A/N: And we've come to the moment. The final clash of Rhaegar's Rebellion. It's gonna be epic.

Enjoy and please comment :D

Chapter 56: Battle of the Bells

Etched upon the tough bark many millennia in the past, the face of the gods stared down upon the two men that chose to seek solace underneath its gaze. Hands pressed against the smooth surface, the august deities could sense their blood. One an ancient bloodline quite familiar to them - cold as ice, a warrior in their name known for generations going back to the very beginning. Ther other… alien, foreign, but no less ancient. Tinged with fire and smoke, but something… there was an odd familiarity. A drop of blood not felt for thousands of years, one the gods struggled to identify.

As yet, they joined the chorus of thousands beseeching them for the guidance of the divine that morning. Each plea more haunting and desperate than the last, leading up to the two currently before them. Lost souls, begging not for themselves but for their families.

For the most recent among the gods, their pleas began to take root. Perhaps his beloved was right about them all along.

Drawing his forehead back from the bark, Rhaegar stared up at the blood red leaves of the Weirwood. "Strange, isn't it?" His voice was soft, subdued.

Lips mouthing one final prayer for his unborn child, Ned turned to look at his goodbrother. "I know. The town founded by Andal missionaries to spread the Faith to the Westerlands?" It was with great fanfare among the Northmen, Daynes, and Blackwoods in the rebel army to find a godswood west of their camp. Nestled in a copse of trees, already hundreds had prayed here through the night. "Would have thought they'd cut down their weirwood tree long ago."

Rhaegar shrugged. "Only the most zealous would feel comfortable desecrating any religious symbol… though that wasn't what I found strange." Ned raised an eyebrow at him. "Here I am… blood of Old Valyria, and yet whenever I'm before a weirwood I feel…"

"Energized?" Ned always did when in the Godswood - calm yet also invigorated.

"Fulfilled," Rhaegar replied. "As if… all worries washed away."

Smiling softly, the Lord of Winterfell clapped his King on the shoulder. "The Old Gods favor you. Of this I am certain."

"Even with being a Valyrian rather than one of their blood?"

Ned tucked his lips in thought. "Your grandmother was Betha Blackwood. You have the blood of the First Men in you as I do… though Jon has more."

The thought of his newborn son, one he had never seen, filled Rhaegar with resolve. "May your words speak true." Without another word, the two of them departed the holy place for their guards and horses waiting outside. Waiting to whisk them into battle.

A single line, spread out across miles of battlefield with their backs towards a scattered woodland. It was a simple disposition - Valemen and some Northmen in the center, the rest of the Northerners on the right, while the Rivermen held the left. Rhaegar concentrated the archers in the center, for they were going to need them. As he trotted through the lines, out he gazed at the loyalists. Connington's men. Robert's men. Outnumber them, they did… eighty thousand or so to Rhaegar's fifty. Gods… allow her to succeed.

There was a silence in the ranks. A futility, though one filled with resolve and anger - this was the end. Come hells or high water the Rebellion would be decided here. All could feel it, from Rhaegar to the lowliest squire. All resigned to do their duty today.

Letting his horse carry him to the van, Rhaegar turned - looking at all the men arrayed in his name. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing images of his family to come to mind. The ones he loved the most.

His mother, holding him close in the night.

His children, playing with them.

His brides, locked in passionate embraces.

His newborn son, of which he had no memories.

It brought him pain… pain and determination.

"Men of Westeros!" he called out, voice booming over the fields. All along the lines, he could see the shields emblazoned with the symbol of Old Valyria. The simple dragon with raised wings.

With this symbol, you will conquer. The maiden's voice rang true in his head.

"Your leiges brought you here to fight for my claim… but what does that matter to you?" Moondancer trotted up and down the line, Rhaegar looking them in the eyes. The heavy armor of House Peake, the mountain chivalry of House Royce, the wild woodsmen of House Umber - men plucked from all across the realm that Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives forged together. "Will it feed your families? Bring warmth back to the earth? Make the sun rise in the morning and set in the evening. Some might think different if they were in my position but I doubt it." There were chuckles from the assembled troops.

Rhaegar grinned at them. "No, what lies ahead isn't some miracle, though I couldn't blame you if you believed it to be such." He pointed east… towards the enemy but also towards King's Landing. "Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys created this Kingdom! They built the Iron Throne as a symbol of greatness, of a land that could rise out of the earth with the best of what came before it! And in their wake centuries of pettiness and insanity crumbled that dream."

"The Mad King!" someone shouted, in a northern brogue. It was slowly picked up by the rest of the men.

"MAD KING! MAD KING! MAD KING!"

Closing his eyes, Rhaegar searched through his mind for a moment where he and his father knew something other than bitterness or tragedy. With a heavy heart, he admitted to himself that he had none.

"Yes… the man who I call father, the Mad King." He placed a hand on Blackfyre's hilt. "That means I have the duty to see this through, for House Targaryen and for all of you… my subjects. My countrymen. Andal, Rhoynar, First Man, and Valyrian, all forged from great Kingdoms and Empires long past." Out came Blackfyre, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. "This sword was carried by Aegon the Conqueror to lead his men to a future better than the shit one he knew, and now it leads you towards the same. To victory!"

"TO VICTORY!"

"DRAGON KING! DRAGON KING! DRAGON KING!"

Lowering his Myrish spyglass, Connington gazed out at the expanse of the enemy army. Enemy… The mere thought continued to rock him. Never before did he ever think Rhaegar would consider him an enemy - his beautiful silver prince. It had been nearly two weeks since the last close-up glimpse of the Targaryen King-claimant and he still felt numb.

Someone roughly shoved him from where he stood. "The fuck are they doing?!" Squinting, each booming roar from the rebels drove Robert Baratheon further to rage. "Are they cheering for that rapist?!"

"Appears they are," Stannis mused, armor far less grandiose than Robert's hulking monstrosity of stag antlers and fine plate. "They love their King."

"But we outnumber them. I believe that's more important," Ser Jonothor Darry observed. "This could be a trap though. Do we know where their horse is? Randyll?"

Randyll Tarly stroked his chin. "Scouts report nothing on the flanks. Seems all their horses are being held in the rear… without mounts."

Snorting, Lord Mace Tyrell looked amused. "No cavalry. What fools."

Concerned, Jonothor looked back to the assembled rebels while Robert whistled. "You said it, Mace. They're ready to end this, and end this we will." The Master of War looked at each of his commanders. "Get to your commands. We go with the green plan." Five separate plans had been drawn up by Jonothor and Randyll for annihilating the rebel army once and for all - Green was the one favored by Robert… full frontal assault to break the center, sweeping around to envelop the flanks once their army fragmented.

The aggressive cavalrymen and knights supported it wholeheartedly, while the more infantry inclined found their nerves frayed. Jonothor most of all. "Don't you think it's too perfect that he's dismounted his whole army…"

"No, fuck you!" Robert bellowed, grabbing his helm from his new squire. "The dragonspawn escaped my justice at Harrenhal. Not this time." He sheathed his head with the antlered headgear. "Not while I'm still breathin'."

Turning to Connington for support, Jonothor found someone out of his element… as if all the life had fallen from his eyes. "Be on with it," he murmured, voice a shell of what it had once been. You dumb buggerer.

Robert grinned under his helm. "Now that's what I'm speaking of!" He waved over the signallers. "Give the orders. Full attack into the center, all but my men!"

I hope this was worth your love for them, Rhaegar. Connington noticed not the Lords scrambling towards their forces, bringing the spyglass back to find his silver prince. I hope their cunts were worth you destroying yourself and your future.


Already, the tremor that rippled through the ground felt like an earthquake. Through his mount, Rhaegar could feel it all. Not of the earth, but of battle formations.

"Are you ready?" he asked the young man on foot beside him.

Garlan Tyrell trembled, but nodded. "Aye… I think so."

The latest of his squires, Rhaegar had seen all of them turn into accomplished knights. Garlan had the makings of one… he just needed to learn experience. Truth was, battle had a tendency to weed out those unwilling or incapable of learning. "Just remember what I taught you… and avoid your family at all costs." The brand of kinslayer would stick to him for life.

Already, Mace Tyrell had drawn up his entire contingent of heavy cavalry for the center - backed up by the Stormlords behind. Already moving into position, with a loud war cry, the knights broke into a full charge. Hooves kicked up clouds of dirt and clumps of grass, the might of the Reach eager to gain the glory they failed to achieve at the Harrenhal bridge.

Watching as the lances locked downward in a single motion, those of the Vale and North readied themselves for this. Pointed tips, sharp and solid, presented menacingly alongside arrogant war whoops audible over the deafening gallop of the charging beasts. None among the rebels were green as to the heavy cavalry charge, but they trembled nonetheless. Rhaegar didn't begrudge them this. He trembled as well, hand tightening around Blackfyre. "Your Grace," Barristan said, mounted beside him. "No matter what, we stand with you." The King gave his thanks with a tiny smile. Only for the pressing matter to draw his attention again.

"Hold firm!" The lines of Umber warriors bellowed giant cries across the landscape as the crossbowmen of the Targaryen and Arryn guards filled the air with bolts. They tore into the front rank of Tyrell cavalry like a scythe through wheat, but there were far more behind them. Trampling over man and beast in their thunderous charge. Twenty yards became ten yards. Ten became five. Rhaegar's eyes shut for the barest of moments, a silent prayer sent to his guardian spirit before he gave the order. "Present, spears!"

The wall of pikemen dropped their spears into position just as the onrushing horde slammed into them.

Those of both species mashed in a maelstrom of carnage and death - the horses and riders skewered by pikes, men trampled underfoot, lances tearing through blood and bone. Sheer momentum blunted by the hard standing men sent knights flying at the same speed as their horses had charged, breaking in piles of twisted flesh or set upon by the swordsmen in the rear. Blades pierced their armor, taking them out quickly - one of them being Garlan Tyrell, taking his first life as he charged right into the thick of the fight. Praying he wouldn't have to face his father or brother in battle.

As soon as the second line of Tyrell horse had impaled itself into the chaos, Rhaegar kicked Moondancer in the side and spurred him into the fight. Blackfyre hacked at a large knight trying to slash his way through a block of Umber shields. The colored, silk finery underneath his armor grew soaked with blood at the power of Aegon the Conqueror's blade. Rearing on his hind legs, Moondancer made a dramatic show, Rhaegar's Valyrian armor tall and powerful for all to see. Invigorating his men.

But it drew the loyalists like moths to a flame. One knight leveled his lance and galloped directly at him, only for perfect footwork of the great steed allowing Rhaegar to let the knight thunder past him. One swing of Blackfyre beheading him. He looked up to find a knight with a sword attacking, only for a volley of bolts from the crossbowmen felling him. Snarling, Rhaegar spurred Moondancer further. Literally bashing through two dismounted foes before chopping the head clean off of another horse. His rider was trapped beneath the corpse, an easy target for the pikemen.

Cutting down another man, Rhaegar spotted the colors of House Dondarrion. They're sending in more. It was time, no chance of surviving if they didn't fall back. "Retreat! Ten paces!" He galloped towards the rear, finding the young herald pissing himself behind the line. "Signal ten paces!" He brought the trumpet to his lips, blowing out the command.

"Ten paces! Fall back!"

In the freezing winds of the Riverlands winter thundering in from the Sunset Sea, the trodding of tens of thousands upon the plains had kicked up a massive cloud of dust and churned up grass. A terrible ordeal for the advancing Stormlands infantry of two dozen noble or knightly houses. It didn't stop them, but managed to slow them down enough for the rebels to put their plan into action.

Robert's orders were heeded, his manic desire to steamroll over the entire rebel army growing more and more popular at each step to the rear the Valemen and Northmen took. Heartened that the war was close to ending soon - and ending in glory - the disorganized mass of infantry and still mounted knights surged forward. Savaging the retreating rebels, covering the ground in dismembered bodies and further thinning out the lines of pikemen and men-at-arms.

And yet, in pressing so far-forward, their desire to destroy the seemingly collapsing line following the King-Claimant, the forces of Mace Tyrell and Robert Baratheon had ignored the walls of troops that stood steadfast on the flanks of what had now turned into a reversed crescent. Rhaegar's plan was coming to fruition…

That was if the flanks could hold against the furious assaults that were soon to crash into them.


"Shield wall!" Whooping, the front of the Northern line kneeled as one, stabbing their shields deep into the dirt and grass below them.

Flanked by the Cassel brothers, Ned lifted his thick shield of wood and wrought iron - locking it into place atop the first row. Over the top, he could see the mass line of infantry break into a fast jog, thousands of booted feet vibrating through the ground. Banners of half a dozen Reach Houses fluttering behind. Hightower, Florent, Fossoway, Roxton, Tarly… Tarly? The second-in-command of the royalist army was attacking his own command. Ned could have sworn they'd be in the center with the Tyrells.

Didn't matter though. "Shield wall!" he bellowed again, the third rank of men took their own shields and locked them in place above him - one solid row of shields, each emblazoned with the sign of Old Valyria. Of their King. "Hold fast!" he screamed at his men. Loud thuds clapped against the wood, crossbow bolts almost running straight through, but few hit their mark. "We cannot give any ground!"

"Volley!" Flinching instinctively, the pit-pattering of the deadly rain began to shower upon them like a thunderstorm, pierced by the occasional scream of a man hit. But the shield wall held, enemy archers ineffective.

"That's right!" Someone was screaming, probably Willam Dustin by the sounds of him. "Fuck you, flower knights!" As if an infectious vapor, the jeers spread across the line, northerners heaping abuse and obscenity upon the oncoming attackers, excoriating everything from their sisters to the Seven.

Such psychological assaults worked, for the men of the Reach lowered their spears and raised their swords - snarling battlecries of their own and charging right at them. "We give no ground!" Ned snarled, drawing a dagger from his belt. All but a few houses of the North stood beside him, given the important task of anchoring a flank that would not break. Would not falter. "No matter what they throw, we will not break!"

"For Queen Lyanna!" The recognizable voice of Jorah, House Mormont placed to the left of House Stark.

It was even more infectious. "FOR QUEEN LYANNA!"

Ned could see the whites of the Reachmens' eyes. Gods be with me. An image of his golden lioness flashed behind his eyes, strength surging through the Lord of Winterfell just as the thousands of the Reach crashed right against the shield wall.

It was like a stampeding bull had crashed right into Ned. He staggered, only the mass of men behind him keeping the Lord of Winterfell upright. His head spun as Ned dug his feet into the ground. Against the shields the mass of hundreds of Reachmen forced his feet into the earth, but he held firm. "Bring them down!"

Snarling, the Northmen shoved forward in one fluid motion - knocking surprised knights back, their full plate armor making them quite top heavy, more than one toppling to the ground. Swords and spears stabbed out of gaps in their shields with powerful thrusts, running through their enemies with relish at the crimson blood spilled. Arrows flew overhead, their archers finally letting loose and adding their weapons to the fray.

But they needed to be smart. "Three paces to the rear, ho!"

"Hoo! Hoo!"

Slowly, the entire line moved back. A ponderous movement that coincided with their foes resuming the assault. Maces and battleaxes used to bash through the shields, men fell with gurgling shrieks or without sounds at all. The corpses were left where they fell, nothing that could be done while the men retreated towards their next position.

Someone massive slamming against his arm, Ned gritted his teeth and pushed back. Raising his swordarm and thrusting the dagger through the opening - slicing through flesh and eliciting a blood-curdling scream of pain. Only split seconds later, a sword jabbed in response. Only half an inch from Ned's nose. The blade of one of the crouching men took out the threat.

Alongside, Martyn Cassel grinned. "A little lower and he'd 'ave shaved ya!"

Nerves already on edge for what seemed like ages, under assault from the prime of the Reach Martyn's comment served to break the dam of stress. Ned laughed, Rodrik laughed, the men around them laughed hysterically. Letting the jape serve to clear them of the toxic emotions…

The bloody metal of a longsword punched through a gap in the shields. It's sharp finish sliced right through Martyn Cassel's neck, bright red blood squirting all over those adjacent to him - including Ned. "Fuck…" the master-at-arms of Winterfell croaked.

"Martyn!" Rodrik cried, seeing his brother receive a fatal wound… bleeding out right before them as he collapsed to his knees.

Pursing his lips, Ned sheathed his dagger, drawing Ice. "Leave him! He's done!" It pained him to leave such a loyal bannerman, but there was no choice. "Three paces to the rear, ho!"

"Hoo! Hoo!" Stepping over the still corpse of Martyn Cassel, the Stark line retreated three paces, giving enough ground to recover their bearings and tire out the Reachmen further.

Across the battlefield over one mile wide, the same assaults crashed against the Rivermen of Brynden Tully and Tytos Blackwood, their hated Crownlands enemies going at them with righteous fury. A bloody melee ensued, but the Rivermen held just as they had at bloody lane outside Harrenhal. Scores fell, but the shield wall only budged several paces - any man lucky enough to break through was cut down mercilessly by the Rivermen.

Refusing to break, the effect was simultaneous on both flanks. Simultaneously, the Quiet Wolf and the Blackfish had their quickest men - the Boltons of the Dreadfort and the Freys of the Twins, bend inward. Moving diagonally, both lines creating a concave surface in line with the retreating bannermen under their King's direct command. Acting as a sort of funnel that drew the Royalists in like water down a sewer drain.

Horse, light infantry, crossbowmen, they all followed the direction of the funnel. Attacking into the center, desperate to end this battle just as the defenders were. "The center!" came the cry. "They're bending in the center!" Hope was in the air, smelt among the blood and bile spilled upon the grass.

But Randyll Tarly and Jaremy Rykker didn't fall for this. Rallying their best men - ponderous, heavy knights dismounted - they anchored the flanks. Engaging with the northmen and rivermen. Not letting them complete the double envelopment Rhaegar was so counting on. A plan potentially becoming a disaster.

Breaking ranks, Ned slashed ahead. Ice's weight felt like his wrist was ripping in two but struck true. Bashing a Hightower knight in the skull - cleaving his helm. "Forward! Two paces!"

"Hoo! Hoo!" For the first time that day, the Starks marched ahead. Reclaiming the ground their brothers and comrades bled over as the sun continued to set.

"Hold!" Through the gaps, he could see the Hightowers in front of them were being reinforced by the bow-armed huntsman of House Tarly. Reforming into a shield wall of their own - their shields were ornate and inlaid with the finest craftsmanship, but no one that had gone through this day would call them mere tourney knights anymore.

A sword was raised, Ned recognizing the gleam of Valyrian Steel. "Trust in the Seven!" its wielder bellowed.

"TRUST IN THE SEVEN!" The shield wall advanced.

Ned and the northmen had their own battlecry. "FOR QUEEN LYANNA!"

Slamming his fist on his palm, Robert's eyes blazed with the fury of his House's words. "Fuck it all. I'll do it myself!" Pushing Connington aside, he waved at Ser Cortnay and Meryn - grabbing Stormbreaker from the squire turned knight.

"Robert, please…" Stannis moved quickly, desperately pleading to his brother. "Renly is as good as dead, and I have a bad feeling about this. Our bannermen are the last reserve in case the dragon launches some mummer's trick…"

He was cut off as Robert lifted him by his neck, not squeezing but an almost mad rage burning in his expression. "Rhaegar dies today," the Stag Lord ground out slowly. "Even if our men all die upon this field, I will kill the dragonspawn for what he's done to my wife." Tossing Stannis away, Robert mounted his horse. "To arms!" he bellowed, holding up Stormbreaker for all to see. "We ride to victory!"

The knights around him cheered, unknowing of the sheer hells they were about to thrust themselves into.


Releasing the bowstring, Bronn watched as the Riverman on the porch of an inn across the street topple - shaft slamming through his left eye.

"Bronn! Need fuckin' help here!" Him and six other men - all hedge knights now in service of the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms - had donned Baratheon colors and snuck through the lines. In the middle of the town was the large Stony Sept that gave the settlement its name, one that the seven fighters were now barricaded in. Ladders pulled up and holed up in the bell tower.

Running in a crouch, Bronn nocked another arrow and let it loose, hitting a man-at-arms in the heart as he tried to move a ladder of their own to the trapdoor of the tower. "How many?" he hissed.

"Dozen… maybe more." The knight was winding up a crossbow. "Got two when they tried to rush us… wounded another I think. Darry men from the looks of em."

Shadows passed over Bronn's head. Immediately ducking behind the lip of the railing, had they been arrows the reflex would have undoubtedly saved his life. But all that followed wasn't the smack of arrowheads against the wood but rather gentle clinks against the stone blocks. Looking up, his eyes widened. "Grappling hooks!" He stood in a crouch, keeping his head ducked under. "Knock them off!"

One man tried to do just that, springing up and swinging his sword to chop the rope clean off. It worked… only his man to take a crossbow to the chest. Blood frothed at his mouth in a gurgling scream. "Help… help me…"

Another of the knights dashed to grab him, but another arrow ripped through his throat. Blood fountained over the walls and wood floor before he collapsed over the side. Hitting the ground with a thud.

"Fuck me blind," Bronn cursed, not making a move to touch the other grappling hooks. "You two, keep lookout on the latch!" Falling onto his back, he bashed his feet against the stone. "Rest of you! Take out those fucking archers." Again and again he kicked at the railing, finally managing to budge the stone. A few more times and it toppled over the edge, panicked cries following. "Take that, cunts!"

"They're comin' over the top!" A cry of pain followed, Bronn spinning around to see a man-at-arms in Darry colors removing an axe from the man's skull. He charged at Bronn, but the former sellsword dodged the swing and staggered the knight with a jab into the jaw - teeth fountaining out. Dagger in hand, Bronn stabbed deep in the man's gut through the gap in the mail.

Instead of letting go, he propelled the corpse forward. "Cover me!" Thwacks of his own crossbows fired from behind the columns of the sept. He pitched forward with the corpse as a shield, three bolts hitting the dead lump of flesh in quick succession. Giving him enough time to slice through the rope, three more men sent sprawling to the ground.

With a smack of his palm against the stone, the lookout drew Bronn's attention as the former sellsword tossed the corpse to the side. "On the way!'

Bronn blinked. "You sure?"

"Aye, I can see the fuckin' cunt shittin' gold from all the way here!"

Whistling, Bronn gunned for the large set of bells adorning the inside of the stone tower - the one large building not to have been ripped down by Harren the Black to build his vanity keep. "They're gonna hear this in King's Fuckin' Landing." Heaving on the ropes, they refused to budge. "Fuck, get over here! If we don't do this we all die!"

Two other knights joined him, yanking the ropes down with all their might until the bells groaned - moving from side to side as the gongs slammed against the brass sides.

RING-RING! RING-RING! RING-RING!

"Gods, I hope the cunts don't turn on us." Bronn wasn't keen on dying.

The bells of the Stony Sept echoed far across the battlefield.


"No retreat!" With the setting sun blasting a visual cacophony of vibrant colors upon the field, it illuminated Rhaegar like some sort of Valyrian demon. Dragon wings upon his helm glowed a dark red. Purples and oranges glinted off Blackfyre, the sword cutting through the air as he rode Moondancer across the slaughterhouse. Striking fear into the hearts of those who dared to oppose him.

A man in Rowan colors swung at him, but with the grace of an expert jouster Rhaegar dodged - letting the knight gallop past. Redoubling his blade, he leaned down in the saddle. The newly enchanted steel cut across a dismounted Rowan knight, shearing through mail as if it were parchment and saving a beleaguered Umber spearman.

All around him the center of the rebel line slowly gave ground. Planned and coordinated at first, the constant assault of the loyalist bowmen and frontline crossbows were taking their toll. Every new wave the Tyrells threw at them weakened their defenses. Each new century of the thick plated men-at-arms wearing them down. Only Northern stubbornness and the indomitable courage of their King kept them strong, but it was a close run thing.

Already the ground lay carpeted with what seemed to be more dead than at Harrenhal. What spring growth that would eventually come...the writings of Septon Meribald would describe its lushness as watered with the blood of the innocent and guilty alike. A tragedy borne between a desperate conflict of one man's love, one man's madness, and the lusts of two others.

Struggling to keep up with Rhaegar, the Kingsguards worked as a well-greased cog. Gerold and Barristan in the van, their swords already slick with the blood of their countrymen. Many charged, eager for the everlasting glory of taking down such legendary warriors. None succeeded, the two cleaving skulls and ripping open necks with abandon.

A swing from Barristan's bastard sword missed one man from Oldtown, only for the trailing Oswell to behead him cleanly.

Out erupted an Oakheart knight with a surprisingly unbroken lance, gunning straight for the son of Hightower. Gerold braced himself, only for Moondancer to crash into its side. Horse toppling to the ground in a tangle of broken limbs, knight crushed underneath.

The King has little time to celebrate his triumph. "Get ready!" he pointed to the east.

"Seven fucking hells," Oswell murmured under his breath.

Thundering across the grassy plains was a fluid wave of thousands of Baratheon bannermen. Two solid lines of heavy knights, orange sunlight bathing them in an unearthly glow, with what seemed like every footsoldier in the Stormlands behind them. Madly dashing for the center, it represented every last uncommitted man in Robert's arsenal.

A gamble, but with the state of the battered line one that had a strong chance of breaking their back.

Rhaegar wasted no time. "Get the Daynes!" he screamed at Gerold, the Lord Commander immediately galloping to the rear. Barristan and Oswell close behind, the King rode the breadth of the line - his sheer presence drawing men like flies to a light. "Spears and shields! Spears and shields! Six deep, swordsmen in the rear!" Disciplined and bloodied, the mountain boys of the Vale embedded the shafts of their pikes into the ground and their dragon-emblazoned shields up in a ragged hedgehog while the Umber, Karstark, and Manderly warriors waited behind to plug any gaps. "Get ready! Fire and blood!"

So strong was his pull, even the children of the far north roared the Targaryen words defiantly as the stormlanders were only paces away. "FIRE AND BLOOD!"

Fresh and enthusiastic, the Baratheon cavalry crashed into the rebel line with the force of a thousand of their Liege Lord's warhammers. Cracking bones and piercing cries of agony serenaded the vicious slaughter. Lances tipping through flesh and bone, pikes punching through armor and impaling horses, showering the ground with yet more fountains of blood. Men were crushed, others trampled - bodies hung limp off snapped spears, while swords grew thirsty for the lifeblood of youth.

Several gaps were ripped in the rebel line, even though the Baratheon horse had to carpet the ground with their own dead to achieve it. Just in time for the foot, some pinning the still intact wall of Vale and Northmen while others followed the horse into the rear. Only yards away from the Targaryen camp… so far had the rebels fallen back. Robert's gamble seemed to work. The center hadn't held.

Only for wild shrieks from the west to bring death to this.

Whatever was left of House Dayne, hearts brimming with fury over their keep and backed by the irregular Crannogmen and Holy Hundred, raced towards the gaps. Light Dornish armor sacrificed protection for speed as they met their ancient enemies. Longswords clashing with scimitars in a bloody melee, enduring the battle still very much in the balance.

Chest heaving, Robert swung at his tormentors, the thick Valyrian steel of his warhammer piercing armor and crushing bone. His horse reared in terror, lashing out with its front hooves and impaling a Dornishman's skull while Stormbreaker disappeared another's shoulder in a puff of red mist. "Come at me, you cunts!" Robert bellowed, laughing manically. "Come meet the fury!"

"My Lord!" Before he could claim another life, Robert's attack stopped mid-swing at the sight of the conspicuous crossed quills of House Penrose. "There's something coming to us!"

"Aye, Cortnay!" Robert looked every inch his ancestor the great Argilac Durrandon, a burly warrior King vanquishing all that stood before him. "Victory! Justice!" Around him the dismounted Baratheon men-at-arms were pushing back the Dayne spear wall, surrounding their Lord in a protective screen. "The day is soon ours!"

But the knight of Parchments held the wide eyes of one with a terrible secret. "No… something's coming from the north…"

In an instant, Robert's vision narrowed. His attention focused upon one thing and one thing only in the distance… teeth clenching and armored fingers tightening around Stormbreaker's shaft. Dragonspawn!

Leaping over the splintered skeleton of a catapult, Moondancer trampled upon a poor Stormlander. The stunned companion was quickly cut down by Blackfyre, the legendary sword of Aegon the Conqueror slicing through mail, flesh, and bone with ease in Rhaegar's hands. Twirling it in one hand, he pulled on the reins with the other, slowing Moondancer to a halt just in time to rip through the neck of a mounted knight. His mace toppled, body limply hanging from the stirrups as the panicked horse bolted madly through the field.

And then he saw him. Rhaegar's eyes drawn to the massive bulk of his rival two score yards away from him. The stag horns and rearing beast in black over a yellow tunic needed not for identification… Rhaegar knew exactly who this was. His grip on blackfyre almost cleaving his fingers.

"RHAEGAR!"

Pushing Ser Cortnay away, Robert urged his steed into a frenzied gallop. His eyes turned red, focused only on the dragonspawn now charging just as fast. With a furious bellow he swung Stormbreaker - aiming right for the ruby three-headed dragon of his breastplate.

Wind slamming into him, Rhaegar squeezed Moondancer's side with his legs. Steadying himself as he stood tall in the saddle. Blackfyre reared back, ready to slash. Erupting right at Robert Baratheon's neck…

The clash of the titans… steel only thirsty for the other's blood as the battle raged around them - the bells ringing in the distance.

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger... there was too much to be put into one chapter.

Everyone committing themselves. Ned, Robert, Rhaegar, Garlan, Randyll Tarly... the cream of the crop.

Next time, the dragon wakes. The more reviews, the sooner I'll update :)