Author's Note: Back again, enjoying the heck out of this. If you read the original, please check out the second A/N at the bottom, which discusses the first change of note made beyond world/character building.

I hope you enjoy and review this chapter!

Chapter 5

Original Word Count: 1679

Revision Word Count: 2175

The knight had a white slash on his blue shield and a morningstar. Aelor Targaryen had fought shields plenty of times before—he used one himself—but the spiked ball swinging on its chain was a rarity. He'd only fought them in the training yard and even then only sparingly, something he was regretting more and more with each second; the weapon was giving him absolute fits.

The man in Hasty colors knew how to use it too, keeping on the offensive and battering against Aelor's shield. The oak and banded steel was of the highest quality money could buy, but even it was beginning to splinter beneath the onslaught, both warring white dragons it bore now just unrecognizable flecks of paint. Aelor deflected the morningstar for what felt like the hundredth time and struck back for the thousandth, but the Stormlander caught it on his own and sent the spiked ball whistling for the prince's head again.

Instead of using his damaged shield once more Aelor ducked, the spiked ball barely clearing the top of his helm, and dove forward, driving his armored shoulder into the other knight. The blow took Hasty by surprise, and he didn't manage to get his shield in between. Aelor's charge took him full in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. His arm, instinctually trying to catch himself but trained to not release his grip, tried to bring the Morningstar towards his opponent as he crashed to the ground. Aelor had anticipated it, parrying the chain with the blade of his sword to stop its momentum. Before Hasty could swing again or try to gain his feet Aelor stepped over him and drove his blade down through the eye slit.

A man at arms, bearing a spear and in the same blue and white heraldry, stabbed towards Aelor's chest. Still standing over the knight he had just killed, Aelor twisted to the side, spearhead driving past his ribs, and brought his shieldarm down to trap the shaft against his side. Holding the spear in place, Aelor withdrew his blade from the face of the downed man and sliced through the throat of the man-at-arms in one motion. Blood spurted and poured down his front, leaving a red river through the blue of his tabard.

There was no time to gather himself. Another knight took the footman's place, this one in the dented armor and hacked-up shield of a hedgeknight. It's the dragons on my shield; attracts opponents like a Lysene whore. He came on quickly, trying to catch the Dragon Prince while he was still recovering from killing the Morning Star Knight and his compatriot, but Aelor matched him blow for blow. It took only a second to cut this one down, Aelor slashing his legs out from under him before driving his castle-forged steel into weak joint at the groin.

Three more followed, men at arms bearing Hasty and Buckler colors, joining the others one after the other. On and on it went, for how long Aelor couldn't say and didn't care about. He felt alive in battle, mind never working faster, blade never swinging quicker and body never feeling stronger than it did when he was on the battlefield.

Part of Aelor laughed at the absurdity; he never felt more life than when he was taking someone else's. He hadn't felt the true glory of battle since the Kingswood, and while tourneys and melees could sate him, they were a mere shadow of the true bloodlust of war.

The prince reveled in it now, slamming the splintered shield into the face of a helmless man even as he disarmed—in all senses of the word—another opponent wearing the nine silver unicorns of House Rogers on his chest. He cut the toweringly tall man's cries short with a blade driven deep through the chest, piercing the very same heart that was pumping blood out of the gaping wound where his arm used to be.

And then it was done.

The Dragon of Duskendale had stood, withdrawing his blade from the dead man and whirling to meet the blades darting in on him, only to realize there was a stunning lack of blades. He spun twice more, checking other angles, before the battle haze began to dissipate. Not only was there a lack of blades trying to kill him anywhere near, there was also a lack of bodies—or at least live ones. There were certainly plenty of corpses.

"Prince Aelor," called a familiar voice, and the Dragon of Duskendale turned to a see a knight in silvery plate working through the maze of dead and wounded towards him. Ser Barristan Selmy's white cloak was covered in blood, but to Aelor's relief none of it seemed to be his. The battleground had changed much since the last time Aelor had deigned to notice it. The clang of steel and screams of men and horse had seemed to die down, replaced by an eerie silence that was interrupted periodically by the cry of a dying man. Or two. Maybe ten. Aelor couldn't really tell; it was hard to differentiate over the sound of his own heavy breathing.

Seven hells, I always forget about this part. The black sword in his hand seemed to have grown exponentially heavier in the past few moments, what was left of his black shield with the warring white dragons nearly dragging his left arm to the ground. Everything seemed to hurt, even speaking. "Ser Barristan."

"They've broken, my prince. Lord Rykker's calvary took them in the rear, as planned."

And here I thought it was our spirited charge. "Excellent news." Aelor registered the remnants of his vanguard, once four hundred mounted men strong, scattered around the field of battle. Many were now afoot, losing their mounts to the Stormlander lines. Aelor's own stallion had gone down that way, it's bellows still reverberating in the back of his mind. Renfred's flanking force, another seven hundred mounted knights and freeriders, sat their animals to Aelor's front like a wall of horseflesh, certainly in much better condition than his own men.

That was the intent, I suppose; hammer and anvil and all that. Funny, the song never mentioned how unpleasant it is for the anvil.

Having stopped beside the prince, Barristan removed his helm, brown hair matted with sweat. Aelor drove the point of his blade into the ground and removed his own, placing the black helm with white flame crest over the pommel of his blade. I'll have to sharpen that later. Wait, I have a squire for that now. A stab of panic shot through him then, as he couldn't recall seeing the boy since his destrier went down. Aelor spun in place much as he had moments ago, checking figures both standing and dead. "Where is Des?"

"Here, my lord," spoke a voice behind him, causing Aelor to nearly jump out of his armor. The lad of five and ten was stumbling towards him, helm off and sword bloodied, his face as green as the banner of House Byrch.

Tall and thin, Desmond of House Langward had been the Dragon of Duskendale's apprentice for all of three days. The prince and his army had merged with Lord Dontos Bywater and his vassals at Langward Hall, a mere few miles away from the corpse-strewn field they stood in now. Lord Jarman Langward, eighty years old and patriarch of a brood of children and grandchildren much too large for his modest keep, had overhead talk that Aelor had no squire. With no regard for propriety, he had brought up the exploits of one of his many great-grandsons, a supposed prodigy who was wasted at Langward Hall but couldn't squire abroad as Jarman "had no coin for the lads equipment". A bad excuse, but Aelor accepted Desmond mainly to shut the old man up.

He had proven skilled, but raw. Aelor had equipped him with sword and shield and what armor could be found, but it had taken a passionate argument from the generally quite lad before Aelor had agreed to let him on the field.

Aelor breathed out a sigh of relief at the sight of the boy unharmed. Barristan was grinning at Desmond, though he spoke to the prince. "Your squire did well; kept up with you throughout the charge."

"I tried to get behind the knight with the morningstar, Prince Aelor," Des said, face still marvelously sick though his quiet voice was firm. "A spear got in my way, and then another."

Aelor, for his part, had taken a shine to the shy lad in the few days he'd known him, and felt horribly guilty for having forgotten about him during the heat of battle. He had never fought with a squire at his side before; truth be told, today was the first day he'd fought in a true battle of army versus army. The battle with the Kingswood Brotherhood had been a series of skirmishes, bloody but unorganized. "Are you hurt, Desmond?"

"No, Ser," the boy said, his shaggy black hair soaked with sweat. "It's just…my gut…" A second later the lad was depositing the contents of his stomach over the nearest dead corpse. Realizing what he was doing amidst the heaving, he tried to turn away and ended up covering his own boots instead.

The Lord of Duskendale grimaced sympathetically, then grinned an aside at Barristan. "I did the same thing after my first battle."

The knight of the Kingsguard returned the smile. "I remember."

A hail and the sound of approaching hooves interrupted the reverie and Desmond's troubles, Renfred riding over the corpses with several of the retinue at his side. Rykker's visor was up, his warhammer gripped in his left hand and dripping blood. "Ren," Aelor called cheerily. "I see you still have your horse. Lucky! I seem to have misplaced mine. Strong shield."

Renfred Rykker grinned as he slowed his steeldust to a halt. "Stronger sword. This sense of misplacement must be spreading; your squire seems to be losing his morning meal."

"Neither of us can be too hard on him; we did the same."

The big man in blue armor laughed. "That we did." He gestured, and Ser Alester and Lord Elwood spurred forward, flanking a third armored and mounted man between them. This one, clearly a prisoner with his scabbard empty and his wrist tied firmly to his saddle, had three golden buckles on his surcoat and blood leaking from the armor joint at his right elbow. The man's helm was gone, revealing long red hair and green eyes deep set in a face rapidly turning purple from bruising. Ren nodded towards him. "Meet Lord Ralph Buckler, Lord of the Wendwater."

Aelor eyed him, then turned his attention back to Lord Rykker. "Do you have any others?"

"Lord Bryce Rogers, one of Buckler's vassals. Several knights of various fealty as well. We're still getting them sorted out."

The prince nodded. "Any idea on losses?"

"No more than a score from my charge; they broke before my goodfather even had a chance to move in with our full force." His smiled faded as Renfred looked at the devastation around, healers moving in in droves to care for those wounded. "I don't know about your vanguard, though."

Nor do I.

Ralph Buckler had a surprisingly deep voice, nearly as deep as the two friends who'd captured him. It seemed more potent from him, though, considering they were big men while he was of average height and a slight build. "I was only following the orders of my liege, my Prince."

Aelor snorted, hands resting on the helm and sword. "I am apparently no longer your prince, Lord Buckler. That honor seems to belong to Robert Baratheon, or perhaps Eddard Stark. Tell me, have you lot worked that out yet?"

Buckler's face colored, though he did not rise to the jibe. It was clear he was fully aware of how short his life expectancy could become were he to anger the prince even more than he already had. "I swore fealty to the Baratheons, my prince, and merely honored their call."

The prince of the Iron Throne laughed aloud at that. "By the Seven you are right, I suppose we should just let you go."

The Lord of the Wendwater grew an even darker shade of red, and this time he couldn't quite bite back his retort. "Or burn me, as your mad father did Stark."

Ren barked a reprimand from atop his stallion. "Watch your tone."

Aelor waved him off, face neutral. "I know what my father did, Buckler. I was there. While I will admit he was not right in doing so, I find full fledged rebellion a bit drastic, don't you? It was not your liege lord who died screaming." Buckler began to respond but Aelor didn't let him. "But you were just following Baratheon's orders, as you said." The prince's face sank into a predatory smile. "Why don't you tell me all about them?"

A/N: People re-reading this may notice that Alaric Langward's name has been changed to Desmond, or Des for short. Upon rereading the story as a whole over the last few years, I realized there were too many "A" names in characters with lots of screen time. As I don't want to rename another major character starting with A (you vets know who I'm talking about), it made sense to rename Alaric. He's the exact same character, just called something different haha.