A/N: Good news, friends, I'm considering starting another fic. It'll be set during the time of Aegon the Conqueror, Queen Visenya, and Maegor the Cruel. It'll be called Dragonshield and tell a story of the Conquerors being more cunning, the Starks being more in the loop, and Maegor changing things greatly by marrying his niece Rhaena instead of Alys Harroway, not to mention a much more robust Faith Militant uprising. Be sure to let me know what you think about it and I'll reveal more details later :)
Also, I've just come across a great story that any Targ fan would like. It's called Black Reign from my friend bykim0120. Check it out, you won't be sorry :)
Enjoy and please comment :D
Chapter 51: Clash of the Titans
Quiet. Perfectly quiet. Barely a bird chirping or gust of wind howling upon the fields north of the great castle of Harrenhal. Unlike before where many had come to watch, all smallfolk fled the region. Man, woman, child, beast, bird… Apart from the flora rooted to the ground the land was dead. Not knowing where to flee but driven by some malevolent vapor that gathered upon the creek and those lands adjacent.
Two days before, the snows had melted. Warmer weather arriving from the Reach, bringing with it the exposure of the dead grass of the vibrant fields of wheat that would grow in the summer. Plenty of time for the dirt to dry and harden, perfect for cavalry. Perhaps that added to the aura of impending death.
Banners hung limply from their poles. An occasional gust of wind came to shake them every now and again, revealing the fifty-five thousand score of the rebel army. Tightly packed and awaiting their day in the sun. Dozens of great houses some millennia old, interspersed with the blood red three-headed dragon upon black of House Targaryen. Of their King.
Said King eased his stallion towards the frontline. His lips pursed together, hair free about his shoulders. Looking every inch the Targaryen warrior as the Northmen he walked amongst - Lyanna's people, and his - gazed upon him in awe. And he on them. Banner after banner: Bears of House Mormont, Crossed-Chains of House Umber, Mermen of House Manderly, Moose of House Hornwood… Direwolf of House Stark…
"Welcome to the front line, your Grace," Ned offered, only sensing his goodbrother ease Moondancer next to him. Both were mounted, though Ned didn't intend for that to last.
Rhaegar merely narrowed his eyes, not looking at Ned. Instead peering across the field. At the force that stood against his. One of fifty-five thousand pairs of eyes that watched upon it with looks of resignation and defiance.
The influence of Robert Baratheon showed upon the eighty thousand soldiers of Aerys Targareyn's grand army. Unlike the commanders before him, every house fighting was spread out in view, armor gleaming as the morning sun cast its rays from the eastern horizon. Waves and waves of heavily armored knights and men-at-arms of the great southern Kingdoms. Veterans of the same lands only a moon before joined with the full-strength bannermen of Storm's End, Hightower, and Highgarden. Truly a powerful sight.
It would take less than that to intimidate a dragon. "I sent Ser Gerold to better coordinate the center. Lord Randyll commands there, the whispers say."
Ned nodded. Randyll Tarly was the smartest of their enemy. "I take it the Freys haven't arrived." wasn't a bad guess to make.
"No, not even a single banner within riding distance." Rhaegar spat in contempt. "Boltons are close, but they could arrive at any moment. Not good odds."
"The North has beaten their enemies with less." Of the ground, Eddard Stark's northmen would hold the weakest portion of the line on their left. Brynden the Blackfish took the center, strongly anchored by a sunken wagonroad that acted as a natural trench. Across the deeper parts of the creek with thick bluffs that couldn't be forded, the two bridges there were held by Yohn Royce and the Vale - the smallest number of men. "This is my first battle." He finally looked at Rhaegar. "Any advice?"
Smirking softly at Ned, Rhaegar gestured to Ice. "Stick em' with the Pointy End."
Tilting his head back, Ned chuckled. "Learned that from your teachers."
"An advanced lesson courtesy of Ser Gerold." The two shared a lighthearted moment of humor.
Ned sighed. "It helps that you're behind me, brother."
Rhaegar leaned forward to clasp Ned's hand. "With you leading the men, I have no doubt the line will hold."
Across no man's land, the trumpets blared just as Rhaegar withdrew to the rear. A line of horse and foot readying to charge on the northern flank. From his perch behind the readied men, Master of War Robert Baratheon assembled his Stormlanders against the northmen at the weakest point. Randyll Tarly and a mix of Crownlanders and Reach men-at-arms faced their old enemies from the first clash, while Mace Tyrell held his own knights of the southern Reach back close to the God's Eye and castle itself… following the orders of Jon Connington.
Such was the great uproar of the early dawn. Robert, Randyll, and many other lesser commanders demanded a full attack all along the line… especially in the south before the Vale could fully commit their forces. But Connington demurred, approving only a full assault in the north followed by attacks later in the morning. Mace, a tourney knight if there ever was one, had no qualms and looked relieved, while the others were angered.
Robert still steamed, but the prospect of single-handedly shattering the enemy army mollified him. "Ready?"
Ser Cortnay Penrose and Stannis both inspected their forces. The Houses of the Stormlands all raised their banners high, at the ready - Stannis' own archers were bunched up at the closest part of the front. Ready to march and keep up the steady fire once the entire line committed itself… orders from Stannis himself.
At their nods, Robert bellowed. "Charge!"
In one sheet, the mounted knights of a dozen Stormlands houses erupted out. A single line of galloping steeds thundering upon the dead farmland, marching feet rushing forward behind in a desperate attempt to keep up with the horse. They covered the ground quickly, half-way to the creek and the northmen holding the far bank… then a third-way… then a quarter-way...
"Come the fuck on, let's fucking go," Robert snarled.
"Not yet," Ser Cortnay replied, his hand up - signalling to Stannis behind them. "Wait…"
Gripping his reins, palms sweaty even in the chilly air, Robert felt the call of the battle drawing him in. Wanting to join the banners of his sworn Houses and prove himself in a real fight. "Now, nock now!" Behind, the three hundred longbowmen readied their bows. Wood groaning as drawstrings were pulled back.
Resolved that his Lord ountermanded his will, Cortnay dropped his hand. "Loose!" Stannis bellowed, the arrows releasing into the air. Ascending towards the bright blue sky on their mission of death. "We should wait half an hour, my Lord," he told his brother, watching the swarm of arrows meeting the highpoint of the arc. "Then full charge, break them."
Robert grinned. "The dragonspawn will meet my steel then," he announced just as the arrows met their marks.
"LOOSE!"
The thwacks of hundreds of their own bows momentarily overwhelmed the vibrations of the thousands of hooves. Ned watched as the arrows hurled themselves at the charging stormlands horse. Mixing with the ones gunning for his own men. "Shields up!" While he fought without one, two Stark bannermen protected their lord as the arrows pockmarked the ground. Plunging down into dirt… and occasionally hitting men.
Spurts of blood coated the dead grass, men hit in the foot, the shoulder, and occasionally the head and chest. Men-at-arms pitched into the shallow water of the creek, marring the crystal-clear waters. "Keep firm, men!" Ser Jorah shouted among the warriors of House Mormont, holding the patch of ground directly to the right of House Stark.
Heart beating wildly in his chest, Ned stood as soon as the last arrows dropped. Finding his men largely unharmed. Packed together in the classic Northern shield wall… not as firm as that of the Westerlands or even the Bolton phalanx that won the day at Tumbler's Falls, but powerful. Spears at front for the cavalry, now close enough for Ned to pick out the individual faces. Knights of Houses Selmy, Tarth, Caron, Estermont… the whole of the Stormlands upon them. This is it! Even with everything, the call of his wolfsblood exhilarated him.
"For Lyanna!" Ned bellowed, drawing Ice. It's Valyrian steel finish shining in the morning sun against the backdrop of thousands of enemies. An image begging for a canvas.
The Northmen screamed the same. "FOR LYANNA!" A split-second before the lines collided in what would be called the greatest day of the north in centuries…
Except it wasn't that at all.
It was a slaughter. A colliding of flesh and steel, the vapor of impending death transforming into the specter of the beast itself. Lances tore chunks off of men, spurting blood and guts over the trodden ground. Northmen found themselves trampled, bones crushed under the armored steeds of their southern counterparts. With snarls they shoved their spears forward, scything through many knights. Bodies were thrown back off their horses in twisted, mangled heaps. Massive gouges bashed in the rebel line only seconds before the Stormlands foot began to ford the creek, in an instant all order and chaos evaporated into one bloody melee.
Crimson liquid spattering his face where once his bannerman stood, the metallic smell hit Ned's nose. Torpor overcoming him, watching as his dreams of a heroic stand like the songs was engulfed by the reality of war. A flash of steel shook him from his reverie - quickly, he raised Ice and smashed across the front of a charging Caron knight. Mace flying from his hands as he went down.
As the initial momentum of the Stormlanders impaled upon the churning mud of the bank - horses kicking water upon the soil and leaving it a hopeless muck - the mass of northmen let out their battlecries. The glint of their blades, axes, and maces reflecting the eastern sun directly upon the southerners, they charged down the bank - wading through mud to push right into the creek. A savage melee began, steel overcoming the thunder of hooves. Masses of men were tightly packed from the two sides crashing over a very narrow stretch of front. Highborns raced about, cursing and yelling orders no one could hear in the noise. Eventually they gave up, swords drawn and wading into the fight themselves. The creek ran red with the blood of hundreds churned up by the slaughter, dueling archers filling the air with a seemingly unlimited supply of arrows… both sides came prepared.
Something crashing into his back, Ned gritted his teeth as he spun around, just managing to catch the wild swing from the man-at-arms. On the defensive, the stormlander raised his shield too late - Ice hacking through his neck and shoulder, spraying Ned a bright crimson. Only minutes into the battle he was already bathed in blood - some his, most not. Two horses shot by, Ned ducking under the swing of one and spinning. He felt the force of disemboweling the mounted knight in the side.
Drawing the Valyrian blade back, a flash made him jerk. Eyes seeing the man-at-arms' head fall off his body, spear that almost skewered him clattering to the ground. "Lord Stark!" It was Jorah Mormont, sandy blonde features buried underneath gore and grime. He looked fearsome and strong, so likely wasn't wounded. "We can't take more of this!" With a snarl, he kicked up buckets-full of the ankle-deep water charging at a Dondarrion knight.
Another Dondarrion was gunning for Ned - swing missing his head but tip slicing his forehead. Fuck! Hot blood trickling down his face, he lunged. Thrusting only to dig his feet into the ground. Bashing the wolf's head pommel upon the Dondarrion's helm. The knight was tough, but not that tough. He staggered back, disoriented enough for Ned to swing Ice, beheading him. There was no time for the Lord of Winterfell to even catch his breath, swirling to face a Swann soldier.
Rhaegar! Come the fuck in!
Shifting on his saddle, Lord Randyll peered through his spyglass - cursing at the gust of cold wind that chilled his body. "Seven fucking hells, the damn Baratheons went in and we're sitting on our asses."
"My Lord," Ser Jarman Buckwell said, Randyll's current aide as he commanded the loyalist center. "Lord Rykker is attacking."
"What?!" Jaramy Rykker was supposed to support the flank of the Stormlanders, but he saw no banners of the Lord of Duskendale entering the fray. Randyll's heart pounded as he continued to scan the battlefield… only to find the banners of Duskendale… attacking not against the rebel left but across the creek directly into the sunken wagonroad that connected Harrenhal directly to Lord Harroway's Town. "By the Mother… he'll get annihilated!"
His aide winced. "Shall we send a courier to withdraw him.
Looking over his shoulder to where Connington kept his own command tent, no signal coming. Fuck you, Connington. Drawing Heartsbane from its scabbard, he boomed at his herald. "Sound the attack! We move now!"
Eager for vengeance against the Rivermen banners that fluttered among the sunken road, the men of the Crownlands surged. Bringing the specter of death further south as the sun rose higher in the sky.
He could only watch in horror as it unfolded before him. A veritable slaughter of men, and not one sided as the first clash only a few miles to the southeast had been. Rhaegar saw his own men dying, chewed up in the pure death that clouded their left and center. Only the right didn't see much fighting… yet. He held no hope in that regard.
The Seven Kingdoms were tearing themselves apart on the altar of his father's madness. Rhaegar shook with such truth… a victim of it himself… he could have stopped it. But he didn't, and now this was the result.
Beside him, the enraged grimace of Rickard Karstark was starting to get to him. "Send us in!" Under the Lord of Karhold's command were the entire northern cavalry reserve, two thousand men of Karstark and Dustin origin waiting for the right moment. "Those are my comrades dyin' over there!"
"Not yet, Karstark," cautioned Alaric Dayne, commanding half the reserve infantry. "We wait for the right moment…"
"The moment's come," Rhaegar announced, drawing the attention of the bickering Lords and Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell, both standing beside him. None of them rode… there wasn't space to maneuver, and there was no chance the Kingsguards would let Rhaegar blast his way through Stormlands armor in a vicious melee. "Look… the Baratheons are coming."
Karstark whistled. "We're goin' in, boys! For the North!" Cheers erupted after him.
Alaric only grimaced himself. "Good luck, your Grace." He dashed for his own command.
"Your Grace." Trotting up on his horse, Alliser Thorne looked grimer than usual. "The Freys still haven't showed - Mace Tyrell has most of his manpower advancin' on our right."
"Fuck." With the carnage ahead of him moving steadily through the farm fields into the creek itself, he was needed to relieve the northerners. "Barristan! Get to the rear and find every last man to reinforce Royce."
The knight hesitated. "A Kingsguard stays with his King…"
"Do as he says, Barry!" Oswell snarled. "I'll stay with him!" Taking a split second to look them both in the eye, he traded places with Thorne on the horse and galloped off, armor gleaming in the midday sun.
Drawing Blackfyre, Rhaegar leveled it at the oncoming Baratheon horde. "They bring the fury, but we bring Fire and Blood."
A better rallying cry there could never be. "FIRE AND BLOOD!"
While the fighting around the creek and adjoining wheatfields near House Stark's position and that of the heavy Manderly and Umber forces, loyalist attacks a few hundred yards south against the Glovers and mountain clans were more successful. Baratheon men-at-arms led by Ser Cortnay brought new vigor to the bloodied first wave, the fresh troops began advancing across the creek and into the west bank, pushing aside Ser Ethan and Ser Robett Glover. The Northmen fought like wildlings, hurling themselves and their blades against the southerners, breaking formations in frenzied countercharges, but Stannis brought up his entire complement of crossbowmen to rain bolts over open sights into the mass. Ser Ethan was caught in the throat, as was Lord Theo Wull, the resulting chaos rallying the Baratheons. The men of Storm's End cut a large gap in Ned Stark's defensive line, teetering it near collapse and a devastating envelopment.
But the whooping horsemen of House Karstark and Dustin arrived just in time. Lighter than their Stormlands counterparts, they still had all the momentum on their side and trampled through packs of men and beasts. Lances, swords, and maces turning men into bloody sacks of meat, crossing the creek and taking the fighting to the eastern wheatfields. In their wake, the Daynes and Targaryens filled the gaps. Patching the lines, King Rhaegar making damn sure to not let Robert's men dislodge him without a fight.
Visor constricting his vision, Rhaegar was used to it. A demon upon the field as he leapt into the creek. He slammed his sword across the small shield of a Penrose footsoldier, Valyrian steel shattering the wood and slicing off the hand. The lad screamed, pitching back. Dancing out of the thrust of a rusty blade, Rhaegar and sliced across the front of another. He suddenly hissed, blade nicking the join between his breastplate and pelvic guard. Spinning to swing downwards, Rhaegar off a leg of the dismounted knight that challenged him. Again and again… so much blood spilling underneath him that the King lost count of how many he felled.
A knight of House Estermont charged at him, green turtle on his shield bathed in blood as he raised his sword. Rhaegar parried the blow and smashed into the shield, smearing his breastplate in more of the crimson liquid but knocking him to the waters - Oswell delivered the killing blow, running the poor knight through the throat and further shrouding the waters in red. It is well that war is so terrible… Axe swinging at him, a man-at-arms shrieked in pain from Blackfyre slicing open his gut. Lest we grow too fond of it…
Too many already do…
"Your Grace!" There was barely any time before Rhaegar hurled himself to the right, hitting the water with a loud splash - waters deep enough to fill his mouth with the noxious chyme of blood, mud, and brain matter. From where he stood a trio of mounted knights in Baratheon colors surged across. Their lances depressed, blasting through the disorganized northmen… and separating him from Oswell.
Spitting out the disgusting water, Rhaegar heard the whoosh through the air and knelt. Presenting his armored forearm to shield his face as arrows peppered the creek. Felling men indiscriminately. A strong arm pulled him up. "Your Grace?" The arm belonged to a young boy with a moose of House Hornwood etched in his gorget. "Come…"
Just as suddenly as he appeared, the boy's face disappeared into a mist. Massive warhammer literally disintegrating it. The hammer swung into a wide arc, coming down right at Rhaegar. Spinning on his feet, fighting to not slip and fall on the fine gravel creekbed, the King clashed Blackfyre twice against the equally gleaming Valyrian steel before the voice of a demon boomed in his ears.
"Rhaegar!"
It clicked in an instant. "Robert!" Rhaegar's eyes narrowed within his helm, grip tightening on Blackfyre. "We face at last!"
Snarling like a rabid dog, much less a stag, the dressed to impress Baratheon charged at Rhaegar. Stormbreaker already aiming for the rubies on the King-claimant's breastplate. "You will die, rapist!" The thick plate that hugged his burly frame and high-antlered helm gave him an almost demonic look, putting his all into the crashing blows directed at Rhaegar's midsection. Gritting his teeth as Rhaegar dodged all of them… if by the skin of his teeth. "Face me, Dragonspawn!"
The man was mad. Consumed with obsession… over Lyanna. My wife. My Queen. Mine! Blackfyre spinning in hand, water kicked up into foam around Rhaegar's ankles as he went on the offensive. "You will never have her!" It hurt to speak, but his blood ran hot. Sight tinged red with the same fury as on the Baratheon sigil, pressing his offensive advantage. Robert raised the hammer, shaft blocking Blackfyre. Rhaegar swinging down hard over and over.
"She is mine!" Roaring, his bulk almost sprung out, pushing Rhaegar back. The resulting swing only missing the King by an inch. "You stole her from me!" His Lyanna, his betrothed, yanked away from him and forced into a marriage. Abused and raped by a man with a wife of his own. He stabbed forward, the spearhead mounting the head of Stormbreaker striking true - Robert's lips contorted into a dark smirk as it hit flesh.
Rhaegar hissed, Valyrian steel piercing the armor of his left abdomen. Shredding flesh and muscle. The pain felt nothing but pressure, hot blood blocking the pain and leaving his mind clear. Before Robert could truly pull it away, Rhaegar grabbed the shaft and yanked Robert forward - warhammer and all. Knocking the smirk off of Baratheon's face. He swung Blackfyre wildly, the sword slicing off the antlers of Robert's helm while redoubling to slash across his chest. Cutting the armor as if it was mail.
Howling from the sting of the cut, he pitched back. Feet kicking up more of the churning creek as he steadied himself. Robert reached for his face and pulled up the visor. Staring at Rhaegar with his own eyes. The azure blue narrowed in hate and concentration. Regarding the mighty dragon before him.
"She loves me," boomed the King. The battle around them seemed far away, an invisible shroud between the two great houses - forged from the same loins centuries before, but having lost their way in the interregnum. Meeting in hate, love, and obsession on the sight of House Targaryen's greatest triumph. "You will never have her Robert, Lyanna loves me." Rhaegar tightened on his blade, waiting for Robert to come at him.
And he did not disappoint. "NEVER!" But unlike the bullheaded stag Rhaegar expected, Robert stayed light on his feet. Jinking from Rhaegar's thrust dead center with the agility of a dancer, Stormbreaker dropping to one hand as his right slammed into the helm of his foe in a jarring right hook. Punches not ceasing, denting the metal with repeated crashes. Over and over and over… A jerk of the wrist sent the Valyrian steel staff crashing into the swinging blade, blocking it as Robert kneed Rhaegar in the chest. Rubies scattering into the water from his shattered sigil.
Staggering, head a mass of ringing and pounding, Rhaegar had no time to lift his sword as Stormbreaker swung at his temple. Only time enough to duck, saving his life in that moment.
But not emerging unscathed.
Glancing against his skull, the legendary warhammer of House Durrandon sent Rhaegar's helm flying clean off. Covered with enough blood and bone to mark the wound Robert delivered upon the King-claimant. Rhaegar faltered, collapsing to his knees and then his back as the world seemed to fade in and out of a white noise or black shroud. Surrounded by the cooling water. Arms weak, body nonresponsive. Eyes clouded - making out only a hulking mass that stood above him.
"Pathetic." Robert's voice boomed as if the manifestation of the seventh hell. "Last Dragon my ass." A faint roar hit Rhaegar's ears as Stormbreaker raised up, ready to deliver the killing blow…
A sense of shame passed through Rhaegar. Two faces dancing before his eyes. Lya… Elia...
"Nooooo!" The last thing Rhaegar saw before the blackness overpowered him was the glint of Valyrian steel clashing against Robert's warhammer.
Ser Bonifer Hasty was a fighter. Born to ride and to swing a sword, the young knight he had dreamed of winning a King's Tourney, gaining the favor of the gods and the crown to establish himself upon the Realm. And yet, the events surrounding his last tourney sundered that dream - turned him to the gods. To serve the Seven, and in being the Warrior's champion in chivalrous fighting would he bring himself glory.
Upon the sunken wagonroad, facing the forces of Randyll Tarly in the great rematch between the Rivermen and their Crownlands brethren, he may have followed the Seven's will but there would be no glory. No chivalrous fighting. Only death and carnage… it was what the Warrior wished, and with sword in hand Ser Bonifer would follow.
"Spearmen, hold firm!" he commanded, greatsword clashing with the mace of Darry soldier. His armor and shield were strong, but Bonifer had the skill of a seasoned warrior. Lunging in a feint, he instead swung his sword and lopped off the man's leg. He howled, falling back into the mass of corpses filling the wagonroad. "Present spears!" Bonifer screamed, falling back behind the mass of Peake bannermen.
The clatter was immense as they depressed their spears, heavy armor proving a powerful anchor in holding the line. Acting as a trench, the wagonroad blunted whatever momentum Randyll Tarly had after smashing across the creek. The Blackfish managed to retreat in good order. There was no order as the Crownlanders impaled themselves upon the Peake spears.
Running through a man with the Tarly huntsman on his gorget, an arrow wooshed past Bonifer's head. Felling a dismounted knight by punching through his chestplate. "Looks' like you can use the help," grinned Ser Bronn, notching another arrow onto his quiver. "Loose!"
Fifty crossbows that Bronn brought from the rear released their payloads. Bolts sailing out with a thwack, adding to the blood soaking the roadbed. Likely sinking it further from the weight of the bodies. No honor in this… only in your actions. Readying his sword, Bonifer readied himself for what the uncompromising Tarly would throw at the rebel center.
His answer came with the near blackening of the sky. "Cover!"
On instinct, Bonifer grabbed a shield dropped by a dead Rosby and covered himself as best he could. Tucking his legs and arms within the cover of the large strip of wood and iron… gritting his teeth at the arrows slamming into it. Many around him weren't as lucky, screams filling his ears. And yet it was interminable to wait, Randyll obviously having plenty of his own sigil to rain arrows upon them.
And as it finally ended, their lines far thinner than before the black rain of House Tarly scythed through the rebel center, the trumpets of heralds sounded another loyalist attack. "What's fun without a little struggle?" Bronn quipped. Bonifer merely tightened his grip on his sword, readying for the charge that was coming.
As the two armies battled in a chaotic slugfest over the center of the line, crickets could still be heard in front of the mass of Mace Tyrell's 'summer knights.' Decked in their finery - polished armor, gleaming weapons, feather-plumed helms signifying their wealth and tourney prowess - the Lord of Highgarden had been the only one to obey Lord Connington's orders. Choosing to remain in position and wait for the explicit command in spite of urgings from Lord Butterwell and Lord Oakheart, two of his top commanders.
Had Baelor Hightower - Mace's goodbrother - pushed him then the attack might have started sooner than the dispatch rider from Connington just as the sun began to rise high into the sky. But Tumbler's Falls had made him timid, unsure of himself. Unwilling to press an advantage. Lord Oakheart breathed a sigh of relief when he was directed to launch the attack.
Elbert Arryn had every right to be fearful - pissing his breeches even. Men exhausted from marching all the way around the God's Eye in a mere two days without rest, he didn't even have enough of them. House Frey and their missing twenty-five hundred bannermen were keenly felt, depriving them of the Peake and Blackmont infantry he sorely needed. True, the creek in this sector was about fifteen yards wide and deeper than the rest, but at waist deep it was eminently fordable by horses and unable to be truly defended by archers due to thick woodland on the west bank.
But Elbert and his frontline commander Bronze Yohn Royce were offered a miracle when Mace hesitated. His attempts to probe a ford elsewhere were shot by either high banks or the walls of Harrenhal, and the inexperienced 'Tourney Lord' wouldn't order his cavalry across the creek until Lord Oakheart could capture a stone bridge and force a place on the west bank.
Oakheart's belated assault on the bridge began hours after the first Baratheon bannerman clashed with the northmen. In spite of heavy archery and crossbow cover, House Corbray's defenders stood firm. Shield wall tightly packed and narrow, avoiding the brunt of the archers and beating back the Oakheart charge. Another attack met the same fate, filling the bridge with packed bodies as desperate attempts to force a fording against Mace's wishes ended in dismounted Royce knights defending the banks expertly.
Connington grew irate watching Mace's lack of progress from his rear command tent. His plan was going well, but it needed the Tyrells to cross the river. "Tell him if it costs half his men, he must go now!" screamed the Hand of the King to the courier.
Narrowing his eyes at the courier half an hour later, Mace addressed his son Willas. "Lord Connington appears to think I am not trying my best to carry this bridge. I follow his orders, ser, and you cannot pin such swill on me." Inside, his heart beat quickly regardless. Praying that Lord Oakheart could have some success so that his own position would be secure.
Deliver his bannerman did. Borrowing the idea from Stannis he lined his crossbowmen upon the east bank, pointing upon the side of the bridge and unleashing a hail of bolts into the unprotected sides of the Corbray shield wall. Vale archers were hurled at the crossbowmen, causing grievous losses but their sacrifice worked. A third charge took the bridge, allowing columns of columns of cavalry to charge across to force the knights of the Vale back. Outnumbered nearly two to one and their own horses close to blown rather than the fresh Reach knights that could maneuver around. Elbert drew his blade, ready to make his last stand…
"Who holds the North?! WHO HOLDS THE NORTH!"
Ser Barristan had found his reinforcements, the tired yet determined hoplites of House Bolton. Quick couriers allowing Elbert and Royce to shift their forces to the flanks of their position upon the fields north of Harrenhal, the Reach knights watched in horror as the terrifying men the house of knives deployed in front of them.
Any breakthrough wouldn't be achieved here as the lances, spears, and blades clashed into each other.
Until the cry came down the line… "The King has fallen!"
It didn't seem real to Ned.
Greatsword acting as if of its own accord, Valyrian steel crashing against its comrade in arms with a thundering clatter. Red-tinged foam showering those around them as the two Lords Paramount engaged in the most brutal of clashes. Brother against brother, each out of pure desperation.
Forced back, barely able to keep his footing against Ned's surprise charge, Robert would have recovered his bearings had it not been his friend. His brother… "Ned!" On the cusp of killing the vile rapist, the Lord of Winterfell erupted from the haze of battle and engaged him. Robert was so blindsided he wasn't able to properly swing Stormbreaker - instead using it as one would a staff. "What the fuck…" A swing was parried, Robert jerking forward to shove Ned off of him. "...are you doing!"
Twirling Ice in both of his wrists, Ned stood firm. Eyes pained but determined as he stared down the man he had grown up with. Whom had been more of a brother to him than Bran or Benjen in the scheme of things. "Can't let you do it, Robert." He lunged, only for the Baratheon to leap back in an agility surprising for a man of his musculature.
He stared at Ned in complete shock, ripping his helm from his head and hurling it into the water with a splash - his wild hair flying free as death surrounded him. "But Lyanna…"
"She doesn't love you, Robert," Ned barked, hoping that he could get Robert to withdraw. To truce… though given everything it was a forlorn hope.
Robert was the one that shattered it. "She will!" He readied his warhammer. "After I kill the dragonspawn!" Holding back for Ned's sake, the swing that met Ice would have nevertheless cleaved apart any lesser blade. Ned nearly toppled as he ducked back, fingers tightening around Ice's pommel and countered. Willingly battling his once closest friend to protect his goodbrother.
All across the line, the battle was complete carnage. An orgy of blood and slaughter that would long soak the God's Eye in crimson. In the south, the Boltons withstood charge after charge from the Tyrell horse while Lord Arryn's bannermen tried desperately to push them back. Already, the writhing bodies carpeting the wagonroad were trampled over by waves of Crownlanders under the cover of Tarly arrows as they slowly battered the Rivermen and Holy Hundred in the center. And in the North, Lord Karstark's insane charge had petered out, the Northmen forced to withdraw back to the Manderly and Umber lines. Their inspiring Lord could have rallied them… but one of Stannis Baratheon's crossbowmen ripped through Harrion Karstark's throat and turned Rickard into a torpid wreck… his men dragging him out.
But it was the news of Rhaegar's fall - the King knocked out cold and barely alive - that proved the deciding factor. While Oswell Whent tried to escort him to the rear without incident, the men weren't stupid. When one young soldier saw his King drawn atop a stretcher, it took mere minutes for panic to settle in.
The rebel army was forced to withdraw… either in good order or in a rout, but they would have to retreat.
Robert fought ferociously - the Stag Lord was a master with his hammer, as skilled with it as all but the greatest Kingsguards with their blades. Stance perfect, thrusts filled with brute strength, one could have forgiven anyone who said he was a grizzled warrior of a hundred battles. Spinning around to the side, Ned slammed the sword of his ancestors into the Baratheon steel. Driving Stormbreaker to the ground. Robert was good, but so was he.
Breaths measured and attacks precise, Ned still struggled to match Robert and the occasional Baratheon bannerman trying to protect their lord blow for blow. One found his neck turned into a bloody mess, Ned forced to parry another attack from Robert. I'm not going to last...
With a fury of his own, Robert charged… only for another blade to drive the warhammer back. "Lord Stark!" Jorah Mormont and a dozen Mormont bannermen flooded the creek, engaging Robert and the Stormlanders that rushed to his defense. "The army is retreating! Rhaegar has fallen!"
"Victory, my Lord Hand."
Connington looked at Rhaegar's army crumbling. Falling back slowly but undoubtedly in defeat. Whatever had happened, he had his triumph. My triumph… the day is ours…
Ours…
"Let them retreat."
His aides blinked. "My Lord? We've taken the field."
"And that is enough," the Hand shot back. "If we pursue our supply lines will be stretched out and they can counterattack when Walder Frey… or gods forbid Tywin can annihilate us." Rhaegar and I will never rule if I annihilate his army. "Harrenhal is fallen. The day is ours. We need to rest and digest our victory."
There was silence. No one willing to challenge their orders but unable to deny it was an insane one.
As such, Connington grabbed one of their collars. "Signal to hold!" And the trumpeted command blared over the field, signalling the end to what had been the largest clash of armies since the Dance of Dragons.
One King would smile, while the other clung to life on the barest of threads.
A/N: One cannot always have a perfect streak. Rhaegar gets bloodied, and only thanks to Ned did he escape his canon fate. His friendship with Ned is the friendship both he and Ned deserved :)
Good thing Connington fucked up, lol.
Next up, the things Jaime does for love.
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