Special thanks to Ekaterina016 for their help with this chapter!
Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy 15 or A Song of Ice and Fire content.
Casterly Rock:
The imposing castle of House Lannister was akin to a stirred hornet's nest as servants and guards ran around, seeing to their duties. The peaceful day and refreshing weather belied the chaotic conflict engulfing the realm, and many hung onto every new piece of information about the Rebellion which reached their walls.
From the lowest servant to the highest bannermen, everyone was discussing gossip and predictions about the upcoming battle at the Trident in equal measure, anticipating the results of the decisive confrontation. Many heard tales of exceptional warriors, hard-won victories, and glorious duels during these troubled times, with some standing out among the mixture of songs and telltales, like the ones about a certain minor lord of the North who was said to wield heretical powers.
Despite its lackluster status and infantile history compared to the illustrious and ancient lineages of established houses, House Izunia's name has grown synonymous with the wildest rumors and hearsay since their participation at the tourney in Harrenhal. It was especially true ever since news of their lord's magical abilities spread across the lands, much to the ire of King Aerys and the believers of the Seven as he delivered blow after blow to the royalist forces.
Tales of ferocious men, armed to the teeth, fighting through impossible odds together, as their lord and his companions smote their foes with terrible magics, grew common as the first battles heated up in the Riverlands. At first, these claims were cast aside as the customary exaggeration of men recounting events they heard from others, before their validity grew certain as more people came forth with the same stories.
However, the skepticism of the general populace was of no concern to the proud Lion of the ancient stronghold. He only heeded the cold truth and strict rationale, following the harsh laws of reality and the treacherous nature of man as a seasoned player of the game. His dismissal from his position as the Hand of the King cemented his belief of the Targaryens' coming downfall as his former friend's mind spiraled out of control, leaving him to observe as events unfolded.
Evidently, focusing his efforts on the South left him ignorant of the looming threat in the North until it was too late. In retrospect, the old lion admitted the ominous signs were there from the first time he saw the mysterious up-and-coming lord of House Izunia. From the way his house radically developed in just a few years after its founding, with various contributions to the North–ranging from the manufacturing of salt and glass, strange places of learning for the common folk, and even stranger farming methods according to his investigations. A strange man, with a stranger name, making a respectable land out of nothing within such a short amount of time was nothing short of ridiculous. That he had done it with mundane means only made his accomplishment more impressive, his magical powers known to be only of martial inclinations.
Powers Ardyn and his retainers used with impunity to not only terrorize the Red Keep and kidnap all the members of the royal family, but also assassinate Aerys within his own throne room and escape without a trace. Had he not received word from reliable informants along with his knowledge of the culprits, Tywin would've thought the Targaryen madness became contagious within the capital. Yet here he sat, gazing at the urgent message from King Rhaegar, announcing his father's passing after supposedly succumbing to madness, before impaling himself on the Iron Throne and commanding him to join them at the Trident to put an end to Baratheon's rebellion.
Connington and Rhaegar might have thought themselves clever in their attempts to suppress the information, but Tywin's influence within King's Landing did not wane despite his absence. The lion's gaze over the Red Keep never blinked ever since his son became a Kingsguard, and his vigilance proved worthwhile, given his awareness of the dire state the crown's position had fallen into. Even discounting this information, Tywin was not amiable to give any aid to House Targaryen without extracting his debts after the slights and dishonor he suffered because of Aerys' asinine delusions.
"Madness and stupidity," he whispered, watching the scenery outside his office with furrowed brows. The lion stood up, approaching the fireplace before tossing the missive inside as he watched. Had he confirmed the death of the now-Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, Tywin might've been inclined to use the opportunity to tie the new king to his daughter, given Princess Elia's barren condition, but the situation was not so convenient.
Standing at this crossroads, Tywin knew which path brought him closer to his interests. The time for deliberation and observation had come to an end, yet he couldn't shake the feeling something was amiss. 'Ardyn Izunia…' He frowned, watching the piece of paper burn bit by bit. The conflict showed him the points he had to address in the coming days and the people he had to investigate in greater depth. He would not waste the golden opportunity before him.
The flames reflected in his cold eyes, masking the predatory glint shining beneath his indifferent gaze. The old lion strode out of his chambers to ready himself for the endeavors ahead, his mind still contemplating the enigmatic foreigner who turned his understanding of the world upside down.
The day would end with news of the banners' call, and the Westerlands springing into action for the first time in this conflict.
Crownlands:
In her days spent with their captors, Rhaella found an appreciation for the simple seaside lifestyle it offered. It certainly paled to the splendor and decadence of the Red Keep's luxuries, forcing them to learn and do chores they would never have contemplated beforehand. Even though Marielle and her companions tried their best to accommodate their needs, some menial tasks still fell upon them.
However, no eyes were greedily watching her every move here, no grim considerations of poison in her food or a dagger hidden under a servant's robes, and no screams echoing in the hallways. On this serene, peaceful shore, there was no fear of the pain the night would bring. Rhaella couldn't remember the last time she rested so peacefully, without worrying about her brother's sadistic wrath.
She tended to the fire while she watched her son shout and roar with every swing of the sword he was given, only to be swept off his feet with a light sweep of Garth's polearm. He lay on the sand with his chest heaving as his weapon was pinned by the spearman's foot, his exhaustion doing little to dull the ferocity in his eyes.
"Dead again," Garth dryly noted, disarming the squirming kid before helping him up. Although his treatment was far from respectful to a prince, the spearman never harmed Viserys. "Giving me space is just asking to be skewered, kid," he added, mirth bleeding through his calm voice as the unruly prince glared at him.
"Again!" Viserys shouted, his fists clenched as his arms wobbled from holding the weapon. He lost count of how many times he was slammed to the ground or keeling over from the polearm smacking him, but he couldn't give up. These people killed his father and took them prisoner, and he had to protect his family.
Garth stoically observed the trembling boy, eyes narrowing as his spear disappeared. Cracking his knuckles, the man calmly advanced, his intimidating gaze bearing down on the little prince. Viserys gulped, his body frozen as his limbs shook, any courage he mustered faltering when met with such a cold stare. He backed away, arms growing rigid as the world seemed much smaller and the distance between them negligible. The child looked up, feeling his will crumble beneath the gaze scrutinizing him like a common deer. Catching sight of his mother worriedly watching him, Viserys bit the inside of his cheek and roared, swinging blindly at the source of his fear. His swing missed by a wide margin, the weight of his weapon dragging his exhausted body forward, and the prince felt his stomach lurch when he saw the blade growing closer. He closed his eyes, dreading the worst and praying for something to save him.
However, neither the soft sand nor the cold steel of his blade was felt. Viserys slowly opened his eyes, finding himself seemingly levitating as he looked at the fallen sword. The child yelped as he was roughly picked up by his shirt, his eyes meeting Garth's for a brief moment before he averted his gaze.
"Never take your eyes off your foe, boy," Garth sternly reprimanded, casually approaching the others at the campfire with the tired boy in toe. "And don't choose a weapon you aren't ready for. You can't protect your family if you fall on your own sword." He quipped, letting go of Viserys and chuckling as the boy nearly fell on his ass.
"You'll pay for this," Viserys grumbled, yet any threat he hoped to convey was lost as he wobbled towards his mother. The boy visibly huffed indignantly when he saw the smiles plastered on the others' faces, with only his mother's encouraging pats appeasing his frustration.
"You did well, my little dragon," Rhaella gently soothed her child, feeling relieved to see the situation didn't put too much strain on him. It's been days since he began challenging their captors, his daring declaration almost scaring the life out of her when the spearman took it upon himself to face him. Dreading the worst, she pleaded for her child's safety in every way she thought possible, but her pleas were met with refusal as her child unknowingly placed himself in harm's way.
As one would expect, the ensuing display could hardly be called a duel or even a scuffle, but whereas she anticipated a merciless thrashing of her son, she watched the older man humor the prince's poor assault with ease while he gave tips to help him improve. It made no sense for the man to offer any aid to his captives, never mind one who openly defied them. Still, she was grateful for Garth's leniency and the effort he put in. Her son seemed more energetic and spirited, the training offering an avenue to fight off the staleness of the passing days.
"I believe that's quite enough tending, my lady." Marielle's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she finally noticed the bright flames, her stick tapping into the sand next to the fireplace. Rhaella could feel the amused gazes of the people around her, giving a silent nod and trying to hide her reddened cheeks.
"You've done well, my lady," the archer reassured her with a gentle smile, gesturing to the snickering Lannor mischievously. "At least you didn't burn yourself doing it like that fool," she quipped, her words bringing a grimace to her friend's face.
"It was one time!" The young man protested, glaring indignantly at the grinning woman. "I was trying to get warmer, and I was distracted by his idiocy," he defended himself, pointing at the spearman casually taking a bite out of his food with one hand while holding Viserys's head with the other, the stubborn prince's surprise charge failing miserably as his fists fell short.
"Lies and slander. I just tapped your shoulder while you were watching that Mormont lady like a lovestruck damsel," Garth refuted with a quirk of his brow, grinning smugly at the little boy attempting to free himself from his grip. Luckily for Viserys, his mother was quick to pull him back to her side, her gentle frown enough to force him to surrender. Garth turned to his brother, lightly nudging his shoulder. "You were there too, Brother… ah, excuse me, Ser Knight of the Royal Shoulder Ride." He emphasized mirthfully, eyes lit with amusement as the older man remained silent.
It was bad enough he had to hold the black cat who wouldn't stop flailing about while the young girl atop his shoulders held onto his head. This precarious situation was the punishment he brought upon himself while trying to make the girl more at ease. At first, she was withdrawn and refused to let him come close. It took a while, but once he introduced her to some games from his childhood, Rhaenys began opening up to them until she eventually took the initiative to ask him to ride on his shoulders.
Finding no issue with her request, Jorin accepted, a choice he's reconsidering quite frequently in the days after, present included.
"You've got it wrong, Garth," Lannor interjected, wagging his finger as he cleared his throat and took on the air of a wise Maester. "That's sir Piggyback-A-Lot to you, scoundrel. Selflessly offering his back for others before you knew what humility was." He corrected his friend, his wise words fueling Jorin's irritation and everyone else's chuckles.
"Shame on you both for not knowing your place." Marielle admonished playfully, making a show of shaking her head before she gestured to the frowning Jorin with flare. "Before you stands the Hero of the High Hold himself; prostrate yourselves before his mighty shoulders and repent!" She proudly declared, making even the reserved Elia chuckle at the humorous show.
"I hate you all," Jorin whispered, glaring daggers at his friends and brother. He sat somberly, ignoring the way the child riding his shoulders patted his head and the cat squirming and getting comfortable in his arms. Catching Nyx smirking at him, Jorin's eyes narrowed, his threatening stare enough to get the Hero to abstain from joining the fun. "A bunch of children, the lot of you. We'll see how long you keep smiling when Oren hears about you slacking off all this time." He snickered, the ominous tone wiping any happiness off the others' faces.
Given their startingly pale complexions, Ashara would've easily believed the man used some form of magic on them had she not seen such reactions from others in similar situations. "Who is Oren?" She asked them, quirking her brow when Nyx chuckled.
"A demon," Lannor, visibly shaken, answered while looking fearfully over his shoulder.
"A monster," Garth coldly added, no longer as jovial or playful.
Marielle sighed as the two became more somber, ignoring their strange behavior and focusing on the confused women beside her. "He's our master-at-arms. He's a demanding man," she explained, faring much better than her comrades despite looking somewhat troubled.
"'Demanding' doesn't even come close to describing Captain Crack-the-Whip," Lannor grunted, recollections of grueling training souring his meal. Garth nodded, his eyes forlorn as he imagined the stern glare bearing down on him when they'd regroup in the coming days.
"Is he truly so terrible?" Rhaella inquired, seeing such drastic reactions from the very same people who infiltrated the Red Keep and eloped with them no less. The morbid sight of these fearsome fighters so distraught by the mere mention of the master-at-arms was jarring for both women, painting an extraordinary picture of the mysterious man.
Far from the isolated group, a stoic swordsman overseeing his men's training suddenly sneezed. A sudden irritation began welling up within him, and the frown on his face frightened the panting men into practicing harder. At the same time, the approaching Ardyn wisely switched direction away from the silent man.
"He's only fierce when dealing with hopeless rogues like these two." Jorin snickered, enjoying every bit of his companions' discomfort and passing some of his food to Rhaenys. "He is respected by everyone back home," he mentioned off-handedly, a hint of fondness on his face at the mention of their home.
"We heard different tales of the Ember Keep reaching King's Landing over the last few years. They say it's a very prosperous place," Ashara noted, intrigue shining in her beautiful eyes. "What is it like?" She asked, placing her elbows on her thighs and resting her chin on her palms. Her question roused the intrigue of her fellow captives, their eyes shifting to the warriors and awaiting their response.
A soft sigh escaped from Lannor, his gaze growing distant as he turned to the sea. "Our home was a rather peaceful little village where nothing special used to happen. A lot has changed since then, and now it has grown rowdy and merrier," he joked, voice soft and noticeably measured.
"The market would be at its busiest this time of day, with little runts running about while the watchmen did their patrols," Garth added mirthfully, flipping a coin from one hand to another with a playful smirk. "All the haggling and pompous merchant chatter could leave newcomers dizzy."
"The fishermen would be back by now, boats filled with the day's bounty," Marielle spoke, throwing another log in the fire as she pulled back a tuft of hair. "The men at the harbor would be carrying out the crates from the ships, and you'd see the high tower we built together in the distance, tall and proud. We'd have fun meeting at the top and watching the stars at night," the archer fondly recalled, her voice trailing off as she drank deep off her waterskin.
"The men at the keep would be training hard as usual, while Steward Eldric fights off the reports coming from all directions." Jorin sighed, his stoicism crumbling before the collective nostalgia. He smiled like his friends, chuckling as Balerion pawed at his finger each time he gently poked its forehead. "We'd gather by the hearth for the evening meal, sharing stories of the day." Jorin grinned as the cat finally surrendered with a soft whine, getting comfortable in his embrace and allowing him to touch its head.
"It sounds like a beautiful place," Rhaella spoke, her eyes observing the fondness they shared. A sad smile came upon her face, her recollections of home marred with only sadness, pain, and misery. Her most peaceful moments in recent times were of their current captivity, and she found herself wondering what it would be like if she lived in a secluded place far away from King's Landing and the chains it placed upon her. "You must miss it terribly." She held her son close, trying to offer what soothing she could to break the longing permeating the air.
Elia felt her thoughts drifting back to her own home, memories of her childhood reminding her of the lavish decorations, the lush gardens, and the warm breeze of Sunspear. Gazing at her son, she wondered how her brothers and uncle were fairing in the ongoing struggle, praying they'd stay safe. Perhaps, if the gods favored them, she would travel back home for a return long overdue.
"It doesn't matter the distance separating us from our home, or for how long." Nyx broke the silence, his own nostalgia visible as soft flames covered his hand. "Because no matter where we go, we'll always carry a piece of it in our hearts."
"Aye, you got that right," Garth agreed, turning to Lannor and nudging his shoulder. "Hey, play us a tune, will you? Better than this dreary talk," he suggested, his proposal garnering the others' attention.
"Your tunes are quite captivating," Rhaella complimented the young man, her kind words making him avert his gaze and scratch his head awkwardly.
Clearing his throat, Lannor accepted and slowly brought the leaf to his mouth. His melodies unfurled, a soft, nameless symphony dancing upon the silent shore. The others watched the young warrior's skillful display, enjoying the melodies as they had their fill.
Away from the troubles spreading across the seven Kingdoms, it would be days later when news would reach them of the decisive end of the ongoing conflict.
The Trident:
The day started out rather auspicious, with favorable weather and the men in high spirits. The march was uneventful, and they arrived at the Trident earlier than anticipated to find their foes on the other side. The air was thick with anticipation. The soldiers, clad in their armor, were a sea of steel against the backdrop of the evening sun. The clanking of swords against shields echoed through the air as they prepared for the battle that was to come.
Staring at the royalist army, Robert growled at the sight of his nemesis, his bloodlust almost palpable as he gripped the reins tighter. His blood boiled every moment the man remained safe and sound amidst his men, wishing nothing more than to paint every inch of his hammer with Targaryen blood. Despite the temptation to charge through the lines–or better yet, lead from the front–Robert kept a level head.
Eddard stood at the ready with his bannermen, their spirit unshakable by the numerical disadvantage. He watched the Corbays moving to the left to face the Martell forces, his brow rising when Ardyn descended from his horse and whispered something to his master-at-arms. No matter how deeply he attempted to scrutinize the eccentric man, he couldn't understand the signals the two sent before Oren took some of their men and joined the left flank.
Ned approached him, his presence received with a casual smile as if they were in the garden of his keep. "Is there a problem, Lord Izunia?" He inquired, gesturing to the leaving group.
"Nothing of the sort, my dear Lord Stark." Ardyn answered jovially, sporting his usual attire and sticking out amidst the mass of armored warriors with his cheerful nonchalance. "I simply instructed Oren to deliver a small gift to our Dornish friends." He added with a mischievous wink, shamelessly draping his arm over his liege lord's shoulder.
If Eddard didn't know any better, he would have thought he was seeking death. But he could sense it underneath his friendly gestures, a reminder of the difference between him and everyone else. Ardyn's recent accomplishments only solidified his father's warnings, and the Cold Wolf did not wish to meet the same fate as the Mad King. "Then I am relieved to see you have made such thoughtful preparations." Offering a courteous nod, Eddard separated himself from the smiling lord and focused on the enemies.
"But of course, my lord! Do I look like someone who would take such a somber historic moment lightly?" Ardyn asked, feigning mortification and hurt by Eddard's words.
"You look like a traveler who's at the wrong place at the wrong time, Izunia," Maege Mormont commented from the side, snickering as the man's hands laid on his chest as if struck by his words.
"You wound me with such harsh words, my fair Lady Mormont." Ardyn sighed dramatically, before he offered a respectful nod. "But if so, then I am most fortunate to be a traveler in such good company and on the right side of such a battle," he complimented, his words receiving nods and shouts of agreement from the northerners around them.
"Heads up, the fuckers are coming!" Umber roared, his thunderous shout snapping all to attention as the royalist army began its march. The hulking man turned to the men and raised his weapon, his fearsome stare spurring on the northern fighters. "Let's give them a taste of northern steel!"
"Let's see who will kill the most southern bastards, men of the north!" One of the soldiers suddenly declared, his proposal met with excited cheers as shields were bashed and spears were slammed against the ground.
Ardyn whistled, a disdainful smirk appearing on his face when the enemy forces began forcing an advance through the river. "I don't know if I can win such a competition." He reached into his cloak, pulling one of the little gifts he's made for the occasion. He stepped forward, sword appearing in his free hand as he waited for the enemy forces to march further into the river.
Ardyn calmly stepped in front of the soldiers, approaching the rumbling forces charging towards him with a casual smile.
Legends spoke of the men and women of Lucian Bloodline, said to wield terrible power…
He advanced slowly, calmly waiting for them to pass the halfway point, their charge making them rather wet and haggard as they ran through the trident. It was a level of foolishness Ardyn could almost respect, having seen nothing quite like it in his life. He almost pitied the fools following such a foolish man.
…their blessings built a prosperous kingdom, banishing the scourge and reigning over the world of men under the gaze of the Astrals…
Standing at the edge of the river, Ardyn phased through the arrows fired at him. Once the royal forces were almost upon him, he threw his sword above them and disappeared. His figure resurfaced above the army, a carefree smile on his face as the spherical flask smelled of ozone. "Let the games… begin!" He declared, looking at Rhaegar as he threw the sphere and disappeared once more.
And the skies rumbled.
…all hail, the might and grace of the Kings of Yore.
The sphere broke, and all bore witness to the sight of lightning smiting the royal army, the haunting screams and cries of men and horses sending chills down the spines of all watching. The lucky ones died quickly, scorched to black remains by the lightning strikes, while others were denied such mercy as they twitched and screamed, falling face first into the shallow waters and slowly drowning as their bodies failed to heed their command. The wool under their armor caught fire, many panicking as their comrades dropped to the ground and tried to take their armor off in vain, the heat searing their flesh to their gear, and those very same wet metal pieces torturing their comrades and themselves.
Fire… on the water.
No sooner than the first volley of lightning bolts descended on the center, did a second rumbling echo in the left flank, descending upon the Dornish army mercilessly and leaving only scorched earth in its wake. Oren's figure flashed through the air and reappeared next to his men as the Vale forces fearfully distanced themselves from the group of heathens.
Robert smirked under his helmet, his bloodthirst appeased by the terror the attack instilled in his foes. "Don't start drinking now! Here they come!" He barked out, his rallying cry keeping the men focused as the first of the royal army reached them. The Stag Lord cared little for the clash, eyes searching for his prey intently before he urged his horse forward.
The shock of the initial magical blow left the charge lame, and it was even more evident for the Dornish offensive as their cavalry were beset by Oren and his team. Men who appeared and disappeared with the wind, jumping from one place to another, their blades sinking and flashing amidst the warriors' bodies, ending them.
Oren remained stoic as he observed the battlefield, his sword blocking a slash aimed for his chest. His gaze bore into the Dornish man glaring at him, tilting his blade just as the man tensed his arms, putting more strength in his attack and losing his footing when he was met with little resistance, causing him to tumble straight into Oren's slash and for his head to fly.
Two men, a spearman and a swordsman, sought to accomplish what the man could not, keeping a safer distance as Oren continued his advance. Channeling his courage, the swordsman charged first with a measured strike to Oren's arm. Oren abruptly closed the distance, his free hand catching the man's sword-hand and stopping his attack dead in its tracks, before he roughly maneuvered him to the right, precisely into his spear-wielding friend. The spearman's shock was temporary, his desperation fueling his strength as he pushed through to skewer his enemy through his friend. However, he couldn't stab him no matter how hard he pushed, his eyes widening once he spotted the crystalline shield halting his spear. Oren remained silent and pointed his sword at the spearman, firing a lightning bolt, piercing his head.
More enemies came, his singular figure remaining stalwart as he smirked. His confidence made the Dornish men tense, but their attentiveness did not serve them. Daggers appeared behind each of them, slicing their throats before they realized what just occurred. His subordinates unveiled themselves, approaching him and getting ready for more fighting.
"How are the men doing?" Oren asked, hand grabbing the incoming halberd's shaft before stabbing his foe's neck. Wind coalesced around his foot as he kicked the body away, the strong force sending the corpse into the others around them.
"Only the usual, we got a few commanders during the initial charge," one of the men relayed, locking blades with his opponent before flames coated his hand. In a flash, he grasped the man's face, the searing agony forcing him to let go of his weapon. In that very moment, another man took advantage of the opening to gut the Dornish fighter and end his pain. "Corbay got injured by a stray arrow, his son's trying to take the reins now," he added, backstepping from a spear thrust and repaying his would-be killer with a bolt to the chest.
"What about the target?" Oren huffed, a hatchet appearing in his grasp before he threw it at another man charging at him.
"He's just ahead," his men responded, a series of spells opening a path for the master-at-arms and revealing the bloodied figure of Lewyn Martell.
Lewyn covered his eyes as the dust of the explosions dispersed, coughing from the scent of burned flesh permeating the battlefield. He tensed when a sword stabbed into the ground in front of him, Oren's figure appearing in a burst of crystalline particles. The Kingsguard nursed the wound on his left side, his clothes leaking blood as he struggled to maintain his posture.
"Surrender." Oren commanded, his disarmingly unassuming figure hiding the sharpness underneath, as he stood in front of the prince.
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Lewyn groaned as he straightened his back and brandished his blade, his smile as ferocious as it was casual.
Oren remained unconcerned, his eyes briefly shifting from the blade to the wound. "You're not my match, wounded as you are," he solemnly stated, his gaze meeting the injured man's stubbornness with indifference. "Surrender," he repeated, his tone sharper as he gripped his sword tighter.
"It's just a scratch," Lewyn quipped, ignoring the dark spots in his vision and taking a deep breath. He could not afford to retreat or back away, not with his niece and grandnephews in their hands. Even mortally wounded, he needed to keep advancing no matter the cost. "Of course, if you wish to surrender yourself, I won't mind," he joked, advancing carefully.
"So be it," Oren stated and shook his head, a glint flashing in his eyes before he vanished. He appeared behind the wounded Kingsguard, kicking the back of his knee and forcing him to kneel. The stoic man already anticipated such unreasonable stubbornness from his target and planted a knife behind him before he caught sight of Oren.
Lewyn clenched his teeth and fought through the pain, switching to a reverse grip and twisting his body for a retaliatory strike. His counter was halted before he could fully turn around, Oren's hand gripping his forearm. The bleeding prince could not muster the strength to contend and could only glare at his opponent in defiance, before a harsh strike to the back of his head knocked him out.
Oren held the unconscious man, before he pulled a glass vial from his belt. He poured the content on Lewyn's wound, the healing taking quick effect as the flesh began mending. "Take him away and regroup with the rest of the men," Oren ordered his men, before he turned to the center of the battle and threw his dagger high in the sky, vanishing.
The men nodded and raced together out of the fighting, their spells shining amidst the turmoil as they swiftly rushed back to safety. Leaderless, the Dornish forces quickly fell into anarchy and retreated, leaving the spent forces of the Vale victorious despite the cost.
Which was more than what Rhaegar could say as he cut through one rebel after the other, his somber gaze observing the mayhem unfolding in all directions. The weight of the lives lost bearing down on him as he rode forward, deeming it a necessary sacrifice for the greater good. No one understood the hidden dangers coveting the realms of men, and it fell upon him to safeguard his home from those who sought to tarnish all they held dear.
The Prince who was Promised held the salvation they needed to overcome the destined catastrophe, but Aegon could not complete his destiny without Visenya, his second sister. Such was the fate he was tasked as his father, and the responsibility he carried to endure the consequences ensuring the completion of the prophecy entailed.
"My King!" Connington called out to him, guarding his back along with Jonothor Darry as their surroundings bled together in a mixture of blood, screams and clashing steel. "The left flank is waning!" He shouted, slashing down on a northerner charging at them as they galloped forward.
Rhaegar nodded, keeping his own perspective hidden as he observed the battlefield. Despite their superior numbers and the failed initial charge, both sides still struggled to establish dominance. What they needed was a single decisive strike to put the entire battle to an end, and Rhaegar had a few targets in mind. He spotted Robert smashing through their forces on his horse earlier, and it seemed as if fate was guiding them both to this terrible trial.
Only, Robert wasn't the one who stood before him.
"If it isn't Your Grace." Ardyn greeted with a casual wave, casually approaching the three of them until he stopped at the edge of the stream. "It's been a while, though you'd excuse me for not bowing. The ground is terribly dirty," he insincerely apologized with a wide grin, a sword appearing behind him to skewer the head of the knight trying to stab him.
"So this is your choice," Rhaegar stated, observing the smiling man and gripping his sword tightly.
"Why yes, indeed! As a loyal bannerman, I am duty bound to see justice done," Ardyn answered mirthfully and falsely piously, placing his hand on his chest as he sighed dramatically. "Which is more than I can say for you three, I'm afraid," he added with a mocking smile, pointing at each of them one after the other.
"Silence, cur!" Jonothor roared, moving to stand in front of his ruler. "A dishonorable traitor has no right to speak of justice before his rightful King!" He barked, blade glinting maliciously as he glared.
"I beg to differ, Ser," Ardyn refuted, wagging his finger playfully at the fuming Kingsguard. "For you see, I have yet to abduct a little girl for my fantasies, nor have I stood by to let a madman have his way with his helpless sister," he noted, making a show of puffing his chest and smiling proudly as he made a finger gun at the Kingsguard. "It's too… cowardly for even a frail man such as myself. Now be a good dog and wag your tail elsewhere, boy. Pretty please?" He asked, the high-pitched request provoking the three even more.
"I'll have your head!" Jonothor stirred his horse and charged at the indifferent man, eyes bloodshot with fury as he cut through all who stood between them.
Ardyn did not move, looking over his fingernails as he yawned. He didn't even bother looking at the approaching knight, taking more interest in the happenings around him. It seemed like his life would end the moment Jonothor reached him, until a sword whizzed past him and stabbed the horse's head.
The knight fell into the stream as his horse tumbled to the ground, water blurring his vision momentarily before a foot slammed into his back and pinned him down. "Speak that way again, and you will die," a cold voice threatened, the distinct sensation of a blade held against the back of his neck freezing the knight for a brief moment.
Jonothor struggled still, but could not push the weight off. "Fu-" His reply was cut by the blade piercing his neck, any defiance he wished to declare was covered by wet gurgles before his body went limp.
Oren grabbed the dead Kingsguard's cloak, wiping the blood off his sword before he warped to Ardyn's side and bowed. "My Lord." He spoke, dutifully maintaining a watchful eye on their surroundings.
"Well done, Oren. I was worried for a second." Ardyn patted the man's shoulders, ignoring the deadpan look he received as he focused on the Targaryen King and his remaining retainer. "Now then, I have a question I'd like you to answer, Rhaegar." He smiled menacingly, before he snapped his fingers.
"Where did you take the little wolf?"
Rhaegar blinked and turned to his right, his eyes widening when he found his foe sitting on Connington's horse and looking at him in bewilderment. He reacted instinctively, sword lashing out and stabbing him in the neck, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as the magic user stared at him in disbelief… before he fell into the stream.
With this, the battle is-
"Quite decisive of you, Your Grace~"
Ardyn's voice froze him, so certain his enemy was dead, yet unable to understand how he stood next to his subordinate completely unharmed. As if looking past his helmet, the man pointed at the ground beside him. Following that gesture, he froze in horror at the sight of Connington's dead body at his horse's feet. 'How?! It was him!' Rhaegar struggled to understand the events which unfolded, the weight of his action leaving him stunned and lost for words.
"Don't feel so guilty; you are neither the first or the last to fall for such a classic." Ardyn spoke mirthfully, sitting on Jon's steed with a carefree grin. "It's the real me, by the way. Not that you'd be able to tell," he mocked, patting the horse's head as he observed the King's horrified stare. "Now, answer my question."
"M-Monster!" Rhaegar struck once more, his blade halted dead in its swing by a red crystalline sword, the strong blow causing the blade to crack.
"This again? Fine," Ardyn whined, and waved his index and middle finger to materialize a dagger, slamming it into his head and knocking his helmet off. In an instant, the Lucian grasped the ruler's face before his eyes grew black. "If your mouth won't cooperate, I'll do it myself."
Burrowing into the former prince's mind, Ardyn searched for Lyanna within his memories. He found her easily enough, watching through the ordeal as she was deceived and brought to an isolated tower, before being left there along with a few Kingsguard. Noticing the memories fragmenting, Ardyn retracted his hand.
"Did he break?" He wondered, tilting his head before sighing in relief when the man swung at him again. "There you go. That's the spirit, Your Grace," he encouraged insincerely, grinning as his arms blocked the Targaryen's every strike. "Now that I have what I seek, I will take my leave."
"Face me, coward!" Rhaegar screamed, eyes bloodshot as he grasped his head. He clenched his teeth, enduring the agonizing headache and frantically swinging at the condescending foreigner.
"I have more important duties, Your Grace," Ardyn replied, tipping his hat and pointing in front of them. "Besides, I think you should watch your back," he advised, disappearing in the blink of an eye.
Rhaegar turned around, believing he would see another one of his enemy's tricks. However, what awaited him was the sight of a warhammer swinging at him with terrifying ferocity before it buried itself deep within his chest. His armor's rubies fell into the stream along with his body, his chest caved with a sickening crunch. All the prince could do was stare at the skies while his vision grew darker, his consciousness quickly fading.
'I have failed you, o' Maiden,' he lamented, a delicate, blonde-haired figure of the one who warned him of the lurking threat being the last thing on his mind, before his life came to an end.
Robert glared hatefully at the unmoving corpse, his grip tight on his warhammer as the fire burning in his chest kept blazing. People screamed and hailed the dragon lord's fall, the royalists beginning to flee while his allies cheered and praised his name. He wanted nothing more than to get down from his horse and turn the fallen Targaryen's body into a pulp, but it wouldn't do anything but distract him. "Kill them all, men!" He roared, spurring his war horse forward as he joined the fray once more.
Ardyn watched the ferocious charge, whistling before he turned around. "Well then, off I go," he said nonchalantly, patting Oren's shoulder as he slowly walked away. "I'll leave the cleanup to you. Jorin and the others will meet you at King's Landing," he commanded, ignoring the men fleeing past them and the rebels in pursuit.
"As you command," Oren obeyed, sighing as his lord disappeared, leaving him to deal with the approaching Eddard Stark. The somber man grunted, keeping careful composure and hid his woes. 'I need to talk to him about this later,' he decided, unwilling to humor his lord's bad habit of leaving the complicated messes to him and the Steward.
Just what chaos would he do without them?
The Cold Wolf noticed Oren's frustrations, sighing as he rubbed his forehead. "He left already, didn't he?" He stated, unsure whether to feel relieved or annoyed to be able to speak with the more reasonable master-at-arms than his difficult lord. "Did he mention why he left, at least?" He inquired further.
"He did not, My Lord," Oren answered, shaking his head and sheathing his sword as more northern lords joined them. "However, if I were to guess, I believe he has acquired information about Lady Lyanna from Rhaegar before his death," he added, gesturing to the bloody corpse of the former king in the stream.
"That man sure works fast." Maege Mormont noted, spitting in the stream before she grinned. "Still, thank the gods he's on our side. Those southern bastards didn't know what bloody hit them," she snickered, cleaning her mace with the clothes of a fallen knight.
"That reminds me: Lady Mormont, I would like to speak with you later on," Oren said, earning a smug grin from the she-bear.
"Oh? You want to have a go?" Ever willful, Maege quipped as she stared at the indifferent man. "Sure. I like 'em strong and blooded like you." She attempted to tease him, amusedly trying to see what would make Oren tick. However, the man remained serious and stalwart.
"I am honored, my Lady. However, it is not about that." Oren declined, pulling out a piece of cloth and cleaning the blood off his skin and face. "My lord wished to establish an agreement between both houses, a means to thank house Mormont for the aid they provided us at the hamlet," he explained, dipping the bloodied cloth in the stream and squeezing it. Turning around, he found himself staring at many of the northern lords, his words inevitably garnering their attention as they stared at him. It didn't help that Maege was grinning widely at him and puffing her chest proudly, irritating some of her peers.
Oren's definitely requesting a raise after this…
Thank you for reading!
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Next update is The Wise King.