Meanwhile, in the North—White Harbor:
"Roar..." The Cannibal's green, vertical pupils glinted coldly as wisps of Dragonfire seeped from its maw. The beast stood in tense alertness, scanning its surroundings with a predator's calm.
"I'm fine, mate," Rhaegar murmured groggily, his eyes fluttering open as he lay slumped on the dragon's back. Incredibly, he had dreamed of Daemon.
Though Daemon himself was not a Dreamer, Rhaegar couldn't shake the vividness of the encounter. Could it have been more than a dream? He had embarked on this journey to find the Heart Tree and the Greenseer, and meeting Daemon in a dream... perhaps that was a sign, some hidden gain.
"Roar..." The Cannibal growled softly, scattering the seabirds circling the bay. The dragon cast a sidelong glance at its rider, almost as if to check on him.
Rhaegar propped himself up with his left hand, chuckling wearily. "I can still hold on," he muttered, though his right side was numb, cold, and trembling uncontrollably.
The Wall had taken its toll. There was no cure for the cold that clung to him, and the fragmented understanding of magic in Westeros offered little hope. His plan was to cross the Narrow Sea, seeking answers from the Red Priestess in Lys or the blood mage Varys. And if they failed to provide a solution, he would follow Quaithe's cryptic advice and journey to Asshai, to uncover the root of what ailed him.
"With Daemon back, the garrison at Castle Black is practically impenetrable," Rhaegar mused, casting a glance toward the horizon, estimating how much time he had left. The Night King had been defeated in their first encounter and wouldn't likely attempt another invasion of the Wall anytime soon. This lull gave Rhaegar precious time to heal and prepare.
But I need to be ready, he thought grimly. The only way to end the threat of the Night King was to face him directly, in close combat. No one truly understood the depths of the Night King's power, not even the devastating Dragonfire had revealed his full strength. One mistake, and Rhaegar could find himself among the ranks of the undead.
"We're in a hurry, my friend," Rhaegar said, rubbing the Cannibal's rough, dark scales, the gesture affectionate despite the weight of his worries.
"Roar..." The Cannibal responded with a mighty bellow, plunging headlong into the clouds. It accelerated in a steep dive, its immense chest skimming the surface of the sea, sending waves crashing in its wake as it hurtled forward on their urgent journey.
...
In the underground cavern beneath the Weirwood...
Hum...
Daemon blinked, slowly regaining awareness. He knew nothing of Rhaegar's situation, only the disorientation of emerging from the strange vision. What happened?
"You're awake?" The male Child of the Forest, still wearing his antlered helmet, approached cautiously. "You spent three hours in the Green Vision this time."
Daemon tensed, on guard. Three hours? He asked, "Is the Green Vision the power of the Greenseer?"
"Unfortunately, no," the Child replied with a sigh. "You received guidance from the Heart Tree, but you did not inherit the Greenseer's legacy." If Daemon had inherited it, this conversation would be very different—there would be no doubt, no questions. A Greenseer transcended such things.
Daemon's frown deepened. "So, I came all this way and all I saw were a few premonitions?" His voice hardened. "What exactly is the Greenseer, and where is the legacy hidden?"
At least he needed to understand what had gone wrong.
"The Greenseer is everywhere," the Child of the Forest said, his tone resolute. "You are already blessed to see the future through the Green Vision."
Daemon was unconvinced, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on the solemn face carved into the Weirwood. The tree remained silent, bright red sap trickling down from its carved eyes like blood. He hesitated, debating whether to reach out and touch the bark again, to reconnect with the vision.
"No need to try," the Child of the Forest warned. "The Heart Tree will reject you." His voice carried a note of finality. "One cannot attempt it twice."
"Really?" Daemon shot back, watching him closely from the corner of his eye.
The Child crossed his arms, showing no interest in stopping him.
Daemon let out a cold laugh, deciding against it. Whether the visions were real or not, he had no desire to lose control like that again. The sensation of being at the mercy of the vision's pull had been maddening. His hand drifted unconsciously to his waist, where he suddenly realized that his sword—Dark Sister—had somehow become lodged between the roots of the Weirwood, stuck in the crevices of the rocks.
Daemon's eyes narrowed as he gripped the sword and tugged.
Click!
It jammed for a moment, but then Dark Sister slid free. He wiped the blade clean, muttering to himself, "You can't keep this sword."
Turning, he strode away, his head held high, passing the Children of the Forest without a backward glance. It was time to return.
The Children of the Forest exchanged glances as he left. The older female Child of the Forest silently departed to rally her kin, preparing for the migration.
An hour later...
Daemon emerged from the cave. The sun greeted him with blinding intensity, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes after so long in the darkness.
Rumble...
The shadow of his dragon fell over him, a scarlet silhouette blotting out the harsh light. Caraxes clung to the cliff face above, its wide wings stretching forward as it surveyed its rider below.
"Roar…" Caraxes let out a long, rumbling call, its throat trembling with emotion that echoed Daemon's own unsettled thoughts.
Daemon blinked against the sunlight, adjusting as he scanned his surroundings.
"Gah gah gah…"
A sudden flurry of cawing drew his attention. A flock of crows swooped down, perching in the branches of the Weirwood. Their black feathers and the tree's crimson leaves created a striking contrast.
Daemon's gaze lingered, searching for the familiar figure from his vision—the three-eyed crow. It was nowhere to be seen.
"Haha, I'm being paranoid," Daemon muttered with a wry smile, shaking his head. But his eyes, lowered to the ground, betrayed a lingering unease that refused to leave him.
...
The Riverlands, Green Fork of the Trident...
"Kill!"
"Archers, don't stop!"
The air was thick with the sounds of battle—swords clashing, arrows whistling, and the screams of men locked in combat. On the sandy banks of the Green Fork, two armies clashed. One bore the proud lion banner of House Lannister, its 2,000 men well-equipped and disciplined. The other, a larger force of 3,000 soldiers, carried the sigils of the Riverlands' feudal lords, though their armor and weapons varied in quality.
"Follow me! Drive the Westerlanders into the river to feed the fish!" bellowed Kermit, Lord of Riverrun, as he emerged from a pile of corpses, drenched in blood. His cry rallied the men of the Riverlands, who surged forward, spurred on by the sight of their lord leading the charge.
At the forefront were the banners of House Tully, House Blackwood, and House Frey. The combined strength of the Riverlands cut through the Lannister forces like a spear driving into the heart of their shield wall. The fighting grew fierce, and soon the sky darkened with the dust and chaos of war.
Kermit's eyes, bloodshot with rage, found a gap in the enemy ranks. With a wild yell, he charged alone into the fray, hacking his way toward the center of the Lannister army.
"Kill him! He's the Lord of Riverrun!" a Westerlander shouted, rallying the spearmen to close in on Kermit.
"Get out of my way!" A boy with dark hair, barely more than a child, suddenly burst out from the Riverlands lines, brandishing a longsword. His young face twisted with fury as he let out a maniacal laugh, charging at the enemy.
"Kill him first!" commanded a Lannister soldier. The Westerlanders, towering over the boy, braced for his attack.
Whoosh!
Just as the boy's shield raised to block, arrows hissed through the air, striking his enemies with deadly precision. The arrows found their marks—neck, throat, and eye—felling the soldiers before they could reach him.
Benjicot, the boy, glanced back in surprise. There stood Black Aly, bow in hand, her leather armor stained with blood. Her eyes were cold as she nocked another arrow, her aim steady. House Blackwood's archery skills ran deep—just like the bastard Robb, the famed Alysanne precision was deadly.
The battle raged on, a chaotic melee of thousands of men locked in combat. Blood flowed freely, staining the banks of the Green Fork. Neither side gave an inch, fighting with every ounce of strength they had left. The Westerlands' shield wall, strong and nearly impenetrable, held firm against the desperate charges from the Riverlands forces.
But Kermit's men were relentless. Spurred by his command, some soldiers leapt onto the shields, impaling themselves on spears, dragging the enemy down with them. Others hacked away, trying to break through the iron discipline of the Westerlanders.
"Charge! Follow me!" Kermit roared as the battle dragged into the evening.
Suddenly, the thunder of hooves echoed across the battlefield. A cavalry force of several hundred men swept in from the flank, led by Oscar Tully, clad in heavy armor and wielding a lance. The cavalry smashed into the Lannister shield wall with a deafening crash, scattering shields and sending men flying.
At last, the shield wall broke.
The Riverlands army howled with triumph, surging forward like a pack of ravenous wolves. The Westerlanders, now in disarray, were pushed back toward the cold, fast-flowing river.
Plop! Plop!
Men screamed as they were driven into the icy waters. Archers lined the riverbank, loosing volley after volley of arrows into the retreating enemy. The infantry pressed on, their bloodied bodies forcing the Lannisters into the Trident, where death awaited.
As the light faded and night crept in, the Riverlands stood victorious.
"Hoo... hoo... hoo..." Kermit dropped to his knees, exhausted, blood streaming down his face. His breath came in ragged gasps. "Send word to the Prince... tell him we've won."
The cold night air settled over the battlefield, a sharp wind cutting through the stench of death. The riverbank was littered with corpses, their wounds frozen by the cold. The ice on the Green Fork thickened, trapping bodies beneath its surface. The dead floated like driftwood, their blood turning the river red, feeding the fish below.
Oscar Tully, pale and weary, supported his elder brother as they surveyed the scene. "The bodies are frozen solid. We can clean up tomorrow."
In a quieter corner of the beach, Black Aly wrung the blood from her long, black curls. Her sharp eyes scanned the piles of bodies until she found her nephew, Benjicot, alive but covered in gore. He lay among the dead, his head resting on a blood-soaked corpse. With a weary grin, he pulled a piece of dried meat from his armor and began to chew, his face smeared with blood.
He stared blankly up at the darkening sky, chewing in silence.
...
The next day, around noon...
At Riverrun, the air was tense and quiet, save for the occasional rumble of war-drums in the distance.
"Roar..."
A massive, moss-colored dragon slithered across the frozen surface of the Trident, its claws puncturing the ice as it fished lazily. With a swift swipe, it snatched a large, fat fish from beneath the ice, gulping it down in one bite. The soldiers on the battlements stood rigid, too frightened to look away from the monstrous creature.
Inside the castle, in the small hall on the second floor, Kermit—his shoulder wrapped in bandages—stood with his brothers Oscar and Benjicot. Their faces were somber, the weight of their recent battle heavy on their minds.
"So many casualties?" Baelon, his clothes still dusted from travel, frowned as he scanned the casualty report. "Three thousand men lost, 1,800 of them killed. More than half the force."
Kermit gave a bitter smile. "We had a plan, but we underestimated the Westerlanders. They fought harder than we anticipated."
"But we annihilated the enemy," Benjicot interjected, licking his lips, his expression proud. His youthful face bore a smugness, like a dog waiting for its master's approval. Two thousand Lannister soldiers now lay dead beneath the waters of the Trident.
Baelon nodded solemnly, his eyes scanning the room. "You fought bravely, all of you. With unwavering courage, you've proven the strength of the Riverlands to the world."
The victory, hard-fought and bloody, had been achieved without a single soldier from outside the Riverlands. This 'fish-feeding' battle would go down in history, a testament to the Riverlands' resilience. In years to come, no one would dare question their army's might.
Kermit winced as he adjusted his bandages, pulling a letter from his tunic.
"What is this?" Baelon asked, taking the letter with a wary glance.
Kermit handed it over. "A report from the scouts. Ten thousand Lannister soldiers have left Golden Tooth. They're marching straight for the Trident—three thousand of them are cavalry."
Baelon's eyes darkened as he read the letter. "Jason Lannister is determined to rebel," he muttered, his voice cold.
"Prince, the people of the Riverlands stand with you," Benjicot declared, pounding his chest with fierce determination. "At your command, House Blackwood will lead the vanguard."
Despite his baby-faced appearance, Benjicot had already proven himself one of the most ruthless fighters. House Blackwood had claimed the majority of the kills in the battle that had stained the Trident red.
Baelon crushed the letter in his fist. "Jason is seeking death. Let him have it."
He tossed the crumpled paper aside. "Let the Lannister army cross into the Riverlands. We'll trap them at the Green Fork and crush them. They'll have no idea about the battle at the Trident and will walk right into our hands, like animals into a trap."
Riverrun was too close to the heart of the Riverlands to risk an open battle. But they would draw the enemy north and tear them apart when the time was right.
"Roar!"
A deafening dragon's roar shattered the tense silence, the sound crashing through the walls and windows of the hall. The boys glanced up, startled, their eyes drawn to the sky outside.
Two massive dragons circled above Riverrun, chasing each other through the cold air. One was bronze and menacing, its form cutting through the sky like a predator. The other had dark green scales, its wings ragged and tattered, resembling a war machine that had weathered countless battles.
The sight of the two beasts overhead filled the room with a renewed sense of anticipation.
(Word count: 2,455)