Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

They met in the middle of the tunnel.

The shaft was mostly straight, and Aelor Targaryen and the men following him—his best knights—had seen the torches of the Lannisters from a fair distance. Tywin had obviously found the door the obese, shaking Lannister of Lannisport had told Aelor about, and was trying to use it as a means to escape.

The Dragon of Duskendale was trying to use it as a means of entry.

The brothel keeper had been rather off put when a man was dragged at swordpoint out of her place of business, having emerged from the shaft the elderly Lyseni woman had claimed hadn't been used in twenty years. She'd stopped complaining rather abruptly, however, when a Targaryen Prince in full battle plate showed up later, at the head of When the Lions rushed forward upon seeing the torches his own men carried, Aelor broke into a sprint of his own towards them. The tunnel was the Lion's best chance of escape as well as the Dragon's best chance of access. With both sides wanting to reach the other end, it meant only one thing.

The tunnel was soon going to be a river of blood.

"Alaric, order the King to attack!" Aelor shouted to his squire as he and his warriors rushed forward. "Do it now!" The squire reluctantly hugged the wall, jostling by the armored bodies pouring towards the enemy. Aelor eyed the passageway even as he drew his sword. It was only wide enough for two ab.r.e.a.s.t, Aelor on the right and Balman Byrch on the left. That meant all the men behind them, as well as the men behind the leading Lannisters, wouldn't be able to actively fight, instead pressing the leading men against one another.

"Dirks!" Balman cried. "Daggers Your Grace!" Aelor instantly understood; in the close confines of the tunnel a sword or mace would be too c.u.mbersome to wield, with no room to swing or parry. A dagger, however, would be the perfect weapon to slip between armor joints and other vulnerabilities in the mass of fighting bodies.

"Do it," The Prince called, his men taking up the call for daggers as the two sides closed in on one another, Aelor sheathing his sword on the run and drawing the emerald-encrusted dagger from his waist. As the two sides closed in on one another, armored bodies charging towards armored bodies all under the flickering light of torches, Aelor couldn't help but wonder if he should have just pulled back. This is no place for a fight.

It proved that it surely wasn't.

Aelor brought his shieldarm up to his neck, lowering his shoulder and using his broad frame as a battering ram. Balman did the same, and the two men catapulted into the leading Westerlanders, Aelor giving a war cry that his men took up, the Lannister's screaming chants of their own. The blow of his shield hitting the other man's reverberated up his arm, and his warriors pushed against his broad back. The man in front of him, his sigil too obscured in the flickering torchlight for Aelor to even venture a guess at his House, started to falter backwards, Aelor having the advantage of size between the two, but the other Lion's crashed into their companions back and shoved him back forwards.

It was instantly evident to Aelor that this wasn't a fight; it was a shoving match, armored men piled on armored men, all pushing the man in front of him forward, the men in the middle of the mass of bodies being crushed. As one of those men, Aelor could attest to how uncomfortable it was.

But Balman had had excellent foresight. His opponent had a sword, one he couldn't work his arm free enough to use. Aelor had a dagger, and though his movement was also severely restricted between the friends piled against his back and the enemies shoving against his shield, he could just manage to sink the steel weapon into the gap in the groin of the Lion's armor.

The man grunted in pain, blood beginning to pour out of the injury as Aelor pulled the dagger out and thrust it back in. The helpless knight began to sink downwards as his lifeblood spilled down his crotch and leg. The forces of men sandwiched him between them, not allowing him to fall at first, but the Lannister behind the dead man soon realized his companion was dead, grabbing his ally with his hands and shoving him down. Aelor helped him, knowing it was far too late to pull his men out. That leaves one direction open to me; forward. And that means you're in my way.

They managed to work the dead man's body down enough that the Lion behind could step up on it, using his sudden height and attempting to strike down at the Prince in front of him. The close quarters did him in as well, the Lannister man unable to use his sword except as a puncturing weapon, the length of the blade making it unhandy to wield and giving Aelor time to bend his body out of the way. Aelor avoided the sword the knight was using as a glorified knife and drove his own dagger under the man's armpit.

Blood ran in rivulets down the Dragon Prince's black armor, covering him, but the Lion died quickly. The man behind Aelor, seeing what his Prince needed done and being strong enough to do it, reached over his liege's head and grabbed the dead lion, hauling him armor and all over Aelor's helm and giving the Prince time to step over the body of the first man he killed and lock up with the third Lannister before that man could use his sword.

This one, burly and with a plain helm, was smart enough to see the Prince's advantage, catching the Targaryen's arm with his shield and slamming it against the tunnel's side, pinning the dagger in it out of the fight. Aelor's shield collided with the man's c.h.e.s.t, but the mass of bodies pressing against his back hadn't allowed him to but any power behind the blow. Their helms were thrust dangerously close together, the steel encasing the Westerlander's face muffling his voice.

"Targaryen c.u.n.t," the Westlander spat out. Aelor was trying to come up with a clever reply when the man rammed his helm into the faceplate of the Prince's.

"Dammit," the Prince cursed, the gash across his eye screaming in protest and the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. Well, bugger you too then. Aelor returned the favor, ramming his own helm into the other man's. Even then, the soreness from the knot Gregor Clegane had raised on his head flared up in pain. Ouch. Nobody wins with the headbutt.

The knight behind Aelor once again came to his Prince's support, apparently managing to have disposed of the second dead Lannister's body. Slipping his arms around the Prince he grasped the Lion's shield, pulling with enough strength to free Aelor's dagger. The Prince buried it into the insulting man's neck, still unable to come up with a proper insult.

Damn. I suppose he got the last word.

The shoving match continued for some time, Aelor nearly finding himself dead when he worked ahead of Balman—at least he assumed Balman was still the man helping lead the charge—and a Lannister man was suddenly stabbing his sword at the Prince's side. He was only saved by another Lannister knight, this one knocking the first's sword aside in his rush for glory, trying to be the man to slay the Dragon of Duskendale. Aelor managed to turn in time for him, killing the second by cutting his throat and watching the other die at the hands of the knight who seemed to always have his back.

It was only then that Aelor realized the man was Renfred Rykker.

The tunnel had filled with corpses and blood by the time the Lannisters started to pull back, the crammed quarters of battle suddenly loosening and loosening until Aelor could finally stand without touching another living being. He gave pursuit, finally able to use his sword after sheathing his bloody dagger, cutting a few of the fleeing men down as he chased them back towards the other end of the tunnel, Renfred unslinging his warhammer and sprinting alongside his Prince, moving very quickly for a man of his size.

The two lifelong friends charged hard, only stopping their attack when they realized the lion's in front of them were surrendering. Aelor soon discovered why when he met his brother a few dozen feet from the ladder leading into the High Septon's chamber. Several of the yielding knights were kneeling between them, swords cast aside.

"I see our infiltration didn't work." Aelor greeted his brother as he pulled off his white flame helmet. Alaric, good lad that he was, had managed to scoop it up during the ride to the Red Keep. The Langward lad now stood beside the King along with Ser Barristan, both with bloody swords.

"Quite the contrary," the King replied as he pulled his own dragon-wing helm off his head, long silvery hair a stark contrast to the black of the armor. "They were rushing to send men down the tunnel when we came through the front door."

Renfred, big black beard grown bushy while on campaign, had moved like a man without pain during the fight, but now he was beginning to favor his wounded shoulder. Aelor supposed it had reopened, as his own gash had. "How many men did we lose?"

"More than any of us would have liked, but less than we would have had we stormed it without you acting as a distraction."

"Tywin?" Aelor asked, letting the adrenaline ebb from his bloodstream. I don't see how the man could have escaped, but if this passage is here, there is bound to be more.

"Captured," Rhaegar's melancholy tone confirmed. "And still acting as if he is in complete control."

"Of course he is. He's Tywin Lannister." Aelor cracked his neck, the joint popping in the cramped, smoldering corridor. "Do you mind taking this conversation elsewhere? It smells too much like death here."

"Aye, it does," came a new voice, exotic and flowing like a song as the lean owner stepped into view, a smirk on his olive face. "Though the blood of Lannisters is a good thing, no?"

Aelor grinned widely. It seemed the Dornish had arrived.