Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

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

Now he had.

The rebel forces were exactly where the King had said they would be, facing the loyalist across the river Trident, the prancing stag of Baratheon flying over the spears directly center of the unnamed ford, higher than normal due to the recent heavy rains but still easily manageable. Aelor sat Warrior four hundred yards off, a few dozen yards out of edge of the tree line bordering the field leading to the waters, the army forming up behind him, and even from that distance he saw the figure that he had centered nearly all of his hatred around.

Robert Baratheon sat a fittingly white stallion under the largest of the black stag on yellow field banners, an antlered helm and his impressive stature singling him out even among the forest of armor and helms. I've been hunting you for months. How wonderful it is to finally bump into you again.

Aelor followed the line of enemies to his right, spying the iron studs on bronze field of Royce, the six bells on purple field of Belmore, the silver arrows on brown field of Hunter and, predominate to them all, the soaring blue falcon on white moon on sky blue field of Arryn. To his left, the enemies right, he recognized the giant in chains on red field of Umber, the merman on blue field of Manderly, the flayed man on pink field of Bolton, and of course the running grey direwolf on white field of Stark. Ah, brilliant, we have a full house. We wouldn't want anybody to miss the party now would we.

The King's sad, melancholy voice spoke to Aelor's left, Rhaegar pulling his equally large, dark stallion to a halt beside Warrior. "I see they were expecting us."

Aelor grunted his agreement, putting aside his differences with his brother as well as he could to focus on the upcoming battle. He gestured towards the forest of spears forming the front lines, swordsmen behind them. The enemy was massed heavily in the center, wisely making their line the strongest where the Targaryens would have to cross the river. While the ford was fairly wide, its heavy use clearing much of the land fronting it as well as smoothing the surface of the river underneath the shallow water to sand and small stones, there was still only a limited amount of space that the loyalist would have to cross. "I'm sure they have archers ready to rain death on us once we're in the midst of the ford."

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

"Once we're across the water their flanks will certainly swoop in on our own. We'll be fighting a horseshoe." Aelor stretched his arms, flexing and relaxing his hands in rapid succession. He felt the pre-battle adrenaline already coursing through his veins, the anticipation of what was to come heightening all of his senses.

"Do you suppose Prince Oberyn made it into position?" Jon Connington, mounted on a stallion as red as his hair, held his helm shaped to look like a screeching griffin under an arm, as did both the Targaryen brothers and Barristan.

Aelor laughed shortly. "Trust me, Connington; Oberyn will be there."

Rhaegar looked to his brother, face slightly chastising. "I still believe it should be you in his place."

Aelor shook his head, meeting his brother's identical eyes and holding them steadily. "As I've said before, I've been fighting those bastards since the start of the war, and my armor and helm are quite recognizable. They would notice if I wasn't here, and since everyone from Robert Baratheon to the High Septon know I wouldn't miss this fight for all the gold in Casterly Rock, it would alert them to what's truly happening. My place is here. Besides," Aelor added on as he patted his stallion's armored neck. "Warrior will want in on the action from the beginning."

Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Why am I not surprised." Rhaegar looked back to the enemy, taking a deep breath. "I suppose it is time. Jon, Barristan, give us a moment." Connington obeyed without hesitation, whirling his red stallion to gallop back towards the main lines, men from the Reach, the Crownlands, the Westerlands and Dorne all preparing for the massive battle that was soon to come. Barristan followed him slightly slower, clearly unwilling to leave the King when so near the enemy but duty-bound to obey. Randyll Tarly had the infantry, ranging from inexperienced levies to battle-tested retainers. Rhaegar and Barristan were to lead the second wave of attackers, once the vanguard had gained a foothold on the opposite bank.

As for Aelor himself? Well, he was to lead that vanguard, as he always did. Not even Rhaegar Targaryen could dissuade him from that.

"I should lead this charge, Aelor," Rhaegar protested again, despite knowing it was a useless venture. "I am to die here, on this very day. Nothing you can do will change that."

"Maybe you're right," Aelor said, facing his brother again. "Maybe you will die here, though I don't store much by your visions. I intend to see that you don't bring the entirety of the army down with you. If you die in the initial volley half of the men will turn and flee before they even managed to draw an ounce of the enemy's blood. Better the King lose his Hand than his head."

"You mean more to the men than I do."

"Perhaps, but you are their hope for the future. You are their King. And I'm leading this bloody charge, no matter your complaints."

Rhaegar shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder which of us thinks he's King."

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

The King of the Iron Throne held his brother's gaze for a long moment before holding out his hand almost tentatively. "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, baby brother, but you're still my blood, and I love you."

Aelor eyed the King's extended hand, all of his brother's prophecies and blunders flashing before him. But close on their heels were memories from when they were children, of Rhaegar's brightest moments, from their escapades hiding in the secret passages from their tutors and the countless trouble they had once stirred up, and Aelor reached out his gauntlet to take the King's, squeezing it tightly. No words came to him, so he only nodded.

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

Aelor took a deep breath, letting his eyes focus on the enemy preparing for the charge they knew was coming. His adrenaline was increasing, as was his anticipation. It is time to do what I do best. Aelor lowered his white flame helm over his head and set his broad shoulders, funneling his increasing energy into his voice, roaring loud enough that he knew without a doubt ever soldier at the ford, loyalist or traitor, could hear him. "Vanguard!"

With a roar of their own that Aelor felt even through the hundreds of pounds of horseflesh underneath him his knights trotted forwards, lances angled upwards. His own veterans, bolstered by the best knights chosen from the entirety of the loyalist army, took to his sides, forming the wedge they had employed so often, both successfully and less so.

I needn't worry; there's a river to either side. Even Selwyn f.u.c.k.i.n.g Tarth couldn't flank me here.

The ford was only a few dozen yards wide, Aelor's men keeping the wedge rather short, men filling in the space behind the front lines. They all knew they were charging into the teeth of the wolves, and each man knew he was likely to die, but they formed up on the Prince they had followed many times before. Aelor took the lance Alaric brought him, pleased to see how well the armor he had commissioned for the lad fit his lanky form. "Are you with me, Alaric?"

The Langward lad gave the same answer he always did, smiling broadly. "To the death, Your Grace."

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

The Lord of Hollard Hall smiled through the visor of his spiked helm. Aelor couldn't really see it, but he knew. "I was there when this war started. I aim to be here when it ends."

Aelor smacked the side of his arm against his b.r.e.a.s.tplate, lance stabbing into the air as he did so. "Strong shield."

Rykker did the same. "Stronger sword."

The Targaryen Prince kicked Warrior into action riding down the front of his line to the left before doubling back to the right, standing in his saddle and plunging his lance into the air. His knights repeated the gesture, roaring battle cries, reminding the Dragon of Duskendale of that time a few months and a dozen lifetimes ago on the Parchments.

Aelor waited until they died down slightly before speaking, saying the only thing he knew to. "Need I say a damn thing?" His men thundered out in response, Warrior adding his own bellow to the cacophony of sound. "Well then, lads, let's get to it! Fire and blood!"

"FIRE AND BLOOD!"

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

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

Even from this distance, behind the lines of thousands of spears and swords, Eddard could see the King and his brother as they rode ahead of the seemingly endless lines of loyalist men marching clear of the forest. The King of the Iron Throne sat a black stallion, the rubies arranged to portray the three headed Targaryen dragon sparkling in the new sunlight. Beside him , seated on another black stallion that Targaryen warriors seemed to love, sat a broader, taller figure, armor less ornate but no less striking. Aelor Targaryen, the Dragon of Duskendale, looked every bit the warrior rumors had him to be.

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

"They accepted our field of battle," Eddard said with a touch of respect.

"Of course they did." Robert's voice was as clear as Eddard had heard it in days. "They have to bring their rebellious dogs to heel."

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

"Once they hit us, crash in on their flanks." Robert, whatever his faults, was in his element on the battlefield. "The Rapist will likely bring the infantry up to press the progress made by the other silver-headed git. We'll deal as much damage as we can before I bring in the second line for a counter."

Ned turned his garron slightly to observe the thousands of mounted men, splendidly colored Valemen knights on barded coursers, Riverlander warriors defending their homeland, and Northmen heavy calvary in boiled leather and furs, all ready to lower lance and strike once the loyalist infantry was engaged. Behind them, the reserve force of infantry lie in wait under the command of his goodfather Hoster Tully, ready to both counter unforeseen threats and shore up the advantage their own cavalry would gain.

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

"They know their duty, Ned," Robert consoled. "They're going to do theirs so we may do our own."

"Vanguard!" The roar from across the river echoed even over the creak of leather and rattle of steel surrounding Eddard, and with a cry hundreds of knights rode forward to form up on the second son of Aerys.

"It is time." Eddard remarked to the other leaders of the rebellion, the men he considered family, even as Aelor Targaryen's knights roared like demons.

"We will see each other again soon," Robert said, clasping Ned and Jon Arryn both on the shoulder before riding back towards the lines of knights he was to lead. Nothing more was said. Nothing more was needed.

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

"We're soon to find out," Ned replied simply. Any other comments, inspiring words or cryptic predictions, were lost as the Targaryen knights cried out once more. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and the North, watched on with both anticipation and a fear in his gut that only fools didn't feel. it is time. For father. For Brandon. For Lyanna.

Aelor Targaryen rode down the lines of his knights, standing in his saddle and thrusting his warlance into the air as he called out to his men, the wall of armor returning his cries. Then, with one final bellow of his house words, the Dragon of Duskendale charged, flying towards Eddard and his men with the thunder of thousands of hooves accompanying him.

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

Several dozen yards before they reached the waters of the ford he heard the distinctive whistles, knowing what it was without any need of seeing it. "Shields!" He shouted, bringing his own above his head as his men did the same, some having recognized what was happening and given the command before even the Prince. The arrows all seemed to fall at once, a thick mass of sharpened steel digging into dirt, shield, horseflesh and man. The familiar but always disturbing screech of wounded horses filled the air even as Aelor felt the impact of a few arrows digging into his shield and saw another deflect off the chainmail blanket covering Warrior's black neck. Aelor barely had time to check that Alaric was still beside him, three arrow shafts sticking out of the squire's own shield, before Warrior's hooves hit water, the deafening rumble of the earth turning into an even louder splash of water.

"Lance!" The Dragon Prince called, though he doubted he could be heard. It wasn't like his men needed the reminder, as they were nearing the enemy spears rapidly. Aelor lowered his own lance as Warrior bore down on the unwavering line of Stormlander spearmen. We're fighting brave men. Too bad they are all going to die.

A warlance was eight feet of hardened wood tipped with deadly sharp steel, and when wielded by a strong man atop a destrier running at full speed there was no armor known to man that could stop it outright. It could be deflected, however, knocked aside by a shield or guided into a glancing blow by armor if the man on the receiving end knew what he was doing. It was for that reason, aided by the need to satisfy the terrifying black hate Aelor Targaryen carried into battle, that the Dragon of Duskendale drove his warlance into the face of the spearman to his front, taking advantage of the man's halfhelm by plunging the steel point into his eye socket.

Aelor's lance splintered as the spearmen vaulted backwards into his fellows, a foot of fire-hardened ash jutting out of the now very dead man's right eye. The dragonlord instinctually used the remnants of the lance as a club, bringing the black and white painted ashwood down onto the helm of another footman even as he knocked aside a spear on the opposite side with his shield. Realizing that without its point the lance was rather useless, awkward to swing and too light to cause much damage, the dragonlord threw it at the same man, testing its prospects as a blunted javelin even as he drew his sword. Poor. Looks like swordwork it is.

The effect of hundreds of mounted armored men crashing into you went beyond the physical dangers, the shock breeding panic among inexperienced soldiers. Even so there was no shortage of enemies to fight, and by the time the Northmen and Valemen expectedly crashed into the sides of Aelor's men the Dragon of Duskendale's sword was bloody from crossguard to point.

Warrior kept his hooves as the two drove deeper into the thick crowd of enemies, the warhorse managing to avoid the forest of death in a way Aelor, while grateful, found somewhat eerily humanlike. This horse is smarter than most of the nobles in Westeros. It was true that trying to kill a knight's horse was considered dishonorable, but Aelor knew as well as anyone that honor was the first casualty of war. The black destrier somehow managed to stay alive, however, and for not the first time Aelor prayed to the Seven that the animal would make it out alive. Funny. I should be praying for my men, for my brother, and here I am praying for a bloody horse.

Aelor didn't feel guilty. He liked his horse, something he couldn't say about most of the humans he knew.

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

As man and mount were finally slowed to a near stop Aelor batted a sword aside and opened its owners throat, using his advantage of height atop the stallion's tall back to swing down with heavy force, hacking into shield and flesh and bone. He felt more than saw Rhaegar and the infantry arrive, the mass of blades that had been focused solely on him dispersing as their wielders suddenly had an influx of new Targaryen soldiers to worry about.

Aelor knew in the back of his mind that the battle was spreading all across this side of the river, the patch of ground fronting the bloody ford not nearly large enough for tens of thousands of men to wage war, but to him the world was reduced to the few feet around himself and his mount. There were no tactics or stratagems useful here; this was an all-out, bloody brawl, where a man's birth made no difference concerning who lived and who died. Aelor knew without a doubt that nobles were dying the same as smallfolk, peasant and lord bleeding out in churned up mud alongside one other in an odd sense of unity that was never realized in life. Those lucky enough to still be alive and on their feet slew others, dropping more and more corpses to the ground in deepening piles to accompany the dying in their last moments. It was a bloody, awful process, nothing like the songs and stories, the stench of blood, death, piss and shit filling the air, accompanied by clangs of steel, shouts of elation and despair and horror, and the haunting screams of the dying.

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

Aelor didn't see the charge coming until it was too late. By the time he looked up, all he could see was a knight with a blue anchor on his surcoat and a lance, not the banner he rode under or the men to his sides. The Dragon of Duskendale brought his shield up, fear and rage and battel.u.s.t all bursting out in a choked cry, as the lance slammed into the oak and banded steel shield.

The force was like a tidal wave, carrying the big Targaryen up and out of his saddle, the lance splintering as Aelor found himself catapulted over Warrior's haunches and into the mud and blood below.

Whatever notions Eddard Stark had had of war were complete and utter shit.

There was nothing honorable about this disorganized melee, men having at each other with everything from swords to rocks, a peasant levy crouched over a downed knight with a boar on his surcoat, smashing a head-sized stone into 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, finding another knight, this one without a sigil on his green and white surcoat, charging down on him. Eddard blocked his overhead blow with Ice, the smoky Valyrian steel of the greatsword he never thought he'd wield making the knight's blade spark, before forcing his opponent's blade up and slicing Ice across his c.h.e.s.t. The man's armor took most of the backfoot blow, but even the castle-forged steel he wore couldn't stop the ancient spellbound steel from chopping down into his shoulder. The man dropped to his knees, the Lord of Winterfell staying his killing blow for a moment, but with a gurgled cry the knight tried again to stab the Warden of the North. Ned avoided the nameless warrior's blade and brought his own down, putting a stop to his weakening attacks permanently.

Beside him Greatjon Umber boomed out a laugh, slitting a Reachman's throat. He'd stuck by Ned's side the entire battle, dismounting when Ned's own garron took a spear and slogging it out on foot with his liege lord. He'd taken turns between laughing deafeningly and singing a tavern song at the top of his lungs, shouting about a whore's t.i.t.s even as he plunged his blade through a footman's gut. On his other side little Howland Reed fought on valiantly, 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 more than holding his own.

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 though no less effective, forcing the rebel forces back, more and more loyalist knights and 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.

So when Robert's charge swept across the battlefield, overrunning 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 c.h.e.s.t—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 stubborn few ligaments, flopping lifelessly as he neared. "The rear!"

Ned Stark looked from the horrifying appearance of the man towards the rear lines, and felt his blood freeze even colder than it normally ran. Hundreds of men in orange and red, mounted atop horses that could only be the infamous Dornish sand steeds or sprinting forward on foot carrying throwing javelins, were emerging from the woods.

On our side of the river.

Eddard could only watch in terrified awe as the Dornish vaulted into action, aiming for the rear of what remained of the rebel lines. His goodfather Hoster Tully was rushing to meet them, but Ned could see that Tully had too few men. The Warden of the North looked once more towards his best friend, the Stag of Storm's End slaughtering his way towards the Dragon of the Throne, before turning.

"Lord Umber, the rear! Pull our men back to the rear!" He repeated the call, Umber and others taking it up, a horn starting to blow to alert the rebel forces of the new threat, as Ned Stark's Northmen turned to meet the new threat, their liege lord gripping Ice tightly and leading his men towards the enemy.

May the Old Gods grant you strength, old friend.

How Aelor Targaryen was alive he couldn't say.

When a man loses his feet in battle he is 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 could regain his feet. So when Aelor landed atop the mud and bloody corpses behind Warrior he had assumed himself dead, enemy cavalry stomping over the dead all around him as their infantry closed back in. He'd thought of Elia, of Aegon and Rhaenys, and wondered if they would forgive him for leaving them and dying on this godforsaken riverbank.

But the blade had never came, the blow of steel sinking into his neck never landing. And here he was, still breathing.

When the Dragon of Duskendale sat up on his rear, he saw why.

Alaric Langward, while undisciplined, had been gifted with a sword even when he'd first began squiring for the Dragon of Duskendale, raw talent that few ever possessed needing only a little refined training from superior swordsmen to turn the lanky youth truly deadly. Aelor and Barristan the Bold had seen to that training, and it was paying off tenfold now.

The dragonlord's squire danced, spinning and slashing, removing one knight'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 stubbornly, never wielding an inch, keeping the vultures from descending on the Dragon.

Aelor watched in awe for a substantial amount of time before it dawned on him that he should probably stand up.

Stand up the Lord of Duskendale did, joining his squire against the onslaught of enemy swords. He'd lost his shield in the fall, the oak and steel useless anyway with a broken lance sticking out of it, so Aelor felt free to use his armored left fist as another weapon. He punched and gouged, using the armor of his forearm to deflect steel away as best it could.

A bellow caught Aelor's ear in a lull in the number of enemies around him, one sound among hundreds in the din of battle, but Aelor 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, two Kings going head to head in the middle of a raging battle. Part of Aelor's mind registered that most of his men had been forced back into the ford and their original side of the river, he and Alaric being two of a few dozen stragglers still left among the heaps of dead and dying on the opposite bank . Another part registered the Dornish arriving, men from the rebel reserve and all along their lines turning to take the gift Prince Oberyn Martell was about to unleash on them.

But the main part of Aelor's mind saw his brother the King locked in battle with a man who hated him every bit as fiercely as Aelor hated that man. Rhaegar's premonition of his own death rang in Aelor's ears, fear that it might come true overtaking the Lord of Duskendale. 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.

Before he knew it, Aelor Targaryen was running.

He 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 bloody 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.

Aelor fought his way towards them, cutting through the bloody melee to try and reach his brother and King's side. The Dragon of Duskendale had seen no sign of Barristan, the famous Kingsguard knight nowhere to be found, but he had no time to worry for the man who had treated him like his own son all of Aelor's life. All he had time to worry for was the brother that the dragonlord somehow knew was about to die.

A Northman wielding two axes with three buckets sewn into the furs covering his c.h.e.s.t met the second son of Aerys as he reached the ford, the water running as red as roses in the summer, choked full of corpses. The northerner was big and strong, and unbelievably fast for a man his size. Aelor found himself having to focus on the task at hand 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 Targaryen Prince backpedaled, barely keeping his feet under him as he warded off the axeman's attacks. I really miss my shield right now. He had no defense beside batting the axe away with his sword and dancing from side to side, unable to swing several pounds of oak and banded steel as a second weapon. A shield was meant as a defense, but Aelor Targaryen had always been unconventional, preferring to wield his defense as an offense, preferring to be the aggressor.

But right now he needed a shield for its Seven-sent purpose, because Buckets was much better at dual wielding weapons than anyone had any right to be. It was hard for Aelor to be the aggressor when he was barely managing to stay alive.

Aelor jumped to the side, nearly finding himself dead when he tripped over a corpse—or maybe just a wounded man, Aelor didn't bother to see which—going to one knee as the Northerner loomed overhead. Aelor managed to dive out of the way, getting his feet under him again in time to ward off Buckets' next attack. The big, hairy man was growing frustrated, snarling like a mad dog as he relentlessly attacked the Targaryen Prince, never giving a thought to defense as he swung again and again, focusing solely on splitting the dragonspawn in front of him in two.

That's when it clicked in Aelor's mind. As Buckets raised his right axe again, left already diving in, Aelor did perhaps the dumbest thing he had done in a long line of recklessness. The Dragon of Duskendale completely ignored the axe in Bucket's left hand, instead driving his sword forward as hard as his adrenaline-fueled body could.

The Prince's blade sank to the crossguard in the Northerner's stomach, Buckets' face going from enraged to surprised in the blink of an eye. The axe in his right hand remained stationary, the northerner's eyes staring into Aelor's through the visor as the dragonlord withdrew his sword and plunged it again into the big man's c.h.e.s.t. Buckets sank to his knees, never looking away, neither fear nor hatred in his dimming gaze but acceptance, as if the man was at peace dying in calf high water turned red with blood hundreds of miles from home.

As the northerner's body slipped off his blade with a sickening slunk Aelor realized that Buckets was at peace with death. A braver man than I. For the first time in his long line of killing, the second son of Aerys felt guilt.

The Lord of Duskendale shook the feeling off as soon as it came however, turning back towards the duel he had spent so long fighting to reach.

He knew even as it happened that he would never in all his days forget the overwhelming numbness he felt as he turned to see the spike of Robert Baratheon's hammer drive into his brother's c.h.e.s.t, scattering the rubies that adorned the King of the Iron Throne's armor into the shallow water of the ford.

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 an incompetent shame of a Kingsguard.

Words could not describe the feeling of guilt of and failure that accompanied the colossal boom of Robert Baratheon's warhammer scattering the rubies in Rhaegar's armor, the King of the Iron Throne sinking into the red water of the ford alongside so many of his men and enemies. 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. Men who moments ago had been fighting fiercely turned and fled, the rebel forces giving out a great warcry as their new King raised his hammer, the body of the old collapsed in the clogged ford at his feet.

In the odd way Ser Barristan had learned the Seven functioned in battle, he heard the roar of black rage over the cries of elation by the rebels and the footfalls of fleeing men as the loyalist army fled around the man in white armor. So did Baratheon, as the new kingslayer turned to face it.

Aelor Targaryen was suddenly everywhere at once, raining blows down on a now-stumbling Robert Baratheon and cursing with every clang of steel. Two knights tried to intervene, coming in on Aelor's sides, but before Barristan could really grasp what was happening both lay dead, the Dragon of Duskendale once again forcing Robert Baratheon back with sheer savagery.

Baratheon had looked implacable when he'd fought Rhaegar, Barristan having been separated from his King by an endless wall of enemies, unable to reach him no matter how many Barristan slew and being forced to watch while batting away blades as the King of the Iron Throne was killed. But against Aelor, Baratheon looked wholly mortal, hammer and shield barely able to ward off the Prince's sword.

"The Prince!" Barristan called, feeling his hopes rise, taking heart in the second son of Aerys. He shouted again, louder this time. "Look to your Prince!" Others took the call, a few in the massive number of fleeing men slowing to look. Barristan limped, wound to his t.h.i.g.h throbbing, to the nearest horse—many knights and animals had died, but there was still an abundance of loose coursers 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! Targaryen! Look, look to your Prince! Fight for your Prince!" More and more took up the call, the emboldened loyalists battling with a new fervor as Aelor and Baratheon savagely dueled over the dead bodies in the ford.

Slowly, one or two at a time, men turned direction, stopping the headlong retreat from the battle and beginning to come to the relief of the stalwarts who had never turned tail to run. 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 thousands of invigorated men rushing to their Prince's aide.

Aelor was fairly certain they were losing the battle, but he didn't care.

He swung his sword again as hard as he could, borrowing a page from Buckets book and going full offensive. Robert Baratheon, hammer still crimson with his brother's blood, was bigger than Aelor, and in all likelihood stronger, a mountain of muscle that, in his yellow and black livery, reminded the second son of Aerys of a much shorter Gregor Clegane. Aelor was no small man himself, several inches over six feet and by all means a strong man in his own right, but Baratheon had a few inches and several pounds of muscle on the Targaryen Prince.

That didn't make a lick of difference at the moment however, as the Dragon of Duskendale was fueled by a hatred and battlel.u.s.t that surpassed anything even Baratheon could feel, sword moving faster than Aelor had ever swung before, snarling viciously with the reverberations of each blow his sword struck on the Stag's hammer or shield.

Aelor didn't think about Rhaegar, dying or dead behind him. He didn't think of anything. The Prince's mind was almost blank, instinct and years of training dictating his every move, adrenaline keeping his legs turning, hatred continuously spitting out curses at the man opposing him. There was a pain in his right hip, one he hadn't noticed until he'd been sprinting towards Baratheon, but the dragonlord paid it no mind, focused on driving his blade into Robert Baratheon's c.h.e.s.t and watching the life fade from his storm blue eyes.

Baratheon regained his center after a few moments, managing to go on his own offensive with a vicious swing of his hammer. As Aelor had noted in the detached part of his mind, Baratheon was strong, amazingly so. 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 able to either penetrate or crush armor, muscle and bone. Aelor spun away and struck, his sword only catching Baratheon's shield but his fist colliding with the Lord Paramount of the Stormland's antlered helm. That didn't deter Robert from his newfound aggression, however, another one-handed swing of the mighty hammer nearly crushing every rib Aelor had. The Prince dodged away, swinging his bloodied sword hard for Baratheon's head as the hammer's momentum carried the rebel leader off of balance for a moment.

Baratheon twisted his head aside, the blow not killing him as intended. It did however neatly lop off one of the antlers, sending the shaped steel flying off into the chaos of a battle that had picked up in intensity all around them.

With a deep roar—theirs is the fury, afterall—Robert came on again, using his shield as a battering ram, his hammer as, well, a hammer, and 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.

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 he took a step to the side, setting his feet a touch too wide, a hot, burning shock of a pain shot down his leg. Aelor gasped, his knee buckling, leaving him awkwardly splayed on a knee and foot as Baratheon's hammer swung. Aelor tried to bring his sword around out of instinct even as he twisted his body, the hammer catching his blade just above the pommel and wrenching the ruby crossguard from the Dragon of Duskendale's hand.

Aelor 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 his awkward stance and the pain in his hip—Buckets bloody axe, he realized absently—wouldn't let him. He turned his head to look back at Baratheon, the rebel leader standing over him, tossing his shield aside and gripping his hammer two-handed. With a roar Robert swung, the hammer hurtling towards Aelor's head as if in slow motion.

Elia's face came to mind then, as it often did in moments of both weakness and strength. What the dragonlord wouldn't give for a chance to make her laugh one last time. Rhaenys and her dolls, most of which Aelor had begged, borrowed or stole for her, soon followed, the little olive-skinned girl's giggles accompanying the smile of her mother. And then Aegon, too young yet to have done anything to endear Aelor to him but somehow having managed to do so anyway, a small bundle of blankets and silvery hair that Aelor knew in his heart would make the greatest king Westeros had seen since Jaehaerys the Conciliator.

He wanted them to know he loved them, and that he was sorry he hadn't made it back. He wanted to hold them one more time, to tickle Rhaenys and pinch Aegon's nose and kiss the ever-loving f.u.c.k out of Elia. All of those thoughts and more ran through his mind in the split second it took that hammer to reach his head, Baratheon's roar ringing in his ears.

The strength had to have come from his loved ones, because the Seven knew it hadn't come from his body. Aelor ducked, the hammer whistling overhead, his hand darting to wrap his fist around the emerald dagger on his belt. With a roar of his own The Dragon of Duskendale shot up into Baratheon, forcing himself between the Stag's arms and inside his guard. The dagger in the Dragon's fist flew high above both their heads before plunging deep into the gap between helm and b.r.e.a.s.tplate, sinking to the hilt.

For a moment the two warriors stood helm to helm, screaming at each other at the top of their respective lungs, Robert's hammer hanging in the air in his left fist off to the side, his right gauntlet somehow having grabbed Aelor's shoulder. Time stood still as Robert's war cry turned into a gurgle, blood filling his mouth and throat and lungs, the Dragon of Duskendale's dagger sank deep into his neck. The hammer in his left hand, still held out as if confused that it hadn't just smashed a Targaryen's brain all over the Riverlands, began to shake before the hand holding it lost its once incredible strength and it splashed to the water.

Aelor Targaryen released the dagger that had struck so true and stepped back, Robert Baratheon sinking to his knees in the mud and blood and water. With a bloody cough the dying warrior cursed the Targaryen name one last time, before toppling forward to land face first in the crimson ford.