The roar that tore from Robert Baratheon's throat—"RHAEGAR!"—was a sound of pure, world-ending triumph. It echoed over the dying clamor of the battle, and in its wake, a strange silence fell, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the rush of the reddened river.
I stood over Ser Barristan Selmy, my sword still raised. The great knight lay in the mud, defeated, his fate a single swing away. But my eyes were pulled to the scene in the water. Robert, standing victorious over Prince Rhaegar's body, was now buckling, clutching a grievous wound in his leg. The victory had come at a terrible cost.
The decision was instant. I lowered my sword.
"Your war is over, Ser Barristan," I said, my voice rough from smoke and shouting. I gestured to the soldiers gathering around us, their faces a mix of awe and bloodlust. "Take him. He is a prisoner of the rebellion. See that his wounds are tended."
There was no honor in killing a legend who was already beaten. As they dragged the barely-conscious Kingsguard away, I was already moving, shoving my way through the chaos toward Robert. The rebellion had just lost its figurehead and its future king in a single moment.
"Get him to the maesters! Now!" I barked, taking charge as men stood stunned around their fallen leader. "You, form a shield wall! The rest of you, with me!"
With Robert being carried from the field, a vacuum of command threatened to shatter our hard-won victory. The loyalist army was breaking, but a broken beast can still bite if not pursued. I saw the Valemen and Riverlords looking to the center, looking for direction. Their eyes turned to me. I was the one who had held the line.
"Re-form the ranks!" I shouted, my voice carrying across the ford. "The day is ours, but the work is not done! Push forward!"
We moved with a grim, final purpose. The pursuit was brutal and efficient. We captured lords, knights, and common soldiers alike, shattering the last remnants of the Targaryen host. The Battle of the Trident was over. The rebellion had won.
Later, as the sun began to set on the carnage, I found Lords Arryn and Tully. The formal command was theirs to take. As I relayed the situation, the soldiers nearby—men from the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands—began to chant, their voices raw but united. They gave me a new name, forged in the fire of the ford: "The Champion of the Trident!"
The title settled on my shoulders, as heavy as my armor.
Finally, I retreated to my tent. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only a deep, bone-gnawing exhaustion. My subordinates, Claw and Colt, helped me remove my battered, blood-soaked plate.
"A Septa will come to see to your wound, ser," Colt said, looking at the gash on my side.
I nodded, barely hearing him. My mind was elsewhere. "Stormwind," I said, a sudden spike of fear cutting through the fatigue. "I haven't seen him. Colt, Claw, go find him. He's out there somewhere."
The moment they left, the silence of the tent felt oppressive. And then I felt it—a presence that shouldn't be there.
"You can come out now," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Or I will find a less pleasant way to encourage you."
A small figure shuffled out from the darkness beneath my cot. A child, no more than eight namedays old. He said nothing, his eyes wide and vacant. He simply held out a sealed piece of parchment.
I took it, broke the seal, and read the elegant script within. A cold understanding washed over me.
"Hm," I murmured, looking down at the silent boy. "So, if I am correct, you are one of the little birds of Varys the Spider?"
The boy gave a single, slow nod, his lips curling into a smile that was utterly devoid of warmth—a creepy, practiced gesture that didn't reach his empty eyes.