Post by The Smith on Jun 2, 2009 9:44:07 GMT -5
The Legend of the Lone Dragon
The line of men stood silently with swords and spears in hand, watching the snow fall, waiting. In front of them a black knight in a snow- speckled horned helm mounted on a similarly coloured stallion was motionless – a stark contrast to the whiteness of the snow - his arm raised above his head. The black stallion that carried him, pawed the earth and snorted furiously. Valarr stood well back behind the front line, his gloved fingers curling around the pommel of his sword nervously, his horse’s reins wrapped around the fingers of his other hand.
“Here they come” he heard a nearby man say.
“Gods be good, there’s hundreds,” he heard himself murmur.
“Draw,” the black knight said and then, “hold”. The men under the knight’s command stood beside their torches, waiting with arrows pulled back to their ears, as something came up that dark slippery slope through the snow. “Hold”, the black knight said again, “hold, hold.” And then, “Loose.”
The arrows whispered as they flew.
A ragged cheer went up from the line of men, but it died quickly. “They’re not stopping milord,” a man in the front line called to the knight in black and another shouted, “More! Look they’re coming from the trees,” and yet another said “Gods ‘ave mercy, they’s crawling. They’re almost here, they’re on us.”
“Fire arrows,” the black knight roared, “give them flame.” The knight wheeled, seeking safety behind the front line as the enemy – the feared white walkers of the wood, hungry for blood - came on. He roared the commands again “Notch, draw….loose.”
Valarr’s frightened eyes followed the black knight as he came closer. The knight looked huge in fur and mail. Behind his black iron visor his eyes – a dark purple – were fierce. For the first time they fell upon him. “Velaryon! Get to horse! Get out of here! Your place is with my cavalry up there. Tell them to await my signal!”
Without waiting for a response, the knight turned his horse and trotted along the back of the line of archers shouting “Fire! Give them fire!”
Valarr did not have to be told twice. His legs, by now trembling with both cold and fear, felt like two lumps of lead as he swung onto his horse. As he moved away from the front line he could hear the black knight’s voice ring out again “Notch, draw…loose.” To Valarr, the flight of arrows made a sound as sweet as a mother’s prayer. “Burn you dead bastards, burn!” a man sang out, cackling. Behind him, as Valarr’s horse gathered speed the line of archers cheered and cursed. As he reached to where the cavalry stood silently waiting, he turned back to look.
Down below, the dead swarmed over the first line of men with arrows in their faces and through their throats. Some were in ring-mail and some were almost naked…wildings many of them, but a few wore faded blacks and a few the bright surcoats of long dead knights. One of the archers shoved a pike through a wight’s pale soft belly and out his back. Valarr watched in horror as the thing staggered up the shaft and reached out its cold dead hands and twisted the man’s head around until blood came out his mouth. The second line of archers were loosing fire arrows at the shadows. Valarr saw several hit, saw the flames engulf them, but there were more behind. Valarr knew they could not keep that up. Soon enough the bowmen would run out of arrows.
The black knight knew that too. He signaled to the horn blowers who sounded the withdrawal. The line of men began to move backwards towards the cavalry as the wights and Others slowly but inexorably moved up the hill. The black knight kicked his horse savagely in the ribs. The terrified animal screamed and reared and almost threw him, but the knight cursing furiously sawed on the reins bringing his mount under control. The retreating men began to mount spare horses and follow the knight up the hill to the relative safety of the cavalry.
“Prince Aegon!” A frightened messenger shoved his way through the crowd and knelt before the black knight. “Queen Saella and her daughters are coming. They ask you to hold at all costs, until their arrival. Do not yield this part of the battlefield my lord.”
The knight – now a Prince - stared down at the man. He ripped off his helm, his silver gold hair slick with sweat and plastered to his head. He stood in his stirrups, his black cloak snapping in the wind, the fire shining off his dark armour, the red Targaryen dragon on his shield seeming to shimmer in front of Valarr’s dazed eyes.
Aegon Targaryen had to bellow at the top of his lungs to be heard over the horns and the clash of battle. “Call them back!” he roared, gesturing with this sword at the fleeing bowmen. “I want every man on a horse and armed with something – anything. Dragonglass, fire, sword, stick, stone – anything!”
He slammed down his visor and wheeled his horse to face the oncoming horde. There was the sound of repeated metallic clinks and clangs as those of his cavalry who had helms did the same.
“Form wedge” Valarr heard Aegon Targaryen’s voice high and clear as their line began to move and gather speed. They formed up in spearhead, with Aegon at the spearpoint and Valarr a few ranks behind.
They rode knee to knee. The Targaryen standard streamed red and black from the staff of the standard bearer just behind Aegon. They moved from a walk to a trot, Arrows darted from the lines of the Stormlanders to the side of them into the enemy, but made little impact.
“Lances!” Valarr heard the Targaryen Prince shout and saw him speed to a canter. Valarr dug his knees into his horse’s sides and felt the powerful animal’s muscles bunch as it gathered speed.
The ground was sodden and slippery, now mud, but would soon be covered with blood and bits of flesh – both theirs and the enemy’s. His stallion stumbled over a corpse, put there by the men ahead of him, the animal’s hooves sliding and churning the earth and for an instant Valarr feared his charge would end with him tumbling from the saddle before he even reached the foe. Years of training paid off and he and his horse managed to keep their balance.
Up ahead, Valarr saw Aegon dropping the point of his lance at the last possible instant to impale a wight. Valarr did the same, driving his own lance through the chest of one of the undead dressed in a studded jerkin, lifting him full off his feet before the shaft of his lance snapped. He threw the stump away drawing his sword and spurring after Aegon.
A spear thudded against his shield. Ahead of Valarr was a wight wearing a surcoat he didn’t recognise. His helm had been knocked from his head and his chest was a red ruin. Valarr smashed the man in the face with all the weight of sword and arm and charging horse, taking off half his head. The shock of impact numbed his shoulder. Nevertheless he spurred on riding down an undead archer, opening a spearman from shoulder to armpit, glancing a blow off a crested helm of some un-named dead Riverlander knight with bright blue eyes.
The trumpets behind him were sounding. The retreat! Valarr urged his mount on, but the majority of those he saw in the red and gold Targaryen livery were heading back the other way. He sawed on the reins of his horse and moved his head from right to left and from left to right trying to see what was happening. An arrow clattered against his cheek, missing his eyeslit by an inch. The resultant jolt of fear almost unhorsed him.
He saw Aegon Targaryen moving back. Valarr spurred his horse back into motion, trotting over and around a scatter of moving corpses and body parts. Through the steel of his helm he heard anguished screams, the shuddering of warhorns and the brazen blast of trumpets, it appeared from the Baratheon line to their right. Aegon’s cavalry were re-forming, even as they were pursued by Others – who had been pulled out of position by what Valarr now recognised as a feigned retreat. With a roar Aegon’s men charged again, the Targaryen Prince in the midst, dealing death.
The battle shrank to the size of Valarr’s eyeslit. Knights and men-at-arms fled or fought and died. To Valarr’s fevered brain, they seemed little things and fearful. He voice was hoarse from the shouting, but he supposed he roared “Targaryen!” with the rest or perhaps “Driftmark!” His arm was by now red to the elbow, glistening wet. When his horse reared again, Valarr rose in the saddle and waved his sword at the enemy. He felt drunk.
The battle fever. Valarr had never thought to experience it himself, though his Prince had told him and his fellow squires of it often enough, when he was younger. How time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled and thought fled, and even your body. Prince Aegon had told them. “You don’t feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, there is only one fight the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next and you know they are afraid and tired but you’re not, you’re alive and death is all around them, but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing.” Battle fever. Let them kill me if they can.
The wights tried. Another spearman with bright blue eyes ran at the Prince. In disbelief Valarr watched as Aegon lopped off his hand holding the spear, then his arm, trotting around him in a circle. An undead archer, bowless with blue eyes thrust at him with an arrow holding it as if it were a knife. The Prince’s destrier kicked at the horror’s thigh to send him sprawling. Aegon rode past a black and gold banner planted in the mud by someone and chopped the staff in two with a swing of his sword. Valarr barked laughter. A blue eyed man in a Knight’s chain mail and a bloody surcoat rose up from nowhere to hack at the red and black Targaryen shield with a two handed great-sword, again and again until someone thrust a dragon-glass dagger under his arm.
Valarr followed as best he could as Aegon seized a lance thrust upright in the ground and levelled its’ point at an oncoming mounted Other wielding a flail. The point struck the man’s helm causing his blue eyed stallion to rear up. The Other fought to keep his seat, sawing on the horse reins and throwing his weight forward. Then they were past and separated by the press.
Valarr’s sword was heavy in his fist, his arm red to the elbow, smoking with blood and gore. Still he pressed on in the wake of the red and black blur in front of him. A dead man-at-arms grabbed the bridle of his horse and thrust at Valarr’s face with a dagger. The young squire knocked the blade aside and buried his sword in the nape of the man’s neck. Having charged within range of their own bowmen, arrows were now falling amongst the mixture of Targaryen forces and undead. A blue eyed bowman several feet away wearing a pink surcoat charged with a black and golden sun and with his entrails falling out was nocking and shooting long shafts at the Princes’ men. Man after man fell to his accurate fire. The Prince spurred his horse and charged the bowman, who saw his approach and turned his fire against him.
Arrows hissed past Aegon’s head and clattered against his armor, one lodged between his arm and the plate covering his shoulders. Struck, the Prince reeled back and then spurred forward, cutting the man in two with a graceful, almost easy swing of his blade. Valarr’s own killing was a clumsy thing. He stabbed one man in the kidneys when his back was turned and grabbed another man by the leg and upended him.
Valarr looked up. The sky had turned red and orange and garish green. “What?” he said. And then he saw.
Sleek and black, the dragon rose, her glistening wings folded close to her sides, her scales gleaming. Her eyes glowed red-black, the color of molten rock. Her mouth opened in a snarl, teeth flashing white and wicked. Her long, red tongue, curled as she breathed he cold air. Clear of the trees, the dragon spread her wings. Each wing was tipped with a pure white claw that shone blood red against the light of the flames.
Valarr could only stare in awe and marvel at the creature’s deadly beauty. The dragon circled higher and higher into the sky. The young squire could hear the slow, gentle flap of the dragon’s leathery wings and knew it was now circling above them, rising gradually. Then he couldn’t hear even the flapping any more; the wings had quit beating. He visualised a great black bird of prey, hovering along - waiting.
Valarr’s gaze moved to the Prince. He too was staring at the dragon, and its human rider – either Saella or one of her daughters thought Valarr. The Prince’s right arm was raised, his sword pointing to the sky. Then Aegon roared one word and brandished his sword toward the wights and Others who continued to move forward.
“Dracarys!”
There was a very gentle rustling sound, the sounds of leaves shivering as the wind rises before a storm. The sound grew louder and louder until it was the rushing of winds when the storm hits, and then it was the shrieking of a hurricane. Aegon screamed a command. Valarr toppled from his horse, pressed his body as close as he could against the ground and covered his head with his arms.
The dragon dropped from the sky. The great rushing sound grew louder and louder, then stopped for an instant. Valarr could hear the huge tendons creaking, lifting and spreading giant wings. Then he heard a great gasping sound as of air being drawn into a gaping throat then a strange sound that reminded him of steam escaping. Something liquid splashed near him. He could hear rocks splitting and cracking and bubbling. Drops of the liquid, splashed on his hand and he gasped as a searing pain penetrated his being.
Valarr opened his yes and glanced to his left. The enemy’s advance had been halted. Many were dissolving in front of his eyes, melting away to nothing. One Other staggered forward, pale blue blood running down is legs in rivulets. Its flesh melted away, swirling away in a white fine mist. Beneath were bones like milk-glass, pale and shiny and they were melting too. Those that weren’t melting were on fire, spinning, staggering and collapsing, mouths open in wordless screams
For a few seconds there was an eerie silence, broken only by the odd scream or moan. Valarr saw Aegon leap to his feet with a roar to charge what little remained of the enemy force in front of them. Valarr saw him decapitate a wight wearing a crown of fire with an almighty swing. With an answering roar of triumph, Aegon’s men followed him - Valarr too - screaming with delight and the scent of victory.
When it was over….a knight from amongst Aegon’s surviving men began the chant. “Ae-gon…Ae-gon….Aeg-on!”, waving their swords in the air and clashing their shields in time with the rhythm of the chant. Valarr joined in – cheering - for what seemed an eternity, all of them hysterical with pride, tears running down all their faces – every fibre of their beings glorying in being alive.
Aegon Targaryen gains Legendary Battle
The line of men stood silently with swords and spears in hand, watching the snow fall, waiting. In front of them a black knight in a snow- speckled horned helm mounted on a similarly coloured stallion was motionless – a stark contrast to the whiteness of the snow - his arm raised above his head. The black stallion that carried him, pawed the earth and snorted furiously. Valarr stood well back behind the front line, his gloved fingers curling around the pommel of his sword nervously, his horse’s reins wrapped around the fingers of his other hand.
“Here they come” he heard a nearby man say.
“Gods be good, there’s hundreds,” he heard himself murmur.
“Draw,” the black knight said and then, “hold”. The men under the knight’s command stood beside their torches, waiting with arrows pulled back to their ears, as something came up that dark slippery slope through the snow. “Hold”, the black knight said again, “hold, hold.” And then, “Loose.”
The arrows whispered as they flew.
A ragged cheer went up from the line of men, but it died quickly. “They’re not stopping milord,” a man in the front line called to the knight in black and another shouted, “More! Look they’re coming from the trees,” and yet another said “Gods ‘ave mercy, they’s crawling. They’re almost here, they’re on us.”
“Fire arrows,” the black knight roared, “give them flame.” The knight wheeled, seeking safety behind the front line as the enemy – the feared white walkers of the wood, hungry for blood - came on. He roared the commands again “Notch, draw….loose.”
Valarr’s frightened eyes followed the black knight as he came closer. The knight looked huge in fur and mail. Behind his black iron visor his eyes – a dark purple – were fierce. For the first time they fell upon him. “Velaryon! Get to horse! Get out of here! Your place is with my cavalry up there. Tell them to await my signal!”
Without waiting for a response, the knight turned his horse and trotted along the back of the line of archers shouting “Fire! Give them fire!”
Valarr did not have to be told twice. His legs, by now trembling with both cold and fear, felt like two lumps of lead as he swung onto his horse. As he moved away from the front line he could hear the black knight’s voice ring out again “Notch, draw…loose.” To Valarr, the flight of arrows made a sound as sweet as a mother’s prayer. “Burn you dead bastards, burn!” a man sang out, cackling. Behind him, as Valarr’s horse gathered speed the line of archers cheered and cursed. As he reached to where the cavalry stood silently waiting, he turned back to look.
Down below, the dead swarmed over the first line of men with arrows in their faces and through their throats. Some were in ring-mail and some were almost naked…wildings many of them, but a few wore faded blacks and a few the bright surcoats of long dead knights. One of the archers shoved a pike through a wight’s pale soft belly and out his back. Valarr watched in horror as the thing staggered up the shaft and reached out its cold dead hands and twisted the man’s head around until blood came out his mouth. The second line of archers were loosing fire arrows at the shadows. Valarr saw several hit, saw the flames engulf them, but there were more behind. Valarr knew they could not keep that up. Soon enough the bowmen would run out of arrows.
The black knight knew that too. He signaled to the horn blowers who sounded the withdrawal. The line of men began to move backwards towards the cavalry as the wights and Others slowly but inexorably moved up the hill. The black knight kicked his horse savagely in the ribs. The terrified animal screamed and reared and almost threw him, but the knight cursing furiously sawed on the reins bringing his mount under control. The retreating men began to mount spare horses and follow the knight up the hill to the relative safety of the cavalry.
“Prince Aegon!” A frightened messenger shoved his way through the crowd and knelt before the black knight. “Queen Saella and her daughters are coming. They ask you to hold at all costs, until their arrival. Do not yield this part of the battlefield my lord.”
The knight – now a Prince - stared down at the man. He ripped off his helm, his silver gold hair slick with sweat and plastered to his head. He stood in his stirrups, his black cloak snapping in the wind, the fire shining off his dark armour, the red Targaryen dragon on his shield seeming to shimmer in front of Valarr’s dazed eyes.
Aegon Targaryen had to bellow at the top of his lungs to be heard over the horns and the clash of battle. “Call them back!” he roared, gesturing with this sword at the fleeing bowmen. “I want every man on a horse and armed with something – anything. Dragonglass, fire, sword, stick, stone – anything!”
He slammed down his visor and wheeled his horse to face the oncoming horde. There was the sound of repeated metallic clinks and clangs as those of his cavalry who had helms did the same.
“Form wedge” Valarr heard Aegon Targaryen’s voice high and clear as their line began to move and gather speed. They formed up in spearhead, with Aegon at the spearpoint and Valarr a few ranks behind.
They rode knee to knee. The Targaryen standard streamed red and black from the staff of the standard bearer just behind Aegon. They moved from a walk to a trot, Arrows darted from the lines of the Stormlanders to the side of them into the enemy, but made little impact.
“Lances!” Valarr heard the Targaryen Prince shout and saw him speed to a canter. Valarr dug his knees into his horse’s sides and felt the powerful animal’s muscles bunch as it gathered speed.
The ground was sodden and slippery, now mud, but would soon be covered with blood and bits of flesh – both theirs and the enemy’s. His stallion stumbled over a corpse, put there by the men ahead of him, the animal’s hooves sliding and churning the earth and for an instant Valarr feared his charge would end with him tumbling from the saddle before he even reached the foe. Years of training paid off and he and his horse managed to keep their balance.
Up ahead, Valarr saw Aegon dropping the point of his lance at the last possible instant to impale a wight. Valarr did the same, driving his own lance through the chest of one of the undead dressed in a studded jerkin, lifting him full off his feet before the shaft of his lance snapped. He threw the stump away drawing his sword and spurring after Aegon.
A spear thudded against his shield. Ahead of Valarr was a wight wearing a surcoat he didn’t recognise. His helm had been knocked from his head and his chest was a red ruin. Valarr smashed the man in the face with all the weight of sword and arm and charging horse, taking off half his head. The shock of impact numbed his shoulder. Nevertheless he spurred on riding down an undead archer, opening a spearman from shoulder to armpit, glancing a blow off a crested helm of some un-named dead Riverlander knight with bright blue eyes.
The trumpets behind him were sounding. The retreat! Valarr urged his mount on, but the majority of those he saw in the red and gold Targaryen livery were heading back the other way. He sawed on the reins of his horse and moved his head from right to left and from left to right trying to see what was happening. An arrow clattered against his cheek, missing his eyeslit by an inch. The resultant jolt of fear almost unhorsed him.
He saw Aegon Targaryen moving back. Valarr spurred his horse back into motion, trotting over and around a scatter of moving corpses and body parts. Through the steel of his helm he heard anguished screams, the shuddering of warhorns and the brazen blast of trumpets, it appeared from the Baratheon line to their right. Aegon’s cavalry were re-forming, even as they were pursued by Others – who had been pulled out of position by what Valarr now recognised as a feigned retreat. With a roar Aegon’s men charged again, the Targaryen Prince in the midst, dealing death.
The battle shrank to the size of Valarr’s eyeslit. Knights and men-at-arms fled or fought and died. To Valarr’s fevered brain, they seemed little things and fearful. He voice was hoarse from the shouting, but he supposed he roared “Targaryen!” with the rest or perhaps “Driftmark!” His arm was by now red to the elbow, glistening wet. When his horse reared again, Valarr rose in the saddle and waved his sword at the enemy. He felt drunk.
The battle fever. Valarr had never thought to experience it himself, though his Prince had told him and his fellow squires of it often enough, when he was younger. How time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled and thought fled, and even your body. Prince Aegon had told them. “You don’t feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, there is only one fight the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next and you know they are afraid and tired but you’re not, you’re alive and death is all around them, but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing.” Battle fever. Let them kill me if they can.
The wights tried. Another spearman with bright blue eyes ran at the Prince. In disbelief Valarr watched as Aegon lopped off his hand holding the spear, then his arm, trotting around him in a circle. An undead archer, bowless with blue eyes thrust at him with an arrow holding it as if it were a knife. The Prince’s destrier kicked at the horror’s thigh to send him sprawling. Aegon rode past a black and gold banner planted in the mud by someone and chopped the staff in two with a swing of his sword. Valarr barked laughter. A blue eyed man in a Knight’s chain mail and a bloody surcoat rose up from nowhere to hack at the red and black Targaryen shield with a two handed great-sword, again and again until someone thrust a dragon-glass dagger under his arm.
Valarr followed as best he could as Aegon seized a lance thrust upright in the ground and levelled its’ point at an oncoming mounted Other wielding a flail. The point struck the man’s helm causing his blue eyed stallion to rear up. The Other fought to keep his seat, sawing on the horse reins and throwing his weight forward. Then they were past and separated by the press.
Valarr’s sword was heavy in his fist, his arm red to the elbow, smoking with blood and gore. Still he pressed on in the wake of the red and black blur in front of him. A dead man-at-arms grabbed the bridle of his horse and thrust at Valarr’s face with a dagger. The young squire knocked the blade aside and buried his sword in the nape of the man’s neck. Having charged within range of their own bowmen, arrows were now falling amongst the mixture of Targaryen forces and undead. A blue eyed bowman several feet away wearing a pink surcoat charged with a black and golden sun and with his entrails falling out was nocking and shooting long shafts at the Princes’ men. Man after man fell to his accurate fire. The Prince spurred his horse and charged the bowman, who saw his approach and turned his fire against him.
Arrows hissed past Aegon’s head and clattered against his armor, one lodged between his arm and the plate covering his shoulders. Struck, the Prince reeled back and then spurred forward, cutting the man in two with a graceful, almost easy swing of his blade. Valarr’s own killing was a clumsy thing. He stabbed one man in the kidneys when his back was turned and grabbed another man by the leg and upended him.
Valarr looked up. The sky had turned red and orange and garish green. “What?” he said. And then he saw.
Sleek and black, the dragon rose, her glistening wings folded close to her sides, her scales gleaming. Her eyes glowed red-black, the color of molten rock. Her mouth opened in a snarl, teeth flashing white and wicked. Her long, red tongue, curled as she breathed he cold air. Clear of the trees, the dragon spread her wings. Each wing was tipped with a pure white claw that shone blood red against the light of the flames.
Valarr could only stare in awe and marvel at the creature’s deadly beauty. The dragon circled higher and higher into the sky. The young squire could hear the slow, gentle flap of the dragon’s leathery wings and knew it was now circling above them, rising gradually. Then he couldn’t hear even the flapping any more; the wings had quit beating. He visualised a great black bird of prey, hovering along - waiting.
Valarr’s gaze moved to the Prince. He too was staring at the dragon, and its human rider – either Saella or one of her daughters thought Valarr. The Prince’s right arm was raised, his sword pointing to the sky. Then Aegon roared one word and brandished his sword toward the wights and Others who continued to move forward.
“Dracarys!”
There was a very gentle rustling sound, the sounds of leaves shivering as the wind rises before a storm. The sound grew louder and louder until it was the rushing of winds when the storm hits, and then it was the shrieking of a hurricane. Aegon screamed a command. Valarr toppled from his horse, pressed his body as close as he could against the ground and covered his head with his arms.
The dragon dropped from the sky. The great rushing sound grew louder and louder, then stopped for an instant. Valarr could hear the huge tendons creaking, lifting and spreading giant wings. Then he heard a great gasping sound as of air being drawn into a gaping throat then a strange sound that reminded him of steam escaping. Something liquid splashed near him. He could hear rocks splitting and cracking and bubbling. Drops of the liquid, splashed on his hand and he gasped as a searing pain penetrated his being.
Valarr opened his yes and glanced to his left. The enemy’s advance had been halted. Many were dissolving in front of his eyes, melting away to nothing. One Other staggered forward, pale blue blood running down is legs in rivulets. Its flesh melted away, swirling away in a white fine mist. Beneath were bones like milk-glass, pale and shiny and they were melting too. Those that weren’t melting were on fire, spinning, staggering and collapsing, mouths open in wordless screams
For a few seconds there was an eerie silence, broken only by the odd scream or moan. Valarr saw Aegon leap to his feet with a roar to charge what little remained of the enemy force in front of them. Valarr saw him decapitate a wight wearing a crown of fire with an almighty swing. With an answering roar of triumph, Aegon’s men followed him - Valarr too - screaming with delight and the scent of victory.
When it was over….a knight from amongst Aegon’s surviving men began the chant. “Ae-gon…Ae-gon….Aeg-on!”, waving their swords in the air and clashing their shields in time with the rhythm of the chant. Valarr joined in – cheering - for what seemed an eternity, all of them hysterical with pride, tears running down all their faces – every fibre of their beings glorying in being alive.
Aegon Targaryen gains Legendary Battle