Chapter 39: The Battle Outside Duskendal
In the early morning dawn, Lord Tywin's army surged forward accompanied with the shrill cries of trumpets, the dull thumping of drums and the solemn echo of horns that chilled the soul.
I stood atop the walls of Duskendale with a spyglass in hand. Since waking up, my stomach was tied into hard knots, squeezing tight and painful, and then there was the breakfast I forced down my throat that threatened to come back up with a vengeance. All around me, legionaries were rushing to-and-fro to finish last-minute preparations. To the south, pale smoke rose from dying campfires and the sky was a mix of orange and purple and crimson, with the first rays of sunlight breaking over the horizon. There was a chance this was the last sunrise I'd ever see, so it was at least a beautiful one. Beautiful and scary. It looks like blood. What was the saying? Red sky at night, shepherds delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning.
"My husband looks fearsome," Daenerys said as she looked me up and down with a forced smile.
"Let's hope your husband can scare off the lions," I jested though I felt myself grimace. I was encased in a splendid suit of night-black plate beautifully fluted and engraved with scales to give the illusion it was scale instead of solid steel. Underneath was rivetted mail covering all the gaps and beneath that was a supple gambeson. The level of craftsmanship was obscene as it could only have been crafted by a master armourer of the Free City of Qohor and was forged to look like the dragon I might someday mount. I had refused a cloak, however. That would only tangle me up.
"As soon as you show yourself, I'm sure the Lannisters will flee with their tail between their legs," was Dany's response before her voice grew soft. "Please be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I'll try not to. But if I don't, weep for me and what life we could have had."
"Would you know I'll weep if you're dead?"
"Oh, I'll know," I grinned but she didn't smile. Instead, she hugged me. It was awkward thanks to all the steel and nowhere as intimate. "I've been talking to Blackheart. Should I not return from this battle, the Golden Company have sworn to put you on the throne as promised from the beginning. Should the worst happen, and this campaign is lost, there's a ship to sail you to Pentos. You'll be taken care of."
"Don't talk like that." She looked into my eyes. Dany looked close to tears. "You won't die. I won't let you. You'll survive this battle and bring Tywin Lannister to justice. You will stand by my side in the Red Keep and our children will rule the Seven Kingdoms."
One can dream. "I'll do my best, sweetling. Have you been thinking of our children?"
Dany nodded. "Should we have a girl, I want her to be named Rhaenys. After my sweet niece. If a boy, he has to be named Rhaegar."
Not Rhaegar. I won't have a son with that bastard's name. "I like Rhaenys. But should we have another girl, she should be called Daena."
"Daena?"
"Daena the Defiant. The queen who should have been."
Dany smiled. "Daena it shall be." She kissed me then, closing a hand around my neck and pushing close for a long and drawn-out kiss. I wrapped an arm around the small of her back, pulling her close. She had soft lips, full and enticingly kissable; lips made to be kissed and enjoyed. I couldn't help but focus on how her mouth tasted of lemons, and the way her tongue playfully traced my teeth. Her fingers left a trail of fire down the spine of my neck that left a sweet tingling sensation. She bit my bottom lip, a gentle playful nip that made a moan rise from the back of my throat. Daenerys pried away but not before smiling like a child who found her parents secret Halloween stash. "Consider that a little motivation to return to me."
"A little teaser?" I smiled like a smitten fool, but I couldn't help it.
"You could say that. Best hurry. I don't think Lord Tywin's predisposed to wait, nor does it look like Connington and the others will do likewise. I hear them calling your name."
I needed to hurry. Kissing Daenerys tenderly on the forehead and promising to return, I left her on the ramparts. Climbing down the stone stairs of the tower I was accosted by Haldon in armour and Septa Lemore looking like I was about to step into the gates of hell rather than a battle which I'd done countless times before.
"Have you come to see me off?" I forced a broad smile.
"I have prayed for you in the sept and will continue to do so," Septa Lemore said sadly. She had put on a brave face. "You look so grown up now. Not the boy I knew. You look like a proper king. A true knight."
"Prince," I corrected. "I thank you for the prayers. I am hopeful the Warrior will guide my sword and the Smith will ensure my shield and plate don't break."
"The gods only help those who help themselves so don't do anything foolish," Haldon said more sternly.
"I don't intend to. Might you tell me why you're in chainmail and there's a sword at your hip? I know about the warrior maester schtick, but you've not been asked to take the field."
"Blackheart demanded all camp followers and injured guard the walls should the worst happen. He fears we could be stormed should we lose the battle or the Lannisters send a group to circle around and storm Duskendale with ladders and axes. I've taken up the sword once more with many others. Some are even whores and they're meaner and uglier than most of the Company."
I laughed at that. "Are you worried?"
"I have fought ruffians a few times throughout my life, but seldom had I taken up the chance to fight experienced killers. I just hope it doesn't come to it. I heard their king has taken the field. The boy, Joffrey Waters. What do you plan to do with him?"
"It depends. He might drop his sword, or he might fight. That's only if he takes the field." Joffrey wasn't a good fighter from what I heard. He had Jaime Lannister as a father, was tall and strong and a sociopath that would make him a good fighter on paper. He also seldom trained and was a craven besides. "I promised to capture Joffrey. Not kill him in battle. I swore to House Stark they'll see him brought to justice in a trial that will determine his crimes and punishment. That's what we promised, and that's what we shall do. I intend to return but if not, well, farewell. It's been a good life and I couldn't have got this far without you both."
Septa Lemore pushed forward to wrap her arms around me in a tight embrace. "Don't talk silly. I know you'll return." She kissed me on the cheek before cupping my face. Her skin was warm and I subconsciously pushed into her palm.
"With this kind of support how can I not?" I laughed and pulled away from her hold, feeling a blush colouring my cheeks despite myself. "I want to thank the both of you for all you have done. No doubt you never expected your life to reach this point, but I thank both of you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you."
"We did our duty," Haldon replied, the corner of his lips moving ever so slightly like he was trying to smile but failing miserably. "It was an honour to teach you and having a prince in my debt isn't half that bad either."
Lemore wracked him on the shoulder but it was a gentle wrack. "Want Griff to hear that? It was an honour, Aegon. I don't know if I can say this but . . . but you're like a son to me. You may not be my own flesh and blood, but I see you as such. The boy I raised . . ." her voice trailed off and she cupped my cheek once more, looking at me with both pride and fear at what may happen. I didn't say anything and embraced the septa, holding her tight.
We were forced to break apart thanks to further horns blaring in the distance and the drums speeding up to a rapid beat. It was further proof the Lannisters were coming and demanded everyone take their positions with haste. Giving them a final farewell, I hurried to the courtyard where a squadron of lancers and officers awaited. Blackheart looked down at me from atop his smoke grey stallion that looked more eager to join the battle than the many legionaries grinning and laughing as whores strutted forward to gift flowers and promise rewards for when the battle was won. The ground was muddy underfoot and the air was awash with curses and chaotic shouts. Heavy infantry carrying polearms marched in lockstep while smallfolk rushed forward with extra arrows for the archers waiting outside or wooden stakes for engineers adding the latest touches to the entrenchments with shovel and pickaxe.
Standing beside Myles was Jon and he didn't look amused by me holding them up. "Aegon, do you know where your forces should be?"
"Holding the left flank, ser." With the beach further left and before us are bogs and marshes. Due to the Fifth suffering high casualties in my little escapades further south, Myles had decided to place them on the flank closest to the shoreline which was the most favourable. They were also augmented with two thousand men from Crackclaw Point as well another two thousand from the Narrow Sea houses and whoever bent the knee to her Grace and decided they could ill-afford the scutage. There was also Ser Barristan who was to serve as my bodyguard thanks to Dany's concern for my wellbeing. "We will hold, ser, no matter what the Lannisters throw at us."
"I should hope so," Myles grinned. "Come. Mount up. Lord Tywin wants to fight us and we'll show him that beneath the gold is the bitter steel. It is high time we avenge our defeat from the Ninepenny Kings."
Standing against the tyranny of the Iron Throne, the legions that formed the Golden Company were arrayed in a thick line of spears standing atop a gentle ridge. Myles Blackheart commanded the reserve that was made up of half the First Legion. He had positioned himself on the highest ridge, overlooking the battle beside a windmill so he could oversee the battle and act accordingly. His squire stood beside him. Unhappy to not be fighting on the front lines, the boy was holding up the banner of the Golden Company with the gilded skulls of Bittersteel and the late captain-generals hanging from golden chains. It operated similar to the Roman Aquila – to rally the men and instil in them a fierce stubbornness and devotion. In the back of the lines, atop raised earth and protected by sharpened stakes, was the field artillery. Scorpions armed with bolts and catapults to chuck pots of wildfire into tightly packed formations. If it was anything like the Battle of the Burning River, the artillery should prove devastating.
On the front line were our main body of infantry numbering a grand total of twelve-thousand men organised into solid squares protected by sharpened stakes, caltrops and ditches. Not to forget the war wagons chained together to serve as hardpoints and manned with crossbowmen. My Fifth Legion stood on the farthest left, and moving right were the Third, Fourth, Second, and finally the rest of the First. Commander Grazgan Ironsides had been given command of the centre to Ser Marq Mandrake and Tystane Rivers frustration. It was the right decision. Ironsides was a master of defensive warfare and organised his forces accordingly. The pikemen were positioned in the front, forming squares so much like the ancient Macedonian phalanxes of Alexander the Great. Supporting them were legionaries with spears and poleaxes, glaives and halberds and bills, swords, axes and hammers, ready to take advantage whenever an opening showed itself. In the good old English tradition, our four thousand archers were split up and assigned to the flanks of each legion. Quivers hanged from their belts as they arranged themselves, crossbowmen at the front and longbowmen behind calmly stringing their bows.
Thanks to our leftmost flank being made up of a lightly forested marsh and the core of our host being heavy infantry, our cavalry was all positioned on the rightmost flank. "Our decisive fist," Ser Barristan called them, only numbered two-thousand six-hundred horsemen but included twenty-four elephants that were the pride of the Company. Ser Laswell Peake commanded our mounted units and was currently surrounded by the silken banners of hundreds of exiled houses. They stood massed together like a steel wedge bristling with iron thorns. Despite being anxious to shed first blood, they were mostly a defensive force to halt any attempts to outflank us. For now.
Further horns bellowed as I kicked my horse into a gallop and joined the men. The Dragon Legion formed only a small number of the leftward flank. The core of my command was made up of native Westerosi. The Crackclaw men were loosely dispersed and clustered around their champions. There was House Boggs, Brune of Brownhollow with its bear paw brown on white, another Brune but this one of Dyre Den, Cave and Crabb, Hardy and Payne. Despite their long history of fighting amongst themselves with quite the passion, their opinion on outsiders was on a whole other level. There was no splendour about them. Led by lords and champions armoured in suits of leather and rusty mail, their men were lightly armoured if armoured at all. Most had spears, axes or spiked clubs, more had bows or light hunting crossbows. Trained to fight as individuals rather than disciplined formations. Not a force I could rely upon but Myles was certain they would fight better in such terrain. They were light infantry after all, and the bog was covered with thick moss appearing as islands rising from a murky brown and green soup, the shallows muddy and choked with reeds that hid bodies of water deep enough to drown a horse let alone a man.
So long as we keep the bog before us, we'll be fine.
The rest of my force was made from Riverlords and Crownlanders. Most prominent of them was Lord Monford Velaryon dressed in polished silver and sea-green silk. His handsome cloak was pinned with a white gold seahorse and his helm was crowned with a flowing plume. His brother wasn't standing beside him as he hoped, though. Aurane Waters had been given command of the newly established Royal Fleet that was now hugging the coast. Their objective was to provide coastal bombardment if the Lannisters got too close to the beach, and Aurane had ideas to lead a group of marines to attack Tywin's camp at some point.
Dismounting my horse, the drums from both sides grew louder. They echoed across the land, combining into a rumble that I felt beneath my skin. It was an orchestra and maybe the first skirmish between both our sides. Each batting to defeat the soul of the other. It was a battle being hard-fought, one where neither side was relenting. I gave Ser Barristan a nod and Ser Rolly threw me my poleaxe. I snatched it mid-air and grinned. It felt good in my hands. More familiar to me than Blackfyre was and should prove more devastating.
Looking ahead I saw Tywin's vanguard and, from their banners, you wouldn't have known they were Lannisters. What I saw were instead a mix of Stormlander and Reachmen houses - those who first sided with Renly, then Stannis, then finally Tywin. Three times they switched sides and I had no doubt if we won this battle they'd switch again. It was for that reason I held no respect for them. It was natural and made sense, sure, but I could at least respect opponents who fought for their ideals even if I opposed them. But they have none. They are merely opportunists.
Suddenly, the enemy vanguard sped up, massing forward in two lines of men. Although the ground was flat, the fields that made up most of the battlefield were a tangle of animal pens, hedgerows and outhouses that would slow the Lannisters down and break up their formation. They didn't seem to care and surged forward unabated.
When I'd been atop Duskendale's walls, I had seen Tywin Lannister preparing his army through my Myrish spyglass. It was made up of five lines roughly organised into three groupings and we had a rough number for each of them. The Lannister vanguard looked to number ten thousand men, a decent number of them archers. As they approached, it grew increasingly clear they were levies or those Tywin trusted the least. Men too old and boys too young. Archers with weapons made for hunting rather than war. Most were armoured in leather and jacks, but the lucky ones had suits of mail covered with rust and dried blood from the men they'd scavenged it from. Their shields ranged from firm wood to wicker and hardened leather. They were armed with spears and fire-hardened sticks, pitchforks and scythes, swords chipped and gone to rust, butcher knives and clubs. These were not the people one should ever send to battle.
Is this meant to weaken us? Are they to soften our lines before their main thrust force our lines apart? Still, the numbers were a concern. Tywin did have a much larger army than we did. He outnumbered ours by six thousand and could afford to take losses by throwing them against ours again and again. Ensuring our men were tired before sending forth his cavalry to finish us off. They were the deadliest thing on the field and numbered a total of eleven thousand which formed the middle grouping. At least two thousand of whom had been removed from the centre to challenge our own cavalry. They'll hold us down while their lancers trample us into the dirt. I grimaced at the thought of so many armoured knights. This was the Westerosi strategy distilled into its purest form. We would be softened up by cheap infantry then the knights and lords would charge with their lances down. If our discipline faltered, our infantry would turn tail and run and should that happen, we were dead.
There was a way we could avoid it though. We had prepared for Lord Tywin, knew the composition of his force and how it would be used. Our generals were veterans of hundreds of battles and wouldn't be alive if they hadn't learnt a thing or two. Raising my poleaxe up high, I bellowed, "You see that marsh before us? I don't want a single Lannister passing through it. It is ours. It belongs to you. Whatever happens, keep close to it. Hug it as if it were a lover. If they try to pass, hack off their cocks and feed it to the fishes!"
That caused the men to laugh. "Blackfyre!" Torreo the Red shouted, thrusting his flame-bladed sword above his head and soon many others were taking the call: blond Damon, Qarro and Rickard who I trained alongside, Lyandro the Warrior Poet who cursed the Lannisters in a musical symphony, Gerald of Hull, Robert Knolles and John Harpenden despite the former two being Reds and having no love for me. "Blackfyre! Blackfyre! Black Dragon of the East!"
I smiled despite myself but that only hid the dark feeling rising in my belly. My heart pounded within my chest in time to the drums, and under the layers of cloth and steel, my skin was cold with sweat. I watched as commanders across the line were riding back and forth before their legions, bellowing motivational speeches and I wondered if I should do likewise, but my mouth was dry, and I couldn't think of anything. It felt my failure to do so was a disservice to my men. That they deserved someone better. Someone who didn't sacrifice them for gain.
The Lannister's first wave approached, wading through the marsh but less so than I imagined. No doubt they were to anchor our lines. There was no time to think hard about it though. Legionaries drew their weapons and pressed together into a solid line. Pyromarines double-checked their flamethrowers and grenades, and I stood with my Dragonguard in the centre of the line. The Lannisters pushed through the swamp, slow but advancing with measured steps. I glimpsed the red and white banner of House Connington – this one being Red Ronnet instead of Jon leading at the front, Selmy's three stalks of wheat, Penrose's crossed quills, House Florent's fox and Fossoway's red and green apple. There were many others I didn't recognise. Minor lordlings and knightly houses. The Reach had many nobles, too many to count and most were household knights or landed with minor tower houses to secure river crossings and the borders of their lords. One looked to be a fox jumping over a hoop of fire while another was a pig with comically tiny wings and a fat apple in its mouth.
They broke into a run, shouting as they came. Archers across our line nocked, drew and loosed. A couple hundred died in the first volley as their advance turned to screams. Many stumbled in the swampy terrain, going down into the murky green waters to drown in the muddy shallows and reeds, Unable to rise up with their comrades pushing forward undaunted under the harsh glare of their serjeants. Most were conscripted peasants. Nothing more than meat shields so the knights and retinues of Lord Tywin would be spared the arrow.
Just the knowledge of it had me gritting my teeth.
"It's an effective tactic, no matter how much you try to crack your teeth," Ser Barristan told me calmly. His pale-blue eyes never left the scene before us. Dressed in the pure white of the kingsguard, he stood out against the darkly armoured men that were my personal guard. He did look like a proper knight, and his mere presence would boost the men's morale to know such a formidable swordsman was on our side. Better placed here than Dany's side. "I despise it as much as you do, my prince, but this is Lord Tywin and Lord Tywin cares nought for honour. What he's doing will ensure the soldiers that are his and his alone will have an easier time reaching the front lines. Our archers will tire before they run out of arrows and each arrow loosed will be weaker than the one before."
"I know." I frowned, squeezing my burnt hand tighter around the pole. It was hard to watch though. I had seen Tywin Lannister across the battlefield, saw him mounted atop a stallion that wore more gold than most men. He just stood there, and I knew he was there now. I wondered what he was thinking about what was going on. How thousands of arrows darkened the sky and fell upon his men like hail. He wouldn't care. No more than Joffrey did, and I saw the boy king smirking away as he stood beside his grandfather. Safe and far to the rear. I knew he was smirking now.
I didn't know how many levies were dying but I knew they didn't want to be on the field. One boy broke from the ranks only to be stabbed in the back by his commanding officer, while others were pushed forward when they halted to shelter behind their shields. I knew Westerosi lords had the right to call up their smallfolk and had it proclaimed it was their god-given right. At least mine were mercenaries who could pick and choose to have a life of warfare. Those I was fighting against sent the civilians under their protection to die so they could have a little more power. I knew I wasn't the best person by launching this invasion in the first place. I might have done just as well by following Illyrio's example and becoming a merchant prince. Some might even call me a villain and entirely hypocritical. They were right. I would admit as much. But where the lords desired to keep the status quo, at least I wanted to change Westerosi society for the better. I could easily fail and be seen as another Aegon the Unlikely. But if my desires came to be, Westeros would have a standing army made of volunteers so a farmer wouldn't be called up against his will and have his family starve because he never returned.
It was at that moment Ser Harry Strickland rode up on a cream horse with a glorious white mane. He was outfitted in gilded mail he was clearly baking inside of. I saluted him. "Ser Harry, what a surprise to see you. Have you come to join us?"
"I'm afraid not," he forced a smile. "Prince Aegon, I need to make a request to transfer some of your legionaries to the right flank. Three hundred should be sufficient."
"Three hundred?" I frowned, astounded he would even consider such a thing. At this moment especially. "That is nearly half my legion. I don't have enough men to secure the left flank as it is. My legion was undermanned even before landing in Westeros and I've suffered losses since then."
"And who's fault may that be? Blackheart believes you have enough men to hold the line. You are protected by an unassailable bog and with you are men from Crackclaw Point. Men who know how to fight in such terrain. We need your legionaries, Aegon. Should a transfer order be made, you are required to ensure it. The Lannister vanguard is surging forward and we lack the manpower to hold the line."
"Then take them from the reserve. That's half the First Legion and no doubt Myles can afford to skim some of his strength. They are the Company's finest. Veterans of hundreds of battles."
"He'd rather not. The captain-general was reluctant to even split his own command in two. It was a last-minute decision he even assigned half to the west. Should things get bad and you're close to breaking, reinforcements will come to assist. I can promise that at least."
What a relief. Such charity. I frowned. "Of course. I'll assign the second, third and sixth centuries to assist you. Duck, could you go and inform the officers?" Rolly saluted and I grimaced. Seven hundred. That's how many men my legion number now. It'll be non-existent by the time we reach King's Landing.
While I'd been deep in my thoughts, the ranged skirmish had grown bloody. Once their archers got into range, they became the main target. Company doctrine encouraged our archers to snipe the opposition from the field and between levies with hunting bows and professional mercenaries armed with heavy Myrish crossbows, the results were very, very one-sided. Even before they reached within range, we had carved a red swath through their forces. Once they began to return fire, their wooden shafts rained down upon us but to little effect. Not everyone had shields to cower behind. My legionaries were all well-armoured so many of the shafts shattered harmlessly off our armour if they even managed to hit at all. It was our Crackclaw allies that were the main concern though.
Gnawing my bottom lip, I decided to allow two more volleys and directed at the archers only. We couldn't afford to be wasteful with our projectiles. "Let them break against our frontline. They'll be slowed down and so long as we hold, they'll be forced to rout." Still, the war engines remained silent. It was the cavalry they were waiting for. "We need to ensure our archers remain peppering them with arrows throughout the battle. We can't afford to spend them all now."
Barristan looked at me through the narrow slit in his visor and his voice was muffled. "I don't believe these men will be permitted to retreat, my prince. Lord Tywin will throw them against our lines again and again until there are none left. If not, they'll be culled like cattle. Watching untrained farmers flee like beaten dogs won't concern those waiting in the rear. Watching hardened warriors and knights would be much harder to watch."
I wanted to disagree, but I knew sending sacrificial lambs was a strategy that was sadly too common. That must have been Tywin's strategy of sending his worst units first to waste our ammo. Blackheart was too experienced for that and wouldn't waste our limited stocks of wildfire. It was fortunate the human wave tactic wasn't being used to its full potential thanks to the rough terrain. It had slowed them down drastically.
Across the rest of the battleline, the first wave of Lannisters was quickly closing in and surged with increased speed. Then they ground to a halt. Not by the pikemen who were braced and ready, but the landmines. With a reassuring thunderclap, the ground burst forth in a fiery explosion right beneath their feet. Flashes of green burst from half a hundred pits and then erupted withering emerald serpents burning and hissing. The ground itself caught alight. A light so bright it blinded me for a moment and, once my eyesight came back, the levies were retreating at full speed through the thick smoke.
The men around me were cheering if not in complete shock. Our Westerosi allies knew of the wildfire – they saw us plant the mines – but I doubt they knew what was going to happen. Some hadn't gone off, though. The landmines required fuses that were notoriously unreliable, either suffering disconnections, the flame would snuff out, or the wildfire would just not ignite. Despite having Vaquo and Lyra look at them, they had failed to make any progress. And the more important thing – none had been planted before us. Where we were standing, the ground was soft and spongy beneath our feet. The mines wouldn't work in such an environment. The Lannisters might have been halted but it was only a momentary thing. After recovering their nerve, they began pushing forward with even more determination. We had another disadvantage as well. Incendiary would have diminished effectiveness against them. It wasn't absolute. Our wildfire was weaker and could more easily be snuffed out with the right chemicals, which included piss if you were brave enough to expose your cock.
We might have lacked landmines but we did have throwable alternatives. Pyromarines with a better throwing arm than most ignited their grenades and threw or used makeshift slings for greater distance. Some sadly pitted out but others exploded in a burst of green flame. Some were even crammed with lead pellets for added damage. They exploded on trees and men, coating both with liquid flame and not even water was enough to fully quench the fire's thirst. Yet they still came, thundering forward and uncaring for what we threw at them. I braced myself as the Lannister force broke through the swamp and foliage. All infantry. Shouting for another volley, a barrage of arrows took flight and hundreds died. A warhorn sounded, its cry as long and low and chilling as a cold wind to which the Lannister and Golden Company trumpets answered with a higher and shriller sound, brazen and defiant before the main lines clashed in a mess of steel and wood further to the west.
I took a deep breath.
Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . "NOW! PIKES READY! PIKES READY!" I dropped my visor with a clang whilst everyone else rose their polearms and aimed straight ahead. The slit of my helm limited my vision to those directed in front of me. No one else existed as far as I was concerned. A brawny spearman lunged at me. He was haggard and moved with a limp. Slow. Hesitant. I drove the point of my poleaxe into his chest. He whined and his bad leg gave out beneath him so hard the man might have broken several of his bones just from that. Before the commoner could rise, I swung my poleaxe in a mighty arc that fell right upon his head, denting the helm and crushing the skull underneath.
The smell of blood filled my veins with the same fire I felt during a dozen previous battles. The adrenaline now filled my body in earnest, fuelling my movements and strengthening my senses while dulling others. My vision narrowed further. My body became faster, more responsive. This is battle and war is in my blood. I'm the blood of the dragon, blood of the Conqueror. A child of two worlds. No singer would make a song of his fight, I knew, at least not what without some serious revisionism. We fought in the mud, black-mailed mercenaries fighting the sweepings of Lannisport and King's Landing, farmers and stablehands, dismounted knights and men-at-arms, stumbling over roots and rocks, coated with blood and rotting leaves, soil and the entrails of our fellow man.
Another man came at me then – a knight swinging a morning star – grinning from an open-faced helm with two horns and a surcoat of a horned man. "For King Joffrey!" He roared at the height of his voice. "Die, Blackfyre!" He lunged, swinging too soon. I leapt to the side and swung my axe down. The head cut deep through his shield. Cursing, the horned knight fell onto his side and another man fell on top of him, trapping him in the mud. I wasn't going to waste time on that man. If someone else wanted to ransom the bastard, they were free to do so. He wasn't worth my time.
Others must have heard him because I now had scores of men converging upon me. I grinned. "BENEATH THE GOLD, THE BITTER STEEL. MEN OF THE GOLDEN COMPANY REMEMBER THE REDGRASS FIELD. TO ME, MEN! TO ME!" I didn't know whether I was calling to my own troops or the enemy, but either way, I was the most popular boy of the dance and everyone wanted a go. The next man to charge died before even reaching me. Rolly had smashed him in the back of the head. The second to one of my bodyguards, dying from a spear to the gut. Barristan ended a third.
The fourth reached me. A bearded man bearing the Dargood sigil lunged with an axe and a curse upon his lips, swinging the two-handed weapon with all his might. I dodged and parried, falling back as he howled in fury that sounded like a rabid animal. Stepping back, I waited for an opening and found it. The man slipped in the mud. Looking up, the last thing he saw was my poleaxe falling atop his head. It crunched the steel, tearing chains apart and embedding itself keep within his face.
Our lines buckled and arrows fell all around us from both sides. I looked down at the mud and blood and felt the impact of half a dozen arrows shatter harmlessly off my plate. Many men fell, though these were mostly Stormlanders with arrows planted into their backs. Jesus Christ, they're firing upon their own men! If our archers were firing, they were firing over our heads at the enemy's ranged units. Except for the Pyromarines who had withdrawn from where they had blunted the assault with volleys of flame. Even now the fires were burning and filling the air with smoke. In the corner of my narrow vision, Damon was cutting through men with sword and dirk. He had lost his shield and there was a crazed look in his eyes. Beside him, Qarro sparred against a man-at-arms with a hammer in one hand while his other arm hung limply. I rushed to assist but wasn't fast enough. Qarro was slammed in the side of the head by a brute with a wicked spiked mace. His head exploded like an overripe grapefruit. I saw red and lunged at the man with a surcoat of a tomcat with its claws outstretched. I'm going to kill that fucking cat.
I didn't have that fortune.
A spear pierced through the cat's mail and he collapsed into the mud like a sack of potatoes. He was dead now, or close enough to make no matter and I couldn't afford to waste time with petty revenge. I turned my attention elsewhere, forgetting Qarro and cutting down a dark-haired stripling armed with a war scythe. It was bloody. It was horrible. But I felt alive. More alive than ever before. Time became nothing. A man lunged forward. I parried his sword, drove my spike into his unprotected thigh and then swung into his collarbone that cut through his ribs effortlessly. I was a prime target, especially as I was clearly a Blackfyre and more than once fought multiple men at once. I was no stranger to war nor did I fight these men alone. There were always guardians around me and eager to give a helping hand, just as I assisted them whenever I could. The former blacksmith son that was Rolly was using his strength to full effect, while Ser Barristan Selmy was proving why he was the most formidable knight in the Seven Kingdoms. While I was conflicted on my opinion of him, there was no doubt he was a master swordsman and cut down knight and smallfolk alike as easily as cutting wheat. There was a grace that betrayed his age and made less foolish men flee. It wasn't solely unmounted to my shock. The ones mounted looked to be officers and I saw a handful thunder past, trampling whoever wasn't in the way be it friend or foe, kicking whoever got behind the steeds. I saw one stallion jump into the air and swing its hindquarters, breaking the jaw of one legionnaire and tearing off the cheek of a Crackclaw spearman with blunt teeth.
Stepping back for a breather and letting fresher men take my place, I looked around and saw our lines weren't static. Our wall of shields had broken up and now soldiers were pushing forward and falling back. There were even a great many that pushed as far as the marshes and were at risk of being surrounded. I rose my poleaxe and called the men under my command to charge. Soon, patches of solid ground were being fought over like zealous versions of king of the hill as everyone struggled in the mud. Our once disciplined front was in shatters and there were no tactics that were useful here. Groups fell back only to rally and charge again and again on both sides. Squads were coordinating but anything greater was non-existent. This was a simple brawl, plain and simple, where one man's birth made no difference to who lived and who died. Lord, knight or peasant, it didn't matter. Everyone was struggling, drowning in muddy water while people fought atop them like jackals and created further islands with their bodies. This wasn't what the singers would sing about. They wouldn't sing about the stench of blood, the death, people pissing and shitting themselves, men screaming for their mothers as they struggled to push their own innards back inside their bellies, the haunting screams of the dying accompanied by the despair and the clamour of steel.
All these things meant nothing to me. I merely fought, swinging and stabbing and gorging. When I climbed atop an island, one knight in the colours of House Connington forced the poleaxe from my grasp. He fell on top of me, cursing my mother and trying to thrust his sword through the gaps of my plate. I struggled. I kicked and punched and tried to roll. It ensured the point of his blade was unable to find an opening. I continued just long enough to pull out a dirk and thrust it into his side. Connington cried. He dropped his sword to instead wail on me with steel-clad fists. I stabbed him repeatedly and barely half met flesh. A final stab to the neck stopped his thrashing and he fell atop me, trapping me beneath a mound of bodies as more men charged forward.
When a man lost his feet in battle, especially when trapped, he was a gonna. Vulnerable to everyone and everything. I felt myself sink into the soil from the crushing weight atop me and struggled to get up, to throw these corpses off but I hadn't enough strength left for such a feat. Around me were men screaming at everyone and nothing. Infantry pushed forward and fell back and more collapsed around me: Stormlanders, Reachmen, Lannisters and sellswords. A warrior of House Crab stabbed a footman with a wicker shield in the eye and fought off seven others. Then I heard further shouts, trumpets and drums and horns. I couldn't see anything above where I lay trapped. There were panicked shouts from my men, and I heard explosions in the distance, the smell of wildfire and burnt flesh that seeped through the miasma of the swamp. Sounds like their cavalry has charged. I might die here in this godforsaken marsh, half-drowning in the mud. A grunt left my lips as I tried one last push but to no avail. The knight, be it Red Ronnet or someone else entirely, was too heavy. After everything I've done. After all my plans. I die like this.
The killer never came. No one pulled off my helm to smash my skull in with a hammer, nor did anyone drive a dirk through my eyes. I didn't know how long I laid there or how I was alive. After laying on the ground for what felt like an eternity, being forced to watch as men were cut around me, unable to dislodge the pile atop me, the weight was lifted and Rolly pulled me to my feet. His green surcoat was coated brown and his helm was dented from half a hundred blows. I'd doubts whether he could remove it when the battle was done, but he was thankfully breathing.
"You're not dying yet!" he laughed forcibly. "Griff's not going to forgive me for letting you go to heaven or to sleep while the rest of us are fighting. He could never tolerate you getting slothful."
I smiled despite what was going on around me. My legs felt like they were going to collapse any minute, but I somehow remained standing despite the harsh ache rippling through them. "I was just having a little rest."
"Rest on your own time, Griffin," shouted Rickard Brussel. His helm had cracked open and there was a dreadful gash strewn across his cheek. His left eye was a red hole. "C'mon! We're taking the fight to them." He turned and didn't so much as run but limp. Clearly determined but clearly on his last breath.
Stubborn bastard's going to kill himself. "Best withdraw. You need a healer."
"I need to find the bastard who's done this to my eye. The fucker needs to die!" He hurried off then but was barely faster than most who stumbled, chasing after the routing men. Some men remained, looting the corpses, or too injured to continue.
I unsheathed Blackfyre and turned to Duck who was struggling to lift his visor. No doubt he'll need help with that, but it could be done later. "Are we counterattacking?"
"You're in charge but it seems one of the lords took command with you half-buried. We repealed the Lannisters and forced them back. Now we're pressing our advantage. We're to surround and strike the Lannisters from the side. The bastard king's going to have it."
I grimaced in pain. My elbow throbbed inside my armour. I'm going to get so many bruises in the coming days. I hope Daenerys enjoys playing nurse. I was breathing heavily and took a moment to survey my surroundings. The fighting was getting further away from me. I needed to join and return them to some sense of order. I was their commander and couldn't permit them to run wild. Not when it left us open for a determined counterattack. Breaking into a sluggish run, I rejoined the battle and was mindful not to slip and be rescued by my sworn shield who couldn't swim half as well as his sigil. If I fell again, I doubted I would get back up.
Before me, I found Monford Velaryon bellowing commands at his men. He didn't look half as bad as I felt. The Lord of Driftmark was leaning against a tree, exhausted, watching the battle happening in the fields. "Lord Monford," I forced out through pained breath. "Lord Monford!" He turned around. "Rally the men. We're going to withdraw back to the defensive line." We shouldn't have gone into the marsh, I knew. The men were exhausted, injured, and our line was nothing short of chaos. "Rolly, do likewise. Else our lines will crumble."
Monford blinked at me. His visor was up, his face was red and covered with sweat. He wasn't the only one. Underneath all the armour it was like a sauna, and I desperately needed a drink. Then he nodded, taking his leave. All I wanted to do was strip myself of my armour, lay down, and close my eyes. The adrenaline was wearing off to my fear and the battle was far from over. Though we had been given some respite, there was fighting still going on. The first wave of infantry seemed to have retreated after failing to make significant headway and now the cavalry had been deployed. I had been half-buried in the ground when they charged, and now they were fighting valiantly to push through the pikemen and failing. They retreated, spun around and charged again and again, each charge getting smaller and less organised than the one before. None of them managed to gain enough of a foothold. From their flowing standards, I recognised the burning tree of House Marband, a purple unicorn, the Crakehall boar, the rooster of House Swyft, Banefort's black hooded man, Broom's silver helm, the Lefford's of the Golden Tooth and many more. They were the knights of the Westerlands, some of the best in the Seven Kingdoms but all they did was remind me of the Dothraki in the Disputed Lands in their stubbornness.
The other legions would need to fight them on their own. Ironsides and Myles knew what they were doing. We were unable to leave our flank open. The Lannisters might have thrown half their infantry at us but they still had forces left and I couldn't permit my men to collapse from exhaustion. The discipline required to help cycle our forces in and out of the front lines didn't work with the native Westerosi units, and they needed to recoup. Tearing my eyes away from the fighting, I limped to wherever I could find men under my command and force them back with commands and if that didn't work, a few well-placed punches. I even needed to slay one Westerosi when he refused my direct orders. That had been enough to get my point across, though not half as well as Ser Barristan. Everyone followed him without question. It was infuriating. When our men were withdrawing to our fortifications, I aided in dragging the injured away. Letting them wallow to die from their injuries or the Lannisters when they returned was no good.
It was early morning when the battle started, and it was past noon now. Even Tywin needed to take a break, reform his battlelines before attacking several more times, keeping his reserve out of the fighting for what could only be the final assault. None of his attacks managed to break through to my relief, but it seemed to only have spurred Lord Tywin to become more desperate because what was left of the first two waves were rallied and joined with his fresh reserves. Men who weren't coated with mud or the guts of the enemy, men who weren't injured and likely to buckle from exhaustion. They were fresh and ready to fight.
I grimaced as they marched forward to the sound of drums and their banners swaying in the wind. If my memory was correct, the third line of battle for the Lannisters had a similar configuration as the first sent against us but made up of Tywin's own men rather than lords who bent the knee. I grimaced at the thought of fighting again. My entire body racked with pain, and my knees almost gave out beneath my weight a few times already. My arms thankfully weren't so bad. My armour was well-crafted even if it was now a mess and, despite the bruises bound to colour me like the dark spots of a cow, I counted myself lucky. I would still need the attention of a healer before the day was done, though.
"Prince Aegon! Aegon!" I heard a familiar voice and turned around to see Jon Connington who looked out of place in his polished steel and clean tabard. Alongside him were members of the First Legion. There were at least a thousand of them organised into two cohorts. "You look bad. Do you need to see a maester?"
I tried to smile but instead grimaced. "I have taken a few wounds, I'm afraid. But it'd be disastrous for me to take my leave while the men fight. I am no Joffrey. They might get the wrong idea and decide to follow. We can't have that."
"That is wise," was Jon's hesitant response. He looked over at my rugged host. "You have done well holding this line. Blackheart's impressed."
"He took much-needed men away from me," I hissed.
"It was required. Lord Tywin put much effort into forcing our cavalry from the field. We needed the men, and you managed to hold. It was the right decision."
It might have been, but I was still unhappy about it. If they were present we would have had an easier time. We did suffer high casualties among our Westerosi allies. Those with more bravery than sense especially. If we stood our ground, there would be fewer dead, but I foolishly got caught in the moment and decided to follow. Let them command me rather than the other way around. I grimaced at the memory of my failure. "I assume the centre did well though."
Griff smiled thinly. "Very. I know we might have been reluctant to agree to your reforms, but I must confess the Company and Blackheart are relieved to have taken heed of them. Your idea for field artillery and wildfire was especially valuable."
"And fortifications?"
"That as well. They had slowed down the advance and left the Lannister cavalry open to our pikemen who slaughtered them. I would say the Fourth suffered no more than three hundred casualties so far, and the Second and Third even less."
"I'm happy it's gone well for them at least." It was like Blackheart to give me all the shitty positions. I could almost hear him say, "Let the boy win his spurs. It'll make him grow into a man."
Connington nodded. "They are gearing up for another assault and Blackheart wants it to be their last."
"Is that why you're here?"
"Aye. I've come to reinforce your men. When the Lannisters hit our lines, the three legions in the centre are going to blunt their momentum while we and the cavalry perform a long flanking manoeuvre, hit them in the flank and rear while Aurane Waters and our fleet sail further south and capture their camp. They're going to try and block their retreat. We'll have Joffrey and Tywin at the end of this."
I smiled through the pain. "Will it work?"
"We don't know unless we try, and it's not going to happen if we remain on the defensive. Now's the time for the killing blow. Let's end this battle here and now."
Ravens were circling above and burst into an explosion of black wings out of the bushes as the latest Lannister assault charged our lines. More heavily armoured than the first, they stood strong against our archers spending the last of their arrows. They struck our frontlines like a monstrous typhoon, slashing and stabbing, trying to push us back with all they had. But we had rested, caught our breath, and had been reinforced with fresh forces from the very elite of the Golden Company. The phalanx we had assembled amidst the stakes dug their feet into the ground and, when the Lannisters charge failed them, we pushed forward like a battering ram as our heavy infantry exploited breakthroughs to encircle isolated pockets of infantry. Once our archers ran out of ammo, they pulled out their swords and mallets and joined the fray. It was a bloodbath. On the solid ground, our heavy infantry was king but now in the knee-deep high waters and mud underneath that sucked at our boots like an inexperienced but eager virgin, it was the lightly armoured warriors of Crackclaw Point who dominated.
Raising Blackfyre above my head, I ordered what was left of my legion and allies to me. The symbol of the black dragon. The very weapon of Aegon the Conqueror and Daemon the Black Dragon. It had tasted the blood of noble and commoner alike in this battle and countless others before. The fabled hand-and-a-half sword was a light thing, with a finely cut ruby embedded in the quillon and the crossguard were two black dragons with fanged mouths ajar. The blade was beautiful with dark ripples in the smoky grey steel, so dark it was almost black and just as sharp as the day it was crafted in Old Valyria. The gesture was enough and spurred the men into a second wind. After a fierce brawl in the shallows, we forced the Lannisters to rout and struck the flank as we swung rightwards. Before I knew it, I was running, leading a wedge of dismounted knights right into the lion's jaws. With a slash, I caught an unsuspecting man with a single swipe of Blackfyre, decapitating his shield arm and followed through with an effortless beheading. Blackfyre was light and deadly sharp and able to cut through flesh like it was nothing yet proved useless against proper steel as did all swords.
For what felt like both mere minutes and stressful hours, my legionaries fought like men possessed, cutting through the Lannisters whose line crumbled, sandwiched between us and the Golden Company pikemen who were pushing forward. The failed attempts to break through our line had shattered their morale and those who could drop their weapons did so and fled the field. We didn't give up and chased them, cutting through isolated groups as their leaders tried in vain to form a defensive line. One group of pikemen belonging to House Marbrand formed a crescent with oval shields reinforced with iron studs, but they were outflanked and forced to flee. Another group of men-at-arms from a dozen houses were encircled and when they refused to surrender, they were cut down to a man. Most surrendered though. Knights and lords handed their gauntlets to simple mercenaries and were made prisoners to be ransomed. There were going to be many peasants with more gold than they knew what to do with at the end of this.
After cutting down an archer with a knife, there was a massive bellow of a horn and I looked up. Heading straight towards us was the other horn of the bull's head our formation had become – our cavalry units led by Homeless Harry's prize elephants. They looked tired but were still an intimidating sight nonetheless. I heard their sounds across the battlefield and could only imagine them striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. Where they rode, people fled. How could they not? The Westerosi had never seen such behemoths. Modelled after their Volantene and Ghiscari peers, the elephants stood fifteen feet tall, loud and smelly and covered in steel scales all but impervious to anything the Westerosi had in their arsenal. It clearly terrified the enemy and when Tywin's knights span around to charge them, the horses shied away and what had been a formidable wedge split in two just by the horses innate fear of the elephants. Not a single warhorse in all of Westeros will stand against them. Those words were proven true as they punched holes through the Lannister formation, allowing their riders to use long lances and bows to slay those who rode around. Even without the men mounted atop them, elephants were formidable weapons of war. They trampled men underfoot, rammed into them and threw them back, used their tusks and mouths to bite and slash and stab, or use their trunks to grapple and throw men into the air. Nearly all the elephants had wicked tusk blades that could split even a plated knight in two, but there were a few who used flails to swipe at groups of men and send them flying. It was the first time I had seen war elephants used in battle and not for a second did they fail to impress. An anti-cavalry weapon they may be, but they proved just as effective if not more so against the infantry. It was a slaughter.
I swung Blackfyre, burying the edge into an old man's side and finishing him with a punch to the face. One Lannister cavalryman thundered past, slamming his sword this way and that at whoever got close. I ran and grabbed his reins while several legionaries were prodding with bills and spears. With help from the others, I pulled him off his horse. He fell on top of me and began raining down fists upon my head. Wrapping my legs around his waist, we rolled across the ground, punching and grappling each other. My legionaries tried to help, but their blades were simply deflected off his steel shell, just as his punches were ineffective against my own. It was only when I glimpsed the dirk on his belt that I got him, slipping the knife from its sheath and sliding it through the knight's groin. He let out a bestial cry, and that was enough for my men to tear him off me and get him to surrender.
Rolly lifted me once more to my feet and I threw open my visor. It felt like an oven under all the steel and the joints were stiff. "They are losing," was all I said. The battle had moved on and this time I had no desire to join in with the slaughter. The Lannisters were retreating and now being harried by light cavalry spearheaded by Commander Kojo's Dothraki who cursed in their own tongues and Harrando's outriders. Looking around, I saw Blackheart's banner and walked towards it with a limp in my step and aches pulsing throughout my body. Around us were the dead and dying. Many of the Westerosi auxiliaries and sellswords who didn't join in were busy looting the corpses of whatever they had. Not even allies were except. Rickard Brussel was among a group of legionaries, laying in a pool of congealing blood. Not far from him was Damon Hill who had no mark other but a massive dent in his helm. I'm the last one. The last of Serpent Squad. The thought only made me feel cold and empty.
Just outside the Lannister camp was where we found Lord Tywin, surrounded by the corpses of the household knights who died protecting his person. Atop his splendid bay destrier, the Lord of the Westerlands looked every inch a powerful lord. His armour was heavy steel plate enamelled in dark crimson, his greaves and gauntlets inlaid with intricate golden scrollwork and ornamentation. His rondels were golden sunbursts and the red steel was burnished to such a high sheen that it shone like fire in the light of the afternoon sun. The great Lannister cloak was sewn from countless layers of cloth-of-gold so large it covered most of the massive stallion's hindquarters. It wasn't held up with a pin for no simple clasp would suffice for such weight. Instead, it was held in place by a matching pair of miniature lionesses perched atop his shoulders, poised to spring out at whoever dared face him in battle. Upon Lord Tywin's greathelm was their mate: a male with a large and magnificent mane, reclining with one paw raking the air as it roared. All three lions were wrought in gold, with ruby eyes that shimmered as they caught the light. Even the horse's armour was gilded, and the stallion's barding's were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned with the lion of Lannister.
He might as well be carrying all the gold of Casterly Rock, I thought. There wasn't even one spec of blood nor dirt soiling the Savour of King's Landing. That was an impressive feat considering the ground was muddy from spilt blood and thousands of feet. Circling him were half a hundred legionaries and marines with polearms at the ready. You didn't fight now did you, my lord? Finally saw the battle turned so you decide to flee. But the camp wasn't his. We had captured it and Aurane smiled wide at me. So where is Joffrey? I didn't see him, and Waters would have handed me the boy if they'd captured him. Instead, I bet he would have fled back to King's Landing at the first sign of defeat. Did Blackheart know and send men after the bastard? I'd need to speak about it later.
"Prince Aegon," Blackheart turned to me, his smile shifting his homely features into something much easier on the eyes. Toyne was dismounted, covered in earth and gore and in his plainly adorned and battered grey plate looked no different from the soldiers around him. It contrasted Tywin beautifully. "You see this? We got him. The Lion of Casterly Rock, the Saviour of King's Landing and its butcher. Tell me, my lord, would you be willing to surrender peacefully, or do I need to pull you from that horse and kiss your throat with my blade?"
"I demand single combat for my freedom," Lord Tywin said, his voice expressionlessly flat.
"Why should I bother when you've already lost, my lord?" questioned Blackheart with a sigh. "I can give the word and you will be dead. We are sellswords and not subjects to chivalry."
"But you are a knight. You proclaim yourself as such."
Myles let out a sound only half in agreement. "I was knighted, aye, but we sellswords are more fluid in our vows than most as much as it might pain my ancestors. Tell me now, Lannister. Where is your grandson?"
"Safe from you," was the old lion's response. "As I said, I demand single combat as is my right as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms." He then challenged me directly.
Would you rather die than be captured and subjected to the young queen and the Starks? He had already lost and was completely at our mercy, but this was perhaps the only chance he had to get me. To kill me before we killed him. Then my mind flashed with what happened to Elia and her children, and Tywin's other atrocities. "I accept your challenge," I decided, scanning the ground for just a moment.
Myles turned to me, looking like he'd been slapped across the face. He leaned closer, his voice a soft hiss, "Need I remind you that you promised to capture and put him on trial. It was one of the agreements you made with the Starks. You will decline and you will capture him. I speak as the captain-general of the Golden Company and your commanding officer."
And I'm a prince. A higher rank than you, captain-general. I knew we made a promise. I knew Daenerys and Robb made an agreement. We were supposed to put him on trial, read out his crimes to all the world, and let him be punished accordingly. But I didn't care. The promise seemed like a distant thing, and he was a dead man regardless. This would be a more fitting end. I unsheathed Blackfyre. "Lord Tywin Lannister, as much as I despise him, is still a knight. If he demands single combat, I feel dutybound to give him his wish."
"You are making a mistake, boy."
That or the best decision in my life.
Without a word, Lord Tywin dismounted but required several men to assist thanks to the weight in gold and steel he wore. Lannister was a tall man. Taller than me and a complete tank who wore the finest armour in the Seven Kingdoms. Plate, chainmail and gambeson underneath. Not even Valyrian Steel will go through that, no matter how sharp the blade might be. The gold was gilding and not proper gold. Not even Tywin was foolish enough for that. Tall and magnificent he shone like red flame and before him I stood covered in mud, hunched from exhaustion and Blackfyre loose in my grip. From an outsider, it should look one-sided. From a bard's eyes, I no doubt looked like a beggar and possibly a villain in scarlet and darkness who would stand taller and stronger in each retelling. I saw men looking at me with disbelieving eyes. Others cursed and said I was a fool. One man even tried to push forward but others held him back.
Yet Lord Tywin stepped forward, unsheathing a gilded longsword with golden scrollwork pressed into the blade. With a crossguard made of a pair of roaring lionesses with ruby eyes and a pommel that was a maned lion. Just as Targs and Blackfyres were obsessed with dragons, as Starks were with wolves, the Lannisters were with lions. All the gold made it look gaudy and tasteless in my opinion. I couldn't underestimate Lord Tywin though. He might be in his fifties, but he'd been a talented knight in his youth and had a long military history dating older than both my lives. While I estimated his skill with a sword wasn't comparable now, he still knew how to use the tacky thing.
I remained rooted to the ground. Lord Tywin lunged forward only to slip and the weight of his plate propelled him to faceplant the ground. He tried to stand but he slipped and fell and fell once more. His armour was too heavy, his cloak too large and impractical. He lost his sword and fought just to remain kneeling. I looked around at my men who expressed a mixture of delight and disappointment that this wasn't going to be the climactic duel the singers would sing about. This wasn't a battle where we fought to an inch of our lives, the names of those he murdered on my lips and pulling a drastic reversal when he pushed me into a corner. I looked down at the Lord of Casterly Rock who found purchase on his hands and knees, limbs slowly drifting away from his body on the field that might as well be ice. It reminded me of Bambi. Of that scene with the little fawn on the frozen lake. This was a dark parody of that.
To ensure there would be no cinematic battle, I planted Blackfyre into the ground and gave a knowing nod to the men.
The proud Lord Tywin Lannister, the richest lord in the Seven Kingdoms, father to Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime Lannister and the Imp, grandfather of King Joffrey, Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, the Butcher of King's Landing, its liberator, Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport and Saviour of the City, was rushed by smallfolk and knifed to death in the mud. He died shitting.
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