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

Chapter 20

Robert Baratheon was dead.

Eddard sat a black gelding—his third horse of the day—watching the crumbling lines of Stormlanders and Valemen. The victory that had seemed certain mere minutes ago was slipping from their hands like sand, and Ned did not have to listen to the war cries and shouts all around to know why.

This battle had at its core relied on the welfare of three men: Rhaegar Targaryen, his brother Aelor, and Robert. Barring a complete rout of a flank or a betrayal, the Battle of the Trident—and for that matter the entire war, now that Aerys was dead—hinged on what befell the three men leading it.

The Old Gods had chosen, it seemed. Though I think the men involved played a part as well.

As Ned commanded the defense against the Dornish, reports and cries kept him aware of what was happening in the ford. At first is had been elation, for Rhaegar was dead at the hands of Robert. Then it had been word of a royalist rally, and claims that Aelor was still on his feet and trying to avenge his brother. Shortly after that, a runner— and the confused, disorganized flight of men in rebellion colors—informed Eddard that the Dragon of Duskendale had succeeded.

A Dornishman, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, appeared from the corpses around him to thrust a spear at Eddard's face. The Lord of the North knocked it aside with Ice, then chopped down on his collarbone, shearing through it and ribs and organs, killing him at once. The thousands of Dornish in the rear had in truth been a few hundred, though Ned knew the chaos they had wrought was to blame for the false report. Whatever their numbers they had proven devastating, their lethality doubled by their timing; the Dornish had caught Lord Tully and the rear guard just as they'd gone to reinforce the right of the line, which hadn't gained much ground during Robert's counterattack.

The Dornish cut down scores before the Rivermen even knew they were there, instilling a panic that only Eddard's own arrival had stopped. His northmen had blunted the attack and, after much blood, were finally turning it back, sending the attackers back into the trees, save for a few dozen stubbornly fighting on despite the increasing number of enemies.

Chief among those was Ser Arthur Dayne, whose rumored presence proved true. You could track where the Sword of the Morning had been by the lines of corpses, cut down like wheat before a scythe. Even now the Kingsguard knight—in plain mail and helm, not his usual white armor—was spinning and slashing with a sword in either hand, dropping men in a rain of bodies and blood.

Eddard had been making his way towards him when he'd gotten the news of Robert's death. Though I am no fool—were I to face him, I would end up a corpse like the others.

"My lord!" a knight called, wearing the merman of Manderly, pointing back towards the ford. The number of fleeing Valemen and Stormlanders was growing, their spirit for the fight dying with Robert. A wave of royalist, revitalized, pursued, cutting men down as they fled. A man in Kingsguard white rode a courser in their midst, shouting encouragement and direction, as did several knights and lords.

A force of knights broke through on the left, led by a man bearing the Hightower on his chest and waving a Targaryen banner in one hand and a sword in the other. They wheeled around to flank those few rebels who fought on in the center, blades swinging. More and more began to flee in response, and Ned realized the battle risked becoming a full rout.

If we can kill Aelor...but no, Eddard had no idea where the Targaryen was, and the rebel forces were breaking too quickly to find him. It is a beautiful morning. Time this bloodshed ends.

"Greatjon!" The Umber, ever at his side, stepped forward, a copper skinned head in his hand from one of the Greatjons foes. "Contain the Dornishmen as best you can. I'll form a line and hold it until most of our force is away, then make a fighting withdrawal."