I Do Not Own Skyrim Or Game Of Thrones, They belong to Bethesda Studios And George RR Martin. Only here to support their work and improve my own writing.

speech/thoughts

shouts/spells

"Violence is a precious resource. We civilized the whole world using violence. That's the history of civilization: the incremental suppression of parasitism through the organized application of violence.-Curt Doolittle

Chapter 3

"Victory Through Violence"

Westeros

283 AC

Talion awoke early the next morning, yawning, he climbed out and stretched his muscles in the dark tent. His body had healed nicely over the night and already he felt better. Talion glanced at the flap of the tent. It was still early dawn judging by the lack of noise outside. He reached into his knapsack, drank another healing potion before getting dressed and walking out of the tent. He informed the guards, two new ones on shift duty he wanted to go for a run. Their necks craned — most likely from sitting on the chairs all night. Empty Dornish wine laying on the grass. Their groggy eyes stared at him like he was crazy. How anyone had the energy for going on a morning run was beyond them, especially in the morning cold. Luckily their shift was over and the two guards from before would be following Talion on his long morning run. His ran went from one end of the camp to the other, his two guards struggled to keep up with him, one of them even at one point wanting to call the horses to follow. Talion arrived a good 45 minutes later at his tent, sweaty and awake after his good workout.

The camp surgeon arrived followed by Jon Arryn who was eager to see how he was doing. "How are you feeling?" Jon asked while the surgeon shuffled closer to the bed eager to check on the man. "Much better. I went for a run this morning, it still hurts to some degree if I put a lot of strain on it. But I feel fine."

The surgeon almost scoffed at the man's supposed bravado. It didn't matter how tough he was, almost dying wasn't something anyone could recover in 5 days. He lifted the bandages on the man's right thigh, to the old man's shock, the leg was completely healed only leaving a large scar, the broken leg had mended itself. The surgeon leaned back in his chair, his eyes starry with amazement. "I… I don't know how you did it, but your leg seems to be fully healed."

"Are you sure Thomas? It hasn't even been a week?" Jon asked incredulously, he was no healer but even he knew injuries like that that don't heal in a week much less a day.

"I do not jest about medical matters m' lord." He checked the bandages on Talion's body and found the same thing. Only scars and a nasty burn on his left shoulder in the shape of a sword. Like someone had used a sword of pure fire and sliced his arm. "If I weren't a man of science and the fact you were sitting here right in front of me. I'd bet you weren't human." He said, shaking his head in amazement.

Talion shrugged. "Guess I heal fast." Causing the man to scoff like 'yeah, I'm sure you do'. He helped remove the bandages from Talion's chest, arms and legs each time the life-threatening injury which he helped sow and clean a few days ago was now a fresh scar. He still left some bandages on the man's shoulder burn, even his miraculous healing speed couldn't heal such an intense burn. Thomas even joked that the man was burned by dragon fire. There was still a deep gash across his lower abdomen which was still bleeding. But overall the man for being unconscious for 4 days and almost dying twice looked to be in perfect health.

"So…" Talion began.

"So… what?"

"My injuries have been healed. And you said if I was healed I could fight."

Jon's eye lowered and met Thomas who had an equally amused expression, he turned back around and smiled, his smile grew into a soft laugh which grew into bellowing laugher. "You really are a strange one Talion Blackfang. Very well, I'll give you permission."

"You won't regret it," Talion assured confidently.

Jon shook his head still laughing. "You won't be winning any battles on an empty stomach. Rest now. Some training would do you some good later. Even someone like you would need some training against the full might of the Targaryen army."

Talion had to play the ignorant foreigner. Already he was gaining the attention of everyone here. Until he understood everything that was going on and who was who he had to play it safe. In truth Talion didn't need training, spending years in one of the most hardened and regimented armies ever created and fighting beings like Miraak or Alduin made him second to none. "As you command." He replied obediently.

The surgeon replaced the bandages still left on his body before promising to bring him food. Talion spent the morning doing stretches and breathing techniques to bring his Magicka back under control. Ever since arriving his Magicka reserves were in a fluctuating state of frenzy. It made sense really, Magic was not common in Westeros, it was at a low, the very act of Talion in Westeros with his vast magic reserves and Dovah soul was not normal.

A few hours later Robert Baratheon and Hoster Tully arrived with their forces just in time, for it seemed Talion would not be getting his training in.

Talion sitting cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed and hands held stiffly in his lap. He was meditating — trying to control the forces of Magicka in his body. His ears perked up at the sound of blaring warhorns. The horns sounding off, wild and urgent. Through the open tent flap, Talion could see men's boots charging through the mud and horses galloping through the camp. Men shouted In every direction. Swords clattered as they found their way to their masters.

One of the guards entered through the tent flap, he was fidgeting with the straps in his armour and trying to place on his chainmail coif. "Get on your armour." He ordered hastily.

"What's going on?" Talion asked eyes still closed, he was focused, guiding the strains of Magicka in his body which became cluttered and disorganized. Westeros had affected his Magicka system greatly, Westerosi men were not made to carry the reserves of Magicka he had. "Rhaegar Targaryen is marching upon us." Without a second word, he bolted out the tent flap and went to join his liege. The battle was here.

'Time to see what a Westerosi dragon is made of.' The Dragonborn opened his eyes, he fixed the last guiding strain and his Magicka felt clear. Like a pool of water that had been blocked now flowing clearly.

In the day that Talion had been conscious, It dawned on him just how ill-equipped he arrived in Westeros. Had he known the land was teeming on war and calamity so soon, he would have packed way more gear, hell even brought a cohort of Imperial Legionaries, battlemages and a couple of armoured Trolls as tanks. Talion certainly didn't want to go into battle unprepared, especially since his Daedric armour was shattered. And without the proper resources nor knowledge on Westeros astrology, there was no way of knowing if they had blood moons. Luckily Talion had his spare armour with him. He closed his eyes, concentrating his Magicka before he reached out into the swirling blue orb that appeared and out pulled his Striker armour — a custom set of Nightingale armour. The armour glowed grey-black in the mostly dark tent.

Wasting no time he quickly equipped his armour and fastened the necessary lacings and straps. His hands worked with haste the cape on his back and the set of throwing knives across his chest diagonally. Talion threw on his final piece of gear, the Nightingale hood, darker than night herself, swallowing any shred of skin. The swirling black eye holes were the most menacing of all, he lowered the face mask so his eyes were visible again.

Next was his weapons, he fastened his set of 80 Ebony arrows onto his back, the blackened fin-shaped fletchings poked out from behind his shoulder. He fastened the two Nightingale Gladius securely on the black leather sheaths attached to his back, another odd practice considering its impracticality and the finesse required to use it. Finally, he walked over and wrapped his hand around the freshly forged Wuuthrad. It felt good to have the famed axe of Ysgramor himself back in his possession. The carving of the screaming elf on the axe would be not painted in Elvish blood today, but man blood.

Talion stepped out the tent flap, the entire camp was up in frenzy. Squires rushing over to help their lords and knights with their armour, men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran, and knights in either half plate or full plate lumbered over towards their horses, their steel-toed boots cinched against the stirrups. Even during the chaos, a few inexperienced men-at-arms stopped and stared at the large man dressed in dark black armour. A few even had nervous glances on their faces. This was not the same limping foreigner they found a few days ago. The man stood regimented, towering over lesser men. A snarling wolf was sewn in the middle of his armour with dragon heads on each shoulder. The man gripped the massive two-handed axe with one hand and made his way towards Lord Arryn.

Jon Arryn was dressed in thin plate armour, in hand was a longsword and a kite shield on the other. Jon's eyes widened for a brief second and he even gripped his sword tighter until he remembered only one man was that tall and would look so foreign. "Ready for battle Blackfang?" He addressed the towering giant ignoring his otherworldly armour.

"As much as I can be."

"I know we didn't get a chance to train you, but I'm sure you will be fine. Just keep your head down and don't be afraid." The man said eying him like a father would his son going off to war.

"Where do you want me, m'lord?"

Arryn noticed his new addressing but said nothing of it. "We will be on the right flank." He explained. "Stark and Baratheon leading the vanguard and Tully leading the left. You'll be in the rear, so don't worry. I won't put you on the frontlines." Jon said trying to ease the worry and fear the young man would be feeling. Had he been paying close attention he would have noticed Talion was as cool as ice."Understood, I'll make my way over there." Talion bowed his head and made his way towards the other men-at-arms of House Arryn.

Jon watched the man walk towards the stationed armies. He left without a word. There was no fear in his voice, no asking of words of encouragement, no boastful claim of glory and honour. It was beginning to don on Jon the capabilities of this man. This was a man who had crafted his whole life on the battlefield. Fear was not in his vocabulary.

It took him a good 15 minutes to arrive with everyone else. Already the massive army of men gathered near the Tridents River. Talion watched as forms of archers prepared stations of arrows, pikemen formed in squares and behind them were the bulk of the army men-at-arms armed with sword, spear, axe, and levies with their poor clothing and cheap leathers and chain paled in comparison to the tenth of knights who sat proudly on their warhorses massed together like a giant steel fist, clean plate and chain mail glistening proudly in the morning sky, their war banners flapping wildly like they were just as excited as their owners.

As soon as Rhaegar and his army crossed the Trident, they would be met with the full might of 3 noble houses all eager to fight for their king Robert Baratheon.

The blaring of eardrums and foemen's war drums echoed through the field, the sounds of men marching and the hooves of horses pounding in the dewed-grass and splotches of mud near the river.

Talion was amazed at the level of readiness and discipline the armies could muster. It was no Imperial Legion but it was still an amazing sight for any man. Talion rested Wuuthrad on one shoulder and made his way down the section of Arryn men. He wasn't sure where Jon wanted him, especially since he had no specific role. He was no archer, no poor levy or men-at-arms, no knight or lord son, he was just… there. He pushed past row after row, Jon said that he wouldn't put him in the front since he expected the man was inexperienced. He watched a few men in plate mail with forgetful banners positioned near the back. Inexperienced noblemen or a poor lords son if he had to guess right. Those too afraid to enter the battle directly, he watched one of the knights, a lad no older than 17 lurching over and emptying his breakfast while another was praying and sobbing softly.

When the battle started they would linger at the edge of the battlefield away from the action, or charge in haphazardly and be killed. No matter the battle there were those too afraid to fight, those too hot-blooded to see reason and those who were bloodthirsty. Few men had the iron-will and the sense of discipline to be neither.

Talion stood in the seventh line in the front. Behind two lines of pikemen and five lines behind men-at-arms and levied farmers. Even among the large formation of troops Talion towered over all of them and stood out like a sore thumb. As Talion waited, whispers began to form around the formation, some men prayed to the Old Gods or the New, some whispered to each other, making crude jokes or boastful claims, some men were sobbing softly, trying to pep-talk themselves.

A few sobs made him turn to see a young man in poor leather jerkins carrying a chipped iron spear, his arms were lanky and skinny. A lad of 17 years with barely any facial hair. "Please Warrior, Maiden, Father, please protect me. Don't let me die today."

"Be strong kid, the gods are watching today," Talion spoke, his gruff and deep northern accent cut through the man's whimpering prayers. The boy no bigger than five and a half feet tilted his head up and noticed the imposing figure. "W-Who… What?" Was all he could muster. Sure the young man had snuck into his fair share of tourneys and seen the knights in their steel armour, many had horned helmets or coloured helms of all different colours but the man before him was nothing like them. His armour almost seem to be alive, and glowing!

"Don't be afraid." The giant said, "stand strong." He then tilted his to stare at the young lad wearing an arming cap. His swirling orbed eyeholes staring at the man with an intense gaze. "What's your name?"

"David, Ser. " The skinny boy said meekly.

Talion reached out a hand. "Nice to meet you David, my name's Talion." The young boy eyed the black-armoured man and meekly reached out his hand and shook it. Talion's massive calloused hand wrapped around the young boy's smaller hand, it felt like being grasped by solid iron. "Nice to meet you, Ser Talion."

Talion released his grip which the young boy was thankful for. Even though Talion's handshake was very light, it still felt crushing. He was sure if the man used his strength he could crush the bones in his hand.

Talion waved the young boy off. "I'm no knight, just call me Talion."

David's eyes raised, he was sure the man was a knight, maybe the third or fourth son of a lord, the way he stood, spoke and commanded himself suggest royalty and experience. Not to mention the expensive and worldly armour he wore. "Very well, Talion." He said, his lips started to quiver as stared at the open field and the river in between. He was trying his hardest not to be afraid. 'Don't be afraid David, fight hard.' His father would say. But what does his father know of war? He was a simple baker from Gulltown who's biggest accomplishment was serving pie that was used in the festivals sometimes at the Eyrie. Now he had to go off to a bloody war, a simple baker's son who had a few weeks of practice fighting straw dummies and watching knights in Tourneys. Now he was thrust neck-deep and fighting the Loyalist army of Kings Landing and against the Dragon Prince Rhaegar Targaryen himself.

"It's ok to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid." Replied David Back defiantly.

A glance from Talion that simply said "yeah right" made David lower his head. "Alright. Fine"

"Just think about what makes you happy. A girl back home, your family, your favourite baked goods. And keep that in your mind the whole way."

David closed his eyes and smiled. He remembered the smell of bread being baked in the oven, the pies his father made, and listening to his older sister who would tell him stories of famous knights. David smiled and his whitened-knuckles loosed its grip on the spear. "I see my father's bakery."

Just as Talion was about to speak again the horns and drums on the other side of the river blared loudly. The sounds of men marching unison, their boots crunching against the ground like a chorus, the sounds of hooves galloping like thunder.

"It's them." He heard an Arryn levy whisper in fear under his breath.

The army of Rhaegar advanced on the Green Fork. 40,000 strong, composed of royal Targaryen soldiers, Dornish soldiers and those Stormlands who decided to support Rhaegar. They stood in crisp formation, and in the very front his eyes could faintly make out the dark black and ruby-encrusted armour of the crown prince himself, Rhaegar Targaryen.

No word was exchanged between the two sides, not that there could have been, being so far apart, with the wind dashing against the banners violently, like it was waiting impatiently for the ensuing battle. No powerful monologue or glorious speech. This was real war, such notions were beneath them, their blades would do the talking. With the loud blaring of trumpets, Robert raised his spiked iron warhammer and his black warhorse charged down the Fork, the man's warcry booming like a wild beast, his friend Ned Stark followed close behind as well as the rest of the army.

Cheering and hollering echoed around Talion, some men gave it their all, some nervously cheered. Talion simply gripped his axe and let out a thundering Thu'um that had been built upside him for a long time. The power of the dragons. It dwarfed Roberts warcry with a resounding boom like thunder. Some men even dropped their swords in momentary fear. Talion simply charged down the fork with the rest of the men.

The battle had raged fiercely for many an hour, the clangs and clashes of steel on steel, the galloping of horse racing across the field and the screams of men dying all around. The waters and banks of the Trident ran red with blood, the gory crimson colour washed away the clear colour of the water and splashed as men smashed into each other, trying to kill whoever was in sight. It was truly a sight to behold, the history books always paint battles as magnificent and glorious, which sometimes is the case, but it often omits the messy details, the mangled bodies floating down the river, bits of flesh and limbs laying on the ground and the smell of men shitting themselves as they died all around. Those at the Trident would forever be etched with the memories of the bloodbath.

Throughout the battlefield, men were performing acts of bravery and heroism. The Kingsguard Jonothon Dory, slaying an Umber previously, now engaged in combat with Jon Arryn, Greatjon cleaving Through a handful of Dornishmen laughing like a madman as he used his size smashing through anyone, the shrewd Roose Bolton smashing through a handful of Targaryen men-at-arms with his spiked mace, the flayed man, a symbol of House Bolton carved into his armour, no doubt a frightening sight, Lewyn Martell the Prince of Dorne slicing through a handful of Tully knights with his curved sabre, and the famed Kingsguard Barristan Selmy fighting 10 men on his own, his sword danced with legendary prowess, flawlessly he executed a Baratheon knight with a counter-riposte, his white cloak dancing around the bloodied battlefield.

And through the thick of the right flank was the otherworlder himself, Talion Blackfang, hero regarded as a living god in Tamriel and the bane of dragons, the man who made the impossible possible. For it was with good reason, where a normal man would face a challenge against a single man or two at a time, a skilled knight a handful and a highly skilled warrior maybe 10 or so. Talion was carving through dozens of Dornish and Targaryen soldiers alike, smashing and carving through them like a great beast. Bards and taverns would sing no doubt about the brave acts of chivalry and honour performed on the battlefield, a pretty sight to behold. But it would be anything the case for the foes of the black-clad giant, the armies of Westeros would be no match for a man who killed dragons before breakfast. Despite his human physical appearance, at that time if one would describe the battle by historians, Talion Blackfang looked anything but human. With his large imposing frame and darkened black armour covered in sticky blood and the head of the snarling wolf sewn into the middle of the chest dripping droplets of blood; It was truly a frightening sight.

The right flank was pushing hard against the predominantly Dornish forces, trying to gain an opening but being pushed back against the furious resolve, Arryn men and soldiers of the minor houses of the Vale clashed together, though many of inexperienced and young men had all but been slain, fought on. Only one man was having luck, slowly gaining a footing, a truly amazing and frightening spectacle, behind him laid the bodies of dozens of slain Dornish and Targaryen who were foolish enough to challenge the Dragonborn in combat, he was surrounded, and yet, Talion carved a path solo, his massive two-handed axe Wuuthraad danced and twirled as it sliced and ripped apart the enemy, the screaming head of the elf dripping bits of blood.

Talion sidestepped a spear from a Dornish man-at-arms and backhanded the warrior into the ground, just barely coming around to parry the longsword of a Targaryen knight and smashing him to the ground, he swung his axe back and brought it around slicing a handful of Targaryen men, his razor-sharp axe cutting through their riveted chainmail and boiled leather.

Despite the carnage, the Loyalist army pushed forward determined to kill the demon that was carving through them, the giant sidestepped, parried, dodged, carved, slashed and tore them apart, 40 more Targaryen soldiers and Dornish men were killed. Cutting an opening on the right flank which Talion took and pushed through.

He carved through 4 more, a Dornish warrior clad in the standard-issue burnished scale armour, enamelled with copper and silver, head wrapped in yellow and black spotted desert scarfs, the blazer red sun and spear of Dorne proudly displayed, a warning to whomever it concerned. The Dornish soldiers waited for the blow, prepared to parry it with his spear, what the poor man didn't prepare for was the superhuman strength behind the attack nor the sharpness of the axe.

The axe cleaved through the spear, along with the man's armour and his body, splitting him into two. He turned to see a dozen Targaryen men hesitate as they watched the gory display. They backed away slowly and Talion began to step forward, his bloodlust beginning to brew, his dragon soul calling out for more destruction.

The sound of galloping horses made Talion turn sharply, axe raised, prepared for an onslaught of Targaryen knights, he was instead met with dozens of Arryn, Stark and Baratheon men-at-arms and a handful of Arryn knights, more importantly, Ser Lynn of House Corbyn and his comrades from the other houses. The man had rallied a massive force determined to push the right flank which had surprisingly been opened somehow. Talion spotted Rodrik Forrester on his white horse with a handful of Forrester knights and light infantry.

Their horses' galloper before halting before Talion. "I'll be damned," Ser Lynn said with a shout, "the injured pup is alive." he smiled with bloodied teeth, face covered in blood, his helmet all but knocked away during the battle.

Talion lowered his face mask and spit out a wad of blood before he pulled it back up. "About time you showed up." He growled back.

Lynn ignored his quip, his eyes finally noticed the dozens of dead Targaryen and Dornish soldiers lying dead on the grass, many of them carved to pieces like a great beast had torn through them. There wasn't a single Stark, Tully, Baratheon or Arryn soldier insight, or anyone from their side. Littered on the ground were loyalists, easily matching in the nineties. "What the hell happened here. Where are our men?"

Talion reached out and pulled a Daedric throwing dagger that snuggled deeply in the throat of a plated Targaryen knight. "All dead. Could have used some help earlier."

Lynn's face faltered slightly. 'Is he really insinuating he slew all these men? He must jest.' "It's dishonourable to lie to the son of a lord. To boast so arrogantly about your own strength… I'll deal with you later." Lynn unsheathed his new sword called Lady Forlorn — a smokey-grey longsword with ripples through the blade, the typical design of a Valyrian steel sword. A gift from his father who was injured by a Dornish knight in the company of Lewynn Martell, the Dornish Prince. "Come on, let's go show those Dornish goat fuckers the might of HOUSE ARRYN! FALL UP!" He roared before charging forward, his loyal bannermen and the rest of the party charged behind him, kicking up dirt and mud as they charged, which directly just happened to be in the direction of Talion's face. "Really starting to hate this man," Talion muttered under his breath as he wiped the bits of mud from his face.

He noticed Rodrik and his men stayed behind, the northerner trotted up beside Talion. His tired eyes bore into the man. "Did… did you really do all this by yourself?" Rodrik could hardly believe it. He heard his fair share of supernatural feats by knights before, but none of this capacity. He even noticed the burning of charred corpses and patches of burnt grass, like some kind of dragon, breathed fire here. He heard the screams of frantic Dornish men about some kind of fire breathing man-demon through the ranks, but seeing it and hearing it was completely different.

"Eyes on the task at hand Forrester," Talion replies back tersely. Filled on bloodlust and Lynn's treatment, he wasn't in the mood to speak.

Rodrik opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. He nodded before he charged after Lynn, his men not far behind.

Talion gripped Wuuthraad tightly, and took a breather watching them gallop further down the line intended to cut down the Dornish Prince and his dwindling forces. Despite the losses, the battle still raged on fiercely. His eyes noticed an older man in a pale white cloak and golden armour, one of the Kingsguard if he remembered correctly. The older man despite his age was fighting flawlessly against a handful of Stark men-at-arms and a handful of Baratheon knights. The man seemed to dance with grace as he sliced through them like cake.

His eyes carried further until it landed on the towering figure known as Robert Baratheon, even as far he as was, the towering giant of six and a half feet was easy to spot. In hand was his bloodied iron warhammer riding on his black stead, behind him his best friend Ned Stark longsword in hand, his greatsword Ice was no use on horseback. They smashed further down the middle, mind focused on one single person.

A thump punched against his back with an uncomfortable pang, like something had punched him in the back, he cocked his head around to see an arrow had smashed into the back of his shoulder blade but could not pierce the strength behind the Nightingale armour. Talion turned around further to see a lone Targaryen archer who had wandered too close to the battle, the man was a young lad in his early twenties. He wore a light variant of the Targaryen armour, blackened leather and an arming cap. Another pang into his chest, the arrow again pierced but not deep enough to touch skin. The impact still hurt nonetheless.

Talion growled in annoyance only further antagonizing the archer who pulled another arrow from his quiver, he notched it poorly like a novice and fired again. The arrow found its mark but again only stuck against the man's chest. "What the hell?" The man called out in frustration, stopping, he hesitated to draw another arrow. They seemed to be strangely ineffective, not even able to pierce, which would be the case if it was plate mail, but he wasn't wearing plate. The archer watched as the man reached to his upper chest where the arrows had stuck, he ripped out both of them with one hand and crushed the shafts in two with a single hand, dropping the splintered wood on the grass below.

The archer watched the arrows fall before his eyes landed back on the lone warrior. The warrior's swirling eyes bearing into him with fierce resolve. Nervously, the archer gulped before he nocked another arrow hastily and aimed for his head. The lad fired with speed he never thought possible but to his shock the black armoured man had snaked out his free hand, uncoiling like a snake and caught the arrow in mid-air.

The archer froze his mouth wide open, the man had caught the arrow with his hand mid-fire. Unable to move, he could only stare at the armoured man who stood there, not moving an inch, hand resting at his side. Arrow broken again.

Then something happened which he would never forget in his short life. The lad had never been one that was lucky, an orphan from the ranks of Flea Bottom. Never finding a decent job or coin for that matter. Today he may have been the unluckiest man in Westeros.

The sounds of high pitched chirping began to form out of nowhere, he scanned around when it became louder and louder, trying to find the source that made his ears hurt, until he noticed the flashing light coming from the warrior. He turned back around and his eyes widened to comical proportions. The man's two-handed axe began to spark at first, before strange blue sparks danced across the handle and enveloped it, streams of blue energy snaked around the axe, the high pitched chirping sounds of birds intensified, then it finally hit him, he had heard those sounds before, on a rainy day. It was the sound of lightning! The man was literally channelling blue lightning across his weapon. "By the Gods…" The archer muttered in shock and took a step back. This was no longer a regular battle and this was no longer a regular man. He was not fighting some vagrant knight, he was fighting a god.

He dropped his bow and turned around to flee but it was too late. As he turned the man smashed his axe in an uppercut motion into the archers back. The force of the lightning-infused blow smashed into the archer killing him instantly and sending his corpse skidding into the dirt, 20 feet from its original spot.

Talion's eyes began to glow fiercely like fire, all his pent up anger, the loss of his children, the anger at the gods for it, Corbray, the sheer bloodlust of his dragon soul, it all mixed together like a storm. The residue sparks danced across Wuuthrad angrily.

Talion charged forward towards the force of Arryn and northern men clashing violently with the Dornish right flank.

Somewhere else on the Trident

Robert was growing tired, even with his love for war and killing, the battle raged on, his forces pushed fiercely against the main detachment of Targaryen loyalists. One of the Kingsguard Jonothon Darry was struck down by the fierce Ser Bryden Tully also known as The "Blackfish" dressed in his blackened plate and ringmail forged in the shape of scales from a fish. The Kingsguard was no match for the skill behind the Blackfish.

Rhaegar the crowned prince thrust his blackened longsword into the throat of a Tully knight, knocking the dead man of his horse, his deep purple eyes — a sign of the Targaryen lineage landed on the antler-helmet monstrosity known as Robert Baratheon. "BARATHEON!" Rhaegar shouted out. Even though all the chaos, they were close enough to hear each other.

Robert crushed the chest of a Dornish men-at-arms, the Dornishman's light armour was no match for the iron warhammer nor the man behind it. His bloodshot eyes scanned for the one who called him out and then he noticed the blackened knight.

Robert's eyes narrowed and his blood began to boil. The beautiful Rhaegar they called him. Decorated in his fancy blackened armour, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen decorated in rubies on his chest plate. Golden ringmail poked out from under his blackened armour and his famed dragon helm — decorated in gold, orange, and red silken streamers, like they were flames, as if that made him any less a dragon. The pitiful ponce.

"WHERE IS SHE?" He shouted before charging his warhorse towards the river. His voice boomed with intensity.

"SAFE FROM YOU!" Rhaegar replied back venomously, his white warhorse galloped towards Robert.

"I SWEAR IF YOU DID ANYTHING TO HER!" His voice boomed with furry as he charged.

Rhaegar ducked under the intense swing of Robert who nearly took his head off, simultaneously his blackened sword glanced off Roberts's armour, only making so much as a scratch. "You give her back!" Robert roared again, his horse already turned around and charging towards the Targaryen prince.

Rhaegar swung his horse around and galloped down the river towards Robert, his horse kicking up water with intense pounding as he tried to meet his opponent's speed. But Robert's fury was too much for the prince and as soon as they met Robert's iron warhammer struck the silver-haired prince square in the middle of his chest with such ferocity Rhaegar flung back off his horse and slammed hard into the river which no doubt cushioned his fall a bit.

Rhaegar helmet began to fill with water and his head spun with dizzying spells from the impact. Though the water was only ankle-deep, Rhaegar struggled to one knee. A few moments later the dizziness was starting to dissipate, leaving a frightening image of Robert and his destrier charging towards the dismounted prince again.

Rhaegar's eyes widened and immediately his training kicked in. He pushed up and tried to find his sword in the water which had been knocked out of his hand during the impact. Panic started to envelop as he tried to splash and search through the murky bloodstained river. Thud, thud,thud, thud the pounding hooves of Robert's black stead inching ever so closely. As Robert with his warhammer raised, swung down to strike the prince. His bloodied hammer only caused water to splash wildly and then a loud crash as Robert smashed face-first into the bloodied bank.

Rhaegar at the last minute found his sword just as Robert was on top of him. With all his might, Rhaegar rolled to the side dodging the strike and slashing at one of the front legs belonging to Robert's horse, cutting clean through. The now three-legged horse wailed in pain as it tumbled down into the river with Robert smashing face-first into the river.

Robert hit the ground hard with a resounding thump, his vision blurred as he hit the ground.

Rhaegar pushes himself from the river. His muscles burned and ached from fatigue. He walked over towards Robert who has wiggled himself into his back, unable to move his right leg, his foot being pinned by his horse who had fallen unconscious from blood loss.

Robert's vision finally cleared after a few moments, he glanced around to look for his opponent and finally noticed Rhaegar limping towards him.

Robert's eyes peered around trying to find his warhammer. He began to flail his arms and push himself up. Clang - the sound of Robert's left shoulder plate bumped into something hard and metal. Curious he cocked his head up, his warhammer laid above him, out of his reach.

Robert strained himself up trying to grasp his hammer. Rhaegar inched ever so closer, Robert cursed as he tried to use his free leg to push the horse off his foot, only making minor progress. Rhaegar would be on him before he would get free.

Panic subconsciously filled Robert as he went back to the only task he could do. Get his hammer.

He wiggles and pushed up trying to reach it, after a few more tries his fingers barely just managed to reach it, slowly he used all his weight and tried to finger the handle closer to him. His muscles strained and burned, ignoring the pain he used the last of his energy.

He fingered the handle ever so closer to his reach, Slowly the handle inched back down.

The footsteps were closer now, Robert cocked his head back around and saw Rhaegar a few feet from him. "It's over, Robert," Rhaegar said in between heavy breaths. "Lay down your arms and surrender."

"The day I surrender to the son of a Targaryen whore is the day my house crumbles," Robert said distracting Rhaegar from his real task at hand. A few more times, a handful of fingers gripped the very bottom of his handle.

"So be it." Rhaegar raised his blackened sword and swung down.

Just as the blade was about to make contact with Robert's head, Robert shifted his body weight completely to the left, dodging the blade that struck the grass. He wrapped his hand around the warhammer and turned back on his back, straining his body up he swung it around smashing into Rhaegar's helmet knocking the man down into the ground.

Rhaegar's dragon helmet flung from its owner's head and bounced down into the river with a splash. Rhaegar spat out a wad of blood as his head wrung with intense pain. Had he not been wearing his helmet, Rhaegar Targaryen the beautiful prince would have had his beautiful face crushed like a melon. Slowly, Rhaegar got up again.

Robert used the momentary distraction and pushed his foot free from his horse and used his hammer as a cane pulling himself up.

Sparing not a second more, Robert made his way towards Rhaegar who had recovered from the strike and was rushing towards him. His beautiful hair was now drenched in blood and sweat, pearly white teeth now bloodied, his purple eyes bore down on Robert with an intense gaze.

The two met on top of each other, steel met iron, shields all but knocked away, only leaving a flurry of sword and hammer. Each opponent tries to make an opening but to no avail. Robert's antlered helmet having been knocked off mere moments earlier, allowing Rhaegar to strike Robert's nose with the guard of his blade, bloodying it and causing Robert to step back in pain. "Bloody bastard." Robert hissed in pain.

"ENOUGH ROBERT!" Rhaegar called out.

"ENOUGH?! It'll be enough when you give me back my Lyanna." He roared back. "Why did you take her?"

"Because I love her." He said holding his longsword near his chest. His defiant eyes bared down on Robert. "And because she loves me."

As soon as those words left Rhaegar's mouth, anger and hatred enveloped Robert. "YOU LIE!" He screamed, with a sudden surge of energy Robert barreled towards the Prince, smashing into him and tackling him into the river.

Rhaegar landed on his back hard with a thud, water splashed all around him. Suddenly he thumped harder into the water as a heap of extra weight landed on top of him, his head submerged underwater. Robert sat on top of him, hands wrapped around Rhaegar's throat as he held him underwater, choking him violently. "GIVE LYANNA BACK!"

Rhaegar began to squirm and struggle underwater as his life force slowly drained away. He tried for a moment to scratch Robert's eyes, his body screaming out at him to survive. Robert just swatted his hand away and slammed Rhaegar's head into the shallow water.

Rhaegar struggled frantically until his right hand brushed past something sharp, his dagger! Without hesitation Rhaegar hand rushed towards the dagger sheathed on his leg, pulling the blade out he leaned in and rammed the small knife just below Robert's plated chest and into his gut.

Robert grunted in pain as the blade dug into him, loosening his grip on Rhaegar's throat and was met with a steel-toed boot courtesy of Rhaegar knocking him back.

Rhaegar's headshot out from underneath the water, mouth opened as he gasped for breath, trying to fill his lungs with air. Hand soothing his throat as he coughed. Noticing Robert getting back up, he crawled towards the bank and grabbed his sword and rushed towards Robert who merely sidestepped the thrust and rammed his armoured fist in Rhaegar's jaw, sending blood and teeth into the water.

Rhaegar fell back down in the river and Robert stood over him. One hand clutching his stomach where he had been stabbed the other gripping the iron warhammer with such ferocity it almost seemed to vibrate. "And now the Targaryen reign ends." Robert spat. Raising his iron warhammer his stormy eyes filled with hate and fury. This was it, his Lyanna. The woman he had loved, the women that meant everything to him, wrongfully taken and raped by Rhaegar. His Lyanna, defiled.

Rhaegar reached out weakly, despite the intense pain, his lips started to move as he spoke. "Wait, Robert," He pleaded, "Wait."

Robert said nothing and brought his hammer down on Rhaegar's chest, smashing into it with such fury — the expensive rubies that encrusted his chest flung into the air, scattering in the river.

Rhaegar's chest caved in, and he collapsed to the ground, lungs punctured and he struggled to breathe as he suffocated. Rhaegar could only watch as Robert brought his hammer up to deliver the killing blow.

'I'm sorry Lyanna…' Rhaegar thought as he watched as Robert brought down the hammer.

The Dragon Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was no more.

Robert collapses onto his back, exhausting taking over him, he could only lean in and watch as some Stormland knights charged into the river determined to grab the valued gems, it didn't matter if it was a bloodied battlefield or in some city; Treasure was a treasure.

The loyalist army noticed their liege lord body floating down the river, dropping their blades they turned and ran as fast as they could. The battle was over. Robert Baratheon has won.

Talion joined with the forces of Hoster Tully and the Knights of the Vale swung back around killing as many stragglers as they could. In a matter of minutes, the royal army was in full rout.

Talion pulled out his axe from a Dornish soldier's chest; turning his head, he noticed Rodrik struck down his own Dornish man-at-arms. The last straggler they had.

Rodrik wiped the blood from his sword with a rag and trudged over towards Talion who was kneeling on one leg. "Are you well Blackfang?"

Talion head spun around startling Rodrik who had assumed the man had passed out. In reality, Talion was using some of his magicka to heal his wounds and recover his stamina. "Yes, I'm fine."

His ears perked up at the distant sounds of hooves pounding away. Judging by the speed and number of hooves, it was a large force and they were urgent. Talion stood up in haste and gripped his axe.

A handful of knights noticed his alert stance including the young Forrester. "What is it?"

"Incoming horses, a lot of them," Talion said.

Rodrik gripped his sword tightly and gulped. This was not looking good. Though they still had a decent number of men, those men were exhausted and could not stand a second wave of attacks. The pounding of the hooves got louder and closer until a force arrived through the clearing. Numbers easily standing at four thousand or more.

Talion prepared to channel his Thu'um which he had already used more than a handful of times during the battle. He spotted their banner. Two blue stone towers separated by a bridge on a field of grey. Talions Thu'um rumbled and just as prepared to release it and tear apart the charging force, Rodrik released a sigh of relief.

Turning, Talion saw the rest of the Vale Knights and few northernmen sheath their swords. "Finally." Rodrik smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the puzzled expression that seemed to appear on the faceless man's mask. "Lord Walder Frey of the Twins," Rodrik began to explain, "bannermen of Lord Hoster Tully, our reinforcements."

Talion nodded and lowered his axe, he stood watching the charging force galloping towards them, completely unaware of the fate that almost befall them mere moments before

The Frey knights and levies arrived a few minutes later. As did Hoster Tully and his Riverland bannermen. The two sides began to exchange together.

A portly man in plate and leather with wrinkled skin and easily in his early seventies brought his destrier to the front and bowed his head. "Lord Tully." The man said bluntly.

Hoster Tully narrowed his eyes. "You're late, Lord Frey."

The battle has ended finally, the royal army in full retreat while Tully, Stark, Arryn and Baratheon men retreat back to camp. The camp was busy as men repaired their armours, rested or simply enjoyed each other's company.

Robert has been injured gravely in his duel with Rhaegar and was resting in his war tent with Ned and Hoster by his side.

Resting on the cart of the wagon was Talion Blackfang mask and hood lowered, cloth in hand and arrow in the other. He began to clean the ebony arrows. Though Ned Stark and Hoster Tully were busy, they had offered a reward for the young man who had helped them immensely. Talion simply just asked them to help collect all the arrows. It was an odd request indeed but to Talion ebony was a rare resource, ebony arrows were legendarily sharp and tough. Recovering them was all he needed.

Talion inspected the arrow, satisfied with its cleanliness, he moved onto the next. He nodded a greeting to a handful of knights who passed him and waved. In just under a few hours he had gained quite a reputation on the battlefield, how much though he was ignorant of.

A handful of men arrived at his wagon. He recognized Rodrik Forrester, his men-at-arms and a handful of what appeared to be other noblemen approach him.

"How goes it Talion?" Rodrik greeted with a friendly tone.

"Well, I suppose. How's your arm?" Talion inquired, Rodrik got slashed with a curved Sabre during the ensuing battle. His sword arm in fact, instead of retreating the man just switched hands and started hacking any poor Dornishmen stupid enough to charge him.

"It's better." He said, wiggling his arm back and forth to show the man. He then gestured to the other 3 men and women at his side who were watching the exchange curiously. Noticing their stares, "These are friends of mine and fellow men of the North."

"Friends, this is Talion Blackfang, the injured man they found by the Green Fork."

He then gestured to the man on his right. A large but muscular man in his late thirties with swarthy black hair and a full beard. He wore plate mail and carried a flat-topped great helm in his right hand and grasping what seemed to be a blackened longsword strapped to his waist. Decorated on his chest was a sigil of a black bear on a field of green. "This is Jorah Mormont of Bear Island." The stoic man said nothing but nodded a greeting; Talion nodded one back.

He gestured to the right of the man, a young woman a year younger than Talion. She wore light green leather armour which hid her lanky but muscular frame. She carried a morningstar strapped to her waist. "This is Jorah's cousin, Dacey Mormont."

A small smile formed at the corner of her lips. "Pleasure to meet you."

Talion stared at her curiously. There was nothing particularly eye-catching about her. While she was beautiful he was paying more attention to her profession. From the few hours he was awake and the history lesson, he gathered women fighting was not a very common thing.

Noticing his stares, her brow furrowed in concern. "Is there something on my face?" She asked annoyed.

Noticing the tension, Rodrik tried to defuse it a bit. "Yes, I'm not sure how familiar you're with the North, but you'll find quite a few houses with daughters that can fight. She may not look it, but the morningstar in her hand is formidable. More man than a woman." She narrowed her eyes at him and punched him in the shoulder. "See?" He said with a chuckle.

Talion smiled. "I'm glad." Causing the others to turn back to the man. "You remind me of someone I cared for a lot. She was like you."

"Oh?" She folded her arms under her breast and looked Talion dead in the eyes. "How so?"

Talion glanced at the Ebony arrows and smiled, tempering the memories of when he first met her after saving the new Companion Ria from being crushed by a giant's foot. "She was tall like you, beautiful girl. She had red hair like fire, green eyes that always displayed a hint of mischief. And one of the best archers I ever knew. Also one of the kindest people." He smiled sadly.

Dacy's smile grew wider. "I'm honoured to be compared to her then. You must be very close. Where is she now?"

Talion sighed, closing his eyes. Her pleading voice echoed in his mind. 'Talion! Wake up! TALION!... open your eyes please.'

"I suspect far away, I didn't exactly leave her with good news. She probably thinks I'm dead."

Dacy glanced back at Rodrik whose face was as blank as parchment. "I'm sorry to hear that. What was her name?"

"Aela. Her name was Aela."

Dacey smiled again but said nothing. Rodrik pointed to the man on her right. A man with long red hair and a full beard. "This is Ethan Glover and Ser Mark Ryswell." Both men nodded a greeting.

"Nice to meet you Ser," Mark said.

"You as well, but you can just call me Talion. I'm no knight."

Mark turned to look at Rodrik who shrugged, "told you so." He said.

"But the stories?" Ethan asked, confused.

"Stories?" Talion stopped cleaning his arrows and turned to the man.

"You've garnered quite a reputation on the battlefield. Broke the right flank and helped us to push through the Dornish forces. Only a man of knighthood could achieve such a feat"

"Ser Corbray did that I believe," Talion said with annoyance. The man had rubbed it in his face when he saw him on the cart. Displaying his new Valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn, he made sure to rub it in Talion's face as he slew the Dornish prince. Talion could care less about some fancy prince being killed. He simply congratulated the man and went on cleaning his arrows, much to Lyn's annoyance.

Rodrik scoffed, "As if, he may have killed the Prince, but I didn't see him charge in and cut down dozens and dozens of the best-trained men in Westeros. You should feel honoured, you fought bravely."

Talion simply looked at him and said nothing, going back to his arrows. "Why did you do it then?" Dacey asked staring at the man. "Every man would be boasting about his feats on the battlefield. They're calling Robert Baratheon the Demon of the Trident." She said pausing before placing a hand on the wagon and looking him in the eye. "You've earned yourself a title as well. The mysterious black warrior. The Black Dragon, they are calling you. Able to breathe fire." She said with a small chuckle at the last part.

"Titles mean nothing. I didn't do it for glory." The man dropped the clean arrow on a pile and grabbed the next bloodied one.

"Then why did you?" She asked again.

Turning, he glanced at the men and women who were staring at him. "All my life, I've wanted to do good. Help others, live a life of honour." His eyes hardened as he continued. "When a man who lost his family, a sister taken by the tyranny of an evil man I did what any would. What I should have done for my own family. Saved them."

Talion lowers his head in shame. Staring at the bracelet of Sam. He hated being here, being away from his family. Plucked and dropped in the middle of nowhere, a plaything of the Gods. Any man would be honoured, thrilled even, to be able to actually know divine beings on a personal level. Talion learned long ago nothing was what it seemed when it came to them.

He felt a soft hand on his leg. It was Dacey, she smiled at him. "Then you have done right by them. I can't say about the rest of these men, but I would be honoured to fight beside someone as noble as you. You are a strange man indeed, Talion Blackfang."

"I'm the simplest man you'll ever meet." He said with a sarcastic tone. Causing the others to laugh.

Just then what appeared to be a Forrester knight came running around one of the tents. His hands and uniform stained with blood. The man had a concerned and pained expression on his face. He bolted towards them and stopped abruptly, almost skidding on the ground. He lowered his head and bowed before he turned to Rodrik. "My lord, you need to come quickly. It's your grandfather, Lord Thorren."

Rodrik noticed his urgent tone and nodded. He turned to the rest of his companions and waved them a farewell. Before he followed his bannerman.

They chatted away for a few minutes, mostly Talion asking them about the North, what it was like, what their houses were like.

Around the corner came the sounds of dozens of boots hitting the grass. Turning their heads they saw coming their way was Lord Jon Arryn and his Vale Knights, including one Ser Lyn Corbray, his new Valyrian steel sword strapped to his waist proudly.

They lowered their heads in respect and bowed. "Lord Arryn" they greeted.

The man nodded a greeting back and turned his attention to Talion who was cleaning his arrows away. "How are you doing Talion?"

"Well m' lord, thank you."

"I hope we got all your arrows. It was hard finding all of them on the battlefield." He said with a strange chuckle. Any man, when offered with a reward, would have listed anything, a large sack of gold, personal favour with the Arryn house, knighthood or even if they were ambitious enough, lordship. This man just simply asked for his arrows back.

"You did Lord Arryn thank you."

"You did much better than I expected you would. Charged in alone against innumerable Dornish and Targaryen men, Unscathed. Some would call you inhumanly brave or stupid."

"Did what I could, nothing more."

'Does he hate glory or something? This man is so strange.' Jon thought. "Indeed. But still, you did Lord Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark a great service, Which is why," Jon unsheathed his sword and approached Talion. "If you'd please come here." Talion hesitated, eyeing the man with curiosity. He turned to Rodrik's friends who were all eying him, smiles in the corner of their lips.

Talion scooted off the wagon and stood up, his massive frame towering over all of them. "Kneel and lower your head," Jon ordered, causing a handful of whispers to go out through the crown of Arryn Knights.

Talion looked at him before he got down on one knee, even then he still was taller than Jon Arryn. Talion lowered his head and waited curiously. Dacy simply chuckled as she watched what came next.

He lowered his sword gently on Talion's shoulder before he spoke. "I, Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, dub thee Ser Talion, all present shall recognize your status as a knight for your unwavering conviction and skill in battle in the face of nightmarish odds. Rise, Ser Talion Blackfang."

Talion's eyes widened as he tilted his head up. "Are you sure Lord Arryn?"

"Yes, are you sure my lord Arryn," Corbray spoke. There was certainly a hint of jealousy, a landless, nobless man being knighted by a man of a Great House was the best gift any man on the field of battle could ask for. It was a rare honour. "He's a foreigner. He could be a Targaryen spy-"

Jon turned to look at him with a cold gaze shutting the man up before turning back to Talion with a stern gaze. "Are you refusing a noble lord's offer?" Finishing that last word with a mirthy tone, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Of course Ser Talion. None are more deserving. Now rise,"

Talion did as he was told and rose up. "All knights usually have a title they go by. I'm not sure of what to call you."

"The lads are calling him the Black Dragon, Lord Arryn," Dacey said as she winked at Talion. Causing the man to groan mentally.

Jon chuckled softly, "an ironic title, considering. Would this suffice? Or would you like the title that appears in those strange books you came with."

"Books?" Talion questioned, then he remembered. "Ah yes, tales of my homeland."

Jon nodded, "indeed, strange books if I must say, very fascinating. Couldn't read a word of it. Only see the pictures which caused more confusion than an explanation but one word kept appearing, especially next to a picture I'll never forget." He said, shaking his head. The sheer sight was pure lunacy.

"If I may ask, my lord," Mark said with a pause. He had always had a love of books and heroes of mythical renown. "What were the books?"

"Judging by the pictures. It appeared to be stories of some kind, but none I have ever heard about. A single word I kept seeing."

Talion shook his head and chuckled under his breath. It seemed no matter where he was, the title followed him everywhere. "Dovahkiin" Talion said, everyone turned to him.

"Dovahkiin," Mark muttered in repetition.

"I wasn't sure what the word was, but yes. What does it mean? I saw it many times next to the picture."

"What picture, m' lord?" An Arryn knight asked.

"I don't even know how to describe it. But it was a man in strange barbaric looking armour, a curled horn on each side, jumping off what appeared to be a cliff and fighting a black dragon in single combat." He said it out loud as if it wouldn't sound any stranger coming from his own lips.

A few murmurs went around the crowd. a handful of Arryn knights laughed in the back. "A man fighting a dragon? It's sheer stupidity. No man could ever face a dragon in combat and win."

"A man fighting a dragon? As if, everyone knows not even Aegon Targaryen could kill a dragon by himself without his own dragon."

Memories filled Talion, from his first-ever fight at the tower, to killing Alduin the World-Eater in Sovngarde, to fighting Miraak's serpent dragon in Apocrypha. The good and the bad memories, it seemed almost a lifetime ago. A light nudge from Dacey made him realize they were all still waiting for an answer. It felt weird for Talion to talk about himself in the third person. Nevertheless, he began to explain. "Dovahkiin, or in the more common term the Dragonborn, was a mythical hero sent down by the Gods during times of great calamity. Wielding the power of the Thu'um, or the Voice of the Dragons, he could slay and kill any dragon and devour its soul. I.." He stopped himself, "it was considered a great honour to be bestowed the title."

The camp was silent before laughter erupted among the Knights. "Devouring dragon souls? Dumbest thing I've ever heard." An Arryn knight shouted.

"Place sounds crazier than the Wall." another man shouted.

"What's next? He can breathe fire like one too?" Another knight said laughing.

Talion simply stood in silence. His eyes not faltering once. Jorah, as well as his cousin both, eyed the man curiously. While everyone was focused on the tale. Dacey spotted the slip-up. 'I… what was that about? He couldn't mean himself, these were tales, children's stories.' Listening to the man speak, there was no laughter in his tone, no sarcasm, only sadness and guilt. Emotions she'd not expect from someone telling a children's story.

Jon scratches his head. The story sounded good enough. A legendary hero vanquishing evil and dragons. Wielding great power. The idea of dragons was not a silly notion. He'd seen the dragon skulls decorating the king's hall at Kings Landing. But a man who could devour dragon souls, killing them? The pictures looked real enough but Jon knew they were just stories. Jon raised his hand causing them to stop laughing. "I don't know about devouring souls and dragons. But I saw what I saw. Westeros is lucky to have you, Ser Dragonborn." He said with a smile and sheathed his sword.

Talion nodded thanking the man. "What's next?"

"Well," Jon said with a pause. "Robert Baratheon has slain the Dragon Prince, it does not, however, end here. King Aerys' reign cannot persist a day more. Lord Robert has announced his claim on the Iron Throne. He was injured heavily during the battle and will remain here with one of the captured Kingsguard, Barristan Selmy. He's tasked Lord Stark and me to siege King's Landing before Tywin Lannister who no doubt will have heard about this, sends his army there first.

Folding his arms he paused before he spoke, already knowing the answer he would receive. "It was a lot to ask you the first time, but with Robert indisposed, we'll need someone strong ther-"

"I'm in," Talion said without room for argument.

Jon stopped, most lords would consider it rude to be interrupted by the man they had just knighted. Jon simply grinned from ear to ear. "Very well, we leave for King's Landing."

And Done, while this redone chapter wasn't as badass and action-packed as the first write, I hope it sufficed long enough until the next chapter arrives and Talion and friends storm King's Landing. I promise it'll be worth the wait. In The meantime I hope yall like the little snippet battle scene between Robert and Rhaegar, I've always wanted to see the battle either on TV or read it in its full essence, Robert with his spiked iron warhammer, great antlered steel helm is something truly badass. This is somewhat how I envisioned it went, I hope yall enjoyed it.

Votes So Far,

don't forget if you haven't already, vote for your top two house mottos:

The Fire Rises Within: 15

War Dawns in Fire: 11

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I Came, I Saw, I Conquered

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Sky Above, Voice Within: )

Castle Locations:

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Anyway, the next chapter will be uploaded within 15 minutes or so. ;)

-Achilles