Capítulo 167: The Battle of the Red Plains, part 3.
Robert saw the pillar of the fire.
He saw the dead starting to get back up from the ground, Wights or whatever they were.
It didn't matter.
None of it mattered.
What mattered was that the fucking Dragons hadn't been satisfied with taking his love from him.
What mattered was that after smashing their dynasty apart, sundering their lineage and taking their throne for himself even with its bladed thorns, they had still come back for more.
It wasn't that he loved Renly all that much, oh he cared about him, but he had honestly never really knew him all that well.
But he was still HIS brother.
And the damned Dragons had killed him for it, used his blood to cast some kind of spell.
No, Robert Baratheon wasn't scared of the magical pillar of fire, or the burning sword or the flaming eyes or any of that horseshite.
The volcano in his guts was hotter than them all, worming it's way around to his arms.
And then, it stopped, hardening in his veins, evolving into something completely different.
The words left his mouth like a hiss as he spurred his horse forward, out ahead of his Kingsguard.
"You die today. Boy."
The dragon wasn't rattled of course, not by the words, he probably couldn't hear them, but Robert could feel the petulant beast behind those eyes, mocking him, mocking his inability to save his brother, or his love.
He didn't care for chivalry, only that the dragon would die, as he charged him, planning to trample him under hoof. His breath was hot, his muscles strained, his Horse was exhausted.
The dragon conjured a blast of fire into his hand, and blew his horse's head off with a gesture, searing blood spatter in against his helmet as Robert was thrown forward to the ground by the sudden stop. His body ached from the impact.
It didn't matter.
He pushed himself onto his feet in one fluid motion, his muscles protested. He continued to approach the boy, and he was a boy, a foot shorter than him at least. Pathetic, no magic would save him.
Not in any way that mattered.
He conjured another bolt of fire, and Robert brought his shield up to intercept it. The blast pushed him back half a step. His strained muscles still answered him and he kept his footing.
It didn't break his stride. He lifted his already blood-splattered warhammer, preparing to fight.
Seeing his magic wouldn't avail him, the boy raised his burning sword, the spiraling heat around it seeming to draw strength from the panic across the field. The inferno at its tip flared and pulsed.
It didn't matter.
Viserys charged forward with great speed, preparing a thrust, Robert recognized it as a water dancer technique.
But Robert had seen it before, so it didn't matter, he shifted to the side and caught the dragon prince in the face with his shield, sending him stumbling backward.
Robert raised his hand to swing his hammer, but the Dragon had already backed off, a variation on another technique, the dragon had more strength in his legs than most water dancers.
It didn't matter.
Another rapid attack, trying to get behind Robert's guard. Robert hadn't seen this one before.
It didn't matter, he punched the boy's helmet with the hand that held his hammer.
The boy tried to retreat again, Robert wasn't having it, not twice. The pick on the back of his warhammer hooked the dragon's ankle, and he fell backward onto the ground.
The dragon raised his burning sword to defend himself, trying to stagger to his feet.
It didn't matter, Robert knocked it from his hand, jabbing the point of his shield into the boy's armpit and making his arm fall limp. The boy was weak, small, weaker than him. Weaker than Renly had been.
The boy threw a blast of Fire into Robert's faceplate with his other hand. It was weaker than it was before. Robert saw something like fear in the Dragon's eyes. The Dragon knew what was about to happen.
It didn't matter.
He raised his hammer, flipping it around to the pick. He lifted up his right arm high into the air, and he brought it down.
There was a screech of metal as the spike punched into the eye-slot of the Dragon's helmet, and he felt the boy beneath him shake, then still.
It didn't matter, he raised his arm again, and the spike fell once more.
Again and again, it's steel tip was stained black with blood. The Dragon's pretty helmet, his decorative chest piece, all of it broken, shattered, the blood of the boy seeping out onto the ground around them. The stronger man had won, and with his victory, he let out a great yell.
It wasn't a word exactly, or a roar, it was a sound of fury, of anger, of hatred and anger and all the things that carried his tired body.
But it wasn't the only sound that met his victory.
No, and the cheering from the men died after just a moment.
For the inferno of the Dragon's sword had not died with Viserys death.
No, it had only grown brighter.
Robert saw, as beneath him flames started to flicker from Viserys neck, departing the stump where most of his head had been reduced to a pulp. Flicker towards his blade, the one that was slowly rising into the air, shaking, vibrating back and forth.
A strange buzzing in his ears grew into a shrieking as the thing started to bend and contort.
Then it shattered, it's fragmenting remains clattered to the ground and Robert Baratheon was faced with a visage straight from the depths of the Seven Hells.
Out of the broken sword, the fire grew, taking shape and form, a skeleton born of shadow and fire emerging from the ruined blade. It towered over him, perhaps ten feet tall, and behind it unfurled wings of burning bone.
It spoke words and the sky darkened, and as it did it grew brighter, as if the light itself was being swallowed by the fire that made up its body.
For a moment, as even his Kingsguard were cowed by terror, Robert felt a shred of doubt, of fear, try to rise against his fury. It tried to quelch the volcano in his gut.
Then the fury was back again. For the Dragons refused to die so easily. And until their last shreds were gone he would fight.
He stood from the corpse of Viserys, his hammer, and shield hanging at his sides as he approached the beast, which barely seemed to notice him, insignificant as he must have seemed before it. He approached from behind it, as it seemed to want to work its spell over the field with whatever black words poured from its mouth.
He brought his hammer down on its head.
To his chagrin it kept going, falling through the beast as if it wasn't even there, the fire only served to make its handle hot, almost too hot to hold.
The monster noticed though, and turned back towards him, sending him sprawling in a blast of fire that threw him to the ground.
The thing said something he didn't understand and then it laughed.
It laughed at him, at how powerless he was. At how he had dropped his hammer without realizing it.
It didn't matter.
He reached for the blade at his belt.
The beast reached out a hand of fire and darkness that seemed to pass straight through his armor, it sank into his right shoulder and he felt a burning start to spread along his skin as if his very life was being burned away. It hurt. It hurt more than anything he had experienced in his life.
It didn't matter. The fury in his gut had long overcome pain.
He drew the blade, the Valyrian steel flashing in the firelight, and as he dragged it through the creature's wrist, it screamed, recoiling from him.
He staggered to his feet, his left hand clutching the Valyrian blade, for he could hardly move his right, and he spat, though he still wore his helmet.
"What's wrong, Dragonspawn?, Demon?, whatever in the seven Hells you are?" Climbing to his feet, he laughed as it began to flap its wings, the hot draft of air almost blowing him back to the ground. "Afraid?"
The creature roared a battle cry in that blackened tongue, but he was ready this time when it leaped towards him, big as it was all it had were its blazing claws, and now it only had one of those. He ducked under its predictable swipe, for once able to take advantage of being smaller than his opponent, and cut it across the chest.
This time when it roared it was in pain, and as it screamed down at him, a stream of unholy fire poured out, burning away what singed banners remained on his body and heating his armor to a painful degree.
Then, a sound like tearing steel echoed out, and the creature screamed once more, it's fiery form disintegrating, falling away into smoke.
As Robert struggle to his feet again, he glanced up to see Arys Oakheart, his white cloak torn and scorched, but his badge distinctive, clutching with both hands the Ax of Norvos, it's cutting edge blackened as if it had been dipped in soot.
Robert Laughed, for that, was all he could do, despite the pain, and when he saw the fire-wights falling away to ashes. He laughed when he saw the remains of the red cult scattering. when the battle was victory? he could only laugh some more.
Even when they were pealing his armor off revealing the burns that ran up and down his right arm he was still laughing, laughing with boisterous gladness. The men worried if the King had gone mad, at least until Lord Stark came to see him in camp, nearly three hours after the battle was over, when Robert, his voice dry and his throat hoarse, stopped laughing.
His eyes lit up at the sight of his friend, his smile growing even wider than before. He managed to choke out just a few words before he collapsed to the floor, exhausted.
"I did it, Ned." The King explained the reason for his endless laughter. "I Finally fucking killed the Dragon."
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