Chapter 13: The Dragon Falls, The Serpent Coils Tighter
The Battle of the Trident had reached its savage crescendo, a maelstrom of violence and desperation swirling around the two figures at its heart. Robert Baratheon, the embodiment of righteous fury, and Rhaegar Targaryen, the enigmatic dragon prince, were locked in a duel that would echo through the annals of Westerosi history. From his vantage point, slightly elevated and surrounded by his Stark household guard, Voldedort watched with an unnerving, predatory focus, Eddard's grey eyes missing no detail of the brutal ballet.
The air thrummed with a strange energy, a convergence of fate and ferocity. Robert's warhammer, already battered and bloodied, rose and fell like a demonic piston, each blow aimed with the force of a personal vendetta. Rhaegar, his black armour gleaming with sweat and his own blood where rubies had been torn from his breastplate, fought with a desperate, poetic grace, his Valyrian steel longsword a flickering ribbon of silver. He was clearly the more skilled swordsman, his movements fluid and precise, but Robert's sheer brute strength, his relentless aggression, and the incredible reach and impact of his hammer were overwhelming.
Eddard's persona felt a knot of conflicting emotions: a fierce desire for Robert to prevail, for Lyanna's sake, for the sake of their shared rebellion; a grudging respect for Rhaegar's courage in the face of such a berserker onslaught; and a profound sorrow for the tragedy that had brought them all to this bloody pass. Voldemort, however, processed the scene with cold, tactical precision. Rhaegar's skill was undeniable, but Robert's raw, untamed power, fueled by an almost insane grief, was a force of nature that defied conventional swordsmanship. The outcome, Voldemort had foreseen through the chaotic whispers of his greensight, was inevitable.
The Targaryen prince was tiring. His elegant parries became more desperate, his footwork less certain. Robert, though also breathing heavily, seemed to draw strength from his very rage, his blows growing wilder but no less powerful. A devastating swing of the hammer caught Rhaegar on the shield arm, drawing a pained grunt and sending splinters of wood and steel flying. Another blow glanced off his helm, staggering him.
Then came the moment that would be sung of for generations. Robert, with a deafening roar that seemed to tear from his very soul, brought his warhammer down in a two-handed, cataclysmic arc. Rhaegar, attempting a last-second evasion, was too slow. The hammer struck him square in the chest, where his ruby-encrusted dragon sigil had once blazed. There was a sickening crunch of breaking bone and shattering plate. The remaining rubies on Rhaegar's breastplate exploded outwards like drops of blood, scattering across the muddy, blood-soaked ground of the ford.
Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, stumbled back, his sword clattering from his grasp. A single, crimson stain blossomed on the black of his armor. He looked up, his violet eyes wide with shock, perhaps a dawning understanding of a prophecy unfulfilled or a destiny tragically altered. Then, he crumpled, falling backwards into the churning, blood-stained waters of the Trident. The last dragon prince was dead.
A profound, almost deafening silence fell over the immediate vicinity of the duel, a momentary vacuum in the surrounding cacophony of battle. Then, Robert Baratheon threw back his head and let out a sound that was half triumphant roar, half howl of unbearable grief. It was the cry of a man who had achieved his vengeance, only to find it hollow.
The effect on the Targaryen army was instantaneous and catastrophic. Their prince, their charismatic leader, their symbol of hope, was slain before their very eyes. A collective groan of despair rose from their ranks. Those loyalist formations that were still holding, inspired by Rhaegar's presence, now wavered, then broke. The will to fight seemed to drain from them like blood from a mortal wound.
"NOW!" Voldedort's voice, cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, cut through the momentary lull. "NORTHMEN! STORM THE FORD! BREAK THEM UTTERLY! NO RESPITE! NO RETREAT!" He had anticipated this moment, the psychological shattering of the enemy. This was the time for absolute, merciless exploitation.
The Northern host, which had been pressing the Targaryen lines relentlessly, surged forward with renewed ferocity. The Greatjon Umber, his axe dripping, led his berserkers into the disorganized loyalist ranks, carving a bloody path. Rickard Karstark and his spearmen advanced like a wall of doom. Ser Rodrik Cassel, rallying the Manderly knights and Stark household guard, pushed deep into the enemy's collapsing center.
The Targaryen army, deprived of its leader and attacked from multiple directions, dissolved into a fleeing, panicked mob. Discipline vanished. Formations disintegrated. It was no longer a battle; it was a slaughter.
Voldedort watched the rout with grim satisfaction. Eddard's persona felt the familiar sickness that accompanied such carnage, the pity for the terrified men being cut down as they fled. Voldemort, however, saw only the efficient dismantling of an enemy force. He noted with approval how effectively Howland Reed's crannogmen, emerging from the reeds along the riverbank, harried the fleeing loyalists, their poisoned darts and nets adding to the chaos and ensuring few escaped the immediate vicinity of the ford.
His gaze, however, was drawn back to Rhaegar's body, lying half-submerged in the shallows. He felt a strange pull, not of sentiment, but of… magical curiosity. Rhaegar had been deeply invested in prophecy. Had his death released any particular energy? Were there any signs, any omens? He extended his senses, probing the ambient magical currents. There was a profound sense of an ending, a destiny violently concluded, but nothing overt, no spectral emanations or divine interventions. Perhaps the prophecies were more subtle, their fulfillment less dramatic than the songs would later claim. Or perhaps, Voldemort mused, true power lay not in fulfilling prophecies, but in writing them.
Robert Baratheon, his fury spent, now stood over Rhaegar's body, his massive frame trembling, his warhammer hanging limply in his hand. The triumph was draining from him, replaced by a vast, empty sorrow. Eddard Stark would have gone to his friend, offered comfort. Voldedort knew this was a critical moment to manage Robert's volatile emotions.
He dismounted and strode through the shallows towards Robert, his expression carefully composed into one of grave sympathy and shared victory. "Robert," he said quietly, placing a hand on his friend's trembling arm. "He is dead. Lyanna… is avenged."
Robert looked at him, his eyes haunted. "He's dead, Ned. I killed him. But… it doesn't bring her back, does it?" The raw grief in his voice was palpable.
"No, Robert," Voldedort said, Eddard's voice soft with a sorrow he did not truly feel but could perfectly emulate. "It doesn't. But his tyranny, the cause of so much suffering, ends here, with him. You have saved the Seven Kingdoms from his father's madness, from the continuation of their line." He subtly shifted the focus from personal vengeance to the greater cause, a narrative more conducive to stable leadership.
Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully, their faces grimed with battle but alight with the realization of their monumental victory, soon joined them. The Blackfish was at their side, his expression one of weary satisfaction.
"The day is ours, my lords," Jon Arryn said, his voice heavy with emotion and exhaustion. "Rhaegar has fallen. The Targaryen host is broken beyond repair."
"A great victory," Hoster Tully rasped, leaning heavily on his cane. "A bloody one. But a victory nonetheless."
Voldedort nodded. "The pursuit must be relentless. We cannot allow them to rally. Ser Brynden, take command of the Tully light horse and what remains of Robert's cavalry. Harry their retreat. Take prisoners, especially any high-ranking lords or knights. The rest… let them scatter, carrying tales of their defeat." He needed to ensure the Targaryen military power was not just defeated, but annihilated in this region.
The Blackfish, with a curt nod, went to execute the orders. The sounds of pursuit and sporadic fighting continued further downriver for some time.
The grim task of battlefield clearance began. Voldedort, outwardly the responsible commander, oversaw the collection of the rebel wounded, their cries and groans a constant, harrowing chorus. He ordered his own Northmen to assist the maesters and healers, ensuring their own were given priority but that captured loyalist wounded also received some measure of care – again, a calculated display of "honor" that would serve him well in the long run.
He personally walked among his Northern casualties, Eddard's face a mask of sorrow and respect. He knelt beside dying Northmen, offering words of comfort that were hollow echoes of Eddard's true empathy. He spoke to the survivors, praising their courage, acknowledging their losses. These gestures, though born of cold calculation on Voldemort's part, were received with genuine gratitude and further solidified their unwavering loyalty to their Lord Stark. They saw a leader who shared their burdens, who honored their sacrifices. They did not see the ancient, alien mind that viewed them as mere pawns.
The number of dead on both sides was staggering. The Ruby Ford was choked with corpses, the waters of the Trident literally running red for leagues downstream. Mass graves would need to be dug, a monumental, grim task. Voldedort assigned his least reliable Riverland allies, those who had joined late or shown little stomach for the actual fighting, to this unenviable duty, a subtle reminder of their lesser status and a way to keep them occupied.
He ensured that Rhaegar Targaryen's body was recovered with a certain degree of ceremony. The Prince's ornate armor was stripped – Voldedort claimed the battered, ruby-less breastplate for himself, a potent symbol, though he would never wear it. He was more interested in any personal effects Rhaegar might have carried: scrolls, journals, amulets. He ordered a thorough search of Rhaegar's pavilions, which had been overrun in the final stages of the battle. Perhaps there, he might find clues to the prophecies the prince had pursued, information about the "three heads of the dragon," or even insights into Valyrian magic.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, ever practical, approached him. "My lord, the spoils are immense. Weapons, armor, coin, horses… and many high-value prisoners. What are your orders for them?"
"Secure the prisoners of rank," Voldedort commanded. "Lord Tarly is already on his way north. Any other Reach lords or prominent Crownlands commanders are to be treated similarly. We will decide their fates later. As for the spoils… a tenth to the gods, old and new," he said, a nod to tradition that would please both his Northmen and his southern allies. "The rest to be divided amongst the men and the allied lords according to their contribution and losses. Ensure the distribution is fair, Ser Rodrik. We need no grumbling amongst allies."
He knew that wealth, properly distributed, could bind men to him as surely as oaths or fear.
In the aftermath of the battle, as the sun began to set, casting long, mournful shadows over the carnage, the principal rebel leaders gathered again in Jon Arryn's tent. The mood was one of stunned, weary triumph.
Robert Baratheon was subdued, his earlier manic energy replaced by a brooding quiet. Rhaegar's death had clearly not brought him the peace he craved. Jon Arryn looked older, the weight of their victory and its cost heavy upon him. Hoster Tully was already discussing the political ramifications, the need to secure King's Landing quickly.
"With Rhaegar dead and his army shattered, Aerys has no significant field force left to oppose us," Jon Arryn stated, his voice tired but firm. "The path to King's Landing is open."
"We must march immediately," Hoster Tully urged. "Before Aerys can rally any remaining loyalists, or before Tywin Lannister decides to intervene on his own terms." The Lord of Casterly Rock, who had remained pointedly neutral throughout the conflict, was a significant unknown factor.
Voldedort listened, his mind already several steps ahead. Tywin Lannister. A cold, calculating man, much like himself in some ways. His greensight had offered him fleeting, ambiguous visions of lions and stags, sometimes in conflict, sometimes in uneasy alliance. Lannister would not act out of loyalty to anyone but himself. He would throw his weight behind the winning side, at the moment it best served his interests.
"Lord Tully is right," Voldedort said, his voice calm and authoritative. "We must not give Aerys time to breathe. But we must also be wary. King's Landing is heavily fortified. And Aerys, in his madness, is capable of anything. We have heard the whispers of his obsession with wildfire." His greensight had shown him those cellars filled with green flame with chilling clarity.
"Wildfire?" Robert growled, his eyes flashing with renewed anger. "If that madman thinks he can burn us all, he'll find my hammer at his gates first!"
"Caution is warranted, Robert," Jon Arryn interjected gently. "A direct assault on King's Landing could still be immensely costly. Perhaps… terms could be offered? With Rhaegar gone, Aerys might see reason."
Voldedort suppressed a sneer. Aerys Targaryen, see reason? Unlikely. And a negotiated peace did not serve his own long-term goals. He needed the Targaryen dynasty utterly destroyed, its mystique broken, to clear the path for a new order, an order he could eventually dominate.
"Reason fled Aerys Targaryen long ago, Lord Arryn," Voldedort said, his tone respectful but firm. "He butchered my father and brother without trial. He will not surrender the throne while he still draws breath. And even if he did, what of his remaining children, Viserys and the newborn Daenerys? They would remain a rallying point for loyalists, a seed for future wars." And perhaps, he added silently, thinking of the silver-haired woman and the dragon eggs, a future threat of a different kind.
His words carried weight. The Starks had suffered most directly from Aerys's madness. Their thirst for absolute justice was understandable, even laudable, in the eyes of their allies.
"Then we march on King's Landing," Robert declared, his voice regaining some of its former strength. "And we end this. For good."
It was agreed. The rebel armies, after a brief period of rest and reorganization, would march on the capital. Scouts would be sent ahead, Tywin Lannister's movements would be closely monitored, and plans would be made for a potential siege, though all hoped it would not come to that.
As the meeting broke up, Voldedort lingered for a moment, ostensibly to study the maps. He felt the profound shift in the balance of power. The rebellion, once a desperate gamble, was now on the cusp of total victory. Eddard Stark, the quiet wolf of Winterfell, was now one of its principal heroes, his reputation forged in the blood of the Green Fork and the Trident. This reputation was a valuable asset, a cloak of honor and respectability that concealed the Dark Lord beneath.
His greensight offered him a final flurry of images for the night: the Red Keep of King's Landing, smoke rising from its towers; a golden lion, smiling a predatory smile; and then, far to the east, across the Narrow Sea, three tiny dragons hatching from stone eggs, their cries unheard by the warring lords of Westeros, but resonating with a faint, ancient magic that even Voldedort, for a fleeting moment, found unsettling.
The dragon prince was dead. But dragons, it seemed, were not entirely gone from the world. This changed things. This added a new, fascinating, and potentially dangerous variable to his calculations.
He pushed the thoughts aside. For now, King's Landing was the prize. Aerys Targaryen was the target. The Iron Throne, a symbol of ultimate power in this realm, was within reach. And he, Lord Voldemort, would ensure that whoever sat upon it, whether it be Robert Baratheon or some other puppet, would ultimately answer to the true master, the serpent coiled unseen in the heart of the rebellion. The Trident had run red. Soon, the Blackwater Rush would share its bloody fate.