> Year 283 AC
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> The Crossing of the Trident, The Riverlands – Central Westeros
The setting sun turned the Ford of the Trident and its surrounding shores into a sea of molten fire. The ford no longer ran red with the blood, but dead men still lay in the waters and on the surrounding shores. All of them had been Targaryen loyalists, led by Prince Rhaegar to blunt Robert the Usurper’s advance south and quash his rebellion. The army lead by Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had won handily, so the rebel dead had been recovered and given what final rites could be allowed given our time and resource constraints.
I stood against a tree on a small hillock overlooking both the battlefield and the rebel war camp, trying to lose myself in my thoughts.
You killed Robert! an insidious voice blared in my head. You swore to Lord Stark you’d protect him, and you got him killed instead!
I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to banish the voice. In my mind’s eye I saw in perfect clarity the Trident as it was only a handful of hours before. The thunder of castle forged steel clashing as two armies smashed against eachother in the rushing waters of the Trident. I remembered being lost in the melee, my horse being shot out from under me by a volley of crossbow bolts. Then that damned Targaryen knight bearing down on me as I rose on unsteady feet, barely able to bring my sword up to block my new enemy’s powerful blows, certain of my own impeding death.
Then came Robert, riding to my aide atop his mighty warhorse, and crushing the Targaryen knight’s dragon headed helm. Just in time for Rhaegar to come in from Robert’s blind spot. I saw Rhaegar coming and tried to warn Robert. I’d screamed as loudly as I could, pointing at Rhaegar. Robert turned his horse around and brought his warhammer to smash Rhaegar’s head in even as the dragon lord prince thrust his sword into a gap in Robert’s armor.
In the span of a blink, two great men had died. A part of me noted a cold humor in the fact these two great lords of the realm had gone to war over the love of a single woman, and as a result had died at each other’s hand.
“‘So much death,’” I murmured to myself, a memory from simpler times breaching the surface. “‘What can men do against such reckless hate?’”
“My Lord?” A familiar voice asked, snapping me out of my trance.
“Nothing, Malcolm,” I said, turning to face my Guard Captain.
Ser Malcolm Andersen looked at me with those eternally pensive blue eyes of his. They matched his eternally pursed lips and eternally knitted brow. Despite looking eternally tense, he stood tall and alert, his sandy blonde hair cut so short he was almost bald. The perfect, romanticized portrait of a rugged hedge knight.
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“My apologies for disturbing you, Lord Aleksander,” Malcolm said, “but the sun is almost set and there’s likely Targaryen men still lurking about. It would be prudent to return to the camp.”
I nodded and shoved off the tree, stretching my body and enjoying the sounds and sensations of tension bleeding from taunt muscles. My armor quietly clanked as I did so, and I keenly felt the presence of my sword on my hip.
“You are correct,” I said. “Let us rejoin the throng and find something to eat. I don’t think I’ve had a morsel or sip since this morning.”
“That you haven’t, my lord,” Malcolm said, all serious business. “I’m surprised you still have the energy to stand.”
“Well let’s go fix that then,” I declared, giving him a smile I didn’t feel. I’m not sure why I was smiling. Maybe I was trying to force myself to think positively.
How can I think positively right now? I demanded of myself as Malcolm and I strode back into the protection of the war camp, making our way to the conclave of tents that carried the sigil of my house, the Greystarks.
Robert is dead, even if his army is intact. When the Lannisters heard they’ll move it double time to King’s Landing to finish off the rest of the Targaryens and claim the Iron Throne for themselves. Eddard’s only goal is Lyanna. He won’t try to wrest King’s Landing from the Lannisters.
My mind kept spinning like a runaway wheel even as I entered my personal tent and Malcolm helped divest me of my armor, ordering food and drink to be brought from the field kitchens.
Lyanna is likely still going to die and Jon will be Eddard’s bastard. What happens after Lord Stark brings his sister home to rest? Will he let the Lannisters rule over the Seven Kingdoms for themselves? Will the rest of the Great Houses let Tywin claim that power unchallenged?
As I sat down to eat, dressed in fresh clothes, I found my sword resting across my lap, the hilt within easy reach of my dominant hand. I stared at the wheel pommel. At the stylized depiction of the oak tree and sword that was House Greystark’s coat-of-arms. My coat of arms.
Oak and Iron were our Words, for we were stout of heart and strong of will. I felt like I possessed neither as I ate and drank in silence. I had ultimately failed the intent of my self-appointed mission to prevent the events of Game of Thrones from happening, thereby stopping the countless deaths and atrocities. I felt lost in uncertainty, like a piece of driftwood caught in the riptides.
One thing at a time, I thought, reminding myself of what my mom used to say when I was overwhelmed. Take it one thing at a time, one day at a time.
Yet I still remembered those iconic events that I’d set out to stop. The betrayal and execution of Eddard Stark. The Red Wedding. The casual tyranny of a sadistic boy-king. Those specific events wouldn’t happen now, but ones like them were bound to occur now that Robert wasn’t here to take the Iron Throne and ensure the rule of law was continued under the crown stag of Baratheon.
“Changes are coming,” I remembered a certain buffalo man saying to another displaced traveler. “There are certain decisions that must be made. If you are to live, you must believe.”But what am I supposed to believe in? I asked. Only silence met that thought as it echoed through my now eerily calm mind.