnall thought. The worst of the fighting had passed and Lashare's foot was starting to scatter, outnumbered as they were and with the goldenheart bows no longer providing support while they duelled with the Driftmark fleet. "I'll gather the men."
"Find Tywin, if you can, or my brother," Lelouch said. "I need the cavalry to give chase to those archers at last, lest they think to nuisance us on our advance."
There were lions, lions everywhere, but each and every one the wrong shade. "Ser Jason is dead," Roger Reyne told him grimly, "and I know not where Lord Tywin or his brothers are."
"You'll have to do then, my lord," Donnall said. "Gather as many horses as you can, if you would. Lord Lelouch bids you to ride forth and put an end to the Summerswans."
"It will be done, but what of Prince Aerys?"
"My cousin intends to deal with the matter himself, but cannot advance if those ungodly arrows might bite into his formations," Donnall said. What a mess they'd make of those pretty marching lines Lelouch liked.
"Surely he will need cavalry too to reach them in time and turn the flank?" Reyne asked. "I will leave him a detachment of my finest horse under my brother's command."
"I'm certain he'd appreciate that," Donnall said, not certain at all, but had wasted enough time on the man. Lelouch will find a use for them in any case.
When he returned to his cousin, Lelouch was sharing words with Corwyn.
"Already you want me to loot dead men walking?" Corwyn asked. "The battle is not over."
"It isn't," Lelouch said. "Take no risk you needn't, but after the battle I'll have use for them yet. Secure as many as you can safely and ride swiftly."
"Tides take you," Corwyn said.
"Where it flows," Lelouch replied. He turned to Donnall.
"The men are ready," Donnall said. "Lord Roger Reyne bid me to take Ser Reynard, his brother."
"Then we must ride to our prince and guard him from our enemies," Lelouch said. "Men of Driftmark, men of the west, men of Westeros, FORWARD!"
As they advanced, aiming to hit the softer flank of the golden phalanxes, Lelouch said, "You'll make a Kingsguard yet after Aerys hears of your deeds."
You are the only king I'll ever guard, though he gave the treasonous thoughts no voice in the light of day.
-ZeroRequiem-
Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded the trumpets, sending Maelys' elephantry into his enemies.
Into all his enemies.
Who was Liomond Lashare, the Lord of Battles, to him? Who was this upjumped sellsword to think he could play Maelys Blackfyre the fool twice over? A rider from Velaryon had reached him mere hours before Lashare arrived, speaking of treacheries to the both of them.
Vows are sacred made, his stillborn brother, his better half, whispered.
Vows were not unconditional. Oaths did not hold for oathbreakers.
The Golden Company has never broken a contract. We have kept to the word, if not the spirit, of our agreements.
Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. His word would not be the last thing he broke if he was to win this war. The hardest choices were not always evil or complicated, but necessary despite sentiment or morality or fear in all its forms. Yet, did these things make action any less necessary?
Though in this instance, Maelys thought as Velaryon and Lashare engaged in a violent orgy, just as the boy had promised. Necessity was both evil and complicated.
Oath breaking, duplicity, consorting with the enemy.
Maelys sighed. War used to be so much simpler. Kill the other guy before they kill you.
This was his struggle. Shedding weakness, seeing if he was a worthy successor to the Blackfyre name.
"Do I march around them or do I march through them?" Maelys asked himself.
The elephantry had done their jobs well, disrupting the flanks of the Targaryen host and ensuring Lashare and Velaryon were both bloodied by it. It gave Maelys choices at last, no longer corralled into action by the clever whims of a seahorse.
Maelys could march around them while they reformed, and any cavalry they sent to delay him would be butchered like they always were. His Golden Company was too fast and their hosts too slow that this disruption could see him across the Gateway if he hugged the northern lakeshore. With the Volantenes, he'd stand a far better chance in winning the next battle.
But will it win you the war?
The Volantenes might respect him as a commander, but did they respect him as a king? Maelys was feared for his prowess in battle, not loved for his benevolent rule. Volantis saw him as a tool to curb the Sacred Struggle, but he doubted their meagre fleet would be risked to see him seated on the Iron Throne.
"Naqes," he said softly. "We should have ended it then and there." That the gods saw fit to give him another chance was his test, his final struggle. Hesitation was a surer death than any broken sword.
Naqes had been a mistake, and Maelys Blackfyre, First of His Name, would correct that mistake with Aerys Targaryen's skull before the sun set.
"Sound the trumpets," Maelys ordered. "Advance on all fronts. This ends today."
Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded the trumpets, sending Maelys' men into his enemies.
The fields made for a pleasant walk with the grass and baked soil beneath them. In such conditions, he might have marched his men across the narrow sea, if only the Arm of Dorne had not been smashed by the Hammer of the Waters. They marched with speed, for as the old generals of Valyria said: "Speed names the victors of war, and sluggishness the vanquished in battle."
"The Targaryen whelp is mine," Maelys said, hefting his weighty war maul, and his honor guard nodded.
"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!"
"Blackfyre! Blackfyre! BLACKFYRE!"
In truth, he should have used the sword, but it always sat ill at ease in his hands, as if knowing it did not belong to him. As if knowing he'd killed Daemon for it.
Daemon's actions were treason, but being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception.
The golden phalanxes carved through their enemy, pushing, pushing, pushing. It was no contest of strength for their formation had not yet reformed. The Golden Company was just a scythe cutting away the chaff.
"Hold, damn you, hold!"
"The Young Dragon! The Young Dragon comes!"
"Men of Westeros, stand FIRM!"
"PRESS THE ADVANCE!" Maelys screamed, and the phalanx broke into a run, sacrificing the sanctity of their formation for speed. They crashed through the stiffening resistance in a hundred melees and duels.
"Show yourself, Targaryen!" Maelys said, smacking aside a soft reach knight who'd thought himself worthy. "Or are you a coward who hides while your men die around you?"
"I'm here, Blackfyre," Aerys Targaryen growled, every inch of him covered in armor.
Aerys darted forward, then back, flowing around Maelys the murderous' two-handed swings with a dancer's grace. He was nimble, sure-footed, and Aerys stepped inside his guard, swinging his longsword, but Maelys was already jumping back.
"You're skilled," Maelys said, smirking, "for a boy."
But still a boy in the end, Maelys thought. Maelys' counterattack was perfect—backhand, overhead, sideslash—each strike with a fury to humble the Baratheons, each roar of steel louder than the Lannisters'. On the third, and last blow, the boy went stumbling backwards, nearly losing his sword and helm both.
"You are not a Targaryen!" Maelys snarled, crushing the man's head with a single stroke.
He spared his guards a glance, and found half of them, all six, dead in the span of a minute, injuring the younger falcon and taking with them the older and a score of stormlanders and valesmen—men who should've been tied up dealing with Fossoway. The left and right flanks were collapsing on his phalanxes, the maws of defeat closing in.
"Ser Meadows was a fine brother," Hightower said. "He did his duty."
Aerys, the real Aerys, stood beside him, lithe like a Braavosi water dancer, and the looks of Old Valyria was strong in him.
He is my dead cousin come again, Maelys thought, as he signalled for his honor guard to make sure none disturbed them. Does that make me Lelouch Velaryon's mirror darkly?
"This is how you intend to fight me? Three blades to my one?" Maelys asked. "There is no honor in this."
"You talk much about honor," Aerys said, "for a monster."
"Aye, a monster," Maelys said, "and monsters eat little children."
"That's not what the minstrels will sing of when you're dead," Hightower said. "Ser Mooton, with me."
"Aye!"
Hightower's strikes were the precise, methodical strokes of a veteran, but there was a spark of artistry to his work, in the way he flourished his sword or struck from unexpected angles. Defense became attack, attack became defense—his sword moved with fluid purpose.
In comparison, Mooton was a disappointment. A fine enough warrior, but was there any greater curse than being just good in the era of great men?
"For Blackfyre!" screamed the rest of his honor guard, catching up at last after being separated in the din of battle. They rushed at Mooton and Hightower suddenly, forcing the men away from the boy prince.
Maelys saw his chance and he did not hesitate.
Aerys proved just as surefooted as his sacrificial kingsguard had been, dancing with grace and refusing to be pinned down so that Maelys could bring his greater strength against him. Six times they locked swords, only for the boy to slip away, while Maelys' guards dropped one by one against the now lone Hightower.
Maelys stepped forward with his right foot, giving the boy a clear opening—and pivoted, ignoring the boy's weak stab to land a blow he could not run from.
Aerys jumped back, his sword clattering to the ground.
Maelys grasped his side, his hand coming away blood red, before he settled on a two handed stance. He stepped forward, raising his sword high—then turned, to stop a blade from cleaving off both his heads.
"Ser Barristan!" Aerys said.
Maelys should have known, because hadn't the gods always sent someone to save the Targaryens time and again from their own inadequacy?
"You will not harm the prince!" Barristan said boldly.
Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. This Barristan was dangerous, no soft knight like the reachman had been. This was a stormlander, fierce and proud and born to kill the monsters lurking in dark places.
But Maelys fought regardless. Because Daemon's actions were treason, but so were his. Daemon was his king, and he killed him for it.
When the last blow was struck, Maelys rested at last, knowing everything he had built was at an end.
So ended the last of the male Blackfyre line—obscured by the pages of history as a monster without morals or reason, just an ugly thing that lurked in dark places and under beds, lying in wait to seize children and ruin maidens.