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

Chapter 19

Whatever notions Eddard Stark had had of true war were complete and utter shit. The skirmishes were nothing like this. There is no honor here, only death.

Eddard dodged the wild swing of a knight in Stokeworth green, only realizing as he rammed Ice into the armor gap under the man's arm that he'd been swinging a stone. It was a disorganized melee, men having at each other with everything and anything, from swords and stones to teeth and fists. Ned saw a peasant levy crouched over a downed knight with a boar on his surcoat, smashing a helm down onto his face again and again and again, not stopping even though the knight's legs had stopped twitching long ago.

Eddard couldn't watch long, for another knight, this one without a sigil on his green and white surcoat, charged down on him, blood covering his greatsword. Eddard blocked his overhead blow with Ice, the smoky Valyrian steel blade that he never thought he'd wield making the knight's blade spark with a clang, before forcing his opponent's blade up and slicing Ice across his face. The helm prevented it from killing him, but the blow from the ancient spellbound steel, backed by Eddard's strength, staggered him. Eddard followed up with another blow to the helmet, further disorienting the man and dropping him to his knees, right hand raised as if in surrender. The Lord of Winterfell stayed his killing blow at the sight of it, but with a gurgled cry the knight suddenly lashed out with his left hand and the dagger that filled it. Ned sidestepped the nameless warrior's blade and brought his own down at the neck, ending that trickery for good.

Beside him Greatjon Umber boomed out a laugh, slamming his shoulder into a man in Florent white as he tried to regain his feet. Umber hit like a battering ram, and the Reachman found himself first on his back, then quickly dying as the Greatjon slit his throat. The Lord of Last Hearth had stuck by Ned's side the entire battle, dismounting when his liege lord's Riverlander bay took a spear, slogging it out on foot with a Stark as hundreds of Umbers had done before. The Greatjon had taken turns laughing deafeningly and singing a tavern song at the top of his lungs, shouting about a whore's tits even as he plunged his blade through a footman's gut.

Other Northmen had joined him, fighting and dying with the Stark of Winterfell. On Ned's other side little Howland Reed slashed and cursed, the Crannogman wielding a small trident with unerring speed and accuracy while periodically stopping to fire darts from the blowgun he stubbornly refused to abandon. Exactly when the Lord of the Neck had appeared beside him the Lord Paramount of the North couldn't say, but the tiny man was still on his feet and still fighting when others—Lord Hornwood, Edderion Snow, both of Crowfood Umber's sons—had died fighting alongside their liege.

Aelor Targaryen's charge had hit hard and fast, the Dragon of Duskendale unleashing a level of hell Ned Stark hadn't known existed. His brother the king's charge was somewhat less splendid but no less effective, forcing the rebel forces back, more and more royalist men splashing across the ford to make war. Eddard caught glances of the King of the Iron Throne periodically, dragonwing helm distinctive, the white armor of a Kingsguard close to him. Even on a riverbank surrounded by tens of thousands of men, he could easily be distinguished.

That was why, when Robert's charge swept across the battlefield and overran whatever forward progress had been made by the loyalists in the center, Eddard knew exactly where he was going. Antlered helm every bit as distinctive as Rhaegar Targaryen's dragonwings, Robert Baratheon looked like a god among men, swinging his massive hammer like it weighed no more than wooden toy, sending dead men flying all around him.

And heading straight for Rhaegar Targaryen.

"My lord Stark!" A voice shouted, and Eddard withdrew Ice from a man's chest—he didn't even remember putting it there—as he turned to the voice. A knight of the Vale, three red forts on his surcoat, staggered up to him, gesticulating wildly towards the forest a hundred yards beyond. His left arm was hanging from his shoulder by a few stubborn ligaments and bits of skin, flopping lifelessly in a torrent of blood as he neared. "The rear!"