Author's Note: Me again. Thanks for all the follows and reviews kiddos, particularly the latter. I'm not one to beg, but they are one of the main reasons I keep posting, so throw out a thought or two if you have the time.

Let's just get into it, shall we? I hope you enjoy the Battle of the Trident, Part 1.

Chapter 18

Aelor Targaryen had often wondered what ran through a man's mind when he topped a ridge to face the steel of an enemy host. He'd known the feeling in small portions, experience from the Parchments and Bronzegate and other skirmishes, but he'd never seen disciplined lines of enemy armor stretching almost as far as his eyes could see.

Now he had.

The rebel forces were exactly where they'd thought they'd be, staring across the river Trident at them from behind walls of shields and armor. The prancing stag of Baratheon flew over the spears directly center of the unnamed ford, its waters having receded back to its normal banks after four days of sun. It ran a beautiful blue green beneath a brightening and brilliant blue sky, babbling away in that soothing way of water. It was a clear, crisp morning, with not a cloud to be seen. A beautiful morning, the type artists painted or wove, not the type men fought and died under.

Yet here I am, and so is the enemy. Thousands will die today, pretty sky or no. Aelor sat Warrior three hundred yards off at the edge of the tree line, staring at the riverbank full of men he was going to kill.

The Stormlanders held the center, judging by the banners. There was the black and white swan of House Swann, the green turtle of Estermont, the hanged man of Trant and dozens of others. Dominating them all and billowing over the epicenter of the rebel lines was the black stag of Baratheon, it's golden field brilliant in the sunlight. Even at this distance Aelor could see the daunting form of Robert Baratheon atop a fittingly white stallion, an antlered helm and his impressive stature singling him out from among the forest of steel and iron. I've been hunting you for months, Baratheon. I am glad we've finally bumped into one another.

The Dragon of Duskendale let his gaze drift from the rebel leader, following the line of enemies to his right. He was greeted by the iron studs on bronze field of Royce, the six bells on purple field of Belmore, the silver arrows on brown field of Hunter and, predominate to them all, the soaring blue falcon on white moon and sky blue field of Arryn. The Vale holds their left, then, meaning…To his own left, the enemies right, he recognized the giant in chains on red field of Umber, the merman on blue field of Manderly, the flayed man on pink field of Bolton, and of course the running grey direwolf on white field of Stark. Intermixed with them all was the dancing maiden of Piper, eagles of Mallister, and frog of Vypren, and of course the trout on blue and red field of Tully. Brilliant, a full house. We wouldn't want anyone missing the party, now would we.

A melodic, melancholy voice spoke to Aelor's left, King Rhaegar reining up beside him on a stallion nearly as big and dark as his own. Aelor felt Warrior begin to tense, snorting heavily at the appearance of a potential rival at his flank. "I see they were expecting us."

Aelor grunted his agreement, reaching down to pat Warrior's neck below the crinet. Easy boy, there will be plenty of targets for your ire today. He gestured towards the forest of spears forming the front lines, swordsmen behind them. The enemy was massed heavily in the center, wisely making their line the strongest where the Targaryens would have to cross the river. While the ford was wide and the open fields on either side helped, there was still only a limited amount of space that the royalist would have to cross. "I can't see them for the spearmen, but I'd wager all of Duskendale that nearly every archer they have is sighted in on the ford."

Ser Barristan the Bold, mounted to the left of the King on a stallion as white as his armor, nodded his agreement. "It's what we had anticipated, Your Grace, and what we would have done in their place."

It's what we anticipated, yes, but I had kept a little hope they'd be stupid. Folly, I suppose. "Once we're across the water their flanks will certainly swoop in on our own. We'll be fighting in a horseshoe, just as we thought." Aelor stretched his arms, flexing and relaxing his hands in rapid succession. He felt the lust for battle already coursing through his veins, that dose of clarity it bathed the world in sharpening his senses. He nodded confidently. "I'll punch a hole. You bring the infantry in to fill it."

"Has Prince Oberyn had time to get into position?" Jon Connington, screeching griffin helm under an arm and mounted on a stallion as red as his hair, sounded as anticipatory as Aelor himself felt. Whatever he thought of Connington—bad things, generally—the man was a strong warrior and did not lack for bravery. Aelor was glad to know he would be fighting with the king.

Aelor grinned at his question. "Trust me, Connington; Oberyn will be there when we need him to be. Who knows, with his help I might just survive this cursed charge."

He felt his brother's gaze and turned to meet it. Rhaegar did not look angry, but his voice held a bit of reprimand. "I still believe it should be me."

Aelor shook his head, meeting his brother's identical eyes and holding them steadily. "We've talked about this."

"And I should lead the vanguard, while you should be with Oberyn."

The prince shook his head, as he had every time the king suggested that folly. He gestured down at himself, indicating the pitch-black armor with warring white dragons on its breastplate, as well as the helm in his hand and its white flame crest. "I've been fighting those bastards since the start, and I'm bloody hard to miss. They would notice if I wasn't here, Rhaegar. And since everyone from Robert Baratheon to the High Septon knows I wouldn't miss this fight for all the gold in Casterly Rock, it would tell them that something is wrong." He shook his head again. "My place is here. Besides," Aelor added on as he patted his stallion's armored neck once more. "Warrior will want in on the action from the beginning."

Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Why am I not surprised." Rhaegar looked back to the enemy, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I suppose it is time. Jon, Barristan, give us a moment." Connington obeyed without hesitation, whirling his red stallion to gallop back towards the main lines, men from the Reach, the Crownlands, the Westerlands and Dorne all preparing for the slaughter soon to come. Barristan hesitated, clearly unwilling to leave the King when so near the enemy, but turned to follow when Rhaegar patted his armored shoulder to reassure him.

"I should lead this charge, Aelor," Rhaegar protested again as soon as they were out of earshot. The two brothers had had this private argument a dozen times already, but the king clearly wished to give it one last effort. As it stood, Rhaegar and Barristan were to lead the second wave of attackers, a mixture of battle-hardened men-at-arms and peasant levies, after the vanguard had gained a foothold on the opposite bank. That vanguard consisted of over three thousand knights and free riders, spearheaded by Aelor's own retinue.

And at the very tip of that spearhead would be the Dragon of Duskendale himself. Not even Rhaegar bloody Targaryen would talk his brother out of it, no matter how much he tried.

"Why," Aelor snapped, glaring at him. "For glory? For the singers?"

Rhaegar's face hardened into his cold anger. "You know I do not care for that. It is my place."

"Your place is on the Iron Throne, ruling all seven of the kingdoms. My place is at the head of this charge, stitching those kingdoms back together one dead man at a time." Aelor took a calming breath. Hypocritical of me, to reprimand Warrior for snapping at one of his own only to then do it myself. He patted the horse again in silent apology, then spoke in a much calmer tone to his brother. "You are the better ruler. I am the better killer. We've both known that since we were young, just as we knew you would one day be king. And you are king now, Rhaegar. If you die in the initial volley, half of the men will turn and flee before they even manage to draw an ounce of the enemy's blood. Better the King lose his Hand than his head."

Rhaegar had also regained his calm, though he had not quite surrendered the point. "You mean more to the men than I do. As you say, you are the warrior between us; if you die early, there confidence will be shattered."

"Perhaps, but you are their hope for the future. You are who they fight for." Aelor snorted. "And I'm leading this bloody charge."

Rhaegar shook his head in defeat, letting out a long sigh. "Sometimes I wonder which of us thinks he's king."

"Obviously it's you, or we wouldn't be here in the first place."

The King of the Iron Throne held his brother's gaze for a long moment, then—almost tentatively—extended his hand. "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, baby brother, but you're still my blood and the man I trust most in this world. Whatever our differences have been, know that I love you."

Aelor eyed the King's extended hand, all his brother's prophecies and blunders flashing before him. But close on the heels of those were better memories of when they were children, of hiding from their tutors in the secret passages and having at one another with wooden swords and laughter. He also thought of the Rhaegar he'd known before Harrenhal, the older brother who always knew the right thing to say and do, and whom Aelor had idolized.

And then I nearly killed him. We have fallen far, we sons of Aerys, but perhaps it doesn't have to remain that way. Aelor reached out his gauntlet to take the king's, squeezing it tightly. "Whatever has happened and whatever will, know that I love you too."

Rhaegar nodded, giving his brother one last sad smile, before he wheeled the stallion around and galloped towards the main lines.

Aelor took a deep breath, letting his eyes focus on the enemy preparing for the charge they knew was coming. His lust for battle was building with every breath, dragon's blood nearly singing in his veins. It is time to do what I do best. Aelor lowered his white flame helm over his head and set his broad shoulders, funneling his increasing energy into his voice. He bellowed loudly enough that he knew beyond doubt that every soldier at the ford, be they loyalist or traitor, heard him. "Vanguard!"

Aelor felt their answering roar in his very soul, vibrating through the hundreds of pounds of horseflesh beneath him. His knights trotted forward with their lances angled upwards and at the ready. His own veterans, bolstered by the best knights chosen from the entirety of the loyalist army, took their place of honor at his sides, forming the wedge they had employed both successfully and poorly.

I needn't worry this time though; there's a river to either side. Even Selwyn fucking Tarth couldn't flank me here.

It was a wide ford but there were a lot of men and horses, too many for one great line, so rows of men formed behind the front rank. That place of both danger and honor was occupied almost exclusively his own retinue, men who had been with him even before the war. He'd talked to them late into the night before, making sure they truly understood what was coming for them all—they were charging into the teeth of wolves, and death would likely be the result. Once Aelor was confident they had understood, he had given them each the option of excusing themselves from the vanguard and instead crossing with the infantry, assuring them no one would think them a coward.

None had taken it. All fifty-five of them, from young Desmond Langward to the aging Ser Gullien Elwood, had opted to stay with him.

Aelor had been prince from birth and had had many fine words heaped upon him, but the trust and loyalty of those men had been the highest honor of his life.

Aelor took the lance Desmond brought him, pleased to see how well the armor he had commissioned for the lad fit his lanky form. Part of Aelor didn't want him to ride along, for he had turned six and ten only three days ago, and this was fully a suicide charge. But he knew better than to ask the boy to stay behind, and while he could order him to…well, that would likely be the first order the lad ever disobeyed. Aelor liked his spirit and felt comfortable leaving his back guarded by the young man—Desmond hadn't failed him yet. "Are you with me, Des?"

The Langward lad smiled broadly and gave his customary answer as he handed Aelor his shield. "To the death, my prince."

"You're a good lad." He turned to his other side, speaking before he even laid eyes on the man beside him. It didn't make any difference, really; there was no doubt in Aelor's mind who it would be. "And you, Ren?"

The Lord of Hollard Hall smiled through the visor of his spiked helm. Aelor couldn't really see it, but he knew. "I was there when this war started. I aim to be here when it ends. Besides, Malessa wrote me that she's several moons along with child; best we wrap this war business up quickly so I can be there when he arrives."

Aelor laughed loudly. "Congratulations. I'll be praying he is actually a she; the Seven aren't cruel enough to curse us with two Renfred Rykkers." The big Targaryen smacked the side of his arm against his breastplate, lance stabbing into the air as he did so. "Strong shield."

Rykker returned the gesture. "Stronger sword."

The Targaryen prince kicked Warrior into action, the tall stallion as eager as his rider was. Aelor rode down the front of his line to the left, then doubled back along it to the right, all the while standing in his saddle and plunging his lance into the air. His knights repeated the gesture, roaring battle cries, reminding the Dragon of Duskendale of that time a few months and a dozen lifetimes ago on the Parchments.

Aelor waited until they died down slightly, but found he didn't have any further words. Instead, he laughed richly and shouted. "Need I say a damn thing?" His men thundered out in response, Warrior adding his own bellow to the cacophony of sound. "Well then, lads, let's get to it! Fire and blood!"

"FIRE AND BLOOD!"

With his house words ringing in his ears, Aelor Targaryen kicked his stallion's flanks, four hooves and a thousand voices carrying the Dragon of Duskendale into the heart of the Stag.

Whatever he thought of the Targaryens, he couldn't deny they made splendid sights.

Even from this distance, behind the lines of thousands of spears and swords, Eddard could see the king and his brother as they rode ahead of the seemingly endless lines of loyalist men marching clear of the forest. The King of the Iron Throne sat a black stallion, the rubies Eddard knew to portray the three headed Targaryen dragon sparkling in the sunlight. Such a beautiful day for such slaughter. Beside Rhaegar, seated on another of those black stallions Targaryens seemed to love, sat a broader, taller figure, armor less ornate but no less striking. Aelor Targaryen, the Dragon of Duskendale, as fierce looking as Eddard remembered.

And that was in times of peace. From what the Stormlanders who have fought him say, he's another animal entirely in times of war.

"Look at them," Robert nearly spat, antlered helm already lowered over his head. Eddard noticed his friend's hands were twitching, wanting nothing more than to grab the spiked hammer slung across their owners back. "Murderers and rapists, yet they have a full army behind them, ready to die for their sins."

Lyanna, ever present in his mind, steeled Eddard's will. "They must have agreed with us." His friend looked at him, eye cocked in his helm in question. "This is a fine place to die."

Robert's booming laugh filled the ford, which had been part of Eddard's intention in saying it. "Aye, that it is Ned." Robert's voice was clear, calm…kingly. "Though it won't be you or I who die here, my friend. Only those two silver haired gits and how many ever of their men die before it is done."

"The brother will lead the charge," Jon Arryn spoke certainly from the other side of Robert. "Calvary, straight up the gauntlet into the center."

It was their only choice, really, if they intended to fight us here. They must bring their rebellious dogs to heel, after all. Robert, in his element on the battlefield, nodded in agreement with Jon. "Once they hit us, crash in on their flanks. The Rapist will likely bring the infantry up to press the progress made by his brother. We'll bleed the second son as much as we can before I bring in my lads to counter the first."

Ned turned his horse—a Riverland bred bay stallion, far finer than the garrons of the North even Ned had to admit—to observe the thousands of mounted men waiting behind the main line of infantry. Splendidly colored Valemen knights on barded coursers, Riverlander warriors defending their homeland, and Northmen heavy calvary in mail and furs, all ready to lower lance and strike once the loyalist infantry was engaged. Behind them, the reserve force of infantry lay in wait under the command of his goodfather, Hoster Tully, ready to both counter unforeseen threats and shore up the advantage their own cavalry would gain.

The sight of the leaping trout adorning Lord Tully's helm brought with it the thought of Catelyn, a surge of protectiveness washing over Ned. I wonder if she's given birth yet. It's still too early I imagine, but what if… Eddard decided to forego that line of thought and foolish worry before it could take root and distract him from the battle at hand. He needed all his focus for the nearing clash, one that might well mean life or death for his child, born or no. "Many of our own men will get caught up in the charge. I know our reasoning, but it still does not sit well with me."

"They know their duty, Ned," Robert consoled. "They do theirs so we can do our own."

A deep, booming voice echoed across the river, cutting through the creak of leather and rattle of steel. "Vanguard!" With a responding cry, hundreds of riders rode forward to form up on the second son of Aerys.

"And so it begins," Eddard said quietly, listening to the roar of Aelor Targaryen's demons.

"I'll find you when this is over," Robert said, clasping Ned and Jon Arryn both on the shoulder before riding back towards the lines of knights he was to lead. Nothing more was said. Nothing more was needed.

"It's a great day for a fight," Greatjon Umber called as Ned returned moments later to the center of his bannermen, smiling hugely. Umbers do everything hugely. The giant on their sigil is fitting.

"We'll soon find out," Ned replied. Any other comments, inspiring words, or cryptic predictions were lost as the Targaryen knights cried out once more. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and the North, watched on with both anticipation and a fear he was too smart to be ashamed of. It is time. For father. For Brandon. For Lyanna.

Aelor Targaryen rode down the lines of his men, standing in his saddle and thrusting his lance into the air as he called out to them. The wall of armor returned his shout, so loud Eddard could feel it in his chest. Then, with one final bellow of his house words, the Dragon of Duskendale charged, storming forward with the thunder of hooves.

Warrior roared, barreling forwards. The great beast was fast, much faster than a horse his size had any right to be with a brawny, armored knight on their back, much less when armored themselves. Aelor wondered, with that odd sense of detached thought he had during battle, if there had ever been an animal more suited to war than the destrier carrying his dragonlord towards the lines of enemy steel. We're alike, it seems. We thrive in battle and chafe in peace.

A hundred yards before they reached the waters of the ford Aelor heard distinctive whistles, knowing what it was without any need of seeing it. "Shields!" He shouted, bringing his own above his head as his men did the same, some having recognized what was happening and given the command before even the prince. The arrows all seemed to fall at once, a thick mass of sharpened steel digging into dirt, shield, horseflesh and man. The familiar but always disturbing screech of wounded horses filled the air, Aelor feeling the impact of several arrows striking his shield. Another deflected off the crinet covering Warrior's black neck, and two more deflected off the armor of Aelor's right thigh. The prince stole a quick glance to both sides, seeing Desmond and Renfred were still beside him, then braced when Warrior vaulted into the waters of the Trident. The deafening rumble of hooves on ground became even louder as they splashed through the ford. Aelor felt water splash against him from below and behind, the speed of the charging horses throwing droplets of water far and high. Another hail of arrows cut down through them, half a dozen more striking Aelor and his horse but being turned aside by shield or armor or the Seven themselves.

"Lance," the Dragon Prince called as he couched his own, though he doubted he could be heard. It wasn't like his men needed the reminder; they were already nearly upon the enemy, so close Aelor could see their individual faces. Many of those were scared, some approaching terrified, but not a man among them fled, the Stormlander shieldwall an unwavering obstacle in his path.

We're fighting brave men. Too bad they are all going to die.

A warlance was eight feet of hardened wood tipped with deadly sharp steel, and when wielded by a strong man atop a destrier running at full speed there was no armor known to man that could stop it outright. It could be deflected, however, knocked aside by a shield or guided into a glancing blow by armor if the man on the receiving end knew what he was doing. It was for that reason, aided by the need to satisfy that black hatred Aelor Targaryen carried into battle, that the Dragon of Duskendale drove his warlance into the face of the spearman to his front. Striking true, the tip of his lance found the eye socket of the unfortunate footman and punched through eye and brain and bone.

Aelor's lance splintered as the spearmen was flung backwards into his fellows, carrying a foot of hardened ash in his face. At the same time Warrior, bellowing, slammed into the shieldwall, avoiding spears as he crushed a footman beneath his hooves. The dragonlord atop him swung the remnants of the lance like a club, bringing the splintered ashwood down onto the helm of another footman even as he knocked aside a spear on the opposite side with his shield. Realizing that without its point the lance was rather useless, awkward to swing and too light to cause much damage, the dragonlord threw it at another man as Warrior continued surging forward, testing its prospects as a blunted javelin even as he drew his sword. Poor, the prince thought. Swordwork it is.

The effect of hundreds of armored men and horses crashing into you went beyond the physical dangers of blade or hoof. The shock of the charge bred panic among inexperienced soldiers, men finding their orderly, protective lines suddenly being pummeled by screaming, sprinting horses, holes opening as men went flying or were crushed or ran through by lance. Aelor's charge was too much for some of these previously stalwart men, dozens dropping their spears and turning to try and flee even as those behind pushed forward with sword and shield. Men were crushed, not only by the enemy but by their own, caught underfoot or between two colliding lines as they tried to flee.

Even so, there was no shortage of enemies to fight, and by the time Northmen and Valemen crashed into the sides of Aelor's own men, the Dragon of Duskendale's sword was red from crossguard to point.

Warrior kept his hooves and his momentum as the two drove deeper into the thick crowd of enemies, the warhorse managing to avoid the forest of death in a way Aelor, while thankful, found eerily humanlike. It was true that trying to kill a knight's horse was considered dishonorable, but Aelor knew as well as anyone that honor was the first casualty of war. The black destrier somehow managed to stay alive, however, and the man atop him swung and swung and swung. He stabbed through gaps, removed hands or arms, knocked blades aside, all while driving for the heart of the enemy. A knight in Redfort red landed a glancing blow to the armor of Warrior's shoulder and Aelor killed him for it as he passed. A footman in colors he didn't know, screaming wildly, gripped the prince's left leg to try and pull him from the saddle, and Aelor brought his shield down so hard on top of the man's skull that it split like a melon, the iron brim driving several inches into skull and brain. Aelor's leg pulled free from dead hands as Warrior drove on.

Fighting men on foot from atop a horse made a knight a target, especially when that knight was clearly a Targaryen Prince, but Aelor was no stranger to fighting multiple enemies at once. Neither was Warrior, as for every man the Lord of Duskendale slew the stallion sank his teeth into or bulled through another, trampling over dead and wounded men alike with no sense of discrimination. As Aelor roared, the battlelust flowing heavy alongside the blood of Old Valyria, the horse did the same.

Their momentum finally faded somewhere on the far bank. Aelor batted a sword aside and opened its owner's throat, using his advantage of height atop the stallion's tall back to swing down with heavy force, hacking into shield and flesh and bone. He whirled Warrior with his knees as he fought, a melee of blood and steel, too much to consciously track. The prince felt more than saw Rhaegar and the infantry arrive sometime later, the mass of blades that had been focused solely on him dispersing as their wielders suddenly had an influx of new Targaryen soldiers to worry about.

The prince knew in the back of his mind that the battle was spreading across this side of the river, the disciplined lines of the enemy and his own charge thrown into complete chaos. There were thousands of men warring across the rebel bank, but to Aelor the world was reduced to the few feet around himself and his mount. There were no tactics or stratagems useful here; it was an all-out, bloody brawl, where a man's birth made no difference in who lived and who died. Nobles were dying the same as smallfolk, peasant and lord bleeding out alongside one other amidst the mud and corpses, in a unity never possible in life. Those lucky enough to still be alive and on their feet slew others, dropping more and more corpses to the ground in deepening piles to accompany the dying in their last moments. It was a bloody, awful process, nothing like the songs and stories, the stench of blood, death, piss and shit filling the air, accompanied by clangs of steel, shouts of elation and despair and horror, and the haunting screams of the dying.

Time meant nothing. It never did in battle, other than the truth that many men no longer had any in this world. Aelor fought, swinging and stabbing and gouging, for seconds or minutes or days. He shouted as he decapitated a peasant with a spear, cursed as he nearly lost his seat atop Warrior, and roared as he killed and killed and killed.

Aelor didn't see the charge coming until it was too late. When looked up from cutting down another levy, all he could see was a knight with a blue anchor on his surcoat and a couched lance, pointed at Aelor's blood-soaked form. The Dragon of Duskendale brought his shield up, fear and rage and battelust all bursting out in a choked cry, as it slammed into the oak and banded steel.

He'd been mostly stationary and turned slightly away, and the blow was well placed. The force was like storm wave, carrying the big Targaryen up and out of his saddle, the lance splintering. Aelor could only shout again as he flipped over Warrior's haunches and crashed to the mud and blood below.