A Golden Path: Design 3.23 (ch. 46) (Patreon)

Screams, the sounds of hooves, and the whistles of arrows in the air. Those sounds drowned out all others to the point that Rhaegar couldn't even hear Arthur screaming in his ear. His sword was clasped in his hand, his shield in another. Rhaegar's horse was shot out from underneath him at some point, and it was only when Arthur pressed a set of reins to his chest that Rhaegar realized what he was trying to say. 

Rhaegar didn't really feel pain, though he was sure he was hurt. Amidst the chaos, he fed one foot into the stirrup and hauled himself up. The horse shifted under him, nervous and for good reason. They stood on a battlefield turned to mud by gallons of sweat and blood. And there was simply death all around him. 

‘How…?’ He must have hit his head because it felt like it was full of cotton. He grasped for memories that seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke. The battle… it was going poorly. Extremely poorly. But how? How- 

Sound seemed to return to the world as the memories struck him with physical force. For days, they had skirmishes against the Dothraki khalasar. The khalasar would harry them with arrows from afar, clashing against their line before retreating. All in the attempt to draw them from the hill they fortified. Just as word had come that Eddard Stark and the others won a great victory against the Dothraki, a concentrated attack arrived. The Dothraki meant to pry them from their hill. 

The fighting lasted for hours, but when the Dothraki had finally retreated, Rhaegar ordered a charge to see them off. Route them in earnest so they couldn't reform. But something went wrong. 

A trap. It was a trap. 

The Dothraki sacrificed more than a thousand of their own people. To convince Rhaegar and his commanding lords that the victory was an earnest one. The very moment they left their fortifications behind, the Dothraki charged from all sides -- the retreating force turned around while Dothraki seemed to materialize from the sides and rear. Rhaegar attempted to countercharge, to break the encirclement, but… but he went down. 

And now there was a slaughter.  

“My cousin! Where is Robert?!” Rhaegar shouted over the noise, wondering if it was even possible to salvage the battle. Arthur couldn't answer the question, but Rhaegar found an answer all the same. The Baratheon flag flapped in the wind, headed by Robert himself. A rough collection of knights followed in his wake as they charged into the Dothraki with a thunderous crash and the whining of horses cut through the screams of men like a blade. 

His throat closed, confusion gripping him. This… this wasn't what the flames promised. It was what his wife promised him. 

This was meant to be where he solidified his claim to the throne. This campaign was meant to prove to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms that he was a worthy leader. That he was a capable commander, one who studied battles of old, so when the Long Night came… they would unite under him because they would have faith in his ability to command. To lead. To rule. 

“This… is a fucking disaster.” Rhaegar cursed, glad the confession was lost in a sea of noise. Where were the dragons that were promised? Where was the glory? From the very start, every step of the way, it was just disaster after disaster. Now the Storm and Crownlanders were being ravaged by horse lords after he led them into a trap. 

More than despair, Rhaegar just felt lost.

However, he forced himself to swallow that feeling down. Regardless of what he felt or the situation, there was a battle to be fought. Men to save. Even if it was the last thing he did, he would break the encirclement. 

In a louder voice, he called out as he thrust his blade into the air. “Support the Stormlord!” He shouted, urging his horse forward. “Forward!” He added, trying to build some momentum. Behind him, Arthur hefted the Targaryen heraldry, raising it high before he passed it to Rhaegar. 

It made him a target, he knew. An arrow bounced off his armor, followed by another. He still waved the banner, rallying the men to support Robert. He could see his cousin ahead, clashing against the Dothraki. 

While Robert confessed he didn't have the taste for war he thought he would, he did have a talent for it. His warhammer lashed out as quickly as a knife, tearing through the unarmored Dothraki as much as it pulverized bone. 

The Dothraki didn't fight with honor, but he couldn't call them cowards. Far from dissuaded by the sight of his cousin's monstrous strength, they pressed on, rushing forward for the glory of being the one who slew him. They were heedless of how many died in the attempt. Robert's own guards were fighting to keep the pressure off of him, but that was a losing battle. 

How well his rallying cry spread, Rhaegar didn't know. He couldn't. However, the men around him saw the banner and followed in the hope he was leading them to an exit. That, in turn, allowed them to build some momentum. Much like a landslide, it began with a few pebbles but the real push came once it hit a tipping point. 

Arthur was given another horse, riding alongside him with the rest of his guard. Robert fought valiantly, swinging his gore-soaked hammer at such speeds that it was little more than a blur that left streaks of red in its wake. He looked like he was trying to fight the whole khalasar, and was making a decent go of it. Enough so that Rhaegar saw a familiar face. 

Khal Bharbo and his bloodriders. He was a stout man, one who was built wide rather than tall. He carried a curved blade in one hand as he urged his horse forward, intent on bringing Robert down himself. Rhaegar's heart leaped to his throat, trying to cleave through the sea of people between them- 

Only for his worry to prove unfounded as Robert took Khal Bharbo's head with nary a glance. His warhammer tore it off his shoulders with a spray of blood, bone, and meat. Before the Khal even realized he was dead, Robert urged his horse forward to slay another one of his bloodriders. He slew six of them before reinforcements came, and only that few because the bloodriders recoiled from the sudden loss of their greatest warrior and leader. 

That recoil spread when the entire army pushed where Robert was. He met the momentum and carried it forward, breaking the encirclement with a distant roar. 

Rhaegar hadn't realized it then, but the battle was decided at that moment. With a single swing of his hammer, Robert changed the flow of the battle. There was a spattering of resistance as the Dothraki attempted to close the gap, but their formation was broken. Without their Khal and leadership, they didn't have the cohesion to finish what they started. 

Then, like cowards, they melted away into the distance. Retreating in earnest this time, but they were in no state to follow. 

Rhaegar urged his horse to Robert's side, finding his cousin panting for breath with his warhammer falling to the side. He tore off his helmet, revealing a flushed face before he drank deeply from a canteen and dumped the rest of it on top of his head. It was only after shaking his head like a dog that he took any notice of Rhaegar's approach. 

“We won thanks to you, cousin,” Rhaegar admitted, ignoring how bitter the words tasted on his tongue. 

To that, Robert could only scoff. He made a gesture to the sight that laid behind them, turning Rhaegar's attention to the state of the army. It was a sight that made his stomach clench, seeing nothing but a field of dead, dying, and wounded. 

“If that's a victory,” Robert began, his lips thinning. “Then I can't imagine what a defeat looks like.” 

Rhaegar could. And when the days passed, their wounded accounted and cared for, there came news of the fall of Myr and Eddard's great victory on the field against an army that outnumbered them two to one? 

He wondered if it would have been kinder if he had simply perished on the battlefield. 

…

Brandon was all smiles when he welcomed the assembled army into the city of Myr. They arrived not a moment too soon. With so much of the militia and mercenaries outside of the city, his assault had swiftly taken the walls, but there had still been resistance. Masters with their personal guards hiding in their estates and slaves who believed the lies that the masters fed them about what would befall Myr. The last of the fighting had barely quelled an hour before the combined army of the Reach, Dornish, and Ned's militia. 

The palace of Myr was every bit as grand as the palace in Tyrosh, if not more so. In Tyrosh, a coalition of Masters ruled over the city with an iron fist. In Myr, there had been a first amongst equals amongst the masters, who was voted into the position. Of course, only masters could vote, and only if they possessed a required amount of land and income within the city. As such, the palace was meant to strike awe into all who saw it. 

All the better, it came with a throneroom, even if the Myrish called it something else. 

He lounged in the throne, one leg kicked up over an arm, seated at an elevated position across a large set of double doors. Gertrude stood by his side, as there was no one he trusted more within the city, but there were Northern guards standing in place along the great hall the Prince of Dorne and Lord Paramount of the Reach would have to cross to speak to him. 

Gertrude advised a… subtler approach, but Brandon decided against it. Myr had fallen to the North, just as Tyrosh did. The great victories on the field belonged to his brother. Word had reached them of Rhaegar’s disastrous victory, if it was even worth calling it such. Thus far, the North had dominated the war and he would have no one saying anything different. Not even to themselves. 

The doors creaked open, revealing the guests of honor. It took everything Brandon had to keep the smug smile on his face from growing when he saw the immediate scowl on Mace's face. The jumped up steward tried to wipe it away, but he couldn't. Not any more than Brandon could to stop his smile from growing. Oberyn did a better job of hiding his thoughts on the sight of Brandon on a throne, as Brandon could only guess was underneath the amusement he displayed. 

Ned… Ned barely reacted at all. His younger brother had fully grown into himself, it seemed. He carried himself with a quiet confidence that seemed unshakable now. Brandon supposed battle would do that. Before, Ned was quiet because he never seemed to know what to say. Now, it felt like it was because he had nothing to say. 

Letting his leg drop, Brandon held out his hands, “Welcome to Myr, Lord Tyrell. Prince Martel. You too, Ned.” He said, allowing his smile to grow in full force. “My congratulations on your victory. Especially you, Ned. I wasn’t sure I believed my ears when I heard you gave a speech.”

A note of wry amusement flickered across Ned’s face but it faded into exasperation. “The last one I’ll ever give.” He grumbled as Brandon made his way down the steps. He embraced his little brother, feeling a knot around his heart coming undone. 

It had been a gamble. A risk. A necessary one to take Myr unaware, but it couldn’t be denied he put Ned’s life on the line with the gamble. The Dothraki horde- they, Brandon was confident, they could defeat. The Myrish army, less so. Brandon assumed they would play a game of cat and mouse, drawing out the Myrish army until it disintegrated after news spread that Brandon had already taken the city. 

Winning that battle was rather unexpected, but it was another feather in their hat. Another victory attributed to the North. 

“We are not the only one who have done well, it would seem,” Oberyn noted, an easy smile on his face that just barely concealed the frown in his eyes. He was disappointed. Very much so. As he should be, because the immense wealth of Myr was his to command. There would be no shares. No bargaining. The North and the North alone took Myr, and if they received anything -- be it wealth, supplies, or manpower -- it would be because they came to him hat in hand and on their knees. “It would seem your father raised a pair of warriors.”

Brandon broke from the hug with his brother, clapping him on the shoulder while Mace looked like he had swallowed an entire lemon tree. “More than just the pair. Benjen and Lyanna are just as fierce,” he replied, making Oberyn’s thin smile grow a fraction. “Come. Let us celebrate our victories. The luxuries of Myr await.” 

“We cannot have that,” Oberyn replied with an agreeing nod and a twinkle in his eye. “Though, I am quite curious what shall happen to the stewardship of Tyrosh in your absence.” 

Brandon kept a pleasant smile on his face as he led the high lords away from the throne room where they would feast. The question was expected, of course, but he had hoped it would come later. “As the North has taken both cities, I believe the North shall maintain responsibility for them.” 

They won. They won two of the three Free Cities. The third was in dispute only because it was taken with a coalition of the Stormlands, Crownlanders, and some Northmen. But from all that Brandon had heard, the North had taken Lys just as much as they had taken the other two. They had the greatest claim to them. No one could deny that. 

But that wouldn't stop fools like Mace or any of the other high lords from doing exactly that. 

“A greater question is what the next goal of this campaign shall be,” Ned interjected with either a willful blindness or complete disregard of the topic at hand. Either suited Brandon well as they walked. “The Free Cities have fallen. We have secured the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones. However, Winter is Coming.” 

Ned meant the season as much as he did reprisals.

“Ideally, we would have Prince Rhaegar to lend a voice in such matters, but it seems the war is progressing everywhere he isn't,” Oberyn remarked lightly, earning a sharp glance from Mace as much as he did from Brandon. That was an unexpectedly… less than charitable observation. It wasn't wrong, though. In the same time Ned had seen off two khalasars and a Myrish army over a hundred thousand strong, Rhaegar had accomplished nothing. Either he was still locked horns with the khalasar, or he had been defeated. 

Any either case, or even victory, it bore no bearing on the outcome of the war itself. 

“I believe he is on his way, alongside Lord Baratheon,” Brandon offered. His scouts reported as much. They were perhaps a week away, slowed dramatically due to losing a third of their army, and another third was wounded. Setting aside whatever Brandon might feel personally, the appearance of generosity was important to maintain, so with those scouts came wagons of herbs and bandages. 

It wouldn’t do much, but it might be enough to save some from rotting wounds. 

Ned relaxed slightly upon hearing Robert was alive and well. Another feather in his cap to add to the saga of the Stormlord. However, he was still all business. “Then it would be prudent to wait. Or have him ride ahead.” 

“Alas, it may not be his decision in any case,” Oberyn noted. “As Lord Brandon says -- we have secured the Disputed Lands and Stepstones. Our victory is still fresh, but it will have time to settle now that Winter has come. I cannot imagine either Volantis or Tyrosh acting in the years to come.”

“Meaning?” Brandon questioned as they arrived at their destination. A pair of servants opened the doors for them, revealing a long table stacked high with delicacies. Roasted meats, fresh fruit and vegetables, nuts, berries, and more. Luxuries were so common in this part of the world that they stopped being called as much. There was more food on the feasting table than there had been on the last three feasts thrown by his father. 

Prince Oberyn chuckled deeply, “I suspect the king will have his say.” The thought of that nearly brought a scowl to his face, but he accepted the words with a nod. He had spent much of the wedding in various states of inebriation, so his memory wasn’t as sharp as it should be. Still, he recalled the King quite well. 

He had almost impressed, just not for the reasons a king should. King Aerys seemed as if a wild animal had possessed him, attempting to act like a civilized man to avoid detection. He managed it, if only barely, but by the end of the wedding, the veneer had worn thin. “Then we wait until then,” Brandon replied, clapping Oberyn on the shoulder and taking his place at the head of the table. 

An action that was lost on no one. 

It was rather unfortunate that they didn’t have to wait long. Letters flowed over the Narrow Sea, taking word of their victory to the far corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Rheagar arrived with Robert, the former offering congratulations between clenched teeth and practiced smiles. All of them settled in Myr for but a few weeks, resting their men and stockpiling their resources. 

The armies weren’t idle. Neither were Ned nor Robert. As soon as they had the forces available, they ventured back into the Disputed Lands, seeking to chase out the last of the mercenaries and to restore the farmland so it could produce with the coming of spring. 

Brandon expected the letter long in advance, but he found he still dreaded the day that it arrived. 

A summons by King Aerys, commanding that Prince Rheagar, Prince Oberyn, Mace Tyrell, Robert Baratheon, Ned, and himself to come to King’s Landing. For what reason, it did not specify. An award ceremony seemed the most likely. Perhaps a slap on the wrist at best for appearances. 

But what Brandon hadn’t prepared for was one more name being included in the summons. As if they were an equal. 

Paul Atreides.