The Green Fork of the Trident
The river was swollen, a churning mass of grey-green water that separated the past from the future.
On the north bank stood the Rebel host. Forty thousand men, a wall of shields and spears stretching as far as the eye could see. The Starks, the Arryns, the Tullys, and the Baratheons.
On the south bank stood the Royalists. They were slightly more numerous, their armor cleaner, their banners brighter. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped in the wind, flanked by the sun of Martell and the griffins, seahorses, and badgers of the Crownlands.
Ned Stark sat on his black destrier in the vanguard of the left flank. The air smelled of wet grass and imminent violence.
"They're coming," the Greatjon rumbled beside him, gripping the haft of a massive axe. "Look at them. Preening like peacocks."
"Let them preen," Ned said, his voice calm. "Peacocks can't swim in armor."
In the center of the Royalist line, a horn blew. It was a clear, high note that cut through the morning mist.
The water exploded as thousands of horses plunged into the ford.
The battle didn't start with a roar; it started with a splash. Then a thousand splashes. Then a scream.
The Royalist vanguard hit the Rebel shield wall in the middle of the stream. The impact was felt through the ground itself. Men went down, trampled into the mud. The river instantly turned a frothy pink.
"HOLD!" Ned shouted, his voice amplified by a subtle push of the Force. "SHIELDS UP!"
On the rebel left, the attack was led by the Dornish.
Prince Lewyn Martell brought ten thousand spears across the water. They moved differently than the Crownlands knights—faster, lighter. They didn't smash into the shield wall; they flowed around it, looking for gaps.
"They're flanking us!" Lord Corbray shouted, his voice shrill with panic.
A Dornish spear took Corbray in the shoulder, punching through his pauldron. The Lord of Heart's Home cried out and fell back, his line wavering.
If the flank broke, the rebel army would be rolled up like a carpet.
Ned saw the danger. He saw the morale breaking.
But before Ned could move, a figure burst from the ranks of the Valemen. It was Lyn Corbray, the Lord's younger son. He snatched up his father's sword—Lady Forlorn, a blade of Valyrian steel as dark as smoke.
"VALE!" Lyn screamed, his face twisted in a mask of fury.
He charged the Dornish line alone.
It was madness. It was glorious.
Lady Forlorn cut through spear shafts like straw. Lyn fought with a desperate, suicidal bravery that rallied the men around him. He carved a path straight to Lewyn Martell. The Kingsguard prince, already wounded, couldn't match the ferocity of the younger man.
Ned watched as Lyn drove the Valyrian steel through Martell's chest. The Dornish command crumbled.
"The flank holds," Ned breathed, turning his attention back to the center.
The center was a meat grinder.
Robert Baratheon was there, a giant in antlered armor, swinging his hammer with a rhythm that was terrifying to behold. Smash. Step. Smash. Step.
But cutting a path toward him was a legend.
Ser Barristan Selmy. Barristan the Bold.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard moved through the rebel ranks like a scythe through wheat. He wasn't using a greatsword or a hammer; he was using a simple longsword, but in his hands, it was a brush painting death.
He cut down two of Robert's personal guard in the span of a heartbeat. He disarmed a Karstark captain and kicked him into the river to drown. He was unstoppable.
Ned saw him. He saw the white cloak stained with mud and blood.
He knew he should let the archers handle it. He knew he should send the Greatjon.
But in his head a warning flashed. The Long Night is coming. You need heroes. You need the best swords.
"Greatjon!" Ned barked. "Hold the line! I have the White Cloak!"
"He'll gut you, Stark!" the Greatjon roared, chopping a man in half.
"Watch me," Ned said.
He spurred his horse into the chaotic waters of the center. He didn't charge blindly. He let the Force guide him, weaving through the melee, deflecting stray arrows with casual flicks of his sword.
He reached Selmy just as the old knight was about to finish off a Mallister squire.
Clang.
Ned's sword intercepted Barristan's blade. The impact jarred Ned's arm to the shoulder.
Barristan turned, his blue eyes cold and focused behind his visor. "Stark," he noted, not breathless, not tired. "You're far from your frozen waste."
"And you're on the wrong side of history, Ser Barristan," Ned replied, circling his horse.
"I am on the side of my vows," Barristan said.
He attacked.
It was the fastest strike Ned had ever seen. No telegraph. No wind-up. Just a blur of steel aiming for Ned's neck.
Ned didn't block it; he couldn't. He ducked, the blade passing millimeters over his helm. He dropped from his saddle, splashing into the knee-deep water, and swept his leg out.
It was a dirty move. A brawler's move.
Barristan's horse shied, but the knight stayed mounted, bringing his sword down in a chop that would have split Ned in two.
Ned rolled. The water cushioned him. He came up dripping, mud on his face.
"Get down here," Ned challenged.
Barristan dismounted with fluid grace. He stood in the river, water rushing around his greaves.
"As you wish."
They fought.
It wasn't like the fight with Connington. Connington was good; Barristan was perfect. every feint Ned threw, Barristan saw. Every opening Ned left, Barristan exploited.
Ned had to tap into the Force constantly just to stay alive. He used Force Sense to predict the strikes, Force Speed to parry them, and Force Strength to match his power.
To the soldiers watching, it was a blur. Two masters dancing in the river.
He's too good, Ned realized. I can't beat him with skill alone. I have to cheat.
Barristan lunged, a classic thrust.
Ned didn't parry. He stepped into the blade.
He twisted his body so the sword slid between his arm and his ribs, slicing the leather of his jerkin but missing the flesh. He trapped Barristan's sword arm with his own left arm.
Barristan's eyes widened.
Ned dropped his own sword. He clenched his right fist.
He didn't punch Barristan in the face—that would kill him. He punched him in the solar plexus, right through the plate armor.
The kinetic impact was like a cannonball. The steel breastplate dented inward. The air left Barristan's lungs in a Whoosh.
The Bold Knight folded. His eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed into the water, unconscious.
Ned grabbed him by the gorget before he could drown, hauling his head above the surface.
"Jory!" Ned shouted, gasping for breath. "Jory! Get him! Bind him! If he dies, I'll have your hide!"
Jory Cassel and two guards scrambled over, dragging the unconscious Kingsguard to the bank.
Ned retrieved his sword. His hands were shaking. That had been close. Too close.
But he had saved him. The Sword of the Morning's rival was alive.
---
A roar tore across the battlefield. It drowned out the screams, the clash of steel, and the rushing water.
Ned turned.
In the center of the ford, the battle had stopped. Men were backing away, creating a circle of blood-churned water.
Inside the circle were two gods.
Robert Baratheon, his antlered helm battered, his shield gone, wielding his warhammer with two hands.
Rhaegar Targaryen, in black armor that looked like night itself, the ruby dragon on his chest blazing in the sun.
They circled each other.
"Died in the water," Ned whispered.
Rhaegar was faster. He rode his horse like a centaur, his longsword flashing out, stinging Robert. A cut to the arm. A slash to the thigh.
Robert didn't care. He was a berserker. He ignored the wounds, laughing through the blood.
"COME HERE!" Robert bellowed. "FACE ME!"
Rhaegar lunged. His sword found a gap in Robert's armor, piercing his side. It was a grievous wound. A killing wound for a lesser man.
Robert didn't fall. He grunted, grabbing the blade of Rhaegar's sword with his armored hand.
He yanked.
Rhaegar was pulled off balance. His horse stumbled on the loose stones of the riverbed.
It was the moment history held its breath.
Robert stood in his stirrups. He raised the hammer. The muscles in his back bunched like iron cables.
"FOR LYANNA!"
The hammer came down.
It hit Rhaegar in the chest.
The sound was hideous. Metal collapsing. Bone shattering.
The ruby dragon exploded.
Hundreds of red gems shattered, flying into the air like a spray of frozen blood. They sparkled in the sunlight for a split second before raining down into the rushing water.
Rhaegar fell backward. He hit the water with a splash that seemed final.
Robert slumped in his saddle, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at the body floating in the stream.
"I killed him," Robert wheezed. "I killed the dragon."
The death of Rhaegar was the death of the army.
The Royalists saw their prince fall. They saw the rubies float away. And they broke.
It started as a waver, then a retreat, then a full-blown rout. Men threw down their spears and ran. They ran south desperate to put distance between themselves and the Demon of the Trident.
"After them!" Hoster Tully shouted. "Run them down!"
The rebel cavalry surged forward, chasing the broken remnants of the Targaryen dynasty.
Ned didn't join the chase. He walked his horse through the red water to where Robert sat.
Robert looked up. His eyes were glassy with pain and adrenaline.
"Ned," Robert said, his voice a ghost of its usual boom. "Did you see? I smashed him."
"I saw, Robert," Ned said softly. "It's done."
Robert looked down at Rhaegar's body. The current was tugging at the Prince's black armor, trying to wash him away.
"He doesn't look like a monster," Robert muttered. "He just looks... dead."
"War makes monsters of us all," Ned said.
He looked south. The road to the capital was open. Tywin Lannister would be marching now. The Sack was coming.
"Can you ride?" Ned asked.
"I can ride to hell and back," Robert swore, trying to straighten up and failing. He hissed in pain. "Maybe... maybe just to the bank."
"Get him to a maester," Ned ordered the Greatjon. "I'm taking the van. We march for King's Landing. after some rest."
"You're not staying?" Robert asked, clutching his side.
"Tywin Lannister will be on the move," Ned said grimly. "I have to get there before he does. I have to stop the slaughter."
He spurred his horse out of the water, leaving the rubies behind.
The Battle of the Trident was won. But the war for the soul of the realm was just beginning.