Aelor Targaryen was going to die.
He’d managed to dodge out of the way of the monstrous assassin’s initial blow, the wind from the blade cutting through the air brushing against his cheek like a gale.
Aelor barely had time to even step back, bringing his sword and shield up, before the giant was bringing his blade down overhead like an axe, intent on splitting the Targaryen’s skull.
Aelor jumped to the left, the giant’s blade digging into the smoothed stone of the nursery’s floor, and swung his own sword at the big man’s unprotected side.
How the giant was quick enough to bring his massive sword up in time to block him the Dragon Prince would never know, the beast’s blade knocking the Prince’s aside and his opposite fist, the size of a small castle, grazing the point of Aelor’s chin.
The Dragon of Duskendale staggered back, ears ringing and vision reduced to stars.
Only the unbalanced manner in which the giant had landed the blow paired with the fact that it hadn’t connected fully saved every bone in the Prince’s face from being broken.
If the assassin had managed to land the hit clean Aelor had no doubt it would have shattered every bone it touched, and most likely would have killed him then and there.
It was then it became clear to Aelor that he could not beat this… thing .
It was oddly peaceful, accepting one’s death.
The giant roared, a guttural sound so frighteningly unhuman that Aelor wondered if this, not Warrior and himself, was what the embodiment of the Stranger looked like.
He swung again, Aelor seeing through the stars just enough to manage to dodge aside.
The Prince never even had time to go on the offensive, the stupidly long blade of his killer already whistling in towards his side, Aelor bringing his shield up instinctively.
Aelor was no small man himself, tall and broad shouldered, but he might as well have been the size of one of the many dolls he had gifted Rhaenys.
When the mountain of a man’s blade hit the shield, it barely even stopped the swing’s momentum.
Aelor Targaryen went flying, armor and all, like a stone from a catapult, slamming into the wall of the nursery with a clank of steel plate on stone before hitting the ground in a heap.
Aelor suddenly realized how much everything hurt.
His face hurt, the blood still flowing from his wound and his chin throbbing.
His right arm hurt, fatigued from the strength it exerted to both swing and drive through enemy armor.
His left arm hurt now too, from fingertip to elbow, his shield nearly sheared in two, the top half hanging onto the bottom only by a few slivers of wood and bent steel.
Hell, his whole body hurt, from head to toe.
Aelor couldn’t find it in himself to care.
No amount of the bloodlust or battle rage he had felt only minutes before was present, and even if it was, it couldn’t have helped him.
All he felt was pain.
Hell, he didn’t even know where his sword was.
Well shit.
Knights are supposed to die with their swords in their hand.
Aelor supposed that didn’t really matter.
No one was going to sing a story about him, the Dragon who had his ass handed to him by a man with dogs on his surcoat.
Gods, dogs ?
Why couldn’t his sigil be a tiger or a direwolf, something fearsome ?
Aelor recognized his thoughts as the ramblings of a disconcerted, dying man.
That was all well and good, because that was exactly what he was.
The mountain of a man stopped in front of the heaped pile of a Prince, raising his sword the size of Westeros and aiming it at the Dragon’s head with a smile.
Aelor met his eyes, willing himself even in his stupor to meet his death head on.
And then a sword burst out of the mountainous assassin’s neck, angled upwards.
The giant dropped his own blade, the greatsword clattering to the ground at Aelor’s feet while its once-wielder clawed at the blade that had cut his throat.
With a sickening slosh the blade was withdrawn, only to reappear a moment later slicing through the flesh at the back of the giant’s legs, sending the beast to his knees.
Aelor still didn’t know who was behind the saving blade, for the monster before him was tall even when cut down to half his normal size.
The first hack dug into the side of the dog’s neck, cutting flesh and tendon, but the giant animal still struggled, pulling a dirk from his belt and reaching for Aelor even as he choked on his own blood.
The second hack dug deeper, the third even more so, slowing the giant hand reaching to end the Lord of Duskendale’s life.
It took several more, Aelor watching in grim astonishment as the mountainous man fought on despite a wound that would have killed most long ago, before a final swipe severed the animal’s head, sending it bouncing across the nursery floor like a child’s ball. This chapter was taken from novelping dot com without permission.
The body of the assassin protested death for a moment longer, its hands still trying to grasp the battered Prince before them, before it finally toppled like a falling elm to the bloody stone.
Aelor stared at the corpse for a long moment, mind still hazy, face still throbbing, before he finally looked up at the soul that had saved him.
When the face registered through his addled brain, Aelor knew he had to be dreaming.
There in the nursery, sword bloody and black armor shining, stood Rhaegar Targaryen, a sad smile on his face.
…
The Sack of King’s Landing had to have been one of the most perplexing battles in the history of Westeros.
Aelor had been there, and even he was confused.
Twelve thousand Westermen had descended onto the light defended capital, gaining the gates through deception.
The door to the city had no sooner been opened then the true intent of the Lions became clear, the guards being cut down before the mass pillaging of the City of Dragons began.
Women were raped, innocents slaughtered, gold and other valuables taken; half of Flea Bottom had gone up in flames, the cries of hundreds of smallfolk filling the grey sky as they burned in the filthy slum they called home.
And then another force had arrived, bearing the warring white dragons of Prince Aelor, smashing into the disorganized Westerman with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer.
The massacre had turned from that of civilians to soldiers, many being caught literally with their pants around their ankles, pulled off of the women they were raping and disemboweled, their lifeblood flowing around their stiffened members to form great crimson puddles.
Many of the Westermen were so committed to the utter chaos they were wracking that they never knew they were being attacked before it was too late.
Infantry under Lord Randyll Tarly of the Westmarch had followed, many rushing through the gates to assist the cavalry of Prince Aelor in ridding the capital of lions while others formed there, cutting down any Lannister who tried to flee.
Some Western lords managed to rally retainers and attempt breakouts at each of the gates, but the men of the Reach, unbloodied so far in the war, held firm, keeping the lions in their cage.
What rattled most about the battle wasn’t the quick changes in momentum, however.
What rattled most was the presence of two Targaryen Princes.
Aelor, Lord of Duskendale and second son of the king, had rode through the Mud Gate first, in the minds of the citizens cutting bloody swaths alongside Barristan the Bold and his best knights on their way to the Red Keep, through sheer brilliance anticipating Lord Tywin’s move and arriving to thwart the lion.
Rhaegar, Lord of Dragonstone and heir to the Throne, had ridden through the King’s Gate alone, cutting his own path through the carnage towards the same destination.
To many he had appeared as a God, returning from his self-imposed exile in time to save the city of his birth with his brother.
Only the two men in question knew what utter gibberish all of it was.