The Targaryen Legacy

Eddard knew Robert was dead the moment it happened, even as he blocked the blow from another Dornishman; the cry that burned through both the rebel and loyalist ranks soon after simply confirmed it.

Hoster Tully's reserve had taken the brunt of the screaming Dornish charge, most of his men cut to bloody pieces as they bought time for Eddard to turn his Northmen and counter the surprise strike. Just how the Dornish had slipped thousands of men behind them undetected was baffling, but here they were, full of vim and vigor and raising one hell of a ruckus. Eddard slung this particular Dornishman's blade aside before cutting his throat, turning as a voice called his name.

"My lord!" Another knight, this one a merman of Manderly and possessing both arms, pointed to the main battle of the ford. Valemen and Stormlanders were beginning to flee, their spirit for the fight waning as the life of their leader had, the previously broken loyalist attacking with a new vigor, a new life. A man in Kingsguard white rode a courser in their midst, directing the main force through the gap of the right where Eddard had had to pull his men from. They broke through the thin remaining forces quickly, turning and beginning to roll up the center as more and more rebels fled.

As Eddard saw it he had two options; finish the Dornish and turn to take on the weary loyalist, or quit the field. Robert is dead. Our claim is gone. Thousands of men have died for a personal disagreement between a few, and now most of those few are dead The only one remaining is me. It was all a bloody waste. A waste of tears, a waste of blood and a waste of his life.

Eddard decided enough lives had been lost.

"Greatjon!" The Umber cut his song off mid-sentence, cracking one more skull before turning to his liege. "Enough lives have been lost. Sound the retreat. You have the rear guard; hold the line until most of our force is away, then make a fighting withdrawal."

The giant plainly didn't like the whole idea of retreating. "We can win this, boy!"

"Too many have died already. Give the command."

As the horns blew, Valemen, Riverlanders, Stormlanders and Northmen all beginning to flee the field, Eddard helped solidify the Greatjon's line. Keeping the Dornish attack from turning the withdrawal into a route was easier than expected, as the loyalist men who flanked the main lines made no attempt to pursue, and the Dornish seemed to have had their fill of a fight as well, their 'attack' not nearly as fierce as it had been mere minutes before.

As the rebels to the Iron Throne fled past him, leaving thousands of their dead sprawled across the grounds behind them, Ned Stark couldn't help but feel he had failed. Failed his friend, failed his bannermen, and failed his family.

I am sorry, father. I'm sorry Brandon.

I'm sorry Lyanna.

"Your Grace."

Aelor Targaryen didn't move. He hadn't since Baratheon fell, not moving an inch as the rebel lines were finally broken.

"Your Grace."

The Dragon of Duskendale stood motionless on a slaughter field, staring down at the back of a now dead Robert Baratheon. Blood was dribbling down his armor at his hip, his once pristine black armor now crimson with blood and brown with mud. Barristan reached out a hand gently, wary of a sudden reaction, though just what Aelor would do without any weapon remained to be seen.

It turned out he had no need to worry. The second son of Aerys didn't move an inch when Barristan the Bold's hand lightly rested on his shoulder, still staring down at the body of the usurper king. Barristan felt a stab of panic, worry that the boy he thought of as son was more severely injured than the very painful but not life threatening gash on his hip. The Kingsguard disregarded his own injuries to step to the front of Aelor, looking him over with a quick eye.

When the Prince spoke his voice was quiet and hoarse. "I'm fine, Barristan."

Relief flooded Barristan the Bold, though it was tainted by the dead tone of the Lord of Duskendale's voice. "Your helm, Aelor."

The Prince finally looked up, the violet of his eyes barely visible around Aelor's dilated pupils. Barristan understood what was happening at once. He's in shock. "My what?"

Barristan took a firmer grip on the Prince's arms. "Your helm, Your Grace."

Fingers were suddenly pulling the white flame crest up and over the dragonlord's head. Alaric Langward, ever the dutiful squire, stood behind his mentor, his once youthful face now showing no trace of the boy he had been so recently, replaced by the firm eyes and jaw of a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer. "Easy, Your Grace."

Aelor finally twitched, looking as if he was waking from a dream. If he were, reality was surely a shock. The ford was clogged with the dead, the bodies thick enough in places that a man could walk across the river Trident without ever touching the water. Both riverbanks were much the same, though the bank where the rebels had waited was by far the worst. Loyalist men, the victors if a chaotic slaughter like this could have one-Barristan didn't believe it could-were already looting, a flock of bodies scoping the ford near where the King of the Iron Throne lay dead. Those men, mostly peasant farmers who normally barely had enough to eat much less any idea of wealth, were frantically searching the water for the rubies Robert's hammer had smashed from Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate, paying no attention to the body that had been their King.

Nor did they pay attention to the wounded lying all around, their screams and moans a cacophony of terrible sound around a horrible scene.

"How… how many men are left?" Aelor was looking side to side slowly, though he dutifully stopped and drank when Alaric pressed a waterskin to his lips.

"We don't know, Your Grace."

Too few, my son. Too bloody few.

Three thousand knights had charged down a wide ford with Aelor Targaryen, punching a hole that over twenty thousand soldiers had filled.

Eighty-three of them lived.

Ser Balman Byrch was found halfway under his horse on the far side of the river, a dirk through the eye of his visor. Lord Elwood Harte, the last of his dynasty, had fallen less than ten feet from him, a spear in his gut, the young man's hands wrapped around its shaft as he leaned against the belly of a dead courser. Sers Willis and Alester, two of his most veteran household knights, had died together, Alester's head in a slumping Willis' lap, the latter having bled out from his own wounds while trying to comfort his old friend. In truth none of Aelor's personal retinue seemed to have lived, men Aelor had handpicked from all over Westeros dying together for the Prince they served.

Only that Prince had survived; that Prince, a squire and a black stallion.

Warrior had found his master as Aelor stood supported by Barristan and Aelor in the middle of the ford, clopping over dead bodies carelessly as it emerged from the field of corpses. The destrier was red from muzzle to hock, the twin white warring dragons on the cloth of his chainmail blanket turned crimson. He, much like his master, was battered but still alive, nudging the Targaryen with his head as if to apologize for letting him fall off.

Aelor was glad his horse had lived. Very little else had.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, was being carried from the field by Jon Connington, the Lord of Griffin's Roost bawling uncontrollably. The red haired knight had slain Denys Arryn, heir to the Vale, in single combat on the far bank, but he looked nothing like an accomplished warrior now, face as red as his flaming hair as tears cut furrows down his grimy cheeks.

Aelor watched dry eyed. He'd recovered his senses, enough to order a maester away to more severely wounded men when he came and asked about his hip, but his body still felt numb.

As teams of men combed through the bloody carnage, healers descending to try and save any lives they could after so many had been lost, Aelor only watched, survivors clinging to each other or themselves as they tried to cope with what had just occurred. Prince Oberyn, a wound over his right eye, had ridden by for once without a word, heading for his tent and his paramour. Randyll Tarly had taken temporary command, keeping the survivors from straggling away while also organizing a guard, though the rebels had to be suffering from the same symptoms as the loyalists.

Aelor had let him. He hadn't budged from his stance beside the body of Robert Baratheon, and he wouldn't. Not until they found him .

When they finally did Aelor had required Alaric to help him move, his hip a throbbing pain that became shooting when he put nearly any weight on it, but move he had.

Lord Renfred Rykker had ended up on the far left of the ford where the water was still relatively deep, back leaning against the rebel riverbank while his waist and legs were submerged in the deepening water of the river Trident. His once blue surcoat was now blood red, the broken lance in his left shoulder embedded deeply. A sword was shoved in his side, under his ribs, though his hands still clutched his warhammer, refusing to surrender the weapon that adorned his family banner.

Aelor knew before he even reached his old friend that there was nothing the maesters would be able to do.

The Prince dropped beside his childhood companion's side, the cold water soothing his hip even as the scene before him tore apart his heart, taking the Lord of Hollard Hall's hand in his own. Renfred's full black beard was speckled with blood, twin trickles of it trailing down from the corners of his mouth. His breathing was labored, chest rising and falling heavily, its rattling sound giving away the blood slowly filling his lungs.

Aelor shook his head. "Dammit, Ren."

The big man turned his head to look at his best friend, despite the pain doing so obviously caused him. It took him several moments to speak, and when he did his voice was pained, though stronger than a dying man's had any right to be. "Did we win?"

"Yes friend. We won."

"Baratheon?"

"Dead."

Rykker nodded. "Good."

Aelor felt the burn of tears in his eyes, though he didn't let them fall. "I'm sorry, Ren."

Even when dying Rykker managed to raise an eyebrow in bemusement. "For what?"

"This. All of it."

The Lord of Hollard Hall shook his head. "This isn't your fault, Aelor. All men must die; now it's my turn."

Aelor swallowed, fighting to keep his composure. "I'll care for Malessa and the babe. Anything they ever want they'll have."

Rykker's eyes stared into his liege lord's, bloody lips smirking. Only Ren could grin as he dies. "Hell, I know that." The smirk became pained, a round of great bloody coughs wracking Renfred's body as his eyes shut tightly before opening again once the coughing fit passed. Rykker released Aelor's hand, shakily trying to grab his liege lord's wrist. Aelor obliged him.

Renfred Rykker looked into his childhood friend's face one last time. "Strong shield."

All of Duskendale was lodged in Aelor's throat as he squeezed Renfred's wrist tightly. "Stronger sword."

He smiled a bloody grin. "You're damn right." His body convulsed once, twice, three times, and then the life faded from Renfred Rykker's eyes.

Aelor Targaryen wept.