The Dragon of Duskendale -- A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic

Chapter 5

  The knight had a white slash on his blue shield and a morningstar. Aelor Targaryen had fought shields plenty of times before—he used one himself—but the spiked ball swinging on its chain was a rarity. He'd only fought them in the training yard and even then only sparingly, something he was regretting more and more with each second; the weapon was giving him absolute fits.

The man in Hasty colors knew how to use it too, keeping on the offensive and battering against Aelor's shield. The oak and banded steel was of the highest quality money could buy, but even it was beginning to splinter beneath the onslaught, both warring white dragons it bore now just unrecognizable flecks of paint. Aelor deflected the morningstar for what felt like the hundredth time and struck back for the thousandth, but the Stormlander caught it on his own and sent the spiked ball whistling for the prince's head again.

Instead of using his damaged shield once more Aelor ducked, the spiked ball barely clearing the top of his helm, and dove forward, driving his armored shoulder into the other knight. The blow took Hasty by surprise, and he didn't manage to get his shield in between. Aelor's charge took him full in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. His arm, instinctually trying to catch himself but trained to not release his grip, tried to bring the Morningstar towards his opponent as he crashed to the ground. Aelor had anticipated it, parrying the chain with the blade of his sword to stop its momentum. Before Hasty could swing again or try to gain his feet Aelor stepped over him and drove his blade down through the eye slit.

A man at arms, bearing a spear and in the same blue and white heraldry, stabbed towards Aelor's chest. Still standing over the knight he had just killed, Aelor twisted to the side, spearhead driving past his ribs, and brought his shieldarm down to trap the shaft against his side. Holding the spear in place, Aelor withdrew his blade from the face of the downed man and sliced through the throat of the man-at-arms in one motion. Blood spurted and poured down his front, leaving a red river through the blue of his tabard.

There was no time to gather himself. Another knight took the footman's place, this one in the dented armor and hacked-up shield of a hedgeknight. It's the dragons on my shield; attracts opponents like a Lysene whore. He came on quickly, trying to catch the Dragon Prince while he was still recovering from killing the Morning Star Knight and his compatriot, but Aelor matched him blow for blow. It took only a second to cut this one down, Aelor slashing his legs out from under him before driving his castle-forged steel into weak joint at the groin.

Three more followed, men at arms bearing Hasty and Buckler colors, joining the others one after the other. On and on it went, for how long Aelor couldn't say and didn't care about. He felt alive in battle, mind never working faster, blade never swinging quicker and body never feeling stronger than it did when he was on the battlefield.

Part of Aelor laughed at the absurdity; he never felt more life than when he was taking someone else's. He hadn't felt the true glory of battle since the Kingswood, and while tourneys and melees could sate him, they were a mere shadow of the true bloodlust of war.

The prince reveled in it now, slamming the splintered shield into the face of a helmless man even as he disarmed—in all senses of the word—another opponent wearing the nine silver unicorns of House Rogers on his chest. He cut the toweringly tall man's cries short with a blade driven deep through the chest, piercing the very same heart that was pumping blood out of the gaping wound where his arm used to be.

And then it was done.

The Dragon of Duskendale had stood, withdrawing his blade from the dead man and whirling to meet the blades darting in on him, only to realize there was a stunning lack of blades. He spun twice more, checking other angles, before the battle haze began to dissipate. Not only was there a lack of blades trying to kill him anywhere near, there was also a lack of bodies—or at least live ones. There were certainly plenty of corpses.