Rhaegar's eyes stung, the voesia helm he wore-
It seemed to burn the surface of his pupils.
The Young Prince brought a hand to a waiting masked face, fingers clasped in metal and steel. He pushed his hair away from the blinking visor it had begun to shade, while the sounds of war approached over dark hills.
After hearing what happened in King's Landing, Rhaegar had attempted to turn his armies around and relieve the capital. However, eager and cunning enemies were faster. Now..
Rhaegar swallowed heavily, picturing the mob that awaited death behind him.
They stood nine thousand strong. But they were feeble sellswords, squires, and peasants. Not true warriors, few knights. They no longer possessed any Korvi-Freschia, and Rhaegar winced each time the single-pilot craft, readily afforded by Baratheons and Lannisters, sttrafed across his army, plumes of distant smoke resulting in cries of a dozen dead men.
And yet, despite this-
They continued.
"He comes." Jonothor Darry's voice broke Rhaegar's concentration.
The man was clad in battle armor, his face covered by a green visor. Underneath him, a Basalon warmachine hummed. Despite the circumstances, Rhaegar noticed the man's fingers twitching excitedly at the controls.
Rhaegar was similarly mounted, his sword strapped to his back.
"And so he does. " Rhaegar voiced simply, to which Jonothor nodded solemnly.
The rebel army appeared over muddied hills as light rain drizzled upon them. Hardened men, with advanced arms and mounts, made up the front of the attacking force.
Behind them thousands of mechanized, Lannister Workemen whirred.
Rhaegar saw him then.
Robert Baratheon.
Sloping shoulders were dressed in massive black pauldrons, while two wicked horns, cruelly plucked from a great stag, rose from indented dimples at either side of his helmet.
A Basalon, painted the color of night, growled under this rebel King, coughing out puffs of dark smog that settled over him like storm clouds. The land seemed to be basked in shadow, and in the distance, a splintering strike of lightning colored the sky in vengeful anguish, hues of blue crashing against the sky.
"Shall I lead the charge, My Prince?" Jonothor asked.
Rhaegar shook his head.
"No. This is my duty." Rhaegar responded coolly. Jonothor's helmed dispotation wavered, as if he wanted to say more.
Rhaegar watched his lieutenant from the corner of purple eyes, and closed them when Jonothor looked to the army that waited across wet grass.
The rain continued, monstrous swirls of wind making the grass between the two armies sway like waves under the attack of a tempest. Trees shook in the wind.
"Sound the horn." Rhaegar commanded.
Jonothor Darry repeated the order to those behind, and soon enough, the shattering call of House Targaryen sounded.
They charged.
Rhaegar sped down the hill, the sound of Lord Darry and his other knights beside filling Rhaegar with much needed bravery.
Robert descended as well, his rebel lords and knights following. The time it took for them to meet in battle seemed to stretch, Rhaegar's vision centering on the massive Robert. His eyes did not see, his mouth uttered no words.
They were mere gasps away from each other, Robert's face hugged by a menacing helm, sharp horns screaming for a taste of blood-
A cacophony of sound followed.
?
Rhaegar's ears exploded as the lines crashed into one another.
Machine and man melded in terror.
Maroon colored rain sprayed into the air as men died instantly.
Rhaegar looked about him, Robert nowhere to be seen-
Movement!
Rhaegar wiped a hand across his blinking visor, turning his attention to the immediate chaos that swarmed and bellowed.
He gingerly edged his basalon forward, gunning down knights and men about him, all wearing rebel colors. Suddenly, an explosion rocked across the ground.
Rhaegar tore a frenzied look to his right, watching as two of his own knights were consumed by Lannister basalon fire.
The bullets tore through their armor, threatening Rhaegar as he instinctively urged his basalon forward.
Horse mounted northern levies rushed across grassy field, firing Schlagesei rifles into the wailing Crown-Knights that survived the initial onslaught.
One of their superheated bullets met true-
Rhaegar gasped, fingers ambling at his warmachine's controls while explosive momentum propelled him upwards.
Rhaegar felt as if his entire existence spun.
The True Prince landed with a heavy thud, his visor beeping as it recalculated their location.
Numbers and letters filled Rhaegar's field of vision.
From a close distance, a man charged at him, shooting and swearing.
Two robotic Workmen followed.
Rhaegar's personal shield activated-
A green orb absorbed the blasts from the rifles of his attackers.
He advanced as the man before him faltered- eyeing Rhaegar as the Prince drew his own weapon.
Its design was no different from any of the other chainswords, though this one was crafted with the strongest ore known to the Worlds-
Dragonglass.
He charged the rebel, felling him in one blow, blood flying from his would-be killer's neck as it was slashed open.
He pushed the dying man aside.
Lannister workemen were durable- but they were unshielded.
Rhaegar reached his free hand to the pistol waiting at his belt.
Dodging one lunging metal hand, Rhaegar drew his weapon. The Workmen closest to him crumbled as its head caved in with a melting hiss-
Rhaegar stepped gingerly upon muddy ground, sliding to his right as the surviving Workmen threw its rifle at him.
Despite himself, Rhaegar smiled.
Lannister engineers are getting smarter.
Rhaegar pushed into gored mud beneath him, rushing the machine as it attempted to calculate Rhaegar's movement.
Rhaegar placed his pistol directly underneath the Workmen's jaw, shutting his eyes as he pulled the trigger.
The Workmen moaned, falling upon its back as screams roared beyond.
Rhaegar stood. He breathed heavily.
Sound..
It seemed to echo around him.
A man approached, grabbing his arm as he screamed excitedly.
Something about.. Betrayal.
Some officer had turned to the Rebels, apparently.
In the next moment, the man speaking to Rhaegar was felled by a superheated bullet that spun a vicious circle as it exited the man's skull.
Rhaegar nodded readily, his eyes widening at the sight of the slaughter before him.
Lannister dreadnoughts fired streaming missiles from the heavens while Workmen overtook his Knights, tearing them apart with metal hands.
Rhaegar's head snapped to a newly recruited levy, wearing his colors, running past triumphantly.
Rebel knights astride cackling basalons pounded at the youths with spraying bullets, their simple armors unable to offer any protection.
He saw the three headed dragon swaying in the wind, abandoned by flag bearers who were dead or routing. He saw no one, no ally, Jonothor Darry and Lewyn Martell . . .
Rhaegar stood before the dead.
It was then Rhaegar saw him.
Behind the rival King a river sang beautifully, oblivious to the carnage that surrounded it. Organs spilled into clear waters, closely chased by tumbling corpses that left ink-like trails of blood as they sank underneath shimmering pools.
Above, Baratheon fighter craft buzzed.
The single-pilot ships darted between black clouds and burning dreadnoughts, strafing across Rhaegar's doomed army with explosive shells.
Rhaegar settled his eyes on the man before him- the one responsible for all of this.
Robert Baratheon.
"There's no more running for you." Baratheon spoke from behind a savage mask.
Red eyes glowed from underneath pointed antlers. Within traitorous hands a hammer was found- onyx in color, paired with a vermillion hilt that ended in a dagger-like pommel.
Rhaegar lifted his own weapon.
The sword's edge was lined with rotating teeth that increased its cutting power, easily allowing one to rend even armored flesh.
"Nothing to say?" The Stag cocked its ghastly head.
Behind Robert's antlers, Lannister airships fired cannon fire into the Riverlands below. Hues of orange and red passed through the darkened sky, ending in violent plumes of ash that silenced horrified cries.
Rhaegar remained silent, charging for Robert with his weapon raised. Robert instantly moved for him, heavy boot stepping into the soft ground as the man hefted his hammer into the air.
There were no words, no exchange of insults.
The first blow nearly knocked him over.
Rhaegar staggered backwards, his helm sputtering sparks as Robert advanced. He pulled the helmet off, throwing it to the ground, and then took up his blade with both hands.
He attacked, and Robert pushed away the blow with the long hilt of his warhammer.
The ground near them exploded in a scream of fire.
Robert continued, unbothered as Rhaegar's eyes were drawn back to the man's advance.
Despite his size, he was fast-
Robert's hammer struck directly onto the side of Rhaegar's leg.
Rhaegar cried out in pain, limping backwards.
A river.
We switched places?I.. I hadn't noticed-
Robert danced towards him, swinging his warhammer to build momentum.
Rhaegar feinted backward, nimbly edging for Robert's left as the man immediately compensated. Rhaegar moved for Baratheon's neck-
The King Rebeller released his weapon, allowing it to drop to the ground with a sickening squelch.
Rhaegar gasped in surprise as Robert sidestepped him, blade passing harmlessly across an armored torso.
Rhaegar said nothing as he was forced to the ground. The much larger man straddled his waist, holding Rhagear by the throat as he raised a free fist.
Rhaegar tried to-
Robert's fist rose from a sunken, bloody skull. Bits of it fell from metal fingers. Robert started at Rhaegar-
He stared at him for a long while.
As the battle raged about him, Robert sat motionless upon his Imperial foe.
Rhaegar Targaryen died moments after.
THE WALL. Pörsa yawned, looking up at an icy behemoth that separated him from the unknown cruelties.
Above, a cloudless night sky exposed Old Valyria in all of her beauty.
The doom that had claimed the planet-moon eons ago still bore witness to its genocidal deeds. The surviving side, Essos, blinked resplendently in the starry dark. Though the marches that had once been home to those folk.. Those who had come to this World instead-
It was dark.
Rolling clouds were visible even from the Wall.
Pörsa tried to imagine what sort of horror could have created the scar that rent Valyria. A snaking puzzle work of crevasses cut across the planet's surface, while errant chunks of rock hung in its upper atmosphere, separated but still loyal to the planetary body that birthed it.
"Let's go, Pörsa. I know your lowborn ears heard me this time."
Pörsa gritted his teeth.
Kuval Reic.
Once you took the black you lost all claims to your past life. For those such as Pörsa, this was a blessing. He was no longer a murderer.
He briefly paused, reflecting on the street urchins that he had brutalized and maimed while still a free man.
But for people like Kuval it was different. Highborn types often adapted poorly, or worse- were given differential treatment. The Watch had no time nor need for weakness- but it did need money provided by worried Lords looking to ensure safety for banished sons.
Pörsa looked back at the wall one last time, before urging his horse forward, regrouping with Kuval's party as their steeds stomped into soft hills of snow.
Brown eyes regarded the approaching woods with unease.
More missing Rangers.
The Watch was used to death, used to recruits attempting to flee. It was not uncommon for new faces to be gone the next day, never to be seen again.
More often than not, they were killed by the Expanse. A cold land, cursed by magic that technology had long replaced. It spread forth towards living lands, encapsulating it with an icy kiss.
But the bodies they found months ago were different. They were completely naked and scarred.
Each body had their genitals and eyes crudely torn out, replaced with sphere-like objects that burned to the touch. Ritualistic markings covered each body from hastily shaved head to skinned feet, devoid of soles.
After this, the Lord Commander demanded that a search be sent out whenever more than parties of three went missing.
Pörsa shivered, wishing that the thermcloak he wore offered more than an ember of weeping warmth.
"Nice of you to finally join us." Kuval turned in his saddle, smile buffeted by a gust of wind. Icy snow flew across Kuval's boyish sneer.
Six of them stood before the wood. Trunks thicker than Airship engines stood resolute, ageless guardians of a bygone era.
Kuval shifted his attention forward. Roughly kicking an agitated steed, the young man led them into the woods.
They were silent, all of them remembering the bodies discovered within these very same parts. Their silence was graciously accepted by the whispering forest.
Only the wind susserrated, leaving cool kisses that licked across exposed skin.
Horses nickered with phlegmatic snorts, amplified by outdated therma harnesses attached to their snouts.
Kuval raised his hand, leaning forward in his saddle. The others stopped, horses stomping hooves into plumes of snow to keep warm.
"There's something ahead." Kuval pointed in the distance.
Pörsa narrowed his eyes.
The snow fall... it began to lessen.
Pörsa followed Kuval's arm until he saw clearly a clump of flesh, half buried.
"Let's dismount." Kuval spoke boredly.
Kuval grunted as he jumped from his saddle.
He pulled a Schlages free from the horse's saddlebag. The outdated rifle thrummed to life, superheated ammo cells instantly cooling errant particles of snow.
Technology, even a Schlages- was scarce on the wall. . Whatever arms they received were to be stored and saved for when they would truly be needed. However, Kuval's weapon had been gifted to him by his father and as such, not dependent on the opinions of the Lord Commander.
Pörsa, reluctant to dismount, watched Kuval look down the sights of his rifle.
"It's a body.." the boy said.
Kuval looked up at Pörsa, about to say something-
Kuval's mouth opened as black chain broke through the roof of his head. Pörsa's eyes immediately darted upwards, following the long, linked cable that slinked between a wall of leaves.
The rest of the men shouted in surprise, drawing weapons as Kuval's body was pulled upwards in unnatural seconds.
Silence took the wood.
Kuval's rifle broke from the leaves above, landing beside Pörsa as flurries of snow returned to the wind.
Movement flickered at the corner of Pörsa's eye. It dashed behind trees-a raggedly torn cloak obscuring a body that moved with inhuman grace.
Pörsa decided he had seen enough.
He turned his horse, whipping reigns as it pounded at the ground.
His brothers screamed at him as he fled. Pörsa felt a tinge of sadness then-until the voices he heard went silent. He dared not look back, staring ahead.
The criminal gasped as wire wrapped around his waist, yanking him free from an errant horse that continued on ahead. He scrambled to his knees, only to tumble as the wire tightened, cutting into his flesh as it tore through his meager armor.
Pörsa screamed then, agitation and fear mixing within his mind. The man shook from side to side, attempting in vain to free himself.
Pörsa's screams balked into panting gasps of fear. There was a sound then that broke the air, footsteps through the snow, light and inhuman.
He was pulled backwards, and then flipped over.
Pörsa's eyes widened as horror took him.
Pörsa couldn't speak. His mind begged to know what was happening, begged to know what this was.
"I am.. a quiet thing. Ancient...Kind...Something familiar to you."
The speaker cocked its head as it looked at him. A cut that it wore on its throat bled, shadowy blood falling onto jutting collarbones.
Pörsa felt a flash of pain.
Then nothing.
I hate the cold.
Bran pulled his wolf-skin cloak around a small neck.
Winter air passed through his dark red hair.
Bran's cheeks were ruddy, and made him look all the more a child sitting upon his pony.
To his left Jon sat next to him, a boy of fourteen and a half years.
Jon's horse stirred, nickering gently as it stomped on the ground.
It was Robb who broke the silence, however.
"Make sure you do not look away Bran, Father will know if you do."
Robb's voice was as sharp as the air, touching Bran's ears like the tips of knives.
Jon was older by a few months, yet if you were to look at them side by side, you would think it was Robb who was eldest.
Robb was larger, with a stocky build and long legs. His face favored the House of his mother, with dark red hair and blue eyes as bright as ice.
"I know. It's just . . . the cold . . . " Bran murmured.
He hated to complain..
But it was cold!
Bran hated to admit it- but he had been on few rangings. Father insisted that he go- that he was old enough.
However, Bran failed to see what exactly this could entail in terms of teaching him.
Theon's cynical chuckle broke Bran's musings.
"I thought Starks were immune to this weather."
Theon Greyjoy was no Stark himself, rather a ward of Bran's father.
Regardless, he had grown with the boys, especially close with Robb. Wherever Robb was found, Theon was often swaggering behind, smiling cockily as he went about in Robb's shadow.
"He's no Stark. He's just a pup now." Robb attempted an uncharacteristic joke- as he often did with Theon.
Bran bristled. "I am a Stark! I have the names, the colors-"
Robb raised a gloved hand.
"None of that now, Brother. Watch, that you may learn something from how Father deals his justice."
Robb goaded his horse forward, approaching the circle that had formed around a man garbed all in black.
Within the shivering circle, various men of Eddard Stark waited on their Lord Father's command. Eddard was dark, similar to Jon Snow in appearance: Gray eyes, dark hair, long face. His face was closely shaven, a mere shadow on his prematurely lined countenance, a man of thirty five years old.
"He's a member of the Night's Watch." Theon whispered as their horses came closer.
"Fleeing the Wall?" Robb questioned. Theon smirked, teeth shining.
"Most likely. He has the look of a craven."
Robb looked at Bran, and then turned his gaze upon the man they surrounded.
"It will be death, then." Robb said matter-of-factly.
Above them Winterfell ships hovered, gravity ports distorting the look of trees as they sat in the air. Direwolves were crudely drawn on the grimly dark metal of the crafts, the sigil of House Stark.
"You shouldn't speak like that. He's only a child." Jon grumbled.
Robb turned to Jon.
Bran winced-
Robb-
He had a way of looking at men that could make them cringe, much like their father. His eyes seemed to turn darker, like a sea underneath a setting sun, dark and red and foreboding but still somehow blue.
He looked at Jon that same way, waiting.
Jon returned the look, but it was weaker in him, and he faltered.
Jon set his eyes ahead of him and fell silent.
"Robb, Bran. Jon. Theon." Eddard spoke, dismounting from his horse.
He was dressed in a rich pelted cloak, white fur flared around his neck. The cloth of the cape was dark gray, bristling with wolf hair. Underneath he wore hard-boiled leather with harsh-looking gauntlets, fur frayed around the cuffs. Heavy boots sank into grass crisped by frost, and as he moved his hair waved in a rising gust, revealing streaks of gray that lined his locks. The rest of his men followed suit, puffs of white smoke rising from their mouths as they moved.
Bran looked up as the hovercraft turned and fled, no doubt searching for more deserters. It roared in the quiet air, plumes of black smoke trailing after it as it raced across the cloudless sky.
"Father called us." Robb said, climbing from his horse. Theon and Jon mirrored his action, and Bran found himself stepping from his saddle, and onto the ground. The breaths of horse and man mixed in the air, all of them arms-length away from the crumpled up creature who bore the cloak of the Night's Watch.
His head and mouth were covered with brown cloth, and one of Eddard's men stepped forward and pulled the fabric away.
Bran had to keep from gasping.
The man had no nose, no ears, and his lips were a deep purple. Dark yellow teeth rotted in his mouth, and brown eyes painted red looked at them, fear and desperation written all over his face.
"What is your name?" Eddard asked.
"Gared, My Lord."
Night's Watch.
Bran had always viewed them as heroes, defenders of the realm. But he saw a crippled- half dead man who had lost half of his face to frostbite. His uncle Benjen was a member of the Night's Watch- Is this what men looked like on The Wall?
"Are you sure he's a part of The Watch . . .?" Bran asked, eying the man.
"No one else dresses in all black. Besides, he has the look of a rapist." Theon said with a chuckle.
"Do not speak such things before him." Robb said coolly.
Theon then favored silence. a smile still on his face as he laughed at dozens of other japes he no doubt conjured, but had better sense than speak.
"What are you doing here?" Eddard questioned. Gared shivered, his purple lips squeezing together like two shriveled worms.
"We were... we was... on a ranging . . . Wildings were- They never come so close . . . but we found bodies . . . dead bodies. Once more of us returned, they was gone, I had gone out both times, My Lord. Then . . ." Gared paused, his eyes desperate, pleading as he looked at the frowning men around him.
Eddard placed his hand on the heavy hilt that was strapped to his back.
Gared swallowed.
Bran looked at his father- but Lord Stark seemed to only see their prisoner-
And nothing else.
Gared continued.
"The bodies . . . they was gone, My Lord. But- They had come back. They moved cause- The.. Its the Phaecaigh.."
Robb could no longer stay silent.
"The Phaecaigh don't exist. They're a myth."
"You haven't seen what I saw . . . white they were, with-"
Gared paused, swallowing.
"with frigid cold words they were- -"
"You would have me believe that you ran from The Wall fleeing Phaecaigh. You know what the price is for desertion." Eddard responded.
Robb nodded his head in approval.
"My Lord- I never flaked my duties, never touched no woman, always did as I was bid- I had no choice but to run, or else I would have been killed-"
"And now you will die here, as a deserter rather than a man of The Watch."
Eddard pulled his swordhilt from the straps on his back, and he swung it outwards. Instantly, a steel blade as light as silver sprung forth, thick and sharp.
Two men knew what it meant. They grabbed the man, holding him still, presenting his neck to Eddard. Lord Stark raised the blade above the man's head, and hesitated.
"Do you have any last words, Gared?"
"Winter is coming."
The sword came down, and a spurt of bright blood sprayed from the headless body.
Gared's head rolled between legs and bumped against Theon's boot, who laughed and kicked it away lightly.
Eddard produced a rag and wiped the sword clean, the blade retreating back into the hilt of the weapon.
It was the first time Bran had rode out with his Father. And it was the first time he had seen him kill.
He shivered.