The red and black banners faced each other across the battlefield. The difference was stark: the Targaryen army was surrounded by dragons, while the Lannister forces had nothing to shield them but their numbers and the ranks of Lannister officers leading them. Viserys had made it clear—neither Lannister nor Baratheon would be spared. For Jaime and his men, there was no choice but to fight to the death.
Jaime had lost more than 6,000 men in last night's attack, including two lords and 400 knights. A third of his forces were gone, and much of his supplies had been destroyed. Half his elite troops had perished, and most of the horses had bolted in terror at the sight of the dragons. In any normal situation, retreat would have been the best option. But with Viserys commanding dragons and a full complement of cavalry, retreat meant certain annihilation.
Jaime calculated that Viserys wouldn't risk deploying the dragons again so soon. Tyrion had once told him that dragonfire was exhausting for the beasts, something he had read in an old book. Still, Jaime sent word to Harrenhal, not to ask for reinforcements, but to inform Robert's forces of the attack and heavy losses. Jaime had little love for Robert, but now his thoughts were consumed with worry for Cersei and their three children. He was ready to sacrifice himself to buy time for Harrenhal to prepare.
As Jaime mulled over how to delay Viserys as long as possible, a line of figures appeared between the two armies. Through his binoculars, Jaime saw they were clad in black armor, with a snarling dragon emblazoned on their chests. Though he didn't recognize which unit they were, there was no doubt they were part of Viserys's elite forces.
Are they knights? Nobles? Jaime speculated, just as a loud, crass voice interrupted his thoughts:
"Kingslayer! Surrender peacefully or die fighting!!!" The shout carried the rough accent of Crackclaw Point.
Without hesitation, Jaime shouted back, rallying his men: "Capture Viserys alive and you'll became a lord! Long live King Robert!!!"
The promise of such a prize sent a surge through his ranks, and the Lannister soldiers, clad in scarlet, charged toward the Targaryen forces. The remaining cavalry, led by the Mountain, swept around to flank them.
From her dragon's back, Daenerys watched the scene unfold below, as if observing a crimson tide crashing against the immovable black rocks of her army. Jaime's bravery inspired his troops, and for a brief moment, the battle hung in the balance.
But it was clear to any observer that the stalemate would not last. Jaime's forces were throwing themselves forward in a desperate, bloody charge, while the Unsullied advanced with methodical precision, a relentless killing machine. Each Lannister charge was met with a wall of discipline and steel, the difference between chaotic fury and cold, practiced efficiency.
Conwyra stood calmly beside Viserys, seeing no need for unnecessary commands. The army's steady advance was enough; victory seemed inevitable. But amidst the battle, the Mountain, leading 2,000 cavalry, spotted an opportunity. His sharp eye noticed a weak point in Viserys's right rear—a vulnerable section defended only by olive-skinned Dothraki cavalry. Sensing a chance for glory, he surged forward.
As the Mountain's cavalry clashed with the Dothraki, his attention was drawn to something towering in the distance. Figures that weren't mounted on horses but stood as tall as cavalry. Giants? The word flashed in his mind. He had heard rumors before the battle that Viserys's army included giants, but he dismissed them as myth. Now, however, those myths were standing in front of him—real and impossibly large.
As his cavalry pressed on, they were stopped dead by a line of armored giants, their massive forms clad in steel, forming an impenetrable wall before him. Each giant stood over three meters tall, and even if they lay down, they would still tower over the average man. Twenty or thirty of these behemoths together created an insurmountable "wall of despair."
And this wall didn't just stand still—it advanced.
Among the giants, Wun Wun, the leader, was guided by a warrior from House Brune of Crackclaw Point. The Brune veteran, over forty years old and a survivor of the Battle of the Trident with Rhaegar, directed the nearsighted giants, who relied on him to navigate the battlefield. His command was clear: capture the Mountain alive.
Viserys had no qualms about Jaime dying on the battlefield, but Gregor Clegane, the Mountain—he needed alive. This butcher who had slaughtered the royal bloodline wouldn't be granted the mercy of a quick death. Whether it was capturing the Mountain or exterminating the Lannisters and Baratheons, Viserys's decisions were calculated for the future. The "Father of Dragons" understood that mercy had no place in the world he was shaping.
More importantly, the blood of these noble houses would speed up his centralization of power. Viserys and Daenerys, the "ice and fire" duo, were rewriting the rules of conquest. In the new world they envisioned, enemies would face utter destruction—no room for mercy or moral saints like Ned Stark.
Realizing that the giants were unbreakable, the Mountain quickly turned his horse around, retreating. He was confident he could escape; the giants, while strong, were slow. Mounted on horseback, he was sure he could outrun them with ease.
But what Gregor didn't know was that these giants had been specially trained. Despite their poor eyesight, they remembered Viserys's simple command: pick the biggest targets.
As the Mountain galloped away, thinking he was safe, the giants began to move faster than he anticipated, their massive strides closing the distance...
Although everything around them seemed small, like scattered sweet potatoes, the Mountain was unmistakably large, even among the chaos. Wun Wun, the giant, swung his lasso with precision, catching the Mountain by the neck and yanking him off his horse.
As the Mountain hit the ground, several other giants rushed in, pinning him beneath their massive weight. Tying someone up was too delicate a task for the giants, but soldiers quickly appeared and bound the Mountain securely.
Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, thrashed with all his might, his immense body straining so fiercely that his armor creaked under the pressure. This brute of a man, who towered over ordinary people, was no fool. A man who pretended to be dead when a fight couldn't be won didn't survive by being stupid. He realized immediately that he'd been led into a trap—a trap laid just for him.
Flashes of memories crossed his mind—Elia Martell's cries, and the real baby Aegon, whose head he had smashed against the wall. The baby's blood staining the white stone still haunted him. No! I can't be taken alive! I can't be taken alive!
Panic fueled an unimaginable surge of strength within him. The ropes binding his limbs snapped, whipping through the air and striking the faces of the soldiers nearby, leaving bloody welts. The Mountain roared and pushed his captors aside, but Wun Wun and seven other giants quickly surrounded him, their massive forms looming over him like towering, impassive sentinels.
For the first time, the Mountain—who had always seemed like a mountain of flesh himself—felt weak. He looked up at the giants, their eyes shadowed beneath their helmets, cold and emotionless.
Is this what a dwarf sees? A chill ran through his heart. Perhaps this was how the maids he had tortured and killed in his fortress had felt—helpless, terrified. For a moment, a grotesque sense of fear washed over him. He had always enjoyed inflicting pain, but now the tables had turned.
But the giants weren't driven by cruelty. They had no interest in such sick pleasure. Their motivation was much simpler: Viserys had promised that whoever captured the Mountain alive wouldn't have to split their food!
Massive hands, as large as wooden boards, came down on Gregor. The Mountain, who had once prided himself on his size and strength, felt utterly powerless for the first time. He let out a high-pitched scream, shockingly shrill for such a giant of a man.
Wun Wun wrapped the Mountain in rope again—or rather, wrapped him in it like a bundle.
The giant wasn't skilled at tying knots, so he wound the rope around Gregor as tightly as possible, so much so that the rope cut into the Mountain's flesh. Roaring with effort, Wun Wun lifted the Mountain above his head with both hands, and the surrounding soldiers from the Westerlands backed away in terror, their faces pale with fear. The sight of the terrifying giant hoisting Gregor into the air had broken their spirits.
Wun Wun and the other giants searched the battlefield for Viserys, but their nearsightedness hindered them. Without guidance, they could easily harm their own allies amidst the chaos. One of the giants, a bit cleverer than the rest, patted Wun Wun on the shoulder and pointed upward. They couldn't spot Viserys on the ground, but Daenerys had an unobstructed view from the sky.
Wun Wun, thinking quickly, threw the Mountain high into the air, hoping Dany would see him.
...
Meanwhile, morale in Jaime's camp had all but collapsed. The Unsullied, clad in their black armor, cut through the Lannister army like a relentless whirlwind. Soldiers began surrendering en masse, and Jaime knew the battle was lost. In less than an hour, his forces were shattered. Everywhere he looked, the red banners of the Golden Lion were falling like trees felled by a woodsman's axe.
Overhead, Daenerys flew on her dragon, setting the rear ranks ablaze, driving any fleeing soldiers back into the chaos of the battlefield. The once-mighty Lannister forces were crumbling, their formation broken, and any hope of regrouping was lost.
The Targaryen army, dressed in black, moved like a tightening chain, slowly constricting the Golden Lion. The lion's struggles grew weaker and weaker as the black armor of the Targaryens encircled them, bringing the inevitable end ever closer.
Jaime's personal guards were still engaged in battle when he noticed a well-armed cavalry charging toward him. This small unit, numbering around 300, was equipped far better than the average knight. It was the same group he had earlier insulted, trying to goad them into surrender with foul language. Now, they were coming for him.
At the head of the charge rode a silver-haired knight. There was no mistaking him—Viserys. Clad in a ruby-encrusted breastplate, with no helmet to hide his striking silver hair, Viserys was a living banner, his hair streaming behind him like a flag against the smoke-filled battlefield.
No one could stand against his spear. Each thrust sent soldiers flying, lifted clean off their feet. More astonishing still, Viserys rode with a large black dragon banner draped over his shoulders, adding to the image of him as an unstoppable force. He was like the sharpest blade, the fiercest spearhead, cutting through the enemy ranks with reckless, brutal power. His strength seemed to surpass even legends like the Sword of the Morning and Ser Barristan Selmy.
"My lord, that's Viserys!" one of Jaime's subordinates shouted, snapping Jaime from his daze. He had been watching Viserys for a long time, frozen, without giving any orders.
As Viserys and his 300 elite soldiers thundered closer, Jaime took in the scene. By his side, fewer than 50 men remained. He knew, without a doubt, that he stood no chance against Viserys in single combat.
After a brief moment of thought, Jaime made a decision that left everyone around him stunned.
"We surrender," he said.
"Good!" His personal guards spurred their horses forward, ready to charge, but suddenly hesitated, realizing what Jaime had just said. They turned to him, confused.
"We surrender," Jaime repeated firmly.
"My lord? Why? We can still fight!" one of his men protested, disbelief in his voice. The rest looked on in confusion, unable to understand why their lord—the Jaime Lannister—would give up so easily.
"Surrender," Jaime insisted, his voice calmer now. "Many of you aren't Lannisters. He won't kill you."
The men exchanged uneasy glances, trying to comprehend Jaime's reasoning. True, not all of them bore the name Lannister, but several did.
In the Westerlands and the Vale, the names Lannister and Arryn were as common as the golden hair Jaime himself carried. Jon Arryn had only one sickly son, Robert, but Jaime knew that if you were looking for heirs or alliances, the noble bloodlines ran deep in these regions. The Lannisters were everywhere—ports, mines, forests, armies, fields. Perhaps not one in every ten Westerlanders, but certainly one in every thirty or forty bore the Lannister name.
There were four or five Lannisters among Jaime's personal guard alone.
Jaime turned to his Lannister personal guard and said, "You're all skilled fighters. It won't be hard for you to escape. Go, get out of here."
None of them moved. They were used to Jaime's loyalty and care for them. If their commander was captured or killed, they knew they would likely face execution back home for surviving. But Jaime no longer cared. He tossed his lance to the ground and rode his horse toward Viserys, as if he were out for a leisurely ride.
His calm demeanor was starkly different from the chaos around him—soldiers panicking, fleeing in all directions. It was as if Jaime had nothing to do with the battle, like he had wandered onto the battlefield by mistake.
Viserys quickly noticed Jaime's strange behavior. Raising a hand, he signaled his cavalry to slow down. Both sides approached each other cautiously, and when they were close enough to see each other's faces clearly, Jaime stopped his horse, dismounted, and raised his sword above his head in surrender.
Why is he surrendering? Viserys was momentarily baffled. In his mind, Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer—was either the fearless knight who would charge a dragon with a lance or the proud warrior who had slain King Aerys without bothering to defend his reputation. But surrendering so easily?
Viserys signaled to his men, and Eustace dismounted, walking up to Jaime with a sneer of disdain. He, too, was displeased by the Kingslayer's surrender. After confirming Jaime's identity, Eustace turned to Viserys.
"Your Grace, this is the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister."
"Take him away," Viserys commanded.
Jaime's surrender marked the end of the battle—a clear and decisive victory for Viserys's forces. Capturing both the Mountain and Jaime alive was a triumph, but Viserys was still puzzled by Jaime's actions. He ordered Jorah to remain behind and clear the battlefield while he escorted Jaime, accompanied by the Knights of the Dragon's Wing, to a nearby village.
The village was empty, its residents having fled long before. Rather than enter one of the rundown houses, Viserys set up a makeshift court in a relatively clean area behind one of the buildings.
"I thought the proud Kingslayer would die on the battlefield," Viserys said, studying Jaime. "Why did you surrender?"
Jaime looked up at Viserys, now standing close enough to see every feature clearly—even his deep purple eyes. For a moment, Jaime felt as though Viserys knew him intimately, though they had only met when Viserys was a child. Back then, Viserys had been just a boy, barely five or six years old. Queen Rhaella hadn't even conceived Daenerys yet.
But the man standing before him now was a complete stranger to the child Jaime remembered.
Jaime took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if sighing, and said, "I've come to make a deal with you."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the knights in black armor surrounding him erupted into laughter. A prisoner daring to propose a deal with their exalted emperor? To the nobles of Crackclaw Point, who might lack formal education but understood the absurdity of the situation, it was downright laughable.
Jaime's sapphire eyes glinted in the flickering firelight, and despite the mockery, Viserys could sense he wasn't joking.
"Go on, then," Viserys said, his voice steady. "What's the condition?"
Jaime's gaze shifted to Eustace and the others. "You don't want them to hear the details. Send them away."
Viserys glanced at Ser Brune. With a nod, Eustace led the men ten meters away, giving Jaime and Viserys some space. As the group in black armor retreated, the firelight seemed to brighten slightly, as though their departure had lifted some of the shadow. Now, both men could see each other's faces more clearly.
It was then that Jaime noticed something striking—Viserys was immaculate. His black armor and cloak were spotless, not even a speck of dust or ash clung to him, despite the chaos of the battlefield.
Jaime looked him squarely in the eyes. "When Aerys was about to lose the Usurper's War, he planned to burn King's Landing to the ground. He wanted to die with the people of the city—punishing them for their rebellion." Jaime's voice grew harder. "I couldn't save your father's life, but I saved his reputation."
Viserys remained silent, watching him intently.
"The world knows me as the Kingslayer, but they don't know that the king they honor was willing to burn tens of thousands of innocents along with him," Jaime continued, his tone measured but filled with the weight of the past. "Viserys, this is the loyalty of a Kingslayer."