The knight with a white slash on his blue shield struck high, bringing his morning star down hard at the Targaryen's helm. A shield of oak and banded steel deflected it aside, its wielder using the moment to slash his sword at the Stormlander. The blue shield met it, the morning star snapping on its chain and whistling for the sword bearer's head.
Aelor Targaryen ducked low, the spiked ball barely clearing the top of his helm. The Stormlander, a warrior from House Hasty, reversed the chained weapon again, swinging it as hard as he could back towards his opponent. The Dragon Prince spun just outside of its reach, the deadly hunk of steel just missing his back, and stepped in all in one move. Before the nameless knight could bring his shield to defend, Aelor Targaryen's blade drove through the chainmail between his helm and breastplate, piercing skin, artery and throat. Blood spurted, running down the chainmail and breastplate, leaving a red river through the water blue of his surcoat.
Before Morning Star had even hit the ground, another knight took his place, this one in the dented armor and hacked-up shield of a hedgeknight. It's the dragons on my shield; attracts opponents like a Lyseni whore. This knight carried the characteristic sword and shield, as did Aelor. He came on quickly, trying to catch the Dragon Prince while he was still recovering from killing the Morning Star Knight, but Aelor matched him blow for blow. It took half the time to cut this man down, Aelor slashing his legs out from under him before driving his castle-forged steel into the downed knight's chest.
Three more came, two more hedgeknights and one mere man at arms, and all three soon hit the ground. On and on it went, for how long Aelor couldn't say and didn't care about. Aelor felt alive in battle, his sword a whirlwind of steely death, his shield both a defense and an offense. His mind never worked faster, his blade never swung quicker and his body never felt stronger than it did when he was on the battlefield.
It was odd in a sense. He himself never felt more life than when he was taking someone else's.
The Dragon Prince smashed his shield into the face of a helmless man even as he disarmed-in every sense of the word-a toweringly tall opponent with the nine silver unicorns of House Rogers on his chest. He cut the man's screams short with a downward thrust, piercing the very same heart that was pumping blood out of the gaping wound where his arm used to be.
The Dragon of Duskendale stood, extracting his blade from the now very dead man's chest, and whirled to meet the blade darting in on him. At least, that had been his intent ; there was a sudden lack of blades. As Aelor came out of his battle haze, he found that not only was there a lack of swords trying to kill him anywhere near, there also seemed to be a lack of bodies-live ones anyway. There were certainly plenty of corpses.
"Your Grace," called a familiar voice, and the Dragon Prince turned to see a knight in white enamel armor working his way through the dead towards him. Ser Barristan Selmy's white cloak was covered in blood, but none of it seemed to be his. He moved through the battlefield, which was much changed from the last time Aelor had had time to notice it. The clang of steel and screams of men and horse had seemed to die down, replaced by an eerie silence that was interrupted periodically by the cry of a dying man. Or two. Maybe ten. Aelor couldn't really tell; it was hard to differentiate over the sound of his own heavy breathing.
Seven hells, I always forget about this part. The black sword in his hand seemed to have grown exponentially heavier in the past few moments, and his black shield with the warring white dragons was nearly dragging his left arm to the ground. Everything seemed to hurt, even speaking. "Ser Barristan."
"They've broken, Your Grace. Lord Rykker's cavalry took their rear."
So the diversion worked. And here I thought it was our spirited charge. "Good to hear." Aelor registered the remnants of his vanguard, once four hundred mounted knights strong, around the field beside and behind him. Most were unmounted, losing their mounts as Aelor had to the spears of the Stormlander lines. Lord Rykker's flanking force, another seven hundred knights, sat their mounts to the field in front like a wall of horseflesh, certainly in much better condition than his own men.
That was the intent, I suppose; hammer and anvil and all that. Funny, the song never mentioned how unpleasant it is for the anvil.
The Kingsguard knight removed his helm, and it dawned on Aelor that he was burning alive in his armor, prompting him to do the same. He drove the point of his blade into the ground, holding the helm with the white flame crest in his sword hand. I'll have to sharpen that later. Wait, I have a squire for that now. A stab of concern shot through him then, as he couldn't recall seeing the boy since his destrier went down."Where's Alaric?"
"Here, my lord," spoke a voice behind him, and Aelor nearly jumped out of his armor, turning to find the fourteen year old a few feet away, sword bloodied. His helm was off, the lad's face as green as the banner of House Byrch. Tall and thin, Alaric of House Langward was fourteen and had been Aelor's squire for all of three days. The dragonlord and his army had merged with Lord Dontos Bywater of the Kingswood and his vassals at Langward Hall, a mere few miles away from where they stood now. Lord Jarman Langward, seventy years old and as crotchety as anyone Aelor had ever met, had instantly offered his great grandson as squire upon learning that Aelor no longer had one; he'd knighted Jaremy Rykker, Renfred's brother and now a ranger of the Night's Watch, after the cursed Tourney at Harrenhal. Aelor had accepted, mainly to get the cranky elder to shut his mouth.
Ser Barristan's brown hair was plastered to his sweat-coated forehead, but he was grinning. "Your squire did well, Your Grace; kept up with you throughout the charge."
"I tried to get behind the knight with the morning star, Your Grace," the lad said, face still marvelously sick though his quiet voice was firm. "A spear got in my way, and then another."
Aelor had taken a shine to the shy lad in the few days he'd known him, and felt marvelously guilty for having forgotten about him during the heat of the battle. "Are you hurt, Alaric?"
"No, Your Grace," the boy said, his shaggy black hair sweat-soaked. "Just… my gut…" It was only a few moments more before the lad was depositing the contents of his stomach over the nearest dead corpse, then trying to aim elsewhere and instead covering his armored boots.
Aelor smirked sympathetically. "I had the same reaction my first battle."
Barristan grinned as well. "I remember."
The sound of thundering hooves cut him off, and Lord Renfred Rykker rode up alongside several knights, the visor of his spiked helm up and his warhammer bloody. "Ren," Aelor called cheerily. "I see you still have your horse. Lucky; I seem to have misplaced mine. Strong shield."
Renfred Rykker grinned. "Stronger sword. This sense of misplacement must be spreading; your squire seems to be losing his morning meal."
"Don't be hard on him, old friend. We did the same."
Rykker laughed. "That we did. I have a present for you." He waved a hand, and two knights Aelor didn't recognize rode forward, another armored man on a horse between them. This one, a prisoner judging from his lack of weapon and the fact that his wrists were tied to his horse, had three golden buckles on his surcoat and a bloody gash in the joint of his elbow armor. His helmet was gone, showing long red hair and green eyes peering out of a bruised face near thirty. "Meet Lord Ralph Buckler, Lord of the Wendwater."
Aelor regarded the man coolly, ignoring addressing him for the moment. "Do you have any others?"
"Lord Bryce Rogers, one of Bucklers vassals, and several other knights. We're sorting them now."
"Losses?"
"I lost no more than forty or fifty. They broke before my goodfather even had a chance to move in with our full force. I don't know about your vanguard though, Your Grace."
Aelor nodded grimly. "Neither do I."
Ralph Buckler had a deep voice, shockingly so for a man of shorter than average height and a slight build. "I was only following my liege's orders, my Prince."
Aelor snorted. "I'm apparently no longer your prince, Lord Buckler. That honor seems to belong to Robert Baratheon, or perhaps Eddard Stark. Tell me, have you worked that particular detail out among yourselves yet?"
Buckler's face colored, though from the fear in his face he was quite aware of how short his life expectancy might have just become. "Your father burned Lord Stark alive."
Aelor nodded. "Yes, he did. I was there. I'm not saying my father was correct in that action, but I find rebellion to be rather drastic, don't you?"
Buckler nearly snarled, losing a touch of his fear in his anger. "And burning a man while his son strangled himself trying to free him is not?"
Rykker barked from astride his stallion. "Watch your tone."
Aelor waved his friend off, setting his jaw and narrowing his gaze. "Whatever your justification, you rose in rebellion to the Targaryen dynasty. And now a Targaryen holds you prisoner. I wonder, what am I to do with you?"
"As I said, I was-"
"Following your liege's orders, yes." Aelor grin was all charm, though his gaze was anything but. "Why don't you tell me all about them?"