c6: The Battle
The gloomy sky weighed heavily on people's hearts, an unshakeable gloom, as if the clouds themselves hung above the towers of the Red Keep like the smoke that once darkened the capital after the wildfire exploded beneath the Great Sept of Baelor at the command of Cersei Lannister.
The drizzle subsided slightly, leaving the kingsroad slick with mud that clung to hooves and boots alike, much like the road that had once carried Ned Stark south from Winterfell, unaware that King's Landing devoured the honorable.
But the enemy attack came like a sudden storm. Horses' hooves pounded the soaked earth in tight formation, not unlike the heavy cavalry charge led by Jaime Lannister in the Whispering Wood. Longswords and spears were raised high, charging straight at the carriage protected by guards bearing the crowned stag and lion sigils of the Iron Throne in the center.
All the enemies wore black cloths across their faces and had removed their family crests from their armor, just as the Faith Militant once concealed their movements in secret cells beneath the city. Their anonymity spoke of conspiracy of houses that wished to avoid the fate of Robb Stark at the Red Wedding, where banners were lowered and betrayal wore a courteous smile.
The lead knight held his lance tucked under his arm in the classic tilt of a tourney champion, the sharp tip slightly lowered, gleaming with a chilling light as he aimed at the Red Keep guards ahead. His discipline suggested training equal to that of the Kingsguard, perhaps even drilled in the yard where Jon Snow once sparred with wooden blades before riding north to the Wall.
A black cloth covered his face, revealing only a pair of hard, calculating eyes. From beneath it, a deep, muffled growl rang out, raw and frenzied like the battle cries heard during the Battle of the Bastards:
"Kill! All! The! The! They!"
Like a thunderclap.
Rumble
The next second, iron hooves thundered in, splashing through puddles, tearing apart the fragile stillness of the roadside grove. The masked attackers' purpose was very clear: they wanted to kill Queen Leila and her child, extinguishing a bloodline as ruthlessly as dynasties had fallen before when the Iron Throne changed hands.
Queen Leila and her maids were stunned by the sudden attack, not even realizing what had happened. The shock in their eyes mirrored the terror once seen in the court when Joffrey Baratheon had ordered executions on a whim.
"Enemy attack!"
Among them, the battle-hardened Sir William was the first to react. He had served long enough in the capital to remember the chaos of the riot of King's Landing, when starving smallfolk dragged knights from their saddles. Age had not dulled his instincts; if anything, it had sharpened them.
However, he had no longsword at hand his blade having been secured within the carriage moments before the rain began so he could only draw his preferred short javelin from his waist. The weapon was balanced for throwing, its shaft wrapped in leather darkened by years of sweat and rain. He aimed at the enemy charging at the front and hurled it with all his might, his stance steady despite the mud sucking at his boots.
Whoosh
The short javelin pierced the air with a whistle that cut through the din of hooves and shouted commands.
The masked knight leading the attacking force was caught off guard and struck directly in the chest by the javelin.
Thud
The javelin did not pierce the hardened breastplate clearly forged by a master smith, perhaps in the style of Tobho Mott's work but it created a deep crater in the steel, warping the metal inward.
Because the masked knight's legs were not firmly gripping his horse in the chaos of the charge, the powerful impact of the javelin disrupted his balance. Just as Ser Barristan Selmy had once unhorsed foes with precise strikes, the sudden blow threw the masked knight backward, and he was flung violently to the ground.
Thump.
Dust and wet earth billowed up as the masked knight tumbled, disoriented. His feet were tangled in the stirrups, and he was dragged several meters by his panicked horse before finally managing to wrench himself free, armor scraping loudly against stone.
The experienced cavalrymen following behind him noticed the sudden turn of events and, trained not to break formation even if their commander fell as disciplined as the Unsullied who fought for Daenerys Targaryen they bypassed the fallen 'lord' and continued their relentless charge.
Otherwise, the unfortunate knight would have been mercilessly trampled into mincemeat beneath their iron hooves, crushed as surely as the bodies piled during the sack of King's Landing.
This ambush on the kingsroad, marked by that single decisive spear, officially began the battle.
"Kill"
The sounds of steel clashing against steel instantly echoed along the road and into the surrounding woods like rolling thunder. The Red Keep's guards, who had just been resting beneath dripping trees, were caught off guard by the ferocity of the assault and immediately found themselves at a disadvantage.
Several soldiers were knocked from their feet by charging horses, while others had their throats slit before they could even rise, their blood mixing with the rainwater in the mud. The orderly escort dissolved into chaos, and beneath the shadow of the capital's distant walls, the struggle for survival unfolded with the same brutal indifference that had defined every war for the Iron Throne.
Blood splattered across the rain-soaked earth, mixing with mud the color of rust. Screams rose and fell beneath the distant shadow of the Red Keep, and some soldiers even dropped their weapons and fled into the woods in a desperate attempt to escape, just as smallfolk once fled through the alleys of King's Landing when the bells tolled surrender for Daenerys Targaryen.
However, the masked knight who had just fallen was now struggling to his feet.
His leg seemed broken, twisted unnaturally beneath dented plate, and his spear was nowhere to be seen lost in the chaos of hooves and trampling men. He used the scabbard of his longsword to support himself, limping and forcing his body upright with sheer will, like a wounded veteran of the Battle of the Trident refusing to yield the field.
His eyes held undisguised shame and anger.
For the shame of falling from his horse had haunted him for half his life.
Years ago, during a grand tourney held outside King's Landing in celebration of the crown much like the Hand's Tourney where knights once competed before Robert Baratheon he had been defeated in a team melee by a red-robed priest from Myr. The foreigner had wielded a flaming blade reminiscent of the sorcery preached by the followers of Melisandre, and the unnatural fire had startled his warhorse. Before the roaring crowd, the esteemed knight had been thrown humiliatingly from the saddle. Laughter and whispers had followed him for years afterward, staining his honor more deeply than any wound.
He had sworn never to be careless again.
And yet today, before masked men and hired blades, he had fallen once more—this time with a crack in his leg that felt final.
The masked, lame knight stood with difficulty, one hand gripping his scabbard so tightly the leather creaked. The pain in his leg was like a dull knife twisting into his flesh. Cold sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill in the air.
Yet he gritted his teeth and endured it, his expression iron-hard, his gaze sharp as a hawk's as he meticulously scanned the entire battlefield. He was no common brigand; he assessed formations, noted the disciplined regrouping of the Queen's escort, and calculated distances the way seasoned commanders had done during the Battle of the Blackwater.
He saw several Red Keep guards those directly responsible for escorting Queen Leila and Prince Viserys attempting to break through the melee and escape into the forest to regroup.
That could not be allowed.
He lifted his arm and pointed decisively despite the tremor in his muscles.
"Kill them all!"
"Don't let a single one escape!"
Before the War of the Usurper began, his family had remained neutral, wavering between loyalty to the Mad King and quiet negotiations with the rebels. They had watched as Aerys II Targaryen spiraled deeper into paranoia, and as whispers spread that Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen at the Trident.
But since the Battle of the Trident, with the royal heir slain and the rubies scattered into the river, the truth had become undeniable: the Targaryen dynasty was doomed. The family had lost faith in the Iron Throne and saw opportunity where others saw only chaos. If they delivered the heads of Queen Leila and Prince Viserys, their allegiance to the rebels would be unquestionable.
Those severed heads would be as persuasive as any oath sworn before the Seven.
Yet for reasons more intricate and dangerous than mere ambition, they could not reveal their identities. Should the tides of war shift again, anonymity would be their shield.
Therefore, at the Lame Knight's command, several masked "bandits" disciplined riders whose coordination betrayed noble training broke away from the main clash without hesitation.
Rumble…
Hooves thundered, churning the mud as they wheeled their destriers with practiced precision. Blood-stained longswords glinted in their gauntleted fists.
Whoosh
Without hesitation, they spurred their mounts through tangled undergrowth and plunged into the forest. Branches snapped beneath armored shoulders as they rode down fleeing guards. Their aim was merciless: eliminate every witness, leave no survivors, and ensure no word of this ambush reached the capital.
"Very good," the Lame Knight muttered, nodding in grim satisfaction.
Then a sharp wave of agony surged up his shattered leg. His jaw clenched, facial muscles twitching violently, and he tightened his grip on his sword hilt to steady himself. For a heartbeat, blackness crept into the edges of his vision, but he refused to fall again.
Though the royal army was riddled with corruption and divided loyalties, the Red Keep's guards remained elite. Chosen from hardened veterans and drilled within the castle yard beneath the gaze of seasoned masters-at-arms, they were no rabble. Caught off guard by the surprise assault, they had suffered immediate and brutal losses. Yet once their shock faded, their discipline reasserted itself.
In a sudden counterattack led by one of the Red Keep's instructors a knight whose blade work echoed the efficiency once displayed by Barristan Selmy several masked cavalrymen were dragged from their saddles. One lost his head in a single, clean stroke, blood fountaining high before splattering across the churned ground.
"Protect Her Majesty the Queen!"
A middle-aged man with slightly curly hair, armor soaked in blood not all his own, seized the reins of a riderless warhorse. With desperate agility he scrambled onto its back, pressing low against the animal's neck to avoid incoming blades. Sword in hand, he guided the horse through narrow gaps between charging mounts, dodging thrusts and hacking steel with practiced precision.
Then, in one fluid motion, he rose slightly in the saddle and drew his blade across an attacker's throat.
The cut was deep and fatal.
The enemy toppled backward, and the startled horse bolted, dragging the corpse by a tangled stirrup toward the woods, leaving a crimson trail in the mud.
Prince Viserys, clutching Sir William's sword with trembling fingers, stood frozen amid the carnage.
He understood, dimly, what was happening understood that this was no random bandit raid but a calculated extermination. Yet his legs felt like iron weights chained to the earth. He could only stare as steel flashed and men fell around him.
The piercing screams, the copper stench of blood, the sight of severed heads rolling across the road like discarded helms each image carved itself into his memory, just as tales of the sack of King's Landing had once haunted survivors.
Then he saw it
A terrified warhorse, eyes wide and white with panic, dragging the limp body of a slain attacker straight toward him.
Viserys' mind jolted back into focus.
If that horse struck him, he would be crushed beneath iron-shod hooves before he ever had the chance to claim a crown.
He fought down the terror clawing at his throat. His fingers tightened on Sir William's sword, though he barely knew how to wield it. Somewhere within him, pride flared the last ember of a dragon's bloodline refusing to die in the mud.
His heavy legs trembled.
Then, just as the panicked horse thundered within a heartbeat of collision
he hurled himself sideways, crashing into the wet grass as the beast roared past where he had stood moments before.
...