Chapitre 38: Chapter 38: Determine
Barristan:
He found his king stargazing on a cool night. Sers Gwayne and Leo were patrolling the surrounding area ensuring no one could be near the king without passing them. Gwayne acknowledged him with a nod.
King Daeron didn't stir. His gaze remained on the evening sky. His hands clasped behind his back. His crown resting atop his head, but its gems paled to the brilliant starlight above their heads.
"Your Grace," Barristan greeted him when he was close enough.
Daeron moved his head just enough to look over his shoulder to see him. "Are you here to tuck me in?"
Barristan smiled, but it went unseen as the king's attention went back to the stars. "Do you need me to look under your cot too?"
The King chuckled. "I'd have Ser Gwayne do that."
He glanced upwards trying to see what held his king's attention. He was a novice when it came to the stars but could still admire their beauty as they scattered across the black sky like diamonds. "It's a clear night."
"It is," the king agreed, "Did you know my brother once told me that every star had its own story. For every light there is a tale to be told."
"Your brother, Your Grace?"
"Yes, Rhaegar," Daeron's tone held a hint of mirth to it as if sensing Barristan's surprise. "It was the Ice Dragon," he raised his hand, pointing upwards.
Barristan saw no distinguishing dragon when his sight followed to where the king was pointing to.
"Or was it there," Daeron pointed elsewhere, "Hmm," dropping his hand when he wasn't satisfied that he was pointing to the right constellation. "The dragon's blue eye points north," He was mumbling softly to himself, trying to remember, "And you follow its tail if you wish to travel south." His tone brightened at figuring it out. "Ah, there it is."
He humored his king and looked up. He now saw an outline in the sky that bore some resemblance to a dragon with a blue star that shone like a sapphire. What looked to be the tail stretched behind the rest of its supposed body and it indeed was pointed south. The Ice Dragon did not hold Barristan's interest for long, this discourse on stars made him think of the name of another star, but this wasn't of a constellation, but a man, who had once been Barristan's friend, a brother- The Sword of the Morning.
The Lord Commander of Rhaegar's Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne, who was now his adversary. Barristan sighed. He tried not to think of those he left behind all those months ago when he chose Daeron over Rhaegar. He had the good fortune of not having to face them in battle since this war started, but he knew that would not last especially if the rumors were true. He would have to face them. He would have to beat them. He didn't think there was a better swordsman in Westeros than Ser Arthur Dayne, but he would test his friend's skill if he had to, to defend Daeron's life.
He considered King Daeron, Lord Jaime and even Prince Oberyn as some of the rare few who could fight the Sword of the Morning with a chance of successfully beating him. However, they were not knights of the kingsguard, sworn to defend their king, Barristan was. The duty is mine.
His momentary reverie was pulled from him by the sound of the King's voice. His thoughts and memories that passed before him in the still silence of the night felt like long minutes to Barristan, but he knew it was only a few seconds that had passed. He remembered to answer his king's question. "Yes, indeed, Your Grace," he replied, "It is a fine sight." He didn't look back up at the constellation that he was praising.
"That story of the Ice Dragon," Daeron said, "Those were the first words my brother had said to me in months, and it wasn't because of any row or absence from the Red Keep. It was simply because he hadn't cared to." His stance was rigid below the indifferent stars that shone above them. "I wanted a brother, but he didn't want me, and now I'm going to take everything he has."
The night air tingled against the back of his neck. He did not waste words or his breath on a past that cannot be changed. "Everything, Your Grace?"
"Yes," The word was as cold and sharp as a blade. "Do you believe it is considered kinslaying to wage war against your brother?" He asked mildly, "To raise your sword against him even if it's to parry a deathblow from your own kin." He never waited for Barristan to answer his question. "Whether we die by each other's hands or not, it does not matter. We have condemned one another. Not just our own lives, but those of our line." That was when Daeron turned abruptly, shifting his attention solely on Barristan. "A kinslayer is one who is cursed forever, but my family's history is written in the blood of our own kin." His eyes narrowed in thought. "But still we reign over all of Westeros," the rubies in his crown glowed like lit embers above his head. "And you still serve me, follow me."
"I do, Your Grace," Barristan said, since swearing his vows to serve his king at the fortress of the Golden Tooth, he had never held reservations about King Daeron. There was no conflict that had plagued him in his service of Aerys or the confusion that chased him when he thought of Rhaegar. With Daeron, it had been so clear and simple. Despite this civil war that split the kingdoms, severed the bonds of the kingsguard, and was fought under the looming shadow of the potential sins of kinslaying, there was never any doubt in his mind or heart that this was where he belonged. "Until the end, Your Grace," He said, "But I pray that end is not in the coming weeks, nor months but decades."
"We are near the end," He said, "But it will not be ours."
He was running.
His king was ahead of him. They were ahead of him.
How did this happen? Barristan's sword cut a swath for him, providing a path for him to take as he tried to get closer to where his king was cornered. A single word pulsed through his mind: No, no, no . His instincts alerted him to the coming charge, with an easy deflection to avoid the strike, he then put the enemy soldier to the ground with a single stroke.
He didn't even look down at the newly made corpse, he leapt over it, and kept running. The chaos of battle had washed over them like a terrible storm. Streams of soldiers, and riders cutting through both sides to form rivers of steel and blood. The fighting only intensified the longer it lasted with both sides struggling to break the other's resolve.
Barristan didn't have the luxury to observe the battle, to worry over it, or predict its end. He had to get back to his king. He had been swept away by a group of soldiers who bore the Hightower sigil. They split Barristan from his king, and he had fought desperately to break through so he could get back. He had been successful even with the advantage in numbers, they proved no threat to him. Because they weren't supposed to. They were not the challenge, but the distraction.
His enemy had been the time wasted in freeing himself from them and of the distance they had forced between him and King Daeron. Looking ahead, he felt relief and pride swell within him at watching the king take down every soldier that tried to approach him. The king stood out in his black armor, drawing soldiers like insects to a flame. Men fueled by greed or glory to try to bring down a king. The few men with King Daeron were beginning to fall, but every second of their stand was crucial.
The white cloak was what caught his eye in the distance, Barristan knew at once who it was, and his blood went cold when he saw where he was heading. Barristan shouted a warning trying to alert their white cloaks already near King Daeron that he was approaching. The Sword of the Morning had come to kill his king. He was flanked by his own soldiers, but Arthur deftly dealt with any soldier who tried to stop him.
Barristan's sword plunged through one soldier. He shoved the body down, releasing his sword and kept going. Almost there, he felt the relief flooding through him. He was going to make it. In just a few more steps he was going to intercept Ser Arthur before he could reach his king. Then suddenly everything changed.
Arthur cut down the first white cloak and then the second.
Barristan felt cold claws ripping through him. He hoarsely shouted to try to grab Arthur's attention, but the Sword of the Morning was already on the King. He could feel his own heart trying to tear its way out of its chest, any and every effort he could make to try to get there in time.
The dragon was pinned by pale phantoms. Barristan was struggling through a tide of red, but he could not get any closer. All he could do was listen to its harrowing wail, and then the silence when it was killed. The dragon stilled and Barristan's world shrunk to the cold pain nestled inside him…
"Your turn."
Barristan blinked, finding himself not on some blood-soaked battlefield, but in the canvas confines of his tent.
Victarion Greyjoy was standing at the open lip of the tent. "Good," he grunted, seeing him awake, "I would hate to tell the king his Lord Commander died in his sleep."
He took the jest in stride. He knew it was out of respect, not disrespect. He was just relieved that the terrible experience he had just endured had been only a nightmare. He made sure not to appear shaken by it and instead said: "The only thing worse than an old knight is the one who loses to him."
Victarion chuckled. "I'm done." He didn't wait for permission or acknowledgment that his shift was over.
Barristan was not surprised. The ironborn had some very rough edges. "Has there been any news?"
"Yeah, Ser Brynden came an hour ago."
"What?" Barristan was up in an instant looking for his armor. "Why wasn't I informed?"
"King Daeron thought you should sleep." Victarion shrugged, "Which is what I'm doing." This time Greyjoy didn't stop, he left.
It didn't take long for Barristan to dress in his armor and attach his cloak. He left his tent and made it for the King's. He wondered why he had let Barristan rest, he had been tired, but after the nightmare he had had, he would not have minded being woken from it sooner. He noticed the camp was bustling with activity, men were moving, messengers, servants, darting down different paths towards different tents. There were soldiers huddled by their fires, breaking their fasts with their rations while other soldiers remained on duty, patrolling the grounds.
He noticed something else too. Packing, we're breaking camp. Making him wonder what Ser Brynden had told King Daeron. That only hastened his hurry to reach the king's tent.
Prince Lewyn was on duty, standing just outside the tent. Barristan gave the prince a distracted nod when he arrived, who took it with a smile before he ducked inside the tent to inform the king of his arrival.
"He will see you," Prince Lewyn said.
Barristan walked in to find that King Daeron was not alone. Lord Jaime was sitting by the king's desk, while Prince Oberyn had elected a more comfortable seat. Choosing one of the plush chairs by one of the braziers. The King was standing behind his desk and greeted him.
"Your Grace," he returned the greeting, "What was the news?"
"Rhaegar is marching," it was Lord Jaime who answered.
"We're breaking camp," Barristan observed, "Are we marching to meet him?"
"No," King Daeron answered, "We're retreating. Ser Brynden recommended a tactical retreat believing our current position is untenable if attacked. The Blackfish suggested a better position north of here."
"Ser Brynden is rarely wrong in his assessments," Barristan said after a beat of silence had passed which allowed this new information to sink in.
"It is not Ser Brynden that I'm concerned with," Lard Jaime said, unbothered by Barristan's presence to speak what was on his mind. "It is his brother."
"Lord Tully?" Barristan frowned, wondering how much he had missed during his rest. "Has there been news?"
"Not from him," Lord Jaime answered, but his expression conveyed he was holding back more.
"My good brother believes Lord Tully has turned his cloak on us," Oberyn observed mildly, speaking of possible betrayals like they were discussing what wine to have with their supper.
The implication of Lord Tully's potential betrayal sent a chill up Barristan's back. "What proof is there?"
"Lord Tully's silence," Jaime replied, but not before sending a look towards the Dornish prince who shrugged it off with a smile.
"He sent a rider," Barristan pointed out.
"A week ago," Jaime countered, "It should not have taken him this long to arrive. And there has been no news of any battle north of us."
"The Reach is large and still considered hostile land," Barristan said, "There could've been troubles on the road. We cannot jump to treason so quickly."
"We're not," King Daeron finally spoke, "My Lord Hand is just being diligent," The king complimented his friend, "It is wise to consider all roads instead of only the one we may travel."
"And when we reach this spot Ser Brynden has picked?" Barristan asked.
"If my brother follows and is determined to fight then I shall grant it."
"And thus Rhaegar met his end," Oberyn said dryly, "and there was much rejoicing."
The days that followed after the Blackfish's report passed quickly. They had marched to reach the spot which Ser Brynden had advised, and his judgment proved wise. Atop adjacent hillsides, they had a wide view of the area. Allowing them to see any enemy approach and two days after they had made their camp, they spotted that enemy, Rhaegar's army had arrived.
There had been no march towards their position nor had any riders approached to discuss potential terms. The patrols of their camp were doubled with more watchmen assigned in all hours to ensure Rhaegar's army could not launch any surprise attack on them.
"Was that a snore I heard?"
Barristan smiled but did not turn to the japing knight. "Do not think I failed to notice that wineskin you've been sampling." He may have been quiet in his reflections, but that did not mean he had not been paying attention.
Gwayne guffawed. "That was only a test to see if you were watching."
"I was."
He and Ser Gwayne were outside the king's tent. Their king was inside with his friends as well as some of the Reach lords they had captured, what was being discussed, he did not know. This time he was serving as a guard not an adviser, and he did not mind it. There was something peaceful in the waiting, and the watching.
"You were," Gwayne agreed, but the mirth didn't linger. "Do you think Rhaegar will attack?"
It was not a matter of if, but when, that was what King Daeron had said just before he gave his orders to his men to make preparations for a battle that they were just waiting to start.
Prince Oberyn would command the right flank leading his dornish spears and would be tasked to protect the hundreds of archers. King Daeron had made the decision that he'd command the center with the foot soldiers and the Dragon's Teeth. The left flank was given to Ser Brynden, who would lead the contingent of mostly mounted men. A sound choice given the Blackfish's skill as both a rider and a fighter. Barristan had thought the honor might go to Lord Jaime, but the Hand of the King made it clear that he would be fighting with his king.
He considered his friend's question before answering. "I do," He believed Rhaegar was driven by something he considered grander than tactics. They held the high ground, but Barristan suspected Rhaegar would not be deterred by that, or he would've left already to try to draw them on a different battlefield. It was that observation that worried him. It was as if Rhaegar was waiting for something or someone.
"I do not know," Gwayne fingered his moustache while he kept his eyes forward. "His army is just as Ser Brynden had described and what we had feared."
"It is." It was a sour truth to swallow.
Rhaegar had kept Lord Hightower's forces with him instead of deploying them at the Battle of the Golden Grove. A force of over nine thousand men, refreshed and ready to fight. He then rallied the remnants of the survivors from Golden Grove who had fled in the thousands. As well as several lords from the Crownlands, Barristan had read the reports of the banners that had been spotted. Rhaegar had brought them all here, and here they waited just in the distance.
They had not been so fortunate in these past few weeks. Lord Tywin's forces were battling the bloody flux near Old Oak and would be of no help to them. The stormland forces under Lord Robert had been cut off after losing against the Golden Company. And still there had been no sign of Lord Tully and his needed forces. But still Lord Tully's absence didn't steer his thoughts; it was of those that were waiting in that encampment. Of those he knew, of those he fought and served with, of those they called brother.
"If it comes to battle," Gwayne began, "Have you considered-"
"I have," Barristan didn't need to hear the rest of the question, Gwayne's tone said enough. "Have you?"
"I have," he answered, "But most down there are not our brothers, the ones we served with."
"Only because they've already been killed," Barristan wouldn't find solace in Gwayne's blunt observation. "Sers Arthur and Oswell are down there."
"Duncan the Tall was the Lord Commander who oversaw my initiation into the kingsguard, and was the first to call me brother," Gwayne's eyes were unfocused, lost in memory, "All these years later its serving under King Daeron, that I once again feel proud and hopeful of a king's reign," his face drawn in thought. "And that's a feeling worth fighting for, worth protecting even if it means going against our brothers."
"It is," Barristan quietly agreed.
He had been serving the Targaryens for decades which allowed him to see them at their best and at their worst. Out of them all, King Daeron reminded him the most of the king's own mother, Queen Rhaella. Mother and son, who had been pushed to the shadows, dwelling there, overlooked by the court who chased after Aerys and Rhaegar, longing for their attention, desperate for their approval, and fighting for their patronage.
In the shadows their strength remained hidden, ignored, but theirs was a mettle that was unyielding. Queen Rhaella had endured years of her husband's cruelties, but he could never break her. Daeron too handled his father's capricious temperament without crumbling nor could Rhaegar's cold indifference undo him. Unbroken, he thought, but still he worried. His mind cruelly returned to the nightmare that haunted his sleep. The one where he watched his king die on the battlefield. No matter what he tried to do, he could not save his king. It was the cold fear that reached deep within that drove him to ask. "Do you think we could convince him not to fight?"
Gwayne turned to him. "What?"
"Our king," Barristan knew it sounded silly, but his concern was pushing the words out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Convince him to stay behind, to simply observe and not to fight."
"Does that sound like something our king would choose to do?" Gwayne raised a skeptical brow.
"No," Unease rolled in his gut, "But it does not mean it should be dismissed."
Gwayne did not have time to comment as the noise from within the tent alerted them that the meeting had adjourned. The captured Reach lords filed out with several guards flanking and watching them. The lords were conversing with themselves, but Barristan could only hear pieces of what they were saying when Lord Jaime stepped out.
"King Daeron wishes to speak with you," He then turned to Gwayne, "Both of you."
An odd request, but one that they could not ignore. "Very well," Barristan said, before instructing a few Targaryen guards to take the positions that he and Gwayne were vacating. He then walked into the tent to see it was only the king and Ser Gwayne. Lord Jaime and Prince Oberyn had ducked out after passing on King Daeron's message.
"Thank you for seeing me."
"Did we have a choice?" Gwayne asked with a smile.
Daeron's smile flickered before his expression sobered. "We believe the battle will be imminent."
"Imminent?" Barristan repeated.
He nodded but didn't divulge further. "If it turns out to be true then I want both of you fighting with me."
"I'd be honored, Your Grace," Gwayne dipped his head.
Barristan hesitated, filled with quiet tension. "What if you did not fight?"
"Retreat the field?" Daeron's brow furrowed, "Surrender the high ground?"
"No, Your Grace," he shook his head, aware of Gwayne's surprised glance, "We would still fight in the battle, but not you."
"Not me?" He repeated, pinning Barristan with a hard look that made it difficult for him to gauge what his king was thinking.
"You have greater allies to draw from, Your Grace, one defeat will not sink your cause," Barristan tried to explain, "But your death would." He uttered the last part in a softer tone while trying to suppress the shiver of the conjured image of a dead Daeron that flickered across his vision.
Daeron's gaze swept over Barristan for a long second before turning his back to them, and walking deeper into the tent, further from them. There was a short pause of tense silence before he finally spoke. "You once told me defeat can be more instructive than victory, Ser Barristan. Do you remember?"
"I do," it made Barristan see a young prince in front of him, not even ten and two, but eager to improve, to be the best. He smiled at the memories.
"He had to say something, Your Grace," Gwayne put in, "You were losing so often you'd likely have quit then continued."
Daeron chuckled at the tease. "Always so supportive of me, Ser Gwayne." He had moved to where his black armor was resting on its wooden figure. He studied it, keeping his back to them. "It would be so easy to do, and few if any would voice their disagreement at my decision to not fight," He picked up his helm which had been masterly forged to resemble a snarling dragon's head, "But ruling isn't supposed to be easy, Ser Barristan." He stared at the open visor of the helm as if he was imagining someone looking back at him, "And I cannot ask my men, my friends to do what I will not do."
Arthur:
He found his king at the end of their encampment where they kept the horses. The sun was a dull wheel of light slowly rising on the horizon. Despite the early hour of the day the camp was hardly quiet. Few soldiers were in their tents, most were out, moving and following orders. Their bustling was his first indication that this day would not be like the ones before, where the men grew bored and restless.
The smell of sweat and shit was ripe in the air. His stomach rankled at the pungent tang that had reached out and forced its way up his nose. It was a far stronger smell than either that of the stables at Starfall or the Red Keep. He redirected his attention on his king, whom he spotted ahead of him with one of the horses.
"You wanted to see me, Your Grace?" Arthur dipped his head, scrunching his nose at the smell with his face hidden. That was when he saw the ground caked in mud, shit, and hay. His armored boots fared no better. When he rose, he recomposed his expression.
"I did," Rhaegar was brushing the mane of a beautiful courser. The grey horse with its dark mane accepted the king's tender attention without protest. Arthur did not recognize the creature to be any of the horses that he had seen Rhaegar ride before. "Come closer, she will not bite." He didn't take his eyes off what he was doing. "Her name is Grey Ghost ," he answered, as the horse whinnied their approval. "She was a gift, and I can think of no better time to unveil my present than on the day of my victory."
"Victory?"
"I received an omen last night."
Arthur nearly parroted his friend's words right back to him, but he stopped himself. Rhaegar had studied prophecies for years, had been guided by them, shaped by them. He even named his children after them. It was not for him to judge his king on matters he did not understand.
"Its message was clear," Rhaegar finally stopped in his brushing of Grey Ghost to look at Arthur. "An enemy of my family will die today." There was a distant glaze in his eyes as he recited the omen. "Fate has not abandoned us, my friend."
He had not seen his friend in such high spirits since before the tournament of Harrenhal. Rhaegar's improved mood and glowing confidence were great to see, helping to lift Arthur's own mood and making him temporarily forget about the overwhelming smell of horse.
Grey Ghost nickered as if hearing Arthur's silent complaint.
"When I awoke after receiving this omen was when I was given proof of our good fortune," Rhaegar continued, rightfully taking Arthur's silence for hesitation and skepticism. "Lord Tully's forces will arrive before noon."
"Truly?" Arthur perked up at this unexpected but welcomed news. They had been waiting for the Lord of Riverrun for some time.
"Yes, it is," he nodded, "But your part is the most important, my friend, on the battlefield, fate will guide your hand," Rhaegar's expression was clouded when he turned to look at him, "With one stroke, you will end this war and save my family."
Another man fell to Dawn's lethal touch. Arthur wrenched his sword free, eyes scanning the battlefield looking for him. Looking to end this war, so many lives hung in the balance.
I can end this battle, this war. And all he had to do was take one life. A traitor, a usurper, the words played over and over in his head not allowing any doubt or hesitation to breathe, to surface.
The battle had started with Rhaegar sending out their soldiers to advance on the hilltops where Daeron and his army was camped. When it had started, he did not know, nor could he say how many he had already killed. Arthur was a single speck in a storm of blood and death.
A soldier drawn to either his cloak or the belief he was vulnerable, rushed him, but Arthur barely paid heed, sidestepping the clumsy blow before Dawn removed the man's arm. He screamed, clutching the bloody stump before Dawn fell upon him a second time, silencing his voice and ending his pain.
The men in his retinue were handling their surroundings well allowing him precious time to look through the battle to try to spot him. For the most part, they kept enemy soldiers from reaching him, only a few had managed to slip through.
Arthur could not say how the battle was faring, looking around all he saw was endless fighting and dying coming from both sides led with their two distinct dragon banners that clashed again and again against each other like rival waves. His strategy had been shrunk to a single purpose, to kill Daeron Targaryen. As if by divine intervention that was when he saw him. Straight ahead, even from this distance, it was clear to Arthur that it was him. Clad in black armor and covered by a dragon helm, he knew it was him.
It's time, he realized, his moment was here, and he could not waste it. I can end this all. I can save these men. Stop this fighting, protect my king and it was all just ahead of him. Without order, his retinue of knights and soldiers followed him, helping to clear a path to where King Daeron was fighting.
A rare mistake had been made; Arthur noticed. In the king's zeal, Daeron had moved further ahead from his forces. He was not alone, but the separation between him and the bulk of his forces was wide enough for Arthur to exploit. Like a snake rising up to threaten, to display its lethal beauty, but in that taunt, it left itself vulnerable, exposed.
The traitor had overreached, and Arthur was ready to end this.
The distance between them was all Arthur saw and how it got closer and closer with each step, with each kill. Dawn was busy, slicing and hacking through the soldiers who did see him. There was no ambush, as Arthur realized after cutting down another soldier, he and his men had gotten the king's attention.
"Have you come to kill me?" King Daeron's voice was muffled behind his helm.
Arthur didn't answer; he struck, Dawn poised but his lashing sword did not meet the king's, but another's. He looked to see it was a man, he once called brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt.
The two exchanged blows, the sound of clanging steel rippling from their swords. They had sparred for years, making them intimately aware of how the other fought but Arthur was pressing his former brother. Dawn was getting closer and closer. It was not Gwayne's knowledge that was failing him, but his body. He was one of the older knights having served many kings. It was a shame that his last would be that of a traitor.
Arthur raised Dawn to make the expected thrust, one he had practiced a thousand times, and one Gwayne would never question to be a feint. The mistake came too late, his eyes wide when Dawn found flesh, cutting through at his shoulder, before slicing downwards for an agonizing second or more before the sword slipped out.
Gwayne collapsed on his knees, grunting. He dropped his sword with his arm hanging limply at his side.
"Yield," Arthur stepped closer to his injured friend.
"You know I cannot do that," His other hand went for his sheathed dagger, but Dawn stopped him before he could even reach it. Gwayne collapsed onto his stomach, face first in the mud- dead.
Sense and instinct made him raise Dawn, faster than his own thoughts or eyes could react to meet his attacker's blade. Dark Sister gave a steel hiss in frustration where their swords met. Daeron's face was hooded behind his fearsome snarling dragon helm. All that could be heard was a metal snarl echoing from beneath the visor, resembling more an animal than a man. Dark Sister was a steel serpent, hungry for blood, but Dawn met each strike.
The King was a storm of wrath falling onto Arthur with all of his might and anger again and again and again. He gritted his teeth after a forceful thrust by Dark Sister had actually hit against his chest plate, not cutting through, but the force of it was hard enough to make a bruise.
Undeterred, Arthur pivoted to the offensive, forcing Daeron to defend or avoid. He was thankful for the small mercy that he would not have to see Daeron's face when he struck the killing blow. A single stroke to end the war, he thought just as Daeron slipped out of reach from Dawn, cutting through air where Daeron had just been standing.
A cry of warning went up and without looking Arthur spun away from Daeron, but in the corner of his vision he saw he too was moving away. A riderless horse rampaged through their ranks, right where they had just been fighting. Frenzied and injured, stomping its feet and letting out a rageful whiny. It continued its charge, stampeding on anything or anyone that got in its way.
In a blink it had arrived and stormed off, but Arthur had lost sight of Daeron as the chaos of battle swirled around him like a violent whirlpool. Dawn took out two soldiers before Arthur found himself standing in front of Ser Barristan.
The two Lord Commanders stared at one another for a tense heartbeat, white cloaks tattered and filthy. Arthur had no time to think, to dwell, only to act.
I have to do this. I have no choice. He wanted to shout over the metal twang of their swords. This was the only way. The only way to serve him, to save him. Still, he didn't try to look at his face. He couldn't bear it. I swore a vow! A loud clash of their swords felt like thunder in Arthur's head, pounding inside him in relentless rhythm.
Barristan can be saved. He told himself, He needn't die. Only one has to die. Deep inside his chest, it hurt. This small creature of guilt that tries to gnaw its way out. Arthur had tried to crush it, to kill it, but it refused to be silenced so he buried it. Locked it away. I can't abandon my friend, my king.
Their swords clashed after another blocked strike. Too close, Arthur realized, leaning back just in time to avoid a nasty thrust from a dagger Barristan had suddenly withdrawn with his other hand. And then the dagger was sheathed, and his sword was in both hands. A movement so incredibly fast and deftly handled it looked to have all happened in a blink.
He tried not to look at his face. The face of his mentor, his brother, his friend. My enemy! And with a sudden burst of strength, Arthur lunged forward with their swords still crossed, Barristan stumbled back, slipping on the wet ground but Arthur was forced to turn elsewhere with a warning wave from Dawn to fend off a new enemy.
Arthur glanced first at Barristan who had recovered his balance and then his eyes flicked to Lord Jaime and then to the greatsword in his hands. Even at a glance, he recognized valyrian steel, but before the two could coordinate their attack on him, Arthur's own men rushed forward to intervene.
Seizing the advantage, Arthur moved away from them trying to spot the king in this churning sea of men. Frantically, he kept looking, but it wasn't Daeron he spotted, it was someone else. And they were coming right at him.
They had somehow freed themselves from the fighting in order to pursue Arthur, to prevent him from reaching Daeron, whom he finally spotted just beyond his opponent. So close, he thought, but still too far.
"My fight is not with you, Lord Jaime."
"You're trying to kill my king, my friend," There was only coldness in his eyes, "My brother, I'd say your fight is very much with me."
"Walk away," Arthur warned him once, because of the friendship he had with Elia when they were children. He did not want to make her a widow. "For your wife's sake."
Those words proved to kindle the fire, not snuff it.
Jaime lunged at him, but Arthur was ready.
The pounding in his chest seemed louder and harder than that of their swords. He never suspected this to be an easy fight having seen Jaime's skill countless times, but this was dragging on far too long for his liking. He needed to end this before Daeron slipped away again.
A sudden jolt from a deflected strike made his teeth snap together. Enough! Arthur huffed out a breath. Dawn was a deadly blur, that his opponent was countering valiantly, but he had been expecting that. He would tell Elia that he tried to save her husband, but Jaime had been too blinded to see his mercy. For Rhaegar!
A noise suddenly burst through Arthur's thoughts, forcing him to withdraw a few paces to see what was happening just as the sound came again.
A horn blew, loud and deep, a metallic twang that momentarily cut through the clatter of battle, to draw the attention of everyone to the exact same spot. Rising into view were silver Trouts on fields of blue and red. The banners danced in the breeze to make it appear as if these Tully Trouts were swimming in the air. Below the flashing banners spread out on both sides like a tide of red and blue were mounted men. Their armor shined, the steel glimmered, men were shouting, drums were beating, horns were blowing, and then the horses were charging.
"Tully!"
"Riverrun!"
The ground shook from the thundering hooves, a wave of steel and swords was coming to crash upon them.
Victory, in those few heartbeats that was all he thought while watching them come closer until he heard what else they were shouting:
"KING DAERON!"
Then they were smashing through Rhaegar's flanks, cutting into the forces like a hot knife through butter. Their men were panicking and fleeing, spreading chaos and fear while the rivermen plunged through until it buckled, and then collapsed.
In his despair, he never saw the sword, only the black.
Arthur groaned.
He felt the wet ground pressed against his face. Pain prickled at the back of his head. He groaned again. That was when he saw the black armored boots in front of him.
He looked up to see a dark shadow standing over him crowned with silvery hair. "Rhaegar," He murmured, believing it to be his king, that Rhaegar had found him, but that hope passed when the memories of what happened filled his mind. His skin prickled when the rush of what happened washed over him.
"Is dead," the shadow answered curtly, "For all of Rhaegar's talk of prophecies he couldn't see that arrow." The shadow's steps drew closer. "All those lofty ambitions he had only to have them plucked by a peasant's bow."
"No," he stirred on the ground, realizing his hands were bound behind his back. His arms ached, but he didn't care. He blinked tears. He felt a cold fist clench around his heart, icy despair had come to claim him. "No," he said again, feeling the tear come down his cheek. His body convulsed in the cold clutches of grief.
The shadow of his enemy didn't move from where it was looming in front of him. "Death or the Black?"
"L-let me," Arthur found his throat constricting, his anguish threatening to strangle him, "L-let me see him."
"Death or the Black?" The shadow ignored his plea.
"I-I want to see him!" His wail was wet and raspy.
"You're my prisoner," The shadow was unaffected by his turmoil, "not my guest."
He felt hands grab him from behind, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword in the Morning didn't have the strength to stop them. He didn't have the will to resist. They lifted him up with the same care one would of a sack of potatoes, holding him up just long enough for his legs to curl below him before letting him go. His body wobbled, but he found his balance on trembling knees, and saw Daeron Targaryen watching him closely.
His brother's enemy was still wearing his black battle armor, but his dragon helm had been replaced with a golden crown. The adorning red rubies shone like wet blood. Behind him were more familiar faces, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Jaime, and Prince Oberyn. The former's face looked solemn, and the friendly gleam in his blue eyes was absent when they met his curious stare. Lord Jaime was frowning with his arms crossed over his chest. While Prince Oberyn, who he had known since they were boys, looked at him with dark eyes and a pursed mouth, the gaze of disappointment.
He glanced around while they all watched him. This must be Daeron's tent, he thought, looking around the canvas walls and Targaryen banners. Then he saw it, lying on a nearby table was-
"Blackfyre," Daeron said, seeing what caught Arthur's interest. "It was found on Rhaegar's person." He moved to where the legendary Targaryen sword was. "The sword of kings," His hand rested on its hilt, "And traitors." He didn't try to pick it up, "I'm looking forward to sparring with it."
"Where is he?" Arthur asked, ignoring the tightness in his chest. "Where is my king?" He held his head high at his last words.
"Your king is a corpse."
"He was your brother," Arthur's voice thickened at the word was.
"Only when it suited him," Daeron did not share Arthur's grief. His eyes were fixed on him. "His body is being tended to by the Silent Sisters to prepare it for travel." He said the words without emotion, without turmoil or triumph, saying them as plainly as one would when giving instructions on how to tend to one's luggage before a journey. "You may see it before it departs."
It. The word thrashed inside his chest. "My thanks." He felt empty, a useless shell, he had lost it all. This battle, this war, his king, his friend, what would his life be now? To waste away at the Wall, useless and forced to relive all his failures. Why should I live when my king did not? He had made his choice and an eerie calmness settled over him from it.
"Death," He said, "I choose death." Arthur would not live without a purpose, without his king. He ignored the looks from those in attendance. I am no different than you. He thought they had no right to judge him. My vows, my friend, my king, what makes mine any less worthy than theirs? He did not dip his head when Daeron's eyes studied him.
"Let him see Rhaegar's body," Daeron instructed before his advisers could speak out against Arthur's choice. "And then prepare the prisoner for travel."
"Travel?" Arthur frowned, "I choose death, and I'll gladly take it here." He did not wish to be served as some spectacle for all in the capital to see. Some enemy for their king to slay.
"You are not in a position to give orders," Daeron straightened up, his mouth like a knife cut, his eyes burned like cinders. "Your fate is in my hands. You chose death and you may still have it, but first you will go to your sister, to look her in the eyes and tell her your choice."
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
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Power Stone 
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