ARC I: THE AGE OF ASCENSION AND ROBERT'S REBELLION
Chapter 4: The Rescue of the Royal Blood
POV: Willam Dustin (282 AC)
The rhythmic beating of hooves against the packed earth and the metallic clamor of thousands of marching men echoed like constant thunder along the roads of the Crownlands. To any outside observer, the sound would be the harbinger of the end of an era. The Battle of the Trident had passed like a whirlwind of blood and mud; the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, had been struck down by Robert Baratheon's warhammer, his precious rubies scattered across the river waters. Now, only King's Landing remained. Only the Mad King remained, cornered in his fortress of thorns, awaiting the blow of mercy.
I rode in the vanguard, keeping a firm grip on the reins. My eyes, however, constantly drifted toward the figure leading our contingent: King Arawyn Stark.
Looking at that boy was, for me, a painful exercise in memory. My mind frequently drifted back to simpler times, gray days when Brandon Stark and I would race our horses over the hills near Winterfell, laughing as the biting wind whipped our faces. And, inevitably, the ghost of Barbrey Ryswell would surface in my thoughts. I had always been hopelessly in love with her—with her haughtiness, with the fire that burned in her brown eyes. But Barbrey had preferred the wild wolf, the charismatic and impetuous Brandon, leaving the quiet heir of Barrowton with a melancholy silence in his chest.
When she became pregnant from that forbidden and intense love, before the madness of the Targaryens consumed the peace of the realm, the North whispered of scandals. I, however, was probably the only person genuinely happy with the news in the Barrowlands. In the silence of my quarters, I swore to myself that I would spend my life fighting to protect their child—the living embodiment of the woman I loved and the friend I considered a brother. And now, there I was, fulfilling my promise. But Brandon and Barbrey were not here to see what their son had become.
Our march toward King's Landing was no celebration of victory; it was a desperate race against the clock. Our young king, touched by gifts that defied the understanding of ordinary men, had seen the bleak fate awaiting the capital. He knew exactly what Tywin Lannister intended to do to the city and the innocents hiding behind its stone walls.
At the front of the army, Robert Baratheon rode alongside Arawyn, Ned Stark, and Jon Arryn. The face of the Lord of Storm's End was contorted in a grimace of pain; the wounds received at the Trident still bled beneath the bandages, but hatred and a thirst for vengeance were the fuels that kept him firmly mounted, refusing to hold any banner of truce that was not stained with the blood of dragons.
## The Harbinger of the Lion
When the imposing and chaotic silhouette of King's Landing finally loomed on the horizon against the gray late-afternoon sky, a shiver ran down my spine. Black smoke was already beginning to rise from distant towers. The city's great gates stood wide open, and the gleaming gold and crimson columns of the Western army were already flooding the streets like a plague of locusts. The king's warning was unfolding before our eyes: the Lannister betrayal had begun.
"Lord Dustin! Great Jon!" The childlike voice, yet heavy with a frigid authority, cut through the sound of hooves.
Arawyn pulled the reins of his horse without losing his marching rhythm, calling us close. I approached quickly, flanked by the immense Jon Umber, whose mere physical presence seemed to occupy the space of three knights.
"My king," I replied immediately, straightening my posture. "My sword is at your service, as is my life."
"The same goes for me, boy!" the Great Jon bellowed with a fierce grin that bared his crooked teeth, though his eyes remained serious. "Tell us who we need to crush."
Arawyn looked at both of us. His eyes seemed like two slits of ancient ice, utterly devoid of hesitation.
"Tywin Lannister did not come just to sack the city's gold," the little king said, his voice low and sharp so the other southern leaders would not overhear. "He sent Ser Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane, along with a troop of his cruelest men, with a direct order: to assassinate Princess Elia Martell and her children, Aegon and Rhaenys. They plan to commit a monstrosity that will stain the history of Westeros forever. Your mission is to enter the Red Keep before the bulk of the Lannister army takes the castle. You must prevent this. Save the princess and the children."
The gravity of that order weighed heavily on my shoulders. It was not merely a rescue mission; it was the salvation of Dorne's royal blood, an act that could completely alter the political balance after the fall of Aerys.
Before I could ask about the way, Arawyn extended his left arm. From the ashen sky, descending in a silent and flawless glide, a massive owl with snow-white plumage landed on his leather-clad wrist. The bird's eyes were a vibrant, almost intelligent yellow.
"Follow it," Arawyn commanded. "It will guide you through paths the Lannisters have not yet discovered, straight to the royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast. Now, go. There is no time to lose."
## The Chaos of King's Landing
We split from the main army. While Eddard Stark took command of the northern troops to force entry through the main gates, clearing the path alongside the few men from the other rebel forces who could still march quickly and fight, the Great Jon, myself, and three chosen warriors of the Black Guard launched ourselves forward.
As we crossed through the lower passes of the city, the scene was hell on earth. Our king's vision had not exaggerated in the slightest. The men of the West, under the pretext of liberating the city for Robert, acted like demons. We saw crimson armor dragging women into alleys, shops being torched, and common citizens being put to the sword as they begged for mercy.
In the distance, Ned Stark's voice echoed, giving the severe order that Arawyn had predetermined:
> *"Kill everyone who is raping, pillaging, or abusing the defenseless, as well as anyone who dares to resist!"*
>
But we could not stop to clean up the streets. Our focus was on the white bird gliding above us. The owl moved with surgical precision, descending through dark alleys, defunct sewage passages, and crevices in the rock of Aegon's High Hill. Thanks to that mystical guide, we advanced through the bowels of the capital without encountering any contingent of the Western army or the City Watch that could delay our march.
We entered the Red Keep through a hidden postern, an emergency entrance camouflaged by overgrown vegetation at the base of the cliff. As soon as we stepped into the castle's internal stone corridors, the smell of blood and smoke grew even thicker. Here, the resistance had already been broken. We found the first bodies of fallen Targaryen guards, but we also began bumping into Lannister patrols.
"Lion's men!" growled the Great Jon, lifting his immense greatsword.
The combat was swift. Although we were outnumbered, the superiority of the men of the North was overwhelming. Our defenses seemed to absorb the blows with ease, mitigating the impact of enemy blades, and our counterattacks were brutal. However, what caught my attention most was the behavior of the enemy soldiers. In the midst of the exchange of blows, the Lannister soldiers seemed to lose focus for no apparent reason. Their eyes blinked, and they suffered minor blackouts of weakness, lowering their guard for crucial seconds. It was as if an invisible force were locking their minds from a distance. We did not waste these openings; every enemy hesitation resulted in a slit throat or a pierced chest.
## The Confrontation in Maegor's Holdfast
We climbed the staircases toward the royal apartments. The sound of women's screams and the thud of heavy boots indicated we were close. In the corridor leading to the Dornish princess's rooms, the carnage was absolute. Dornish guards, brought by Elia for her personal protection, lay dead in pools of blood, having fought to their last breath. Some Lannister soldiers were taking advantage of the chaos to violate the maids and servants trying to flee.
"Cowardly monsters!" the Great Jon roared, charging forward like an enraged bull.
The three guards of the Black Guard accompanying us moved like the winter wind itself. Their blades rose and fell with a mechanical, merciless efficiency. The attackers did not even have time to beg for their lives; they were slaughtered like animals in a slaughterhouse, their bodies left behind as we smashed open the main door to Elia Martell's quarters.
As I kicked through the carved wood, the scene revealed inside the room made my blood freeze and, immediately after, boil with pure hatred.
The high ceiling of the chamber seemed small before the massive silhouette of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides. The nearly eight-foot-tall monster held little baby Aegon in one of his gigantic hands, ready to dash the child's head against the stone wall.
But something supernatural happened at that exact millisecond.
Gregor Clegane's eyes, usually filled with a blind and sadistic fury, suddenly turned cloudy, opaque, as if a gray mist had invaded his mind. His immense hands trembled. In a movement completely incompatible with his brutal nature, the creature hesitated. Under the invisible, subtle command that seemed to emanate from beyond, the Mountain slowly lowered his arm and placed the baby back into the wooden cradle with a bizarre, mechanical gentleness.
Soon after, the trance seemed to break. Gregor shook his head violently, letting out a bellow of confusion and rage as he realized he had failed to carry out his original intent. He turned with bloodshot eyes toward Princess Elia, who lay on the floor, her clothes torn, her body bare, and a violent purple bruise from a blow on her left cheek.
In the other corner of the room, Ser Amory Lorch held little Princess Rhaenys, only six years old, beneath his iron-clad feet. The man seemed paralyzed, focused on watching what his monstrous companion was doing, a sadistic smile etched onto his thin lips.
There was no need for words or commands between myself and Jon Umber. Our northern instincts spoke louder.
"Lorch is mine!" the Great Jon bellowed, lunging at the knight like the heraldic giant from his own house's sigil.
I, for my part, gritted my teeth and charged directly at the path of destruction that was Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain reacted quickly, raising his immense two-handed greatsword with terrifying speed for his size. The first impact of our blades sent vibrations shuddering through my arms all the way to my shoulders. Even relying on the protective magic enveloping my gear, which dispersed part of the kinetic energy in small flashes of light, that man's raw strength was truly staggering. I was at no obvious physical advantage; a single well-placed blow from that cursed sword could part me in two, regardless of my protections.
Gregor Clegane had always relied on his size and raw strength to crush his opponents, fighting like an enraged bull. But I was a lord of the North. I had been trained my whole life in the worst possible conditions, beneath the cold that stiffens muscles and demands maximum precision. I did not consider myself the greatest master swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, but I was fast, technical, and driven by a righteous fury.
The exchange of blows between us occurred with deadly speed. I ducked and wove, using footwork to circle the giant and attacking the joints of his heavy armor. Behind me, the sound of the other struggle was cut short by a sharp cry of pure terror, followed instantly by the gurgling sound of someone choking on their own blood. I did not need to look back to know the outcome: the Great Jon had finished his work, gutting Amory Lorch without the slightest mercy.
Upon realizing his ally's death, the Mountain lost his focus for a fraction of a second, shifting his gaze toward Lorch's fallen body. That opening was all I needed. I lunged forward with a swift thrust, ripping through the chainmail beneath Gregor's armpit and sending dark blood pooling down his flank.
The monster bellowed in pain, but before he could deliver a retaliatory strike against me, the shadow of the Great Jon Umber loomed beside me.
"Let's bring this mountain of shit down together, Willam!" Jon shouted, bringing his sword down with all his might onto the giant's shoulder.
Fighting together, we overwhelmed Gregor Clegane completely. Individually he was a terrifying threat, but surrounded by two determined lords of the North, his raw strength became useless. Jon Umber delivered a devastating blow that pierced the armor on Gregor's chest, sending the colossus stumbling to his knees, breathless. Seizing the exact moment of his fall, I pivoted my body and, with a clean and powerful strike, swept my blade across the monster's neck.
Gregor Clegane's head rolled across the stone floor of the royal apartments, his eyes still fixed in an expression of surprise and eternal hatred. The immense body collapsed forward, staining the sumptuous carpet with a river of crimson blood.
The Great Jon let out a booming laugh, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his free hand.
"Look at him... doesn't look so big now, does he?" mocked the Umber, kicking the dead creature's helm.
## The Rescue and the Balance of the War
I couldn't bring myself to laugh. I sheathed my sword and quickly moved toward the corner of the room. Princess Elia Martell had crawled to the cradle during the climax of the fight, clutching baby Aegon tightly to her chest while trying to shield little Rhaenys beneath her own trembling body. Her dark eyes were wide with pure terror, staring at us as if we were merely a new faction of executioners.
I approached slowly, kneeling to eye level so as not to appear threatening.
"Do not worry, princess," I said, keeping my voice as calm and steady as possible. "I am Willam Dustin, Lord of Barrowton. This big man here is the Great Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth. We are from the North."
Elia was still sobbing softly, shrinking back.
"Did you... come to kill us?" she whispered, her voice failing her.
"No, my lady," I replied, extending an open hand in a gesture of peace. "Our king, Arawyn Stark, foresaw through his magic what would happen here today. He sent us specifically to rescue you and ensure the safety of your children. The monsters who came to take your lives are dead."
Upon hearing my words, the terror in her eyes began to give way to a bewildered incredulity, but she accepted my outstretched hand, rising with difficulty. I looked at her naked body, but without a single shred of lust; I saw only the scratches and brutal bruises left by the Mountain's initial assault. Feeling a profound indignation for what that noble lady had suffered, I quickly untied the gray cloak I wore on my shoulders and handed it to her, helping her cover herself.
At the same time, the Great Jon approached little Princess Rhaenys. Despite his terrifying size, the Umber was surprisingly gentle, lifting the six-year-old girl into his arms as if she were made of glass. Rhaenys hid her tearful face in the giant's neck, exhausted by fear.
"I'm going to see how things look outside," I told Jon, walking toward the shattered door. There had been at least thirty Lannister soldiers in the outer courtyard and corridors when we entered, and I feared we might be surrounded.
However, upon stepping into the corridor, the scene I found was almost surreal. The three warriors of the Black Guard stood tall, calmly wiping down their weapons with pieces of linen cloth. Around them, the hallway was littered with the lifeless bodies of all the Western men who had tried to take that wing of the castle. Not one of them had managed to so much as scratch our soldiers' defenses.
The white owl that had guided us there appeared once more, gliding down from the ceiling and landing softly on the sill of an internal window. In its beak, it carried a small rolled piece of paper.
I approached and took the message. The note bore the firm handwriting of our young king. It read simply:
> *"Things have been resolved at the main gates and the lower courtyard. Proceed to the throne room with the survivors. There were no casualties in this operation."*
>
I read the paper twice, astonished. No casualties.
As I led the group back through the corridors, now shielding Elia and her children in the center of our formation, I began to reflect on that latest piece of news and on the entire military campaign we had waged since the Neck.
In all, the North had suffered fewer than two thousand casualties throughout the entirety of Robert's Rebellion. It was an absurdly low number for a conflict of that magnitude, which had shattered royalist armies and toppled a three-hundred-year-old dynasty. Thinking back, most of those losses had occurred in the early battles at the start of the conflict. Back then, many of our soldiers, marveled and made arrogant by the power and protection Arawyn's magic granted them, had acted with hubris. They deemed themselves utterly invincible, making foolish tactical errors and charging open-chested against entire phalanxes of spears, discovering the hard way that while magic protected the body, it did not prevent death if a man was stupid enough to let himself be surrounded by a hundred enemies at once.
After the king corrected that arrogance with an iron fist, the northern army had become a flawless, unstoppable war machine.
Now, we walked with firm strides toward the heart of the Red Keep. I could hear the distant echo of cries of surrender and the tapering off of the sack outside. My immediate mission was fulfilled, but the true political test would begin now. I would cross the doors of the throne room, keep my hand on the pommel of my sword, and ensure that no one—not even Robert Baratheon in his blind fury against the Targaryens, and least of all Tywin Lannister with his boundless ambition—touched Elia Martell and her children. The North had spoken, and the royal blood was under our protection.