Author's Note: If I were smart, I would wait for this site to fix itself before posting this. Over the last day I've seen my story-and presumably other works have done the same-act all sorts of weird. It has reverted back to Chapter 14 unless you click on it, not show any reviews from the past three weeks, not show in the updated list, and a myriad of other issues.
But I ain't gonna wait because I'm excited and want to post this, dammit. Hopefully some of you can actually see it (though you should double check and make sure you saw the previous chapter too, as I have a feeling a number of you didn't). Hopefully some of you will be cool and let me know what you think. Either way I hope you enjoy.
The Battle of the Trident, Part 2.
Chapter 19
Original total word count for the Battle of the Trident: 7,635
Revised total word count for the Battle of the Trident: 10,341
Whatever notions Eddard Stark had had of true war were complete and utter shit. The skirmishes were nothing like this. There is no honor here, only death.
Eddard dodged the wild swing of a knight in Stokeworth green, only realizing as he rammed Ice into the armor gap under the man's arm that he'd been swinging a stone. It was a disorganized melee, men having at each other with everything and anything, from swords and stones to teeth and fists. Ned saw a peasant levy crouched over a downed knight with a boar on his surcoat, smashing a helm down onto his face again and again and again, not stopping even though the knight's legs had stopped twitching long ago.
Eddard couldn't watch long, for another knight, this one without a sigil on his green and white surcoat, charged down on him, blood covering his greatsword. Eddard blocked his overhead blow with Ice, the smoky Valyrian steel blade that he never thought he'd wield making the knight's blade spark with a clang, before forcing his opponent's blade up and slicing Ice across his face. The helm prevented it from killing him, but the blow from the ancient spellbound steel, backed by Eddard's strength, staggered him. Eddard followed up with another blow to the helmet, further disorienting the man and dropping him to his knees, right hand raised as if in surrender. The Lord of Winterfell stayed his killing blow at the sight of it, but with a gurgled cry the knight suddenly lashed out with his left hand and the dagger that filled it. Ned sidestepped the nameless warrior's blade and brought his own down at the neck, ending that trickery for good.
Beside him Greatjon Umber boomed out a laugh, slamming his shoulder into a man in Florent white as he tried to regain his feet. Umber hit like a battering ram, and the Reachman found himself first on his back, then quickly dying as the Greatjon slit his throat. The Lord of Last Hearth had stuck by Ned's side the entire battle, dismounting when his liege lord's Riverlander bay took a spear, slogging it out on foot with a Stark as hundreds of Umbers had done before. The Greatjon had taken turns laughing deafeningly and singing a tavern song at the top of his lungs, shouting about a whore's tits even as he plunged his blade through a footman's gut.
Other Northmen had joined him, fighting and dying with the Stark of Winterfell. On Ned's other side little Howland Reed slashed and cursed, the Crannogman wielding a small trident with unerring speed and accuracy while periodically stopping to fire darts from the blowgun he stubbornly refused to abandon. Exactly when the Lord of the Neck had appeared beside him the Lord Paramount of the North couldn't say, but the tiny man was still on his feet and still fighting when others—Lord Hornwood, Edderion Snow, both of Crowfood Umber's sons—had died fighting alongside their liege.
Aelor Targaryen's charge had hit hard and fast, the Dragon of Duskendale unleashing a level of hell Ned Stark hadn't known existed. His brother the king's charge was somewhat less splendid but no less effective, forcing the rebel forces back, more and more royalist men splashing across the ford to make war. Eddard caught glances of the King of the Iron Throne periodically, dragonwing helm distinctive, the white armor of a Kingsguard close to him. Even on a riverbank surrounded by tens of thousands of men, he could easily be distinguished.
That was why, when Robert's charge swept across the battlefield and overran whatever forward progress had been made by the loyalists in the center, Eddard knew exactly where he was going. Antlered helm every bit as distinctive as Rhaegar Targaryen's dragonwings, Robert Baratheon looked like a god among men, swinging his massive hammer like it weighed no more than wooden toy, sending dead men flying all around him.
And heading straight for Rhaegar Targaryen.
"My lord Stark!" A voice shouted, and Eddard withdrew Ice from a man's chest—he didn't even remember putting it there—as he turned to the voice. A knight of the Vale, three red forts on his surcoat, staggered up to him, gesticulating wildly towards the forest a hundred yards beyond. His left arm was hanging from his shoulder by a few stubborn ligaments and bits of skin, flopping lifelessly in a torrent of blood as he neared. "The rear!"
Ned Stark tore his eyes from the horrific sight of the man's arm—by the Old Gods, how is he still alive?—to the dilated eyes staring out of his helm. The other northern men around him fought to protect their liege, giving Eddard and the dying man a respite among the corpses. "What of it, man?"
"Ser Arthur Dayne and thousands of Dornishmen, m'lord, cutting through Lord Tully and the rear like a knife through butter. They came from the trees and—" Like a candle being snuffed out the light in the man's eyes disappeared, his voice stopping mid-sentence. He collapsed forward into Ned, who caught him by instinct and lowered him to rest atop another corpse. The Lord of the North didn't need to see his sightless eyes to know the man was dead.
Arthur Dayne at our rear, scattering Lord Tully. If there are thousands of them as he claims, they'll catch us between their forces and crush us. We must counter it.
The Warden of the North glanced once more towards his best friend. He could no longer see Robert Baratheon, but he knew the Stag of Storm's End was slaughtering his way towards the Dragon on the Throne. I must buy him time. If Rhaegar and Aelor die, it all ends.
Ned gained his feet, Ice in one hand, shouting to the laughing giant at his left. "Lord Umber, the rear! We must pull back to the rear! Dornishmen to the rear, rally to me!" He repeated the call, Umber and others taking it up, a horn starting to blow to alert the rebel forces of the new threat. Eddard was brought a horse by a young lad in furs and mounted, holding Ice above his head as a rallying point.
The Northmen turned to meet the new threat quickly, answering the Stark of Winterfell's calls. With a cry, they charged towards the wild melee the rear had become, Eddard at their head.
Ned spared but one last thought for Robert Baratheon. May the Old Gods grant you strength, Robert. Northern blood will buy you all the time it can.
Aelor Targaryen didn't know why he wasn't dead.
When men met ground in battle he was finished, vulnerable to every enemy soldier in the vicinity. A peasant with a dagger now had the advantage over a king with a longsword, able to slip the blade into joints in armor before a downed man, hindered by his armor, could regain his feet. It had been trained into the Dragon of Duskendale's brain since he was old enough to hold a wooden blade, Barristan the Bold, Willem Darry, Lewyn Martell and dozens of others making sure the young prince knew what it meant to fall.
That was why, when Aelor landed atop the mud and bloody corpses behind Warrior, he had assumed himself dead. Enemy cavalry thundered over the dead and wounded all around him, including Aelor's own prone body, hooves missing his helm and chest by a hairsbreadth. Even as he tried to make his big form small, he'd assumed it was pointless. He thought of Elia, of Aegon and Rhaenys, of Viserys and his poor mother, then of Elia again. He wondered if they would forgive him for dying on this godforsaken riverbank, leaving them to face either Rhaegar or Robert alone.
But the blade to finish him never came, not even after the horses were done crashing over him. There was no jolt of pain as steel pierced his flesh at neck or armpit, jabbing into the dragonlord beneath.
And here he was, still breathing.
When the Dragon of Duskendale pushed himself up to a knee, he saw why.
Desmond Langward, while undisciplined, had been gifted with a sword even before he'd begun squiring for the Dragon of Duskendale. The lad's grandfather, crotchety Lord Jarmen, had been telling the truth when he'd said the boy was nearly a prodigy; Des had that raw talent few ever possessed, only needing refined training from superior swordsmen to turn that skill truly deadly. Aelor and Barristan the Bold had seen to that training in the months on campaign, and it was paying off tenfold now.
The dragonlord's squire danced, spinning and slashing, removing one man's hand and landing a blow perfectly in the joint of another's armor, standing over his mentor and friend like Storm End against a monsoon. The boy fought like a man possessed, slamming his shield into a man's face before opening his throat. No matter the enemies that came against him the squire fought on, never wielding an inch, keeping the vultures from descending on the Dragon.
Aelor sat there and watched for a long moment, in shocked awe of the lad, before it dawned on him that he should probably stand up.
Battlelust returning from its brief hiatus, the Lord of Duskendale rose with a roar, slamming his shoulder into a man about to strike Desmond's side. Aelor killed the fallen man with a stroke, joining his squire against the onslaught of enemy swords. The prince had lost his shield in the fall, the oak and steel wrenched from his grip by the force behind the lance, likely ruined. The part of his mind not consumed with war noted how that arm was aching, but the warrior in Aelor felt free to use it as another weapon anyway. He punched and gouged, using the armor of his forearm to deflect steel away as best it could, twice ramming his elbow into the teeth of helmless men.
As the Seven willed it, Aelor heard the bellow as he fought those around him. It was one sound among hundreds in the din of battle, but Aelor knew he had heard it for a reason. Striking down a man in front of him, he turned back towards the ford, the cry catching his attention entirely in a way only the fates could. There, in the center of the blood red waters of the ford, dismounted but both very much still alive, were Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen.
Warhammer whistled and sword shrieked as the two kings warred, one against the other amidst chaos and death. Part of Aelor's mind realized that the royalist main line had been pushed back into the ford, he and Alaric being two of a few dozen stragglers still left among the heaps of dead and dying farther up the opposite bank. Another part noted the calls of the enemy as they shouted to regroup on Lord Stark, shouting about Arthur Dayne and Dornishmen to the rear. Oberyn has arrived and made himself a nuisance, the prince thought, as many rebels rushed by without seeing him in their effort to counter the threat behind their lines.
But the main part of Aelor's mind saw his brother the king locked in battle with a man who hated him with a ferocity that rivaled Aelor's own. Rhaegar was good with a sword, better than most, but a hammer was a tricky thing to fight, and Aelor hadn't been bosting when he'd claimed to be the deadliest of the Targaryen sons. Baratheon was rumored to be strong, inhumanly strong, and a fighter of renown. Rhaegar will be hard pressed. Whatever thoughts Aelor had had that the Seven Kingdoms might be better off with Rhaegar dead were suddenly nowhere to be found, an overwhelming sense to protect his blood overruling whatever other thoughts Aelor might have ever had.
He'd seen the two fighting and considered all the implications in half a second. Before a full one had passed, Aelor Targaryen was running, shouting over his shoulder for Des to follow.
Aelor cut down one, three, five men as he fought, barely noticing the faces or the lives they entailed as he crossed blades and left them dying and dead in the filthy mud. All Aelor could see was the King of the Iron Throne and the man whose woman he had stolen waging their private war in the middle of a much larger one, trading blows at a savage pace.
Bodies crossed in his line of sight, enemies rose to stop him, but Aelor fought towards that duel with a single-minded ferocity, cutting through the bloody melee to try and reach his brother and king's side. Desmond, who had followed the prince at first, fell behind, dead or merely fighting Aelor didn't know. Part of him feared for the boy and wanted to go back for him, but the dutiful part of the prince knew he needed to reach his king's side. The Dragon of Duskendale saw no sign of Barristan, and the horrifying thought that the Kingsguard knight had fallen battered at Aelor's will, but the prince kept his legs and sword moving. All he allowed himself to think of was getting to Rhaegar and killing any man who got in his way.
A Northman wielding an axe in either hand, three buckets sewn into the furs covering his chest, met the second son of Aerys as he reached the ford. The water was as red as roses in the summer, choked full of corpses, red droplets flying as his newest enemy splashed out of it with a guttural war cry. The northerner was big, strong, and unbelievably fast for a man his size, his axes a whirl of steel. Aelor found his focus on his brother broken when one of the axes nearly buried itself into his forehead, the prince's instinctive step back all that saved him.
The northerner gave the Targaryen no time to gather himself, coming on in a flurry of axes and roars that put even Aelor's to shame. The Dragon of Duskendale backpedaled, barely keeping his feet under him as he warded off the axeman's attacks, missing his shield had no defense beside batting the axes away with his sword and dancing from side to side, his blade needing near constant motion to keep both of his enemy's weapons away. The battered steel on his left forearm was less effective against the axes than it had been blades, forcing the prince to rely on his sword almost exclusively. He stooped once, trying to pick up a discarded shield form the ground, but it nearly cost him life when Buckets rained blows down on him.
Aelor usually fought as the aggressor, overwhelming enemies with his strength and savagery, but it was hard to be the aggressor when you were barely managing to stay alive.
The prince jumped to the side amidst a flurry of strikes, nearly finding himself dead when he stumbled over a corpse—or maybe just a wounded man, Aelor didn't bother to see which—and fell to one knee. The Northerner loomed overhead, shouting as he swung both axes, but Aelor managed to lurch out of the way and stumble to his feet, just holding off the next several attacks as he regained his balance. The big man was growing frustrated, snarling like a mad dog as he relentlessly attacked the Targaryen, never giving a thought to defense as he swung again and again, trying with all his might to split the dragonlord in front of him in two.
It was a split-second decision that saved Aelor's life, and in truth that life was what he had wagered in making it. As Buckets raised his right axe again, left already striking, the Dragon of Duskendale completely ignored them both. Seamlessly he switched from the defensive posture keeping him alive to a sudden strike, trying to catch the northman off guard as he thrust his blade forward as hard as he could.
It worked.
The prince's blade sank to the crossguard in the Northerner's gut, Buckets' face going from rage to surprise in the blink of an eye, a curse dying on his lips and the axe in his right hand weakly bouncing off the prince's black pauldron. Aelor withdrew the blade and struck again, running his enemy through once more. Buckets dropped to his knees, staring into Aelor's visor, his eyes no longer angry. To Aelor's shock they weren't scared or hurt either, just surprised. Or was it acceptance, a sort of peace from the man dying in calf high water turned red with blood hundreds of miles from his home?
Buckets' body fell back into the corpse-filled water, the slunk his blade made as it withdrew just one more in a thousand awful sounds the prince had heard this red day. A braver man than I, that one. May the Seven or your Old Gods welcome you.
The Lord of Duskendale whirled almost before Buckets finished falling, having lost track of his brother and Robert Baratheon as he'd fought. It took him only a heartbeat to find them in the middle of the Trident, but it proved a heartbeat too late.
Aelor Targaryen knew, even as he watched it happened, that he would never forget the numbness he felt as the spike of Robert Baratheon's hammer drove into his brother's chest, scattering the rubies of Rhaegar's armor into the shallow water of the ford.
Ser Barristan Selmy had accomplished many great deeds in his life, from slaying the last of the Blackfyres in the Stepstones to scaling the walls of Duskendale to save King Aerys Targaryen, but the truth of the matter was that he was a failure.
He'd slew dozens of men this day, but for each man he bested two others had taken his place. Ser Greydon Massey, who had been selected to wear Arthur Dayne's white armor due to his physical build and his skill with a blade, had fallen early in the fighting, a crossbow bolt taking him through the throat while he fought at the king's side. Jon Connington had disappeared amidst the fighting as well, dead or occupied, and one by one the other men protecting the king had dropped. Myles Mooton fell to a Dondarrion, Willem Bourney to a levy, so on and so forth until it was just Barristan and the king. Soon after, Barristan himself was separated from his liege, a flood of men keeping them separated no matter the mountain of bodies the Kingsguard left around him. He'd been steadily driven back, almost herded, taking a wound to his thigh and another to his cheek, until he found himself back on the southern bank.
It was from atop that mountain that he'd seen the epitome of his failure. Guilt and shame in Barristan's gut accompanied the colossal boom of Robert Baratheon's warhammer scattering the rubies in Rhaegar's armor. It was a full-grown man that sank into the red water of the ford, but all Barristan saw was a silver-haired boy he'd known from birth.
I am so sorry, son.
Half of the men on both sides had seemed to stop fighting to watch the duel, and when Rhaegar Targaryen fell, Barristan felt the spirit go out of the loyalist, much as his own had fled. The line at the water's edge, having finally ground the rebel counterattack to a halt, suddenly began to waver, men who moments ago had been fighting fiercely turning to flee. The rebel forces—those that weren't fighting Oberyn and Arthur on the far bank or the straggling royalists between-gave out a great war cry as their new King raised his hammer, thundering in victory.
It was the second bellow that Barristan took note of, however, this one of black rage. It seemed to drown out the cries of elation by the rebels and the footfalls of fleeing men, catching Barristan's attention and holding it. It caught Baratheon's as well, the kingslayer turning to face the source.
Aelor Targaryen was suddenly everywhere at once, raining blows down on Baratheon and cursing with every clang of steel. Robert stumbled back under the ferocity of the attack, tripping on a body—Rhaegar's—and going to a knee in the water. He would have died there if not for two of his knights, men in Baratheon black and gold rushing in to protect their liege lord. Both died for it, felled by a flurry of blows so fast Barristan could barely keep track of them. Robert had only just regained his feet when the Dragon of Duskendale was all over him again, forcing him back with sheer savagery.
Baratheon had looked implacable when he'd fought Rhaegar, like a god among men. But against Aelor, the Lord of the Stormlands looked wholly mortal, hammer and shield barely able to ward off the prince's sword.
Hope returned to the Kingsguard in a rush. "The prince!" Barristan called, taking heart in the second son of Aerys. He shouted again, louder this time. "Look to your Prince!" He grabbed the shoulder of a man trying to run by, turning him roughly and pointing with his blade. "The Dragon of Duskendale fights on! Rally, rally to Prince Aelor!"
Others took up the call, mainly the stubborn men still holding what remained of their line. Barristan limped, wound to his thigh throbbing, to the nearest horse—many animals had died with or before their riders, but there was still an abundance of mounts running loose—and pulled himself on top. Kicking the bay's flanks, he galloped to head off the retreating mass of loyalist survivors, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Prince Aelor! House Targaryen! Look, look to your prince! Fight for your prince!" He shoved, shouted, pleaded, trying to turn the tide of the retreat. More and more took up his call, the emboldened loyalists battling with a new fervor as Aelor and Baratheon savagely dueled over the dead bodies in the ford.
Slowly, in ones and threes, men turned direction, stopping the headlong retreat from the battle and beginning to come to the relief of the stalwarts who had never budged. Barristan rode the unfamiliar stallion side to side, shouting, pointing with his bloody sword, slowly turning the retreat of broken men into a charge of revitalized ones. Some of those fleeing couldn't be stopped, the horrors they had seen driving them from the field like panicked livestock, but more returned to the battle than did not, and Barristan cantered his borrowed courser back towards the ford, accompanied by the shout of hundreds of reinvigorated men rushing to their prince's aide.
Aelor was certain they were losing the battle, but he couldn't find it in him to care.
He swung his sword harder than he ever had, borrowing a page from Buckets bloody book and dropping all pretenses of defense, opting to attack his opponent again and again and again. Robert Baratheon, hammer crimson with Rhaegar's blood, fell back beneath the onslaught, still trying to regain his balance. The Lord of the Stormlands was bigger than Aelor and likely stronger, a mountain of muscle that, in his yellow and black livery, reminded the second son of Aerys of a shorter Gregor Clegane. It made no difference, however, as the Dragon of Duskendale was fueled by a hatred and lust for battle that surpassed anything even Baratheon could feel.
Aelor cursed with each blow, shouting unintelligibly with every swing of his sword. He didn't think about Rhaegar, dying or dead behind him, or of Elia or Aegon or Rhaenys. He didn't think of anything at all except the next strike, the next curse, the anticipation of sinking his blade deep into Baratheon's black heart. He was driven by instinct and training and savagery, adrenaline keeping his legs turning, desire to kill this man keeping his tired arms swinging. There was a pain in his right hip, and the feel of blood running down his leg, but the dragonlord paid it no mind, focused on driving his blade into Robert Baratheon's chest and watching the life fade from his storm blue eyes.
Baratheon survived the attack when most men wouldn't have, finally managing to regain his balance fully. Parrying one of Aelor's strikes he went on his own offensive with a vicious swing of his hammer, wind whistling as the hunk of steel cut through the air. Aelor, despite his blood demanding he not relent, had to step back and away. To try and block or redirect a blow from that hammer—a feat that would be near impossible for Aelor in his current shield-less state—was a certain way to die. The blunt force of the hammer's broad side or the spiked point of its other were capable of penetrating and crushing armor, muscle, and bone.
Aelor spun away from a second blow and struck one of his own, his sword catching Baratheon's shield. That had been his target, though, for Aelor stepped into the blow and slammed his mailed fist into the Lord of the Stormlands' antlered helm. Baratheon staggered and cursed but responded by ramming the crest of that helm into the visor of Aelor's. The prince took it on the chin, head snapping down as stars erupted around him, forcing him to take a step back.
Robert followed, another one-handed swing of the mighty hammer nearly crushing every rib Aelor had. The prince dodged away, shaking his head to clear it, swinging his bloodied sword in a powerful backhand aimed at the gap at Baratheon's neck. Robert, surprised, turned his head towards the blow, taking it there instead of the joint in his armor. The blow neatly lopped off one of the helm's antlers, sending the shaped steel splashing into the red waters of the Trident.
With a deep roar—theirs is the fury, afterall—Robert came on again, using his shield as a battering ram and hammer as, well, a hammer. Aelor was finally forced on the full defensive, dodging both spiked and banded steel, striking back every so often but mainly reduced to avoiding the whistling death Baratheon had served Rhaegar. It was a complete reversal in roles from earlier, the dragon now giving ground to the stag.
His body betrayed him, in the end. The pain in his hip had increased throughout the short but savage duel with Robert Baratheon, and when Aelor took a step to the side, setting his feet a touch too wide, a hot, burning shock of pain shot down his leg. The prince gasped, his knee buckling and dropping to the river bottom, leaving him vulnerable as Baratheon's hammer swung. Aelor tried to bring his sword around, twisting his body away despite the screaming pain, managing to deflect the blow with his blade. The hammer caught it just above his hand, however, the strength behind the blow wrenching the ruby hilt from the Dragon of Duskendale's grip.
Aelor, on one knee in the Trident, could only watch as his trusted blade spun end over end into the mayhem surrounding him, his hands now empty. The prince tried to gain his feet but the pain in his hip—Buckets bloody axe, he realized absently—wouldn't let him, forcing him back to one knee, putrid water rushing through the gaps of his armor.
A stag lay dead in its shallows, with a white dragon feasting on its corpse, the prince thought, remembering Rhaegar's words the day Aelor had nearly killed him. It appears your vision was wrong after all, my brother.
The prince turned his head to look back at Baratheon, the world slowing to crawl. The rebel leader was standing an armlength away, imperious. He dropped his shield and used that hand to lift the visor of his helm, Baratheon blue eyes burning into Aelor's violet ones as sweat poured out. With a scoff of scorn, the Lord of the Stormlands spat to the side and set his feet, gripping his hammer with both hands. With a roar, Robert stepped forward into the swing, the hammer hurtling towards Aelor's head.
Elia's striking face came to his mind again, as it often did in moments of both weakness and strength. There was little the dragonlord wouldn't give for a chance to make her laugh one last time, to hold her in his arms as he had never been allowed to before, to love her the way she was meant to be loved. To end and begin each day at her side. To feel her embrace and her strength and share0 his own.
He thought of Rhaenys as well, a copy of her mother, her chambers full of dolls Aelor had begged, borrowed, or stolen for her. He heard her giggle, then laugh, the beautiful sound accompanied by the sweeter one of her mother. She would grow to be a great lady he knew, like her namesake Queen Rhaenys.
And he thought of Aegon. He was a king now, that small bundle of blankets and silvery hair that Aelor loved more than life itself. He would be a great one, Jaehaerys the Conciliator reborn. Oberyn would see to that, just as he and Varys would see that Aegon and his sister and mother survived. Aelor hoped the boy would one day forgive his father and uncle for leaving him such a burden at such a young age, and that he'd know they had not gone willingly or easily.
More than that, Aelor hoped they'd all know that he loved them, and that he was sorry he hadn't made it back. That they would know how much he wanted to hold them one more time, to tickle Rhaenys and pinch Aegon's nose and marry Elia. How much he'd have wanted to see the children grow tall and strong, while he and the woman he loved grew old and gray.
All of that crossed his mind in the second it took Robert's hammer to reach his head.
The strength had to have come from his loved ones, for there was none left in his body. Aelor ducked as the hammer whistled overhead and, with a roar, rammed his shoulder into Robert's chest, forcing himself up between the Stag's arms and inside his guard. Baratheon, knocked off balance, released his hammer, grabbing the big Targaryen by the pauldrons and dragging them both to the side as it sailed away. Aelor grabbed the back of Baratheon's helm with his right hand and, using it as leverage, slammed his helm into Robert's exposed face. He heard a crack of bone and a grunt of pain, felt the cartilage of the nose be crushed, then repeated the blow thrice more in quick succession, blood spurting from Robert's face and into Aelor's as the Targaryen screamed.
Robert, stunned but tough, threw his arms around Aelor, one under his right arm and the other over his left shoulder. With a scream of his own he pulled the dragonlord into a tight embrace, trapping Aelor's right arm awkwardly above their heads and slamming their breastplates together with a loud clang.
The Baratheon likely meant to twist his hips and drag Aelor into the water, using his advantageous grip and great strength to pin the prince beneath the waters and drown him. With a war cry Robert started to do just that, but Aelor's left hand, unpinned, had drawn the prince's emerald dagger. Aelor screamed as he brought the blade up, over Robert's shoulder, and into the gap where shoulder met neck.
For a moment the two men stood helm to helm in their deadly embrace, screaming at each other at the top of their respective lungs. Then, Robert's war cry turned into a gurgle, blood filling his mouth and throat and lungs, the Dragon of Duskendale's dagger having struck deep and true.
Aelor Targaryen felt the great strength holding them face to face fade from Robert. The prince released the dagger and stepped back, Baratheon's arms falling to the sides as he crashed to his knees in the mud and blood and water, the emerald in the pommel of Aelor's dagger—its blade buried to the hilt in Robert's neck—gleaming in the bright sunlight.
Such a beautiful day.
Robert Baratheon coughed once, cursed, and tumbled forward into the waters of the Trident.