The north bank of the Green Fork.
Dawn had yet to break.
Forty thousand rebels stood silently in the darkness. No one spoke. Not even a hoofbeat sounded.
Leon climbed the rise and stared across the river.
Rhaegar's campfires crowded his vision, stretching as far as he could see.
Robert sat on his horse beside him, his warhammer resting across his saddle.
He neither smiled nor boasted, merely stared at the opposite bank like a bear waiting for its prey to approach.
"Where is he?" Robert asked.
Leon pointed slightly left of the center on the opposite bank. "Where the dragon banners are thickest."
Robert narrowed his eyes.
"What about the left flank?"
Leon's gaze shifted left. The Dornish banners snapped in the wind.
"Lewyn Martell. Ten thousand Dornish light cavalry." He paused. "They're Rhaegar's greatest variable."
Robert grinned. "Variable?"
"The Dornish excel at skirmishing, not frontal charges. But they're fast."
Leon looked toward their own left flank, where the allied forces of the Vale and the Riverlands were forming ranks. "If we use a conventional formation, they'll circle around our left flank and drive straight into our center."
Robert frowned. "What do we do, then?"
Leon pointed to a stretch of woods behind the left flank. "Hide a cavalry force there. Once Lewyn charges in, strike from his rear flank."
He pointed to a shoal farther upriver. "The water's shallow there. We can cross. Send a detachment across in secret now, before dawn, and have them circle behind Rhaegar's right flank. Once the fighting starts, we'll attack from both sides."
Robert's eyes lit up. "Attack separately, then hit them together?"
Leon nodded. "Rhaegar thinks we'll fight an honorable, decisive battle. But we won't give him that chance."
He pointed to Rhaegar's center on the map. "He'll put his finest troops at the front and wait for us to force our way across the river. But if both his flanks are broken at once, his front will be isolated."
Robert studied the map for a long time, then raised his head and grinned.
"Little Leon. You've won me over. This time, I'll do everything your way."
As the first ray of sunlight pierced the horizon, horns sounded from the southern bank.
Rhaegar's army began crossing the river.
They advanced in orderly ranks, wading through waist-deep water toward the northern bank.
Sunlight struck their armor, dazzlingly bright.
Dragon banners snapped in the wind, their golden three-headed dragon emblems seeming to come alive.
This was the decisive battle.
Robert raised his warhammer and spurred his horse down the rise.
His voice burst out like thunder:
"Baratheon! Stark! Tully! Arryn! Charge with me!"
Forty thousand men shouted as one and surged toward the riverbank like a tide.
Prince Lewyn Martell led the Dornish cavalry around from the left, attempting to outflank the rebels' left wing.
They were too fast.
The Dornish light cavalry swept along the riverbank like a gust of wind, driving straight toward the rebels' rear flank.
Robert's left-wing commander, an old knight from the Vale, had no time to adjust his formation before the Dornish were upon him.
Ser Lyn Corbray was standing beside his father at the time.
A stray arrow struck the old Earl of House Corbray in the shoulder, knocking him from his horse.
Lyn helped his father up, his eyes reddening as he watched the Dornish cavalry thundering toward them.
He picked up the sword his father had dropped.
It was Lady Forlorn, the Valyrian steel sword passed down through generations of House Corbray.
Its blade was slender, and a teardrop-shaped sapphire adorned its hilt.
"Protect the Earl!" he roared. "Follow me!"
He vaulted into the saddle, raised Lady Forlorn high, and charged at the Dornish.
At that moment, Leon saw that mass of light from the rise-Lyn Corbray, orange, crashing into the Dornish formation like a meteor.
The situation on the battlefield gradually changed.
A miracle happened.
Lyn's charge disrupted the Dornish cavalry's momentum.
They had expected the rebels to rout, never imagining anyone would charge straight at them.
Inspired by Lyn's courage, the rebels behind him followed one after another.
The Dornish formation began to loosen, descend into chaos, and collapse.
Prince Lewyn Martell was surrounded.
His warhorse was dead. Covered in blood, he leaned on his sword, facing a group of rebel knights.
Lyn Corbray dismounted and walked up to him.
"Surrender."
Lewyn smiled. There was no fear in that smile, only exhaustion.
"The Dornish," he said, "do not surrender."
He raised his sword and charged at Lyn.
Thirty seconds later, he fell.
Lyn stood before his corpse, looking down at the once-renowned Prince of Dorne.
He said nothing, merely turned and plunged back into battle.
The left flank had won.
Robert's frontal assault was far bloodier than imagined.
Rhaegar had placed his finest knights from the Reach in the center, making them bear the brunt of Robert's charge.
Both sides fought in waist-deep water. Blood stained the river red, and corpses clogged its channel.
Leon stood on the rise.
Those points of light went out in the water, one after another, like candles snuffed by the wind.
Barristan Ser Selmy was at the very front.
His white cloak was so covered in blood that its original color was no longer visible.
Every swing of his sword brought down another rebel.
How many had he killed? No one knew. He was still killing.
Lord Jason Mallister led his knights into the enemy ranks. He cut down three of Rhaegar's bannermen. Then he, too, was struck from his horse, and his guards risked their lives to bring him back.
The battle remained deadlocked.
Leon's gaze swept across the battlefield before finally settling on Rhaegar's position.
That mass of deep purple light stood steadily at the very front of the center.
He did not move, merely watched the battle like a chess player waiting for his opponent to make a mistake.
Leon drew a deep breath and told the messenger beside him, "Tell Duke Robert the surprise force on the right has crossed the river. They can attack now."
Three thousand cavalry lay in ambush in the woods on the right flank.
They had secretly crossed at the upstream shoal before dawn and hidden in the woods for half the night.
Once Robert's frontal assault had firmly pinned down Rhaegar's main force, they charged out of the woods.
Rhaegar's right flank was utterly unprepared.
The three thousand cavalry plunged into the royalist formation from the rear flank like a sharp blade.
Rhaegar's troops fighting at the front suddenly discovered enemies behind them as well, and their formation began to fall into confusion and break apart.
When Rhaegar looked back and saw the surprise force, his expression changed.
He knew he had lost.
But he did not retreat.
He turned and charged toward Robert.
Leon saw that moment.
Two masses of light. One blazing orange. One deep purple.
River water washed over his boots, cold to the bone.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood in the rushing waters of the Trident.
His long silver-white hair was soaked with blood and river water, his deep purple eyes fixed on the man charging toward him.
Robert Baratheon.
His warhammer was raised high, like a roaring stag.
The first blow.
The warhammer came crashing down. Rhaegar blocked with his longsword, its blade bending into a dangerous arc without breaking.
Rhaegar turned sideways to deflect the force, his longsword sweeping across Robert's back. Leather armor split, and blood seeped out.
Robert roared in fury and swept his warhammer sideways.
Rhaegar leaned back to dodge it. The wind of the hammer brushed his cheek, stinging painfully.
The second blow, the third, the fourth-
Rhaegar's sword was like a venomous snake, every thrust aimed at a gap in Robert's armor.
Robert's movements grew slower and slower, blood pouring from his wounds, but he did not retreat. He merely roared and swung his warhammer like an enraged bear.
The warhammer smashed toward Rhaegar's horse's head.
The gray horse collapsed with an agonized scream, throwing Rhaegar into the waist-deep river.
Robert also leaped from his horse and charged at him.
The two fought in the river.
Rhaegar's swordsmanship far surpassed Robert's. His every attack was precise, elegant, and deadly.
Robert had already suffered seven or eight more wounds. His blood flowed into the river, staining the water around him pale red.
Robert did not fall. He only swung his warhammer more wildly, using brute force to suppress Rhaegar's skill.
"You can't beat me!" Rhaegar parried a hammer blow and set his sword point against Robert's throat.
Robert stared at him. A mad fire burned in those blue eyes.
"Maybe," he rasped. "But what good will winning do you?"
Rhaegar's sword stopped.
Robert's eyes widened. "Lyanna is my betrothed!"
He pushed a step forward. "You bastard without a shred of knightly honor! I'll have you know, I've already brought Lyanna back to camp!"
Rhaegar's pupils suddenly contracted.
At that instant, his gaze instinctively passed over Robert toward the camp opposite.
Robert had deceived him-
The warhammer came crashing down.
Rhaegar reacted, avoiding the killing blow and throwing all his strength into a block with his longsword.
Clang!
The tremendous force drove Rhaegar to one knee in the river, but he held firm.
He reversed his blade and thrust beneath Robert's ribs. Robert twisted aside, sweeping his warhammer into Rhaegar's shoulder plate.
Rhaegar staggered backward, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Robert gave him no chance to catch his breath. He rushed forward, his warhammer raised high-
One hammer blow struck Rhaegar in the chest.
Three hundred rubies shattered at once, spilling into the river like blood.
Those three hundred rubies set into his breastplate had been a wedding gift from his wife, Elia.
He fell.
The river washed over his body, carrying away the ruby fragments, and would soon carry away his life as well.
Robert stood before him, gasping for breath. He was covered in blood, some his own, some Rhaegar's.
"You lost."
Rhaegar lay in the river, gazing at the sky.
Clouds and the blood-red setting sun were reflected in those deep purple eyes.
He said nothing. He merely smiled.
That smile was faint and slight, like a fallen leaf drifting into the river.
Robert turned and staggered onto the bank. He did not look back.
He dared not look into those eyes.
The entire battlefield froze at that moment.
Everyone stared at the fallen figure.
The royalist soldiers threw down their weapons, and the rebel soldiers stopped their pursuit.
For a time, only the flowing river and a few distant screams could be heard on the battlefield.
Then someone began picking rubies out of the river.
One, two, ten, a hundred. Soldiers from both sides bent down together, feeling through the water for those red fragments.
No one fought anymore.
Rhaegar was dead.
After the battle ended, Leon found Barristan Selmy among the dead.
He lay on the riverbank, covered in blood, with more wounds than could be counted. But his eyes were still open, fixed on the sky, his lips trembling slightly as though he were praying.
Several rebel knights stood around him, their swords already raised.
"Wait!" Leon shouted.
The knights turned, saw a dwarf running toward them, and froze for a moment.
"Who are you?"
"Leon Lannister. Lord Robert's adviser." Panting, he pointed at Barristan. "You cannot kill this man."
The knights exchanged glances.
A knight with a brutish face-Roose Bolton-said coldly, "He's a Kingsguard. He killed dozens of our men. Why shouldn't we kill him?"
Leon took a deep breath, calming himself.
"He is Barristan Ser Selmy. A man of the Stormlands. Lord Robert's bannerman. If you kill him, what will House Selmy think?"
Roose Bolton narrowed his eyes. "Are you threatening me?"
"I'm reminding you. Hand him over to Lord Robert. Let his lordship decide."
After a few seconds of deadlock, Roose Bolton sheathed his sword.
"Very well. The dwarf is always right."
Barristan was carried before Robert.
He was so badly wounded that he could not even stand. He could only lie on the stretcher, looking at the man who had just killed Rhaegar.
Robert looked down at him.
"Barristan Selmy. I've heard of you. One of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms."
Barristan's lips moved, but no sound came out.
Murmurs rose around them. Someone shouted, "Kill him!" Someone else shouted, "He's a Kingsguard. What use is there in keeping him alive?"
Robert ignored them. He crouched down to meet Barristan's eyes.
"Will you serve me?"
Barristan looked at him. A flicker of complicated emotion passed through those clouded eyes.
"I am a Kingsguard. I swore an oath."
Robert was silent for a few seconds, then stood.
"Maester! Treat his wounds."
The knights around him froze. "My lord-!"
Robert turned and glared at them. That look worked better than any words.
"He is a brave man. A brave man should not die in a prison camp."
He turned and left.
Leon stood beside the stretcher, looking down at Barristan. Those eyes were looking back at him, holding something he could not quite name-gratitude? Confusion?
"Thank you," Barristan said softly.
Leon shook his head. "You protected me at the Wendwater for a year. I owe you."
Barristan closed his eyes and said nothing more.
At dusk, Leon stood on the riverbank, watching the soldiers still picking up rubies.
The sunset had turned the river gold and red; it was impossible to tell whether it was blood or light.
Bodies were still being dragged away, wounded men were still wailing, and cheers of victory still echoed in the distance.
But there was only one thing on his mind.
Rhaegar.
He had seen Rhaegar fall with his own eyes, seen the river sweep him away.
But he had not seen his body.
At some point, Tyrion had come to stand beside him. "What are you thinking about?"
Leon was silent for a few seconds. "Rhaegar. Where is his body?"
Tyrion paused. "It should be... downstream, I suppose."
Leon turned to look at him. "Let's go find it."
Tyrion's expression changed. "Are you mad?"
Leon did not answer. He only gazed downstream, at the winding river.
"He hadn't finished what he wanted to say. I know it."
Tyrion stared at him for a long time, then sighed.
"All right. I'll go with you."
They walked downstream along the riverbank.
Behind them, the clamor of victory grew ever more distant.
Ahead, the river flowed silently through the dusk, hiding who knew what secrets.