Jon
He was Jon no longer. This realization had struck him recently, and it lingered in his mind, a persistent enigma.
"Who am I?"
Time flowed swiftly as Jon scoured the vicinity around the barracks. This part of the city had become infested with fire wyrms, once bound by the chains of the dragon lords but now free. Jon took it upon himself to meticulously dispatch each of these creatures, resurrecting them as slaves for his burgeoning army.
As time raced forward, the enigma of his own identity deepened. His thoughts and actions transcended the mere semblance of Jon Snow. Balerion's once-shadowed musings now echoed as faint whispers, dissipating into the void. Here, no struggle for dominance reigned; only silence and an eerie calm. With each life extinguished at his hand, he felt himself shedding layers, morphing into an entirely novel entity.
"Am I the ghost of Jon Snow? Or the echo of Balerion?"
Throughout countless sun-soaked hours, he stood amidst the aftermath of his destruction, grotesque remnants of monsters strewn at his feet like loyal subjects. His gaze remained transfixed on a singular, hidden point, known only to him—a point that held the secrets of his power, his purpose, his future, and the enigma of self.
Not too long ago, Balerion and Jon Snow shared this realm of consciousness, with Jon holding onto a tenuous grip. Yet now, it seemed as though they had either departed entirely or achieved a complete fusion. Within this merging of minds, fragments of Jon Snow's memories remained vivid, etched in his psyche like bookmarks, each telling a story of love, happiness, or pain.
One such memory was a harrowing ordeal at the hands of Euron Greyjoy, where Jon had first glimpsed the abyss that threatened to consume him. Another was the shattering lie told by Eddard Stark, a revelation that fractured the fragile light within Jon's heart. The last memory, a ray of light in the surrounding darkness, featured a disheveled, brown-haired girl with steely grey eyes and a warm laugh.
These memories portrayed a portrait of a weak boy with a wavering resolve, memories he felt he no longer needed.
In stark contrast, Balerion's recollections were an entirely different tapestry. The Valyrian figure had been a terror to both family and foes, a genius in a world teeming with gods, sorcery, and ancient rituals. Yet, against all odds, Balerion had managed to inspire fear and loathing in them all—a feat that he found strangely inspiring.
Of the two sets of memories, he found himself drawn more towards Balerion's. They were filled with spells, arcane knowledge, and techniques that held immense potential. These were resources he intended to harness fully.
But amidst the labyrinth of these intertwined memories, a single question loomed large, its answer eluding him: Who was he now, in this amalgamation of two disparate souls?
He felt the duality of his existence, his merging of Jon Snow and Balerion, echoing in his very mind.
"Lyanna Stark named her son Jaehaerys Targaryen," he spoke with an air of regal authority, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "But Eddard Stark never allowed Jon to embrace that legacy. The name befits my reign, for I shall surpass my predecessors not through counsel and peace but through fire and blood. The Valyrian Empire will rise anew, and it will consume the entire world."
As his ship approached the Temple of Gods, the eerie remnants of a decimated cityscape passing beneath them, Jaehaerys stood tall, his arms crossed in contemplation.
"Balerion and his siblings concealed countless treasures underground," he continued, his tone filled with a sense of knowing. "And the dragon lords, in their arrogance, built this temple right atop them, ignorant of the riches hidden beneath. Dragonlords were indeed a curious lot."
The ship touched down amid the ruins, and Jaehaerys descended, his undead army following suit down the enormous ramp. His eyes scanned the desolation around him as he spoke with conviction, "This city shall rise from its own ashes, more magnificent than ever before. This will be the launch pad for my conquest."
The remnants of a grim history surrounded him—skeletons of men, women, and children, trapped in their final moments. Amid the bleak tableau, a heart-wrenching image emerged: a mother cradling her infant, forever frozen in a desperate attempt to shield her child from the horrors that rained down upon them.
Jae, in the depths of his soul, remembered the anguish, the cries, and the flames that engulfed the innocent. He recalled the choice he had made, a cruel necessity in the eyes of a conqueror.
The memory unfolded before his mind's eye—a silver-haired woman, tears streaming down her ashen cheeks, clutching her crying toddler close. They were not alone; thousands of silver-haired civilians fled in a frantic, trampling frenzy to escape the impending death and destruction.
Then, as if summoned by the very fires of hell, Balerion appeared—a dark force that inspired terror. Panic ensued, but there was no escape. Balerion raised his hand, and flames devoured the woman and countless others.
Their spirits lingered, trapped between worlds, their anger and sorrow palpable. Their wispy transparent forms rose from their skeletons.
"You were all ignorant, caught in the web of the dragon lords' schemes," Jon addressed the spectral figures. "But guilt by association condemns you all. To halt the infection, we must sever the entire limb."
Accusations flew from the wraiths, their voices carrying pain and anger.
"You killed my family! You are a monster!" one lamented.
"I am the monster the world requires," Jon declared, his outstretched hand wielding the power of death. The wraiths withered, their skeletal forms rising.
Jaehaerys, meanwhile, advanced toward the massive temple doors. They swung open effortlessly, revealing an unexpected scene within—a room aglow with light. Intricate sconces lined the walls, and statues of Valyrian gods stood sentinel. At the far end, altars dedicated to these deities held offerings, candles, and incense.
"Someone is here," Jaehaerys observed, his senses sharpened.
"The god of death has awakened," a foreign voice said.
Turning to face the source of the voice, Jaehaerys beheld a humanoid figure—graceful and otherworldly. Silver hair cascaded over grass-green skin, and sharp, pointed ears framed eyes of deep blue flecked with purple. It was an entity Jon Snow had never encountered, but Balerion recognized it instantly.
"An elf, another Valyrian slave," Jaehaerys remarked, his eyes assessing the creature. "I'm surprised any of your kind remain."
The elf lowered her head respectfully. "I am the last of my kind, Lord Balerion. You disappeared before you could eradicate me or the remaining slaves. You spent your time eliminating the Valyrian masters."
"How many slaves remain wandering?" Jaehaerys inquired casually, glancing around.
"Aqrabuamelus, Minotaurs, Phoenixes, Hydras, Salamanders, Ypotrylls, afancs, Alphyns, Manticores, and ogres," the elf replied dutifully.
"These are dangerous creatures," Jon mused internally. "Balerion's disappearance allowed them to resurface, only to recede once I awoke. This cannot stand."
"They were slaves to the Valyrians, forced to toil in the volcanic mines," Jaehaerys said, his tone authoritative. "They were also experiments – pathways to form more powerful slaves. Under my rule, they shall serve again. They have their uses."
The elf's mask of composure remained intact. "As my wise master wishes."
"From this day forward, you will address me as Jaehaerys. Balerion is a relic of the past—I will hear that name no more," Jaehaerys asserted, his gaze intense.
As Jaehaerys drew closer to her, he noticed a subtle change in the elf's demeanor. She eyed him cautiously, her regal facade faltering momentarily. His aura, a potent tool he had devised, manipulated emotions, and it had its intended effect on her.
He grasped her face gently, examining her unique features. "You are striking, in your own non-human way," he remarked, his thumb tracing her lips.
The elf maintained her poise, despite the suggestive touch. "You are most kind, my lord."
"This is not kindness," Jaehaerys countered. "I have ambitions—to rebuild the Valyrian Empire. To achieve that, I need Valyrians. Are you willing to carry my seed if I demanded it?" He turned her around to observe her backside and squeezed it, letting it fill his whole hand.
Her response was composed, though her voice held a trace of breathlessness. "Yes, my lord Jaehaerys."
"Good," Jaehaerys replied, withdrawing his hand and dispelling his aura. He smirked as he watched her chest rise and fall subtly. "You are now in my service. Accompany me as I continue in this temple."
The elf's eyes regained their regal composure, but a glint of mystery remained. "Yes, my lord."
"What is your name?" Jaehaerys inquired.
"Yavanna, Lord Jaehaerys," she replied, the glint fading.
Jaehaerys moved on, and Yavanna followed his confident strides. Behind them, fifty undead Valyrian warriors clad in Valyrian armor trailed, their torchlight casting eerie reflections.
They delved deeper into the temple's heart, uncovering cryptic symbols and carvings depicting gods and battles of yore. The air grew heavy with ancient secrets, and Jaehaerys felt a sense of familiarity. "I am both Jon Snow and Balerion. Their essence flows through me. Balerion's memories resonate with this place."
As they ventured further, a blaze of light illuminated their path—an ornate archway guarded by colossal stone statues of dragons. Jaehaerys passed beneath it, and the tunnel opened into a vast chamber, a trove of Valyrian relics and artifacts.
He stood before the treasures of the Valyrian gods, artifacts promising untold power. "This scythe," he whispered, seizing a shimmering, rune-adorned Valyrian blade, "is mine, and it hungers for death. It shall rebuild this city."
Yavanna observed in awe as Jaehaerys explained the scythe's power. "Only through destruction may creation begin. By claiming souls, by causing destruction, it births creation. It holds the power to reshape continents."
"Truly awe-inspiring, my lord," she replied, her emotions well-hidden.
"The world has yet to witness the full extent of my might," Jaehaerys mused with a wicked grin. He turned and continued his exploration, Yavanna following faithfully.
Deeper still, they entered a vast chamber filled with stone sarcophagi—immortalized warriors of the Valyrian gods, trapped in eternal slumber.
"These are the fallen warriors of Balerion's time," Jaehaerys explained, his power resonating with the dormant warriors. He raised his hand that buzzed with black energy, and the lids of the sarcophagi slid open, awakening a legion of black skeletal Valyrian warriors, their green-flamed eyes fixed on him.
"The Great Other has his warriors. And I have mine."
With unwavering loyalty, the leader of the resurrected warriors knelt before Jaehaerys, his voice a haunting echo of death. "We are yours to command, O glorious one. By your power, we are awakened," he said in the language of lost Valyria Jae was easily able to translate.
"I am Jaehaerys, your new master," he proclaimed. "And you all will help me shape this world."
Yavanna watched very quietly as Jaehaerys exercised his newfound authority.
With an unwavering spirit and newfound allies, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the fusion of Jon Snow and Balerion, stood at the threshold of a destiny that would reshape the very fabric of the world.
Rhaenys
Rhaenys abruptly awoke, her body drenched in chilling perspiration. In the softly lit chamber graciously provided by Lady Mellario, her uneven breaths reverberated loudly through the stillness. "What... what was that?" The daughter of Rhaegar cast wary glances around her room, half-expecting to confront undead warriors clad in gleaming armor with eerie, green-flaming eyes.
Only when she was certain her surroundings were devoid of peril did she begin to take measured breaths, attempting to quell her racing heart. Still, an unsettling presence lingered in the corners of her consciousness.
With a contented purr, Balerion, her tomcat companion, leaped onto her lap and snuggled close, as if sensing her distress. Rhaenys offered a faint smile and affectionately scratched behind the feline's ear. However, the smile quickly faded as she fixated on the wall, her thoughts consumed by the haunting images from her dream. "It was another dream," Rhaenys whispered to herself, her voice a mere murmur. "But it was him again."
Rhaenys had always been a dreamer.
Since her earliest years, she had experienced visions that transcended time and reality—glimpses of long-past events, alternate futures, and the echoes of what might have been. As a child, these enigmatic dreams had often brought her to tears, seeking solace in the embrace of her father, Rhaegar. She recalled his comforting touch, his silent, protective presence, and the unwavering love that radiated from his sorrowful, amethyst eyes. Even her father, the tragic heir of a lineage steeped in shadows, had been haunted by his own nightmares.
Rhaenys's dreams were an enigma, their patterns capricious and unpredictable. Occasionally, they unfolded in grandiosity, but more often, they concerned trivial matters—like her victorious games of Cyvasse against a frustrated Aegon.
Yet, the dreams bore an undeniable weight—a constant reminder of her family's tumultuous history. She carried the legacy of House Targaryen, a lineage teetering between moments of brilliance and the oppressive darkness that cast long shadows over their achievements. The power of dreams had both saved and cursed her house—a double-edged sword.
The knowledge that her own dreams had driven her ancestors to the precipice of madness was inescapable. Her grandfather's descent into madness was a chilling testament to the legacy, and even her father, who had been born in the aftermath of the Summerhall tragedy, had not been immune to the consequences of his own visions. This awareness filled Rhaenys with profound shame.
Nevertheless, she had embarked on a path distinct from her forebears, determined to transcend the burdens of her lineage. During her time in Norvos, she had fought to cast aside the influence of her dreams, to forge a destiny grander than that of her father.
Yet, the dream that had now shaken her to her core was unlike any other. It was haunted by the presence of a man—or perhaps a beast—of unparalleled intensity. Visions of him had plagued her for some time, each one growing more vivid and unsettling than the last.
In her slumber, she bore witness to the heart-wrenching cruelty inflicted upon a grey-eyed boy—a victim of a madman whose lips bore the chilling hue of ice. She watched helplessly as the boy's innocence crumbled, transforming him into a mirror image of his tormentor, his eye forever lost to relentless agony. Though she did not know the boy, an inexplicable connection bound her to his fate, and it pained her deeply to witness his descent into darkness.
In the depths of this nightmarish vision, she saw an otherworldly force lay claim to him—a power beyond the realm of mortal comprehension. It twisted the boy into a creature consumed by malevolence, driven by an insatiable thirst for chaos. This dream defied explanation, leaving her with an unshakable sense of foreboding as if the boundary between the waking world and the realm of nightmares had blurred, and a looming darkness threatened to envelop everything.
"It's just a dream... Just a dream," Rhaenys repeated to herself, her voice barely audible.
Ned
Their journey from the docks of Pentos to the old city of Norvos had been grueling, offering no respite to Robert's soldiers. Upon their arrival, Robert wasted no time, immediately ordering horses for the arduous road ahead. Seven days of relentless riding had left Ned with chafed thighs and an aching back, which was only exacerbated by his advancing age.
Adding to his discomfort was Jaime Lannister's ceaseless taunting and jibes. The Kingslayer seemed determined to turn this journey into a living nightmare for Ned, his mocking white teeth and disdainful green eyes serving as constant reminders of his treachery. Ned despised everything about Jaime Lannister.
To temper his frustration and anxiety, Ned turned inward, brooding. "Will Robb call the banners once news of my capture spreads? Or has he done so already?" The worry gnawed at him. Robb was still a boy, inexperienced in matters of warfare. If Robb were to wage war on his behalf, he would face formidable opponents like Tywin Lannister and Stannis Baratheon—seasoned commanders and unyielding men. Ned had little confidence in those odds. He wished he could tell Robb to stand down and avoid any rash actions. "I am not worth sparking a war of my own making..."
Their arrival in the city of Norvos came too quickly. Nestled among rolling hills and caressed by the meandering waters of the Rhoyne River, Norvos had an air of ancient history and mystique. Under the shroud of night, it transformed into a city of enchanting allure and subdued grandeur. Lanterns emitted a gentle glow, while the moonlight added a silvery shimmer to the city's beauty.
At the city's entrance, ancient pink marble statues cast long, graceful shadows that seemed like sentinels guarding the centuries of history witnessed by Norvos. The city's architecture, an elegant blend of grace and strength, took on an ethereal quality under the moonlight. Towering spires and arched bridges appeared to bridge the gap between the earthly realm and the celestial, their intricate details bathed in a silvered glow.
In the heart of Norvos, bustling markets had transformed into a mesmerizing tableau of colors and scents. The night air was alive with exotic spices and fragrant blossoms, and vendors' lanterns cast dancing patterns of light on their wares. Norvos at night was a symphony of elegance.
Yet, the beauty was marred by the sight of slave children and women wandering about, their faces devoid of emotion. Ned clenched his teeth in disdain. "Slavery is a monstrous practice that should be abolished," he muttered, though he knew that as Warden of the North, he was in a city where slavery brought great wealth.
Robert suddenly halted the procession, raising a fist to capture everyone's attention. "Our sole objective is the Targaryen threat, nothing else," he declared sternly. "If any of you harm anyone not in our way, I'll personally crush your chest. But those who obstruct us, kill them all. And whoever brings me that massive sword Arthur Dayne carries, I'll ensure you shit more gold than Tywin Lannister! HA!" Robert's boisterous laugh echoed through the night.
Jaime snorted in response.
Ned's grip on his reins tightened, his unease deepening. "I have a foreboding about this," he muttered under his breath.
Rhaenys
The interior of Lady Mellario's house exuded an air of opulence and refinement. Every corner of the grand mansion bore witness to a rich tapestry of culture and artistry. Rhaenys, as she walked through the polished marble hallway with Balerion in her arms, was greeted by intricate tapestries that adorned the walls. These finely woven artworks depicted scenes from across the known world, each thread telling a story of its own.
The flickering glow of ornate lanterns cast warm, amber light upon the mosaic-tiled floor, creating an inviting path for Rhaenys to follow. The ceilings were high, and their ornate carvings reached for the heavens, a testament to the craftsmanship that had gone into their creation.
As she made her way to her brother's room, Rhaenys couldn't help but pause to admire the intricacies of Norvosi Architecture. Arched doorways framed with delicate latticework led to hidden chambers, and the air still carried the faint scent of exotic spices from the kitchens despite the latest supper ending hours ago.
Rhaenys had spent most of her years in Norvos, and her love for the mansion where they resided ran deep. She was eternally grateful for Lady Mellario's unwavering hospitality after the rebellion had ended. Mellario had gone above and beyond, accepting Doran's request to provide sanctuary for Rhaenys and Aegon. She had crafted a clever disguise to keep them safe and treated them with the warmth and care of a loving mother.
"As you know, Arianne can't visit as often as she'd like. In the gaps between her visits, you and Egg fill the void," Mellario had kindly expressed, her dark eyes shining with joy.
Mellario had become the closest thing to a mother figure that Rhaenys had ever known. Memories of her late mother were too painful to bear.
"Milady," Arthur Dayne greeted when he saw her, standing guard outside Aegon's chamber. Time had been kind to the knight, his raven-black hair and intense purple eyes remaining unchanged. He had forsaken the ostentatious white cloak and armor of the Kingsguard, opting for the attire of a Norvosi guardsman. But he still held onto Dawn, the legendary greatsword, visible in its sheath on his back.
"You know you're not supposed to roam the halls at night; it's too dangerous," Arthur gently chided.
Arthur had saved her and Aegon's lives in King's Landing, earning her deep admiration. "I know, Ser. But I need to speak with him. I had another dream. Please," Rhaenys pleaded softly, cradling Balerion in her arms.
Arthur's eyes softened, and he opened the door, closing it behind Rhaenys as she entered. Aegon was already awake, despite the early hour. Even with his hair and eyebrows dyed bright blue, he was often noted as the spitting image of Rhaegar, tall and broad-shouldered. Crucially, unlike Rhaenys, he was not burdened by dreams.
"Good morning, sister," Aegon greeted with a yawn. "What can poor Egg do for you?"
"I had another dream," Rhaenys replied, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Another one? It won't help you cheat at Cyvasse this time," Aegon teased, keeping a watchful eye on Balerion, who was known for his cantankerousness.
"No, it's different. It's about the boy with the grey eyes," Rhaenys said.
Aegon raised an eyebrow. "Him again? You know it's dangerous to have an infatuation with a boy you've never even met, right?"
Rhaenys wasn't amused. "This isn't a joke."
Yawning and stretching, Aegon continued, "So you've seen a lad in your dreams. It's probably nothing."
"You admitted to seeing him too!" Rhaenys reminded him, recalling the first time they had both seen the boy, who had seemed to acknowledge her presence and plea for help.
"Once," Aegon stubbornly corrected. "And then I never saw him again. We have no connection to him. I don't know why you're so fixated."
"Can you please just listen to what I saw, for once?" Rhaenys implored.
Aegon rolled his eyes and flopped back onto his pillow. "Fine."
Rhaenys sighed with annoyance. "I've seen him in my dreams several times, but this time was different."
"Why, did he blow you a kiss?" Aegon quipped.
Refusing to indulge his jest, Rhaenys continued, "Something seized him, Egg, something from the shadows. He's become a monster now."
Aegon's interest was piqued. "Go on."
"He emerged from the shadows, transformed into a completely different person, and the shadows obey his every command now. He's in an old city – I don't know where – surrounded by monsters. But when he walks, the monsters bow before his shadow, and fire crowns his head. The dead rise at his will and walk among the living."
Aegon's expression remained serious. "Interesting."
Rhaenys lowered her gaze. "I know it all sounds foolish, but I feel like something ominous is approaching. I don't know what it is. Perhaps that man is real and is coming to harm us all. Maybe the usurper has discovered our whereabouts. I-"
"Stop," Aegon interrupted, sitting up and placing a warm but firm hand on her shoulder. Their matching purple eyes locked. "If anyone comes for us, I'll stop them. No one will harm you; I swear it. If it's the usurper coming to harm you, I'll face him in single combat to avenge our father and throw his ridiculous stag helmet into the river. And if I have to confront this 'monster' to protect my big sister, I'll do it. I'll destroy him and take his place as the leader of the undead army, conquering the world and crowning you with blackened bones."
Rhaenys chuckled and playfully slapped his arm. "Again, you're not funny."
Aegon shrugged. "I beg to differ." His tone grew serious. "I will take the Iron Throne. Then, no one will be able to hurt us."
"Egg, I've been thinking for a while now, but do we really have to reclaim the throne?" Rhaenys asked quietly.
Aegon's frown deepened. "What kind of question is that? Of course, we have to."
"But do we?" Rhaenys persisted. "We lost the throne to them, fair and square. To regain it, we'd have to cause the deaths of thousands, just to put you on that seat. Women and children would suffer, and sickness would run rampant. Is it truly worth the cost? We can stay here, Egg, avoid war and bloodshed."
Aegon shook his head firmly. "No. As long as Robert Baratheon breathes, we'll never be safe. His spies are always on the lookout. Arianne mentioned it during her last visit, remember? Spies were active in Dorne, searching for any trace of us. Do you think we're truly safe here? It won't last."
"Then we can go somewhere else," Rhaenys insisted.
"There are only so many places we can hide," Aegon responded, his voice resolute. "I have no intention of cowering before the man who killed our father. Dragons don't run. Robert Baratheon and his dogs took everything from us—the throne, our dignity. They scattered us like leaves in the wind and forced us to hide under rocks. Rhaenys, they killed our parents!" Aegon's eyes glistened with emotion.
Rhaenys swallowed hard and intertwined her fingers nervously. "It's all true, but... I don't want more bloodshed."
"It's our words, sister—'Fire and Blood.' We need it to reclaim what is rightfully ours. We need it to ensure our safety," Aegon declared, cupping her cheek with a warm hand. "I will protect you."
Rhaenys clasped the offered hand and mustered a fragile smile. "And what of Daenerys and Viserys?" Her curiosity about her distant kin had always lingered, even though she and Aegon remained in the dark about their whereabouts.
Aegon's expression soured, reflecting the uncertainty that shrouded their missing relatives.
Rhaenys fixed him with a determined glare. "Remember, they are still the children of the Mad King, but blood ties still bind us, egg."
Aegon relented with a lopsided grin. "Alright, them too."
In that moment, the tranquility of their conversation was shattered by the echoing shouts of guards within the mansion. The night's silence fractured with the unmistakable sounds of shattered glass and clashing swords. The door burst open, and Arthur Dayne strode in, his greatsword gripped tightly. "The usurper has arrived! We must depart!" His voice rang with urgency.
"Robert Baratheon is here? How…" Dread clutched at her heart, casting a shadow over Rhaenys.
Aegon's gaze turned sharp and resolute. "Then we have no choice but to stand and fight." He retrieved his sheathed sword from beside his bed and swiftly donned his boiled leather jerkin and chainmail.
Arthur Dayne, however, shook his head with determination. "No, we must ensure your safety, Aegon. I will not let history repeat itself, losing you as I did your father." He tossed a heavy brown cloak to Rhaenys. "We must leave immediately."
"What about Lady Mellario?" Rhaenys asked as they hurried down the hallway. As they ventured further, chaos and turmoil engulfed them. Torches hurled through windows, shattering and igniting fires that swiftly consumed the mansion. Men in crimson cloaks clashed with Norvosi guards in a tumultuous melee.
"Your safety is paramount!" Arthur bellowed, Dawn flashing as he cut down a Lannister soldier, his words echoing through the chaos.
"We can't abandon her! They'll kill her!" Rhaenys's protests were muffled by the firm grip of Arthur's hands as he hurried her along. Balerion's talons dug into her shoulder, refusing to release their hold.
The trio sprinted through the chaos of battling soldiers, their path guided by a small contingent of loyal guards, leaving behind the anguished cries of combat. They burst out of the mansion's rear entrance, only to come to an abrupt halt at the startling scene before them.
A group of men clad in Lannister armor stood in their path, effectively blocking any hope of retreat. Among them, one man sat atop a horse with his hands bounded in rope, grey eyes, and of dark brown hair. "He has the same eyes as the boy in my dreams," Rhaenys thought, her lips thinning.
Nearby, another figure became all too familiar. "Jaime Lannister." Realization dawned on Rhaenys with a sudden jolt.
Amidst the soldiers, a formidable figure dominated the scene. Towering at over six feet, he was encased in a massive suit of armor, the colors of House Baratheon emblazoned across it. His helmet bore imposing stag antlers at its apex. Gripped in one hand, he wielded a colossal war hammer that should have been impossible for any mere mortal to carry with a single hand. In his other hand, he held Mellario, who writhed desperately.
Fear surged through Rhaenys like a tidal wave. "Mellario!" Her scream echoed through the tumult.
Mellario met her gaze, fear mirrored in her eyes. "Rhaenys, Aegon – you must flee!"
But defiance welled up within her. Rhaenys shook her head.
"There will be no more fleeing, not after today." Robert's dark chuckle reverberated ominously as his hateful blue eyes glared from behind his visor.
"Robert," Arthur hissed with seething contempt. "You display remarkable audacity to confront me after your heinous deeds." His gaze shifted to the silent figure of Jaime Lannister.
"Kingslayer," Arthur greeted with a frigid tone. "You wear your dishonor and treachery like a badge of shame. How do you reckon Rhaegar would judge you, serving the very man who ended his life and brought death upon Elia?" Strangely, Jaime could not meet Arthur's unrelenting gaze.
"Arthur," Robert said, his words dripping with bitterness. "It's taken you far too long to muster the courage to face me. How do you reckon Rhaegar would judge that?"
Aegon advanced, his eyes ablaze with hatred. "You'll answer for my father's death."
"I think not, you dragon fuck. You and your sister shall rot in the ground, right where I put your vile father!"
"Robert, cease this madness!" The grey-eyed man implored.
But Robert paid no heed. His furious, blue eyes scanned the surroundings. "Where is he?! Where is the last one!" Even the grey-eyed man joined in the frantic search.
"Who is he talking about? Has he lost his mind even further?"
Everyone's expressions contorted into frowns – everyone except Arthur, who remained resolute. "He's not here, Baratheon. He never was." Arthur looked at the grey-eyed man and returned his gaze back to Robert. "And you shall never lay hands on him," Arthur declared with unwavering eyes.
Robert's eyes blazed with fury. With a snarl, he callously hurled Mellario to the ground, eliciting a strangled cry, and raised his massive war hammer high into the air.
Rhaenys gasped.
"STOP!" Rhaenys, Arthur, Aegon, and even the grey-eyed man cried out.
The war hammer descended upon Mellario's head, crushing it instantly, and sending blood and brains splattering in all directions. Rhaenys remained frozen, surrounded by men charging forward in a maddened frenzy. Her gaze remained fixed on the spot where Mellario's head had once been.
"No," Rhaenys whispered, tears clouding her vision.
Ned
"Madness. Absolute madness," Ned murmured, his eyes fixed on the unfolding battle before him. Robert and Arthur locked eyes, and in an instant, they were engaged in combat. Robert let out a thunderous roar as he swung his Warhammer with all his might. Arthur skillfully deflected the blow with his greatsword, moving so swiftly that Ned almost missed it.
With a flick of his greatsword, Arthur countered again, this time causing chips to fly off Robert's shield. In response, Robert pushed forward aggressively, using his shield to protect himself from Dawn's deadly edge. His powerful war hammer delivered mighty blows that would have felled a horse.
One swing missed its mark and crashed into the helmet of a Norvasi guard, killing him instantly. Another strike, a vertical blow, struck the earth with such force that it created a deep dent in the ground. The onlookers wisely cleared a path for these two formidable warriors as they clashed in the midst of the chaos.
Arthur's mastery of combat was evident as he skillfully parried Robert's powerful blows instead of meeting them head-on. His movements were fluid, turning aside each strike with precision. But the knight was strong in his own right, each blow packing enough power to be a threat to Robert.
With a quick transition, Arthur shifted to the offensive. Dawn seemed to dance in his hands, striking at Robert from various angles. Robert raised his shield in a desperate attempt to defend himself, but it proved futile. The relentless assault chipped away at the shield until it was left in tatters.
Growling in frustration, Robert hurled the remnants of his shield at Arthur, who deftly swiped it aside. This brief distraction gave Robert an opening for a two-handed strike aimed directly at Arthur's head. With no time to evade the attack, Arthur met it head-on with his own weapon. The impact was thunderous, and the force of the clash reverberated through the battlefield.
Robert, fueled by fury, exerted his strength, attempting to drive Arthur back. However, Arthur's skill and agility came into play once again as he swiftly pivoted, countering Robert's overhead strike with a well-timed blow of his own.
With a resounding clang, Robert's helmet was knocked off, revealing wavy black hair and an enraged face. He let out a furious roar and lunged at Arthur with unexpected speed for a man of his imposing stature. "I'll kill you just as I killed Rhaegar, Dayne!" he bellowed.
Ned observed the battle critically, trying to not feel amazed by the epic duel he was witnessing. "This should not be happening in the first place."
"It appears that Robert is growing weary," Ned thought with a sense of dread. The demon of the Trident trading blows with the Sword of The Morning for this long bespoke of his incredible fighting prowess. But the epic battle was taking its toll on the mighty warrior.
Breathing heavily, Robert pressed on, but Arthur showed no mercy, relentlessly advancing. "It's time for you to atone for your sins," Arthur declared, delivering a horizontal slash that Robert barely managed to deflect in time.
The next slash came swiftly, striking Robert's breastplate and easily slicing deep into the steel. "You will answer for the deaths of countless Dornishmen," Arthur continued, easily parrying a feeble counterattack and targeting Robert's knee brace, causing him to stumble and limp.
"You will answer for the murder of Elia Martell." Arthur's voice was firm and filled with righteous anger. With a devastating strike with Dawn, he severed Robert's lobstered hand with ease.
Robert cried out in agonizing pain and fell to his knees, cradling his stump. Arthur looked down at him with a mixture of disgust and hatred, purple eyes burning. "And you will answer for the death of my dearest friend Rhaegar Targaryen." His sword descended with lethal intent.
Ned couldn't watch his best friend die. "Robert, No!" He spurred his horse forward at a gallop. Arthur's quick reflexes saved him, as he swiftly moved out of the way.
However, Robert, screaming in pain and anger, tightened his grip on the Warhammer, now his only hand. He swung it with devastating force, smacking into Arthur's shoulder plate with a sickening crunch. The impact sent the Sword of the Morning reeling to the ground with a painful grunt, rolling over several yards.
"Arthur!" Aegon rushed forward, slashing at Robert. Despite having only one hand, Robert parried the attack harshly, causing Aegon to lose his grip on his sword.
With relentless fury, Robert kicked Aegon square in the chest, sending the young Targaryen sprawling into the dirt with a gasp. "For Lyanna!" Robert screamed, raising the mighty hammer for a deadly strike.
"What have I done?"
Jaime
His golden sword flickered with precision, knocking the Warhammer from Robert's grasp.
Enraged, Robert's eyes turned toward Jaime. "Kingslayer!" he bellowed, but his words were abruptly halted as Dawn emerged from his chest, its milky blade coated with Baratheon blood. Robert choked, his fury replaced by shock. Arthur swiftly snatched the sword out and, in one clean slash, severed Robert's head from his body.
Blood splattered across Jaime's face and speckled his golden armor, yet he felt nothing but numbness. "Not again." He sighed heavily.
Robert's lifeless head rolled to a stop before Ned's horse. The Stark slowly climbed off his horse, his hands still bound, and dropped to his knees.
"Robert…no," Ned Stark whispered, his voice heavy with grief. Then he turned to Jaime, his gaze filled with loathing. "You stabbed your first king in the back, and now you've been complicit in the murder of the second. Have you no honor?"
"I will always be seen as a stain in your righteous eyes."
"Ugh, kiss his bloody head already. It's funny how you cling to your honor," Jaime retorted with a bitter edge. He walked over to Ned and, without hesitation, smashed the pommel of his sword across the Stark's temple. Ned promptly slumped to the dirt beside the severed head of his best friend.
Aegon and Arthur watched the grim tableau unfold in heavy silence.
"They didn't expect this. They thought I would've participated in their lousy deaths."
Jaime's anger flared. "What are you stupid fools staring at? Get out of here!" he snapped, his voice laced with irritation. "Before I change my mind and finish what Baratheon started." He pointed his golden sword menacingly in their direction, driving home the gravity of his words.
Arthur, nursing his injured shoulder from Robert's earlier blow, could easily attest to the seriousness of Jaime's threat.
Aegon sprang into action, rising from his position and taking Rhaenys by the hand. He urged her to quickly mount Ned's horse. Despite the ongoing chaos of battle around them, the soldiers were to preoccupied with their own survival to grasp the significance of the unfolding situation.
Arthur stared at Jaime, his purple eyes reflecting a blend of shock and suspicion. "Why?" he inquired, his voice laced with uncertainty.
"Because I've always wanted to be just like you, and because I will always honor the memory of Rhaegar and the promise I swore to him."
Anger swept through his veins at the stupid thought.
A mocking grin crossed Jaime's face as he said, "Why not? I am the Kingslayer, after all, and this is the kind of work I excel at. I should kill you for stealing my glory. But it wouldn't be far, especially since you're a bit of a cripple at the moment. I'll reserve that opportunity for the next time our paths cross. My horse is right over there – leave and take Ned Stark with you. I can't stand the stench of a wolf for too long."
Arthur maintained a prolonged, inscrutable gaze before finally nodding in agreement. Without further words, he followed Jaime's advice and swiftly departed from the scene.
Arthur: Who do you think made the most stupid mistake in this chapter? ;)
I wanted to show how i thought Robert would be displayed if he kept to his warrior ways, but at the same time demonstrate that Arthur Dayne is simply too much for anyone to handle. Let me know what you think of the fight!
And i was very close to killing Aegon off. But i knew yall would be disappointed if he and Jon didn't face off at least once. But...by this way, Aegon's confrontation with Jon may be a bit tragic lmao.
What do you think of Yavanna or the slaves we will see up next?
Let me know your thoughts in the review!