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_________
"How can I win this war, get Uncle Stannis back, and complete my bullshit of a quest?" The future king thought to himself before hurriedly deflecting an overhead blow. "Fuck! I need to focus!
He quickly followed it up with a fast swipe to his uncle's head with his training sword, but the older man dodged it just as it seemed it was about to land.
"Jeez, this dude just won't let me land a hit." He narrowed his eyes behind the blindfold.
They began circling each other, looking for any openings or weak points to take advantage of, which he found plenty of, but his own body was still too slow to exploit them the way he wanted.
Unless he used the flakes, of course, but this was a spar, not a fight to the death.
A growing crowd of knights, squires, servants, and smallfolk had gathered at the edge of the training yard, drawn in by the sound of steel and the unmistakable presence of the Blessed Prince.
They watched in stunned silence at first, then with rising murmurs of awe and disbelief as the two fighters fought with unmatched skill.
It was, in a word, a beautiful and deadly dance.
The prince's movements were fluid and precise; his skills with the sword were superior to even seasoned knights, men hardened by decades of war and battle.
Jaime, the Kingslayer himself, kept up with the prince with ease. Matching the prince blow for blow, but neither one was gaining ground.
"Just wait until I beef up, because when I do, I'm going to fold your ass with ease." He thought to himself, he was far from pleased with how utterly inadequate his body proved to be.
Their training swords flashed in the morning sun, meeting and parting in a rhythm that looked almost choreographed, yet every clash carried real danger.
"You almost had me there, my prince~!" Jaime called out, a confident smile on his lips even as sweat beaded on his brow. "Almost!"
His uncle's eyes and aura, however, told a different story; the dude was taking this spar a lot more seriously than he was letting on.
"Hm," The prince hummed lightly in response and stepped forward again, testing his uncle's guard with a quick combination of strikes. "He fights so weird…"
Steel sang while the crowd gasped as the two went at it with skill far above the average knight.
"The prince is keeping up with the Kingslayer!"
"I bet five silvers on the Prince!"
"By the gods, he fights like he was born with a blade in his hand!"
Were some of the whispers that rippled through the onlookers.
Smallfolk crossed themselves with the seven-pointed star. Knights watched with narrowed eyes as they gripped their own swords, while others were openly astonished.
The prince ignored the growing audience, his focus locked on Jaime. He could feel the weight of every stare and see all the emotions radiating off them, but it did little to make him lose his concentration.
"Alright, let's try it this way."
He feinted left, then drove in with a low cut aimed at his uncle's thigh. Jaime deflected it smoothly and riposted with a thrust that would have pierced a lesser opponent's chest.
"Nope."
The boy twisted at the last second, the tip of Jaime's blade slicing only air.
"Not bad," Jaime admitted, breathing harder now. "You truly are getting better, my prince. That blow definitely would've landed the last time we fought."
The prince allowed himself a small smile as he raised his training sword once again.
They clashed again, harder this time. The training swords cracked together with enough force to send vibrations up both their arms.
The crowd let out a collective gasp of amazement as the two continued their intense sparring. They watched as the prince's frame moved with unnatural grace and precision, while Jaime's experience, instinct, and raw skill kept him one step ahead.
The prince pressed forward once more, launching a flurry of strikes that forced Jaime onto the defensive for several heartbeats.
When he first started his training with the sword, his uncle was able to handle his blows with ease, but now?
The man was forced to back some steps as he focused on blocking and deflecting every strike, lest he wished to let a boy, blessed or not, best him.
"Struggling to keep up, uncle?" The boy asked mid swing, his lips in a smile.
"Ha! You wish!" Came the quick reply.
For a brief moment, it looked like the boy might actually land a clean hit, until Jaime suddenly got his second wind to be on the offensive with a laugh that was half admiration, half challenge.
The crowd erupted into cheers and gasps, the sound rolling across the yard like thunder as they watched this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
The future king and the Kingslayer circled again, eyes locked in mutual respect and burning competitive fire, training swords held steady, the sun glinting off the blunted steel.
The crowd had grown even larger now, causing knights, squires, servants, and smallfolk to press shoulder to shoulder, their murmurs rising like the buzz of a hive.
The prince's breath came steady, muscles burning from the prolonged effort. Every spar with Jaime pushed his limits further and improved his skills in combat by leaps and bounds.
He could feel the flakes humming faintly at the edge of his awareness, tempting him to draw on them for that extra burst of speed or power. He coldly ignored it; however, now wasn't the time.
Jaime's golden hair was damp with sweat, his usual smirk replaced by focused intensity. The king's guard was no longer playing. His every strike carried real weight now, and every parry was calculated to test rather than coddle.
"You're improving faster than any squire or knight I've ever seen," Jaime admitted, voice low enough for only the prince to hear. "But you still telegraph your moves too much whenever you attack, you should fix that~."
The prince answered with action.
He lunged forward in a sudden burst of motion, blade whipping toward Jaime's midsection in a tight arc.
Jaime twisted aside and countered with a sweeping overhead strike.
The prince caught it on his own sword, the impact jarring his arms, then spun inside the guard, aiming a quick slash at his uncle's ribs.
Steel met steel again and again in a rapid exchange.
"Twenty silvers on the Kingslayer!"
Clang!
"That's a fool's bet!"
Clang!
"You dare doubt your future King!?"
Clang!
"Beat his ass, your grace!"
The prince pressed the attack, his body moving with power and speed. For several seconds, it looked like he might finally break through, until Jaime suddenly shifted his weight unexpectedly, parried with a powerful twist of his sword, and drove forward with renewed ferocity.
The two blades locked together in a brutal bind, both fighters pushing with everything they had. The prince's arms trembled from the strain, but he refused to yield an inch.
Then, in perfect unison, they disengaged and struck at the same moment.
There was a loud gasp from the crowds as everyone witnessed what was most likely the final exchange.
The prince's training sword flashed toward Jaime's throat.
Jaime's blade whipped up at the exact same instant, stopping a hair's breadth from the prince's neck.
Both swords froze at once.
The tips hovered motionless, each pointed directly at the other's throat.
Dead silence fell over the yard.
Neither fighter moved as sweat dripped from their faces. Their breathing was the only sound for several long heartbeats.
Then Jaime's lips curved into a genuine, impressed smile.
"Shall we call this a draw?" his uncle announced, voice carrying clearly across the stunned crowd.
"I don't see why not." He responded in kind, smiling back at Jaime.
The prince lowered his sword at the same moment Jaime did. He exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his shoulders as he gave his uncle a respectful nod.
"Well fought, my prince~" The older Lannister offered his hand for a shake, which he happily took.
"You're not half bad yourself, old man." That got a laugh out of his uncle.
Then the yard erupted.
Cheers exploded from every corner, knights slamming gauntlets against breastplates, smallfolk shouting praises to the Seven, young squires staring with open-mouthed awe.
The sound rolled like thunder across the training grounds.
"The boy matched the Kingslayer!"
"The gods truly blessed him!"
"You made me a rich man today, my prince!!"
The prince stood still for a moment, letting the noise wash over him while he caught his breath.
His body ached, but there was a deep satisfaction beneath the exhaustion. Every spar with Jaime made him sharper, stronger, closer to being ready for what waited across the sea and for the life ahead of him.
Jaime stepped closer and clapped a hand on his armored shoulder, his expression warm.
"That's enough for today! All of you can go back to wherever it is you all do! The show's over!" His uncle ordered, much to the people's dismay.
They began to move as the excited crowd slowly began to disperse, done with their morning training. His uncle offered him water, which he gratefully took and greedily gulped down.
"You're going to be terrifying one day, my prince. Keep this up, and I might have to start worrying for your enemies instead!" His uncle was completely serious when he said this, and he didn't need the six eyes to know that.
The prince allowed himself a small, tired smirk beneath his blindfold as they slowly began making their way up to the wall.
"Good, because when we face that kraken, I'm going to need every edge I can get."
Jaime's expression sobered for a moment, but he quickly masked it with another cocky grin.
They passed by guards who were returning from their watch, and they greeted him respectfully as they passed by.
He returned their greeting but quickly bid them farewell; he was so over all the bowing and groveling.
They climbed the narrow stone steps of the watchtower together, the morning sun climbing higher and warming the cold morning air.
The prince's body still burned from the spar, but the ache was just the weakness leaving the body, or so his father said. Jaime walked beside him with that easy, post-spar looseness, occasionally tossing out idle commentary about his footwork or improvements he made.
"You're starting to anticipate my ripostes better," Jaime remarked casually as they reached the top. "But you still drop your left shoulder when you commit, and you lean too much on your left leg when charging. Fix that before someone actually tries to kill you."
The prince snorted, leaning against the parapet and looking out over the rolling hills and distant treeline. "Noted, anything else?"
"Stop holding back?"
Oh, so his uncle knew, cool.
"Not unless you want to be buried, uncle~"
They fell into comfortable small talk as they took their turn on watch. The prince had insisted on pulling shifts like any other man in the host, not sitting idle in the lord's solar while everyone else prepared for war.
Plus, it gave him the excuse to get out of the boring meetings that not even Jon of all people wanted to take part in.
And the dude practically lived twenty-four-seven in meetings! You can thank Robert for that.
Jaime had grumbled at first, but eventually accepted it, probably because it gave him an excuse to keep an eye on him on his mother's orders.
"So," the prince continued, scanning the horizon mostly out of habit, "what should I make for lunch today? I'm thinking something hearty. Maybe roasted boar with that garlic-herb crust the men liked last time. Or I could do that spicy stew again, though last time half the camp was sweating like they were in a desert."
These medieval folks could not handle the spicy dishes, which were his personal favorites. It was hilarious to watch, though, seeing them struggle to handle the most even, tame dish he made just for them, certainly brought a smile to his face.
Jaime chuckled, arms crossed as he leaned beside him. "Personally, I vote for anything that isn't more fried chicken. Though I greatly enjoyed it, I've had enough of it to last a lifetime."
Yeah, his dad really loved fried chicken and practically ordered him to cook it for him whenever he could…
He should introduce his old man to buffalo wings! That would be so fun! The old man was either going to love it or hate it; either way, hell yeah to buffalo wings!
"I have the per-" The prince opened his mouth to reply when his words died mid-sentence.
"What is that…?"
Far, far in the distance, something caught his attention. A flicker of movement among the trees, too deliberate to be wildlife.
Jaime noticed the sudden silence immediately.
"Is something the matter, my prince?" He asked, his green eyes narrowed in worry.
The prince didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached up and swiftly untied the crimson blindfold, letting it fall around his neck.
His divine blue eyes, shimmering with the endless depths, snapped open and focused with terrifying intensity toward the far distant forest, farther than the human eye could ever hope to see.
The world sharpened and slowed as he focused.
A large group of Ironborn, at least two or three hundred strong, moving silently through the trees in loose formation.
Their auras burned with murderous intent, dark, violent reds and blacks swirling around them like smoke. They were armed for battle, moving with the stealth of experienced raiders.
He pushed harder, ignoring the immediate spike of pain behind his eyes.
Even further ahead, deeper in the forest, another group, about the same size, trailed ahead of the first group. They, too, were heading in the same direction.
He found several more groups, all of them separated from each other, but all were heading in the same direction.
Toward…?
He focused even more; the headache blooming into something vicious and skull-splitting, like hot needles driven into his brain. His vision tunneled, pushing past the limits of normal sight, past the treeline, across miles of rolling land and rivers.
There!
An army marching steadily toward them, banners snapping in the wind.
Grey direwolf on white, belonging to the Starks.
The prince put it together in an instant. The Ironborn were moving to intercept or ambush the Northern forces before they could link up with Robert's main army.
"How did they get go unkno-" He yanked his focus back, gasping as the overwhelming strain hit him all at once.
The headache was blinding now, a white-hot migraine that made his knees buckle.
"Your grace!" Jaime moved fast, catching him before he could stumble backward.
Strong arms wrapped around his torso, steadying him as his legs momentarily gave out.
"Easy," Jaime said soothingly, voice tight with worry. He lowered them both to one knee, supporting his nephew's weight. "What did you see? Talk to me."
The prince leaned heavily against his uncle, one hand pressed to his temple as the world spun. His divine eyes were still open, glowing faintly with power, but the pain made it hard to focus.
"I-Ironborn…" he managed through gritted teeth. "At least ten groups of three hundred men, heading straight for the Stark army. They're going to hit them before they reach us."
Jaime's grip tightened; his usual playful demeanor was completely gone.
"The Ironborn attacking?" he muttered, already looking out toward the horizon as if he could see what the prince had seen. "Why would they do something so foolish? What would they gain from this?"
"I don't know," the prince hissed, forcing himself to breathe through the agony. "But we need to move. Now."
Jaime held him steady, concern etched deep into his face as the future king fought to stay conscious through the worst headache of his young life.
"Fuck, hopefully killing people won't traumatize too much."
__________
Ned Stark was exhausted by war, bone-deep, soul-weary, yet the brutal truth settled over him like ash.
War would never truly end.
It would only settle, catch its breath, and rise again.
Ned Stark rode at the head of his army, the cold wind cutting through his cloak as it carried with it the scent of pine and damp earth. The forest closed in around them, tall and loud, its shadows stretching long across the path as horse and steel pressed onward.
With every step, they drew nearer to where the king awaited.
Life had calmed significantly since Robert's Rebellion ended, allowing him time to recover, but it seems war wasn't done with him.
Though he had never wanted to be Lord of Winterfell, he became lord all the same. That title, that duty, had been meant for his brother, loud, brave, reckless Brandon.
Ned had only ever wanted to serve as a loyal second son, perhaps to live quietly or even return to the Vale. Instead, the gods, or fate, or Robert's war had thrust the North onto his shoulders.
Slowly, but surely, he was settling in his role as lord of Winterfell.
The years since the rebellion had brought a kind of peace. The North was yielding a good harvest, his people were properly fed, winter had not yet come in earnest, and his children were growing strong and healthy, becoming the light of his life.
Robb with his mother's Tully fire and his honor, Sansa already dreaming of songs and knights, and Jon… He truly loved them with all of his heart.
And Catelyn, who had once been meant for Brandon, had come to Ned as a stranger bound by duty rather than love.
Their marriage had begun cold and uncertain, built on grief, obligation, and the ghosts of promises never fulfilled. There had been distance between them in those early days, unspoken tensions, careful words, and nights where silence lingered heavily.
Yet time, as it often did, softened what duty had forged. Respect took root first, then trust, and from that fragile beginning, something deeper grew. Catelyn became a true wife and a loving mother. Though she was a daughter of the south, she settled into Winterfell with quiet grace, her strength hardening like northern steel beneath the frost.
Only Jon remained the thorn between them.
Despite Ned's best attempts and despite every careful word, Catelyn still treated the boy harshly, with cold glances, sharp words, never outright cruel but never kind either.
Ned carried that guilt like a second shadow. He could not tell her the truth. He could not tell anyone. So he endured her resentment and did his best to comfort Jon's silent hurt, and every night the nightmares still came from the trauma of the past.
His father and brother's death, Ellia and her children, the blood on the steps of the Red Keep, Lyanna's dying whisper, and the weight of promises he could never speak aloud.
He carried that weight even as he had said his farewells to his family as he set out for war.
He had knelt before the heart tree and prayed for strength. He had given Robb words of counsel on what it meant to rule in his absence. He had clapped Jon on the shoulder and told him to watch over his brothers and sisters. And he had kissed Catelyn goodbye in the courtyard while the wind howled around them.
"Come back alive," she had ordered, voice fierce even as her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Do not make me a widow, Ned Stark."
And Ned gave her his word to keep her promise before he left, leading his men to war
The journey south had been long and punishing from the very first mile, for the sea was no longer safe.
The Ironborn and their monstrous kraken had turned the Sunset Sea into a graveyard, where ships were brutally destroyed, and only broken timbers along with corpses remained.
He paid it little mind at first, taking it for no more than a tale born of frightened smallfolk, or perhaps a lie the Ironborn had loosed upon the realm to sow fear and unsettle their foes.
But news of the monster spread swiftly as a stormwind, tales of it tearing ships apart as though they were no more than children's playthings in its grasp, were the most popular among them.
Whatever the Greyjoys had done to bind such a beast to their will had turned what should have been a doomed and foolish rebellion… into a war tipped dangerously in their favor.
So, with the sea no longer an option, unless they had a mind for death, they marched overland through the Riverlands, their columns stretching long behind him as they pressed forward with all the haste they could muster.
A raven had reached him only half a moon ago, sent by the king, its message brief and merciless.
Seagard has fallen. Greyjoys hold the castle. Stannis Baratheon taken hostage.
The demand from Robert was clear, "Ride fucking faster you cunts!"
Ned's jaw tightened beneath his beard as he stared at the road ahead.
Stannis, grim, unyielding Stannis, was now a prisoner of the Greyjoys. The thought sat like ice in his gut. He had never been close to Robert's younger brother, but Stannis was a man of honor and duty, and he respected the man for that alone.
And then there was the other news, songs sung by overenthusiastic bards that had reached him months before, that made even the tales of the Greyjoys' kraken seem pale by comparison…
It was the outlandish rumors of Robert Baratheon's son.
The Blessed Prince.
A boy of only seven namedays, supposedly brought back from death by the Seven themselves, marked with divine eyes, performing miracles that bards sang about in every village square.
Ned had listened to the stories with the same quiet skepticism he gave most southern tales.
A child touched by the gods? A prince who spoke with the Seven and received their favor only if he marched to war? It sounded like the kind of story smallfolk needed to hear in hard times.
Yet the raven from King's Landing had been written in Robert's own blunt hand. His brother in all but blood said it to be true, and who was he to deny the King?
Ned shook his head slightly, pushing the thought aside.
He did not have the luxury to ponder southern miracles right now. War was on the horizon, and a kraken, some dark ritual beast summoned by the Drowned God, had already shattered Lannister ships at Lannisport.
He had a war to win, Ironborn to punish, and a king to stand beside once more.
And Ned Stark would not fail his duty or his King.
He spurred his horse forward, the long column of northern men stretching out behind him like a grey river flowing south to war.
Whatever awaited them at the end of this march, kraken, Ironborn raiders, or gods-touched princes, Ned would face it with Ice at his side and duty in his heart.
Because that was all a Stark could d-
The wind shifted without warning.
What had been crisp pine and damp earth now carried a sharper bite of salt and smoke, faint but unmistakable, riding in on the cold gusts from the west.
Ned's gloved hand tightened on the reins almost before his mind registered the wrongness of it.
The long column behind him had fallen into that peculiar marching silence, broken only by the creak of leather, the clop of hooves, and the occasional muttered curse from a weary northerner.
He lifted his hand, signaling the men nearest him to slow. "Outriders?"
"Still haven't made it back yet, my lord," Ser Rodrik Cassel answered from his right.
The old knight's eyes scanned the treeline to their left, a dense stretch of woodland hugging the road where it dipped toward a shallow ford.
The river ran swollen from recent rains, its murmur audible now that the wind had changed.
Ned's jaw clenched beneath his beard. They were still a good ways from where Robert was currently waiting. It would take at least half a day of-
BWWWAAAARRRRR!!!
The sound of a horn blasted through the air, alerting everyone to danger.
It was from one of their scouts!
Then the air filled with arrows, hitting and injuring more than a few men, if not outright killing them.
"ARGH!!!"
"My leg! My fucking leg!!!!"
The attack came in a sudden black hiss from the trees and the riverbank reeds, not a ragged volley but a disciplined storm.
Ned felt one whistle past his ear, close enough to tug at the edge of his cloak.
"Ambush!" he roared, drawing Ice in a single smooth motion. The greatsword came free with that familiar hungry whisper of Valyrian steel. "Shields up!!!"
Chaos erupted along the column. Northerners were disciplined, but no army on the march was ready for an ambush.
Men scrambled for cover behind wagons or dropped to one knee with shields raised.
Some of the rear ranks were already engaged, shouts and the clash of steel rang from farther back where the road narrowed.
The bastards were attacking from all directions!
From the treeline burst Ironborn, howling with excitement and anticipation for bloodshed.
They came fast and ugly, hundreds of them, salt-crusted and wild-eyed, axes and swords in hand, some still dripping from the river crossing.
Leading them was a tall man in black scale and a kraken-helm, a jagged axe in each hand. A Greyjoy? No, too old, too ordinary. One of Balon's captains, then, hungry for glory.
Ned spurred his horse forward into the fray, Ice gleaming coldly in the weak sunlight.
He was no tourney knight dancing with a blade for an adoring crowd; he fought like a soldier, efficient, brutal, unrelenting.
The first Ironborn to reach him died with his head nearly severed, the Valyrian steel shearing through mail and bone as if through silk. Blood sprayed hot across Ned's gauntlet.
Two more died upon his next powerful swing, and their death was not quick or painless as the first.
"For the King!" he bellowed, voice carrying over the din. "Stand fast!"
Ser Rodrik was beside him, sword flashing, cutting down a man who tried to hamstring Ned's mount.
More northern knights and men-at-arms rallied, forming a rough spearhead around their lord. But the Ironborn pressed hard, using the confusion of the stretched column to their advantage for their real goal.
They targeted the center where Ned rode, clearly aiming not merely to battle but to seize a prize: the Warden of the North himself.
A second wave came from the river, more Ironborn grounding with splashes, fresh squid bastards leaping out with ropes and nets.
They meant to take him alive.
Ned saw the intent clear in their eyes and in the greedy shouts of "The Stark! Take the Stark! A heavy reward for the one who takes him down!"
His men fought bravely defending him, but they were getting overwhelmed.
One reaver, a massive brute with a beard braided with fishbones, lunged at Ned's flank with an axe. Ned parried with Ice, the impact ringing up his arms, then drove the point through the man's throat in a quick, painful thrust.
Arrows still fell from hidden archers in the trees. His horse took a shaft to the shoulder and began to falter. Ned swung down, landing heavily in the mud churned by hooves and boots, Ice held two-handed.
Around him, good men were dying, northerners he had known since boyhood, fathers and sons who had answered his call.
A net whistled through the air. He slashed it apart mid-flight, but another caught his left arm, weighted hooks biting into his cloak and mail.
Ironborn swarmed him like hungry, desperate rats.
"Yield, Stark!" one snarled, face painted with glee and blood. "Balon offers you a seat at the Drowned God's table!"
Ned answered with steel as he back-handed the man with his gauntleted hand. He wrenched free of the net, shearing through rope and flesh, and took one man's arm off at the elbow. Another died to a backhand cut that split him from shoulder to hip. But a club slammed into his back from behind, driving the breath from him.
Pain flared as old war wounds protested; he staggered but did not fall.
Unfortunately for him, the squids did not care as they threw nets and ropes at him, making him fall as they started dragging him away.
"We have the Stark!"
"Let's go! While the others are still distracted!"
The fighting lessened and thinned around him as they dragged him away. Ser Rodrik tried to make his way to him, his sword swinging desperately. Shouts echoed with, "Lord Stark! To Lord Stark!" but the Ironborn wedge was driving deep, separating him from the main body of his army.
How did this happen? How did the Greyjoys get the chance to ambush?
Ned Stark struggled against the ropes and nets, blood in his mouth and fire in his ribs, as the Ironborn dragged him deeper into the forest.
The battle still raged behind him, shouts, steel on steel, the screams of dying men, but the wedge of reavers had cut him off from his main force.
Ser Rodrik's voice bellowed his name somewhere in the chaos, growing fainter with every painful step.
"Don't try to escape!" one of his captors snarled, kicking him hard in the ribs. Pain exploded through Ned's chest. "It's useless! No one can save y-"
CRACK!
A blinding bolt of lightning, despite being cloudless, slammed into his captor, striking the man dead in an instant.
The Ironborn's body convulsed once before collapsing in a smoking heap, the stench of charred flesh cutting through the blood and mud.
The sound of thunder rolled across the battlefield like the voice of an angry god.
And for a moment, the impossible happened. Every head, Ironborn and Northerner alike, snapped toward the source. The battle looked as though it was frozen in time.
A single rider burst through the trees, armor gleaming white under the sunlight, a flowing crimson cape trimmed with golden fur billowing dramatically behind him like a banner of war.
It was as if he were the champion of the Warrior himself!
The figure rode a massive black horse with unnatural speed, faster than any horse could possibly go, one arm raised high. In that hand burned a sword that crackled with lightning, purple arcs dancing along the blade.
Ironborn raiders were frozen mid-swing. Northern soldiers stared with open mouths, weapons forgotten in their hands. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
All they could do was watch as the armored figure pointed the crackling sword forward and roared a single word in High Valyrian.
"Jelmāzma!"
Another bolt of lightning erupted from the blade, thicker and brighter than the first, slamming into the densest cluster of Ironborn who were dragging Ned.
Men screamed as electricity coursed through them, bodies jerking and smoking before they dropped like broken dolls.
"By the drowned god!"
Came the fear-filled screams of the Ironborn.
"What the fuck was that?!"
Came the disbelief, awe, and the same fear from the Northerners.
"Whose side was he on!?" Were the collective thoughts of both sides as neither knew.
Only then did the rest of the royal host crest the ridge behind him, hundreds of riders bearing the crowned stag of Baratheon on their banners, charging with a thunder of hooves that shook the very earth.
"FOR THE KING!!!" Came the roar of the King's men.
The ambush had suddenly become a one-sided slaughter in the space of a single heartbeat.
"Fuck this shit!"
"Retreat! Fucking retreat, ya cunts!"
"This wasn't what she said would happen!!!"
The Ironborn broke apart in panic, the plan entirely forgotten. Some tried to fight, but most broke and ran toward the river or the trees, desperate to escape like the cowards they were.
Northerners, suddenly freed from the press, roared and surged forward to help their king's reinforcements.
Ned was dimly aware of ropes being cut, strong hands hauling him upright. Ser Rodrik's voice was hoarse with relief.
"My lord!" His loyal guard cried out, "Are you hurt?"
But Ned's eyes remained locked on the white-armored Knight now riding straight toward him, crimson cape streaming like fresh blood against the blue sky.
The man reined in his horse a pace away, lightning still faintly crackling along the length of his sword before it faded. Even through the narrow visor slit of the intimidating armor, Ned could feel the weight of the eyes upon him.
The man sat tall and regal in the saddle, radiating a presence far beyond a normal man and even a lord. The golden-furred crimson cape fluttered gently in the breeze as he looked down at the Warden of the North.
Ned stared up at the armored knight who had just turned the tide of an ambush with a single lightning strike from his sword, and for the first time in many long years, the Lord of Winterfell found himself truly speechless.
For a long moment, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
__________
"…Is that fucking Boromir?" The prince stared in stunned disbelief as he looked at the man up and down.
The fuck is he doing here!?!?