Chapter 22: End of the War
Eddard Stark
Steel rang against steel, and blood sang its crimson song across the Trident's muddy banks. Eddard Stark moved through the melee like a man possessed, Sword carving through enemy ranks . Each swing of his longsword sent another loyalist knight to the Seven Hells, their blood mixing with the churned earth beneath his boots.
The Silent Wolf had found his voice at last, and it spoke only in the language of death.
Before him stood Ser Jonothor Darry, white cloak stained crimson, his sword dancing in deadly arcs. The Kingsguard knight was everything the songs claimed swift as summer lightning, graceful as a dancer, deadly as winter's bite. But Ned's rage burned hotter than dragonsfire, fed by memories of his father and Brandon.
"Your king is mad," Ned snarled, pressing forward with a savage thrust. "And madness runs in Targaryen blood."
"My king is my king," Darry replied, parrying with practiced ease. "Until death takes me or him."
Steel kissed steel again and again, each impact sending tremors up Ned's arms. Darry was good perhaps better than good. But right now rage ran hot in Ned's veins, and grief had sharpened his blade keener than any whetstone.
Darry lunged, seeking Ned's heart. The young lord twisted aside, letting Iongsword sweep low, catching the knight behind the knee. Darry stumbled, his guard dropping for just a heartbeat but a heartbeat was all the Silent Wolf needed.
A sword hit him in the throat, quick and clean. Ser Jonothor Darry fell without a sound, his white cloak spreading beneath him like snow touched with blood.
Ned stepped over the corpse and pressed on. More enemies awaited, and the wolf pack was not yet sated.
The battle raged around him Northern spears piercing loyalist shields, rivermen cutting down fleeing cavalry, the thunder of Robert's warhammer somewhere in the press. Then came the sound he'd been waiting for: a great roar from the center of the field, voices lifted in triumph.
"The dragon is dead! Prince Rhaegar is dead!"
Ned cut his way through the thinning ranks, Jeor Mormont at his shoulder, both men carving a bloody path toward the cheering. There, in a circle of awed soldiers, stood Robert Baratheon. The Demon of the Trident leaned heavily on his hammer, breathing hard, his antlered helm dented and blood-spattered. At his feet lay Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, his magnificent armor caved in where Robert's hammer had found his heart.
The silver prince who had stolen Lyanna was silver no more. He was only meat and bone and spilled blood now, like any other dead man.
"Finally," Ned whispered, though whether it was relief or grief he felt, he could not say.
The enemy began throwing down their weapons. Some ran for the river, others knelt in surrender. Victory horns sounded across the field as the dragon's banners came down and the crowned stag rose in their place.
Jon Arryn approached, his blue eyes bright with triumph despite the blood on his blade. "We've won, Ned."
Robert nodded, still staring down at his fallen enemy. "Aye," he rumbled. "Finally put that silver-haired bastard in the ground where he belongs."
But Lord Arryn's expression had grown grave. "The right flank hasn't ceased fighting. From what my scouts report, it's a slaughter they're not taking prisoners, not hearing surrender. Most of our men there are dead or dying, but those who remain..." He shook his head. "They fight like madmen."
Cold dread settled in Ned's stomach. Artos was with the right flank. His younger brother, barely a man grown, fighting alongside the mountain clans and the Umbers. "I'll go to them," he said, already turning toward his horse. "I'll make them stop."
"Take men with you," Arryn called after him. "If they won't listen to reason..."
But Ned was already riding hard toward the sound of distant battle, Jeor Mormont and half a dozen Northern lords racing after him.
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What they found was closer to a charnel house than a battlefield.
Bodies lay heaped like cordwood, loyalist and rebel alike, though the dragon's men had gotten the worst of it. The survivors and there were precious few moved through the carnage like men in a fever dream, cutting down any who still breathed, deaf to calls for quarter.
"Old god's mercy," Jeor breathed. "They've gone mad with it."
Even Roose Bolton, cold as ice and twice as pitiless, seemed shaken by what he saw. "This is not war," the Lord of the Dreadfort said quietly. "This is butchery."
Ned spurred his horse forward, seeking out the familiar face of Stig, one of his brother Second. The man's armor was dented and bloodied, his sword red to the hilt, but his eyes still held a flicker of sanity.
"Stig!" Ned called. "The war is won! Prince Rhaegar is dead! Call them back!"
Stig looked up at him with hollow eyes. "You think I haven't tried, They won't hear it. Won't hear anything but the blood singing in their ears. Commander said no mercy, no surrender and they took it to heart, they did. Only voice they'll heed now is his."
"Where is he?" Ned demanded, though his heart already knew the answer. "Where's Artos?"
"Rode off that way," Stig pointed with his bloody blade. "Said men were dying. Haven't seen him since."
Ned's blood ran cold. He wheeled his horse toward where Stig pointed, the other lords following. They found more carnage, more madness, and then
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Ser Barristan Selmy
The boy was stubborn as a mule and twice as foolhardy.
Barristan had to admit a grudging respect for young Artos Stark. The lad had no business lasting this long against Barristan the Bold he is strong and a genius swordman experienced in some battles but he is still green compare to him. But what he lacked in experience, he made up for in cunning and sheer, bloody-minded determination.
The boy fought dirty. He'd thrown dirt in Barristan's eyes, used fallen men as shields, even tried to tangle the knight's feet with a dying soldier's entrails. Each trick bought him precious seconds, though it could not buy him victory.
Blood seeped from a dozen wounds on the young Stark's body. His right arm hung useless only throwing daggers time to time, his breath came in ragged gasps, and still he fought on. Not to win they both knew that was impossible but to buy time. Time for his men to kill the tired me, perhaps, or simply time to die on his feet like a wolf should.
"You fight well, boy," Barristan said, genuine admiration in his voice. "Your father would be proud."
Artos
"My father is dead," Artos snarled, circling like the wolf he was. "Burned alive by your mad king."
He had one dagger left. Hidden , waiting for the right moment. A desperate gamble, but then, desperate men made the most dangerous foes. He is going die anyways , I will try to kill him before dying. He deliberately open a gap
Barristan pressed his attack, targeting the boy's current sword arm. Young Stark's sword clattered to the ground, and the knight moved in for the killing stroke"
"The war is over!" a voice rang out across the field. "Rhaegar is dead! Stop this madness!"
Eddard Stark sat his horse at the edge of the carnage, A sword naked in his hands, his grey eyes blazing with fury and fear in equal measure.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze. Then Artos moved, his hidden dagger flashing up to catch Barristan's descending blade. The boy was fast, but Barristan was faster his sword turned, opening a small gash along the young wolf's ribs instead of piercing his heart.
Artos stumbled back, breathing hard, blood streaming down his side. "Right on time, brother," he gasped. "Another heartbeat and I'd have killed us both." Artos is able to speak barely. Words breaking in between. This is the first time Artos thought he is a dead men.
Barristan straightened, his sword suddenly feeling heavy as stone in his hands. Rhaegar dead? The silver prince with his dreams of prophecy, dead on the Trident's bloody banks?
The knight let his blade fall. What point was there in fighting now? His king was dead, his cause lost. He was foresworn, no matter what he did.
Ned dismounted and gathered his brother into his arms, careful of his wounds. "You bloody fool," he said, though his voice was thick with relief. "What were you thinking, facing Barristan the Bold alone?"
"Wasn't alone," Artos protested weakly. "Had Ice with me . Good old Valyriyan steel. Speaking of which" He nodded toward where Ice lay in the mud. "Might want to pick it up from this rubble."
"Maesters," Ned called sharply. "Now!"
"The battle first," Jeor Mormont reminded him. "The men still won't stop."
Ned's jaw tightened, but Artos pushed himself upright. "He's right. They're my men my responsibility." He whistled, sharp and clear.
Artos in the meantime goes towards GreatJon who is standing above the body of his dead uncle.
Artos " He was a good man. Cared for us. Tried to protect us from Lord Rogar anger when we go to Fight with wildlings without permission."
GreatJon nodded " He died fighting for the Starks. It's a honourable cause. Old God's would be welcoming." Artos wanted to talk more but he had a war to stop.
Snow appeared through the carnage. The Greatjon helped boost him into the saddle, though every movement sent fresh blood flowing from his wounds.
Artos rode among his men, his voice carrying across the field despite his weakness. "Stand down! The war is won! Take their surrender!"
Slowly, gradually, the madness began to fade from Northern eyes. Weapons were lowered. The killing stopped.
Artos found Bert last of all, the big man. He was just a boy when twins started following him due to order of his father and Brandon.
"I'm sorry, Bert," Artos said, dismounting carefully. He pulled the grieving giant into an embrace. "Hal was a good man. The best of men."
"Should've been me," Bert choked out. "Should've been me that died, not him. He had more to live for."
"No," Artos said firmly. "He died doing his duty. There's honor in that. More honor than most men ever find." He pulled back, studying Bert's face. "But you're alive, and that means you have work still to do. Live for him, Bert. Live the life he'd want you to live."
Bert nodded slowly, then Artos asked, "Did we get them? The men who killed him?"
"Every last one," Bert promised.
He smiled then, or tried to. "Good wor..."
But the words never came. The young wolf collapsed, blood loss and exhaustion finally claiming their due. The Battle of the Trident was won, but for Artos Stark, the fighting was done.
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*The realm was Robert's now, but the price of victory lay written in blood across the Trident's banks. In time, the songs would speak only of glory and triumph. But those who had been there would remember the true cost and the madness that lived in the heart of every man, waiting for war to set it free.*
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