The King Of Winters

by King of Kings456

'The Strength of the Wolf maybe the pack, but the lone wolf is certainly the baddest one. And the Dragons who made him one will feel the wrath of the Lone Wolf.' The Rebellion never happened and Rhaegar Targaryen rules the Seven Kingdoms with his right, setting aside his father. But what he didn't took into the account was the one big mistake he'd done in the past.

101. Chapter 101

Andrew

They arrived to see the Trident burning and smoking, the banks and reeds growing on the river alight with dragonfire.

Across the river, Andrew Stark stood with his entire army and watched the grey plume rise. He didn't have much hope of crossing the Trident unawares when Aegon Targaryen had encamped right at the fording, yet even so, he had tried to force a crossing.

His head hurt like blazes with the weight of the crown around his brows. Was this how it was for my father when he led his men into battle? Knowing that he was responsible for all of their lives. He'd come to the battle long after the Greatjon had pulled back from the fighting, back across the river where the Targaryens couldn't reach them. Andrew knew that no where is safe so long as the dragon circled the air for the river will do little to stop its advance. By the time they arrived however it was past the Hour of Wolf and Andrew found the Targaryens across the river still staring down at them, armed and armoured and ready for battle. Instead he had settled his army down on the western bank, long way away from the river where Aegon couldn't see when they were doing and ordered his men to rest while putting along patrol crews and sentries all along the river to alert if there was an attempted crossing. The beacon was burning on a ridge nearby the banks, signalling that everything was fine.

He had the fires and torches in his camp burning as well so as to let the Targaryens know they were still in their battle orders. He had no desire to go rushing off to fight in the night, not after knowing what had happened earlier and Andrew thought that Aegon would prefer that as well. In the morning with the sun beating down its golden rays upon the world the dragon would be a formidable weapon than it would in the dark where both the rider and the beast would be hindered by the restricted view in darkness.

Yet it was at dawn where Andrew chose to fight his battle, and he said as much to his Lords in their war council. Most of the Lords agreed after knowing what had befallen when Lord Umber and his men tried to cross the river. Some had concerns that Prince Aegon might unleash his dragon while they were sleeping and he had plans for that as well as advised by Lord Arryn. Lord Jon proposed to send an envoy with a peace banner to the Targaryens and ask for a truce to break all hostilities for the night and stage the battle come morning.

Andrew didn't know if Aegon Targaryen would accept the terms. But Lord Arryn insisted that he would as the Targaryens won't be too enthusiastic about fighting in the dark as well. Some doubted it still.

"We can fight in the dark," Lord Greatjon insisted. "So can they. They had no problems fighting in the dark an hour or two ago."

"They fought when they tried to stop a probing assault," Lord Robert reminded him. "Against our whole army however, that's a different matter."

"We should press the attack now while they are split defending the fords," Ser Edmure argued, accompanied by his company of friends all of them young knights and heirs, brave and thirsting for glory. "We could fill in the gaps and scatter them with ease."

"Not unless you have enough boats and barges to cross the river," Jon Arryn pointed out. "Even if you find enough for everyone to make it across, the prince will burn it all down while we are still halfway, wood and canvas and men alike."

"Use your brain for once, Edmure. Do you want to go rushing off to your own funeral, Edmure?" Lord Hoster reprimanded his son. He then turned to Andrew and Lord Jon beside him. "What if the Targaryens don't accept it?"

"They have no other option." Andrew said then. "I don't think they will be keen to abandon their higher position along the Kingsroad and cross the river after seeing what happened to our men. Even the dragon can do only little at night with its rider having a hard time to see."

"What if Targaryen turned on his word and butcher us while we are all asleep?" Lord Wylde asked. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Nor the last, Andrew thought. But he could only hope that it didn't happen and had taken steps to make sure that it didn't happen. Those sentries and guards still with their beacon near the river, he trusted them to do their duty.

"Aye," Lord Robert agreed. "I don't like this one, Jon. These dragons are not to be trusted. Aerys thought us that lesson. Rhaegar proved its worth and this spawn of his will be no better."

"He will dishonour himself if he went back on his word," Lord Arryn said.

"Rhaegar had no problems dishonouring himself at Starfall," Robert Baratheon said.

"Let's hope he is not his father then," Andrew said. "We will have the guards and sentries along to keep watch throughout the night to raise any alarums."

And so it was decided. He sent his own squire Olyvar with Ser Alessander Frey and Ser Robert Arryn over the river bearing the peace banner and his own grey direwolf on white to act as his envoys.

He could see the Trident wending its way through blackened and smoking fields and untouched trees on grassy mounds. Aegon Targaryen would be coming up that road not so long after if his terms were not met, his men marching behind him with axes and spears and swords in their hands and their knights in armour behind them. And the dragon with them as well.

He could feel a throb in his chest where the arrows had bit into his muscles. He remembered green's eyes and grey, and violet eyes full of kind and his mother's voice. But he remembered Argella and her kiss best of all, the look of her in her leathers and breeches, the taste of her mouth when it opened under his. He had done good by sending Argella back to Winterfell. Go north and beyond the Moat, my lady. Go to Winterfell and it will keep you safe and you shall like it so well. There is nothing here with me but death waiting for you.

Across the field, one of the guards blared his horn through the dead of night. A silence passed through his camp as they anticipated battle. The envoys, Andrew knew when no horns answered it's call and the hooves of the horses could be heard. He could see the white of the banner from the distance but he didn't know if it was the peace banner or his own velvet standard. "The envoys," Asher said.

Andrew nodded. He watched the three horses ride through the men standing watches. Andrew had placed them on a line along the western bank some with makeshift towers and fortifications of earthen ramparts and others with lines of wooden stakes entrenched in front of them. Some of the barricades around the camp were parted to let the party of three ride through.

Andrew watched the ride back to the way they had ridden out. Olyvar held his own standard, the tall staff from where the direwolf of House Stark fluttered in the cool night air. Alessander Frey sat atop the horse in the center, bearing the letter from him when they had left, while Robert Arryn had the peace banner, dressed in his intricate suit of silver armour with golden filigree running along the edges. The waiting had been fraying his nerves for a while now, fearing for the safety of the men he had sent to the enemy camp. He was relieved to see them return unharmed.

Ser Alessander Frey broke the news as he slid off his horse, still in the wool and mail and boiled leather. He knelt in front of Andrew. "Your Grace," he said. "The Targaryens have agreed to our truce and will cease hostilities for the night."

It felt like a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. "Thank you, ser," Andrew said and gave a curt nod to Olyvar and Robert Arryn as well. "Get some rest for the night for we don't know what tomorrow might bring."

When his men all went to sleep, Andrew stayed awake, keeping watch with Ghost scratching the white wolf behind his ear. He even walked down to the posts along the river and bid them to take some rest whilst holding watch in their stead. Across the river he could still see the towers the Targaryens had raised to keep watch of the river-the high, slim, crumbling structures, that looked like they might topple any day. But they were all tall enough, strong enough, and well placed beside the river, overlooking the eastern bank and the Trident in front of it. Beyond lay the encampment of Aegon Targaryen. Andrew could see the torches and their nightfires flickering everywhere thought it was hard to see more from this side of the Trident.

It wouldn't be hard for Ghost to see them though. The direwolf ruled the night beneath the moon and stars more so than it did in day. It's red eyes missed nothing as Andrew had often seen in his dreams. The first time he had seen through the eyes of the Ghost was the day he had returned back to the North. That was the day he had reunited with the direwolf. Ghost knew his despair that day somehow, to have come to his rescue right when he needed it.

Only now those foes have gathered greatly in numbers, Andrew reflected, and the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his loyal lords have gathered all their strength to put him to stop. He could not turn back now. I am caught between the hammer and the anvil. Without slaying the dragon this battle could not be won; Andrew knew that as well as any.

What do you see now boy? Andrew asked the direwolf. Ghost simply sat down on his haunches, watching him with his red red eyes before turning away towards the river. If only he could see through Ghost's eyes again and take a look at the way the camp is set up. Jojen Reed would have done it without with ease. But the crannogman had said that Ghost would never accept anyone else but him to wear his skin.

Andrew had his own men build a wall of sorts around his camp in anticipation of an attack, a crescent-shaped barricade made of sharpened stakes manned by pikemen and men-at-arms. The last few sentries wearing a spear were still making their way to the stakes for their shift, Andrew saw when he returned.

The thing to do would be to take the attack to them, he knew. Without the dragon he just needed the well mounted winged knights and the infantry and we could cut them apart against the river. He would have crossed the river without any hardships. They did have a dragon to deal with, though, and near as many men as they did. He hoped that the garrison he sent south to face Jon Connington would have a easier task before them. There was no way to know just where they were, or even whether the ravens that Andrew had sent out had reached them. He was right in sending them south as they would have fared worse against the dragons.

We are the ones who will decide this war now, Andrew told himself, and I brought them into all this; fierce Lord Baratheon, as strong as ever, old Lord Arryn with his kind smile and warm and wise counsel, Gendry with his jokes, Asher who crossed the sea and back for him, soft spoken Ser Brynden Tully, his brother Hoster and all the others, even the common spearmen and men-at-arms wrestling barrels of oil and pitch and manning the barricade who had all come down to die on his command. That was a bitter draft to drink, but Andrew could not dwell on that.

As dusk turned to dawn, the smoke of last night's fighting blew away and the eastern sky slowly began to redden with the rising sun. There were no clouds and the world was wrapped in a heavy mist.

"No," Robert Baratheon was roaring at the guards as they moved from the camp. "The pitch goes to the hoist, the oil up the catapults, crossbow bolts to the fourth, fifth, and sixth landings, spears to first and second. Stack the lard under the scorpion winches, yes, there, and roll them out now. NOW!"

He has a lord's voice, Andrew thought. Just like his father did. His father had always said that in battle a captain's lungs were as important as his sword arm. "It does not matter how brave or brilliant a man is, if his commands cannot be heard," King Eddard told his son. Andrew used to climb the towers of Winterfell to shout as hard as he could into the open air, telling himself that he did a great job and that his uncle could hear him at the Wall. Once that had left him with a sore throat which had only gentled by a sweet potion Maester Walys brew with honey and mint. Robert Baratheon could have drowned out him though and his presence alone commanded enough respect and fear loyalty alike.

Most of his army had already awaken before first light in preparation for battle. They had decreed that every man should return to his ranks before dawn. And dawn saw the most activity of the day. As the day dawned the men put down their cups and trenchers and took good steel in their hands; pikes, spears, big double-bladed axes, razor-sharp daggers, longswords, maces, spiked morningstars. The common men-at-arms and guards were clad in studded leather jerkins and mail hauberks, with greaves for their legs and gorgets and helmets to keep their heads on their shoulders. And the squires were busy helping the knights get into their armour.

There were women and children doing their part as well, pageboys and camp followers. Those too young to fight would carry water and tend the fires, some were assigned to assist the maesters with any wounded, and others to help the armourers and their crews. Some young boys had even offered to fight, and Andrew had put them under the charge of some of his knights so they can serve as their squires where they will be safe.

Andrew broke his fast with his men outside his tent surrounded by swirling mists. They had been given a basket of buns and a wheel of cheese and a bag of thin strips of bacon. If this is supposed to be our last meal he wanted to spend it with his men.

The buns were still warm from the oven and one by one the men swore to Winterfell went digging in the basket and plucked one out. They were given cheese and butter as well, and three slices of the crisp baked bacon. "Raisins," Bannon announced happily. "Nuts, too."

"And it tastes good," Edric said biting into one.

"You can have mine too," said his squire Olyvar Frey. "I'm not hungry."

"Eat," Andrew told him. "There's no knowing when you'll have another chance." He took two more buns and handed them over to the boy. The nuts were almonds, and besides the raisins there were bits of apple and berries.

As the breakfast came to an end the men started to get into battle formations. Across the river the Targaryens would be readying themselves for battle. Andrew slipped on a fine soft woolen gambeson and the silvered mail over it. Over the mail he wore the tunic and cream colored jacket. He pulled on his breeches and boots and the slung Frost across his shoulder.

He had taken command of the vanguard himself. His goodfather and good brothers rode with him in the front. The centre was under the command of Lord Arryn, supported by Stannis Baratheon and Hoster Tully each with their own contingents. He had left the formidable Winged Knights in the rear, half hidden behind his advancing force as he had other plans for them in mind. They reached the river to see the Targaryens already formed up for battle. Men in black cloaks paced restlessly on the eastern bank of the Trident and shouted back and forth across the fields.

The world was still and gray. Men from both armies stood waiting in the predawn chill. The sun crept slowly across a hard gray sky, but a heavy fog had settled over the world. Andrew searched for the dragon from his side. The morning mists off the river had covered the banks in wisps of grey and he couldn't make out much of the ranks in the distance. He saw the men holding the red dragon of House Targaryen, but the Prince of Dragonstone and his great green beast was no where to be seen.

Wisps of pale fog drifted through the night, long white fingers off the river. Men and horses alike stumbled through the predawn chill; saddles were being cinched, wagons loaded with the dark iron bolts and all fires were being extinguished as the scorpions were pulled into position by heavy draft horses in a crescent. Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran.

The rising sun was burning off some of the drifting tendrils of fog as the day grew longer. The grass beneath the hooves of their horses was heavy with dew and the air was cold even Ghost bristled and bared his teeth. His men fell in behind him, each arrayed behind its own commanders. And beside him was Lord Robert and Jojen Reed, the lean, sickly son of Lord Howland.

Andrew turned towards him and gave a nod. Jojen and his council of crannogmen joined in a silent prayer. Jojen called them greenmen like those from Old Nan's stories. He didn't know if they were truly what he said they were. They didn't look like the ones from Old Nan's story, with their green skin and golden eyes and antlers on their head. They didn't look much different than Jojen did, almost of them wearing faded robes of a murky green which covered them from head to toe. Sometimes he saw a warm fog upon the air when they exhaled. Whoever they were he had placed high hopes on them.

Andrew watched them closely as they joined together as one. The day was growing old by then, but long shadows were creeping back up the mountainsides and the fogs and mists clung to the earth just tighter instead of wilting away in the sun. All the tales agreed that the green men had strange magic powers. Maybe this was their doing, he thought then. Jojen Reed might just be right.

The fog was so thick that he could not even see the banks across the river. A few dim lights shone indistinct through that grayness. A foul day for a battle, he thought. A mist was rising over the water and soon covered most of the river as well.

The towers the Targaryens had placed on the eastern banks was swallowed by the mists. On their ramparts, wisps of fog moved like ghostly sentinels. He knew his enemies had drawn up just beyond the towers, waiting for the sun to rise. Even his own men started to be anxious about the gloom. Andrew was calm, Ghost silently regarding the growing fog beside him.

Before long the shore fell away and the fog grew thicker, the sound of the air and men and horses and steel alike began to fade. Finally even the lights of the Targaryens were gone, lost somewhere in the gloom. The world shrank to dark water and blowing mist and clouding fog. It was so foggy he could not see the water, but he heard it lapping softly against the riverbank. In the distance, a light glowed through the gloom: the dragon trying to burn away the fog, he realised.

He looked back to Lord Robert and gave a nod. "Get them ready," he said and Gendry Baratheon and Balon Swann rode out through the mists to the back. The fog might delay the attack of Aegon Targaryen, but it would not stop him for long. And when he comes with his dragon parting the mists and burning away the fog I shall be ready.

Often the commanders moved through the fog blindly to hold the ranks together, to bolster courage. Somewhere, someone was praying. The mists muffled the sound of the voice, making it seem small and hushed. Edric Dayne sat restlessly beside him, mail clinking softly beneath his cloak. From time to time he touched his sword, as if to make certain that it still hung at his side.

"I do not like this," Thoros muttered.

"Frightened of a little fog?" mocked Anguy the Archer. Though in truth there was quite a lot of fog. At the front of the lines, Andrew stood listening silently, waiting for the hazards to loom up through the mists. The fog was so thick that all he could see on the other side was the lights floating out ahead. His own men had fired up some torches.

"This is no common fog," Thoros said. "It stinks of sorcery. You only have to smell it."

Thoros is not wrong though. This fog is not natural. The attack came just as he had thought, of course, with the blood curdling roar of the dragon. The smoke and ash clouded his eyes, and in the sky he saw the great winged shadow and the river of flame burning away the fog as it roared. Ghost bared his teeth, but then the shadow was gone. Behind the river tall fires were burning away the mists.

Then the dragon emerged once again and all through the river of fog the fires crackled. In time the mists and fog began to dwindle, and then they were gone. In his pursuit to burn the fog away and find him, Aegon Targaryen fell headlong into his trap. "Now," Andrew commanded as the dragon drifted closer. And all at once his men at the scorpion let loose a storm of the great black iron bolts from the line of scorpions beneath. The dragon was too heavy and big to glide away. As it tried the bolts punched through a dozen places. There was a great roar and a crash that made the earth jump under his feet.

Andrew stood and watched as the water splashed from the Trident all around them as the dragon came crashing down. Men and horses alike backed away amidst the dying throes of the beast while he held his ground, unfazed. He unsheathed his sword, blue as ice in the morning sun and rode forth with Ghost racing beside him.

He could hear the Targaryens shouting to each other, and somewhere to the east a warhorn blew. The world was bright and clear. A stray arrow found itself struck in the armour of his horse, but Andrew scarcely noticed.

A gout of flame caught his eye where the dragon lay and he turned to see if Aegon Targaryen had survived the fall. It was only a few moments before the real battle would begin and it would end only with the death of either Rhaegar Targaryen's son or Eddard Stark's.

Across the river the Targaryens had gathered their courage and was riding forth across then river to meet them, horns blaring and drums beating so loud they almost drowned out the hoofbeats of the horses. Hundreds of them were pounding up the river in tight column, their lances held up above their heads as they rushed to the defence of their prince. Others were swarming behind them swords and shields and spears in hand.

"Wedge," Andrew commanded as his men streamed out knee deep into the water. They formed up in spearhead, with him at the point. Lord Robert took the place to his right, flames shimmering against the black enamel of his armor and it's golden accents, his great antlered helm making him look like a demon from hell. He rode a coal-black horse as well with the enormous warhammer in his hand. On the left, he had Edric and Asher. Andrew was surprised to see Olyvar Frey in the midst, a sword in his hand. "You're too young," he said at once. "Go back."

"I'm your squire, sire."

Andrew could spare no time for argument. "With me, then. Stay close." He kicked his horse into motion.

They rode knee to knee, following the line of the rushing water. They went from a walk to a trot, splashing through the river. Arrows darted from the banks ahead of them. He sped to a canter.

The riverbed was sodden and slippery. The knights of Aegon Targaryen sped up, hurriedly trying to stop their charge. Andrew saw that they were being led by a knight in pale armour, with the pure white shield of the Kingsguard strapped to his arm. "Spear," Andrew asked Olyvar and the boy handed him one, shorter than that of the lances the knights held. He was not trained to couch a lance as the knights of Westeros were, but he knew to use a spear in more ways than one.

As they passed into range Andrew dropped his grip on the spear to its middle and threw it at the man beside the white knight. The throw was strong enough that the point of his spear drove through the chest of a man in a studded jerkin throwing him off his horse. The dead man was forgotten as the charge barely stopped and another had taken his place his lance pointed straight at him. Andrew unsheathed Frost and readied himself to turn the point of the lance away. I should have brought a shield, he thought then, it would be easier to turn the blow off the lance away with a shield. But then before the sword and lance could meet Ghost was on him, bearing him down along with his horse. The knight fell back into the stream with a splash and a shout, flailing wildly as his head went under water. The direwolf plunged in after him, and the white water turned red where they had vanished. Andrew smashed his first foe in the face with all the weight of the sword and arm and charging horse, taking off half his head.

He galloped through the lines of enemy forces, slashing down at every foe they passed. Andrew cut down a knight wearing the plowman of Darry on his surcoat, opened a spearman from shoulder to armpit, parried an attack of another bat his thigh before twirling Frost and burying it through the visor of his helm. The blue steel soon turned red with blood and even his cream jacket was dotted with blood and gore.

He spurred his horse back into motion, trotting over and leaving a scatter of corpses behind him. Downriver, the Trident was jammed with the hulking body of the dragon. It was there he went. The water steamed around the beast where it's blood mixed with the cool water. There were fighting all along the riverfront.

Andrew dismounted as he reached the dragon and stood with his sword in hand. By then Ghost had returned to his side. His muzzle was wet and red, and his eyes burned as they circled around the corpse.

"Ghost. To me," he shouted. Together they moved around to the back of the dragon, where he had last seen Aegon Targaryen. He wondered if he had drowned, stuck beneath the weight of his mount. That would be better, Andrew thought. He bore no ill will towards the prince despite the name he bore and if it meant that he wouldn't have to cross swords with him then it was most welcome.

There were others around the green beast as well, men sworn to the Targaryens searching for their prince and trying to rescue him. When they saw him with Ghost some turned around to fight while others fled. Many came for him wielding swords and axes and maces. Some even had spears with leaf-shaped heads that gleamed redly in the light from the burning wounds. They were screaming a dozen war cries as they stormed around him, jabbing with their spears, swinging their swords and axes and maces. Crossbow quarrels and arrows rained down on them from the archers on either side of the the banks but none managed to hurt them in any way.

Andrew held his ground, Frost pointed towards them as they charged against him in a crescent, clambering over the stones and limbs of the dragon to reach him. Andrew parried away the overhead cut of the first knight to his left then brought Frost down low and cut across the belly of the man. Frost cut through the mail and leather like butter and blood welled from the gash. When the man dropped to his knees Andrew buried the blade right through the middle of the visor of his helm. The helm was no match for Valyrian steel. The blow sheared right through the knight's helm and deep into his skull, and he went crashing back down to his knees. By then the second man was on him. He pulled Frost back from the skull of the dead knight and deflected the blow to his head, seamlessly spinning around and slipping beneath the blade to slash at his abdomen and emerge on the other side as he fell dead. He stopped a cut from an axe halfway before thrusting Frost through the knights thigh through a chink at his armour. He knocked back a knight with the arms of House Butterwell painted upon his shield with a flurry of attacks until he backed against the mass of the dragon, defending. He fought better than those who had come before him, Andrew thought. He pressed the attack and locked blades with the Butterwell knight allowing him to reach in for a thrust while Andrew simply parried the blade to the side and caught the blade with his hand. He rotated Frost against the sword and plunged it through the knight's throat and wrenched his sword away before throwing it point first at a spearman running towards him. He fell back and Andrew found himself surrounded by only a handful of men. He stepped aside from a downward cut of a guard and brought Frost back up to cut his side with a terrible blow delivered by two hands. Andrew wrenched the valyrian steel blade away, catching the blade at the center and driving it through the bowels of the dying man. He pulled the sword back using the hilt and blade and slammed the silver spikes on the pommel in the face of the next one. He stumbled back and Andrew knocked his legs down from him. When the third man rushed from the front he twirled Frost in his hands and thrust the blade right through his belly, burying it all the way through. The next attack came from behind. Andrew saw the man wielding a great axe reaching up from behind. He spun and ducked beneath the axe head as it came crashing down, hamstringing him with a wide arcing slash. The bitter cold valyrian steel bit through leather and steel and wool and drew blood at once. He was ready for the next one even before the one with the axe dropped down to his knees. He turned away the thrust at his abdomen and brought Frost down in a deadly arc, opening the man down from his shoulder to his waist. Andrew turned to the side when the last one tried to behead him. He caught him by the hand midway and brought Frost down onto the back of his neck, slamming him down face first into the ground while pulling the sword away from his dead fingers.

Andrew rested on one knee for a moment to catch his breath, resting his hands with both blades thrust point first into the ground. He turned his head and saw Ghost ending another man only a few feet away from him, mauling his face and tearing his throat out. For a moment Andrew felt bad for the man.

There was no time to think or plan or shout for help. But then he saw the prince of Dragonstone still tangled with the chains around his dragon. Andrew walked over to him, swords in hand. Aegon Targaryen's eyes peered closely at him. Andrew wondered if he was afraid. He raised Frost at the Prince and Aegon Targaryen froze, perhaps in fear.

He brought the sword down hard and broke the chain away with one slash. Aegon Targaryen fell down to the river armour and all. Andrew looked down at him and he fumbled back onto his legs. "I am not a Targaryen to murder unarmed men even if they are my foes," he said.

"Some might call you a fool then," Aegon said as he stood up.

"Perhaps," Andrew said and looked around at the fighting and chaos. "I gave the same choice to your brother once," he said. "Yield and go back to your life in peace or die in defence of your father. He made his choice. What about you?"

"So have I," Aegon Targaryen said and took his sword from its sheath.

Andrew nodded. "So be it." He threw the sword on his left hand at the guardsman behind Aegon. The sword passed within an inch from the prince's head and struck at the throat of the man behind him.

"Keep everyone away from here," Andrew said to Ghost. He raised Frost and held it point first at Aegon Targaryen.

The prince also raised his own sword. They crossed swords in the knee deep water of the river, and Aegon Targaryen immediately began the attack. Andrew countered all of his attacks with a parry and an attack of his own. The speed of his counterattacks surprised the prince, but he defended well, quickly shifting out of way and getting around the dead dragon.

Andrew followed. He let the prince advance once again, letting him build up courage all the while retreating and evading from the blade of the prince gracefully while blocking the cuts close to his body to keep him safe from harm.

They matched blows in midstream. Aegon's sword moved like his dragon itself, flashing out at his chest, swinging down from the right and then at his head from left, once, twice, three times, but Andrew parried every thrust and slash with Frost, turning the point aside and keeping the blade at bay. On the fifth thrust, the prince overextended himself full of confidence and Andrew kicked him back.

Aegon did not expect it and was slow reacting. Andrew flashed immediately out from the river, pressing his own attack now, and the prince retreated, stumbled, got his balance, continued moving away.

He had to give it to him for the quickness in which he retained his balance. Most men his size would have gone down or, at the least, fallen to one hand. Aegon Targaryen did neither; he simply quickstepped, wrenched his body erect, continued fighting.

Andrew forced the Targaryen toward the muddy bank, slashing at his arm and cheek and chest. He continued to force his way through the dragon prince's defences. Andrew suddenly threw his body against the dragon's leg, rebounded off it with stunning force, lunging with incredible speed.

Frost drew the first blood as it slipped past the defences of Aegon and the opening near the pauldron and the breastplate.

Prince Aegon hurried his retreat, getting his position away from the dragon, getting out of the water. Andrew followed and the dragon prince launched his greatest assault. It came with no warning and caught him by surprise. Frost leapt up to meet his sword. The blue blade flashed in the light stopping the sword of the prince.

There were more fighting around him, Andrew knew from the shouting. He saw a good portion of riders flying the Targaryen banners and the red salmon of Mooton riding down from the north. He turned back to his own fight.

They met once again in the center of all. And then Aegon's sword was coming at him and somehow Frost leapt upward to block in time. The force of impact almost knocked the blade from Andrew's hand. He shifted to a two-hand grip, brushing the attack away and quickly delivered a stroke of his own. Back and forth they went, cloaks and coats swirling, his quickness and agile movements with Frost against the savage cuts of Aegon's sword. Andrew whirled Frost that the longsword seemed to be everywhere at once, raining down from one side and then the other, driving the dragon prince back, keeping him off balance.

Somehow Aegon kept his feet moving back clumsily as he pressed his attack. He found his chance at an instant as Aegon twisted and the opening was there. Andrew planted and pivoted. The dragon prince was leaning away, and bringing his sword down hard from the side. Andrew stopped his sword halfway and drove Frost through the pauldron in a backhanded blow before pulling it back and opening his midsection from hip to the thigh. Aegon Targaryen dropped down in a slack as his legs lost their strength and his sword fell away from his grasp. Andrew cut across his heel and forced him to his knees and slammed Frost right through the gorget. The steel parted like a sheet of cheese and blood pooled from the gash. A string of red tears drenched his black armour, bright as the rubies on the breastplate, and the blood gushed out of him, and Aegon Targaryen fell.

He dropped to his knees. The light was already fading in Aegon's eyes. He gasped, lifting his gauntleted fingers. Then his hand fell, and he was gone. He landed amongst the reeds, and the Trident swallowed the red with a soft splash.

He stood there for a few moments, watching the life's blood spill out of the prince, staining the river in red. Everything around him had changed as well. A dozen men rallied and rode towards him, swords and lances pointed at him. Andrew never flinched. He braced himself for the charge, Frost pointed ready and gleaming. Before they were on him however his own men stopped him. Ghost leapt and took a man and his horse down and his goodfather shattered the ribs of another sending him flying from his saddle.

A Kingsguard and a knight in a blood red armour led them. They slew a dozen of his men between them as they rushed for him in a rage to avenge his fallen prince. The knight in red rode headlong for Andrew, his red cloak streaming behind him. It made for a gallant sight, Andrew thought sadly, and many a gallant men had died today. A crossbow thrummed, then another. Lord Robert bellowed a command. At such close range, the knight's armor had as well been made of parchment. He blocked the first bolt with his heavy oaken shield with the salmon painted on it. The second grazed his temple. A thrown spear took his mount down, yet still the horse came on, staggering.

His longsword slashed right and left, and two of his spearmen went down. He opened the head of a crossbowman in as he was trying to reload, but the other crossbows and arrows were firing, feathering the big courser with their quarrels. The arrows and bolts hit home so hard they knocked the horse sideways. His legs went out from under him and sent him crashing down the river. Somehow the knight leapt free.

He even managed to keep hold of his sword. Even dismounted he made for him cutting down a couple more of his honour guard, taking Torrhen Karstark's arm, driving his sword through Rodrik Forrester's throat and wounding Theo Wull sore at his thigh. Andrew was only a few feet away from him but before he could cross swords with the knight he found his goodfather standing between them.

The Mooton knight raised his blade, too slowly. Lord Robert's hammer broke his right arm off sending the sword flying from his hand, spun away, and came flashing back again in a terrible two-handed blow that smashed the helmet of the red knight and sent him crashing down.

Andrew turned towards the Kingsguard who had led the charge with him then. A dozen of his knights and guards surrounded him but the white knight was fighting all of them at once. Every bit of the white knight was spattered with gore and smudged by blood, both his and his enemy, and half a dozen arrows sprouted from his armour. Bits of brain and bone clung to his sword. Andrew knew that he was fighting a losing fight and the Kingsguard should know that as well. His men were still swarming over all along the river, surrounding him. Before Andrew could reach them however his men had overwhelmed the knight and caught him.

That put an end to the resistance of the Targaryens. With both the commanders fallen and no one to lead them anymore the battle was almost done. Andrew saw that Lord Jon and his son had also gained the crossings north and south of their position with their own contingent of knights respectively and had rode to break the bravest of Aegon Targaryen's men from their flanks and rear. In the center Lord Stannis was leading a formidable spearwall upon which many lost their lives as the knights drove them towards. He saw one of the winged knights shove his spear up through an enemy's belly so hard he lifted him into the air. Those who remained were dead or dying, surrounded by his men with the banners of wolf and stag and falcon flying everywhere.

"They're breaking," Olyvar said. The boy stood beside him and had somehow found Spirit as well.

"No," said Andrew, "they're broken."

It happened quickly. One man fled and then another, and suddenly all of them were throwing down their weapons and abandoning the river running away into the trees that dotted the eastern end of the kingsroad. Andrew watched some of them try and form a line to fall back in order, but his men washed over them with spear and axe, and then they were fleeing too. And the day was won.