66 Battle of Blackwater Rush

"I am glad I was - mostly - sober for when your husband confessed his strategic deception to us, your Highness."

Nursing a glass of watered wine, unlike the undiluted Dornish horse piss Tyrion imbibed, Daenerys smirked at her Hand. "And why is that, Lord Tyrion?" She missed Jon something fierce, but it was for the best. While he oversaw the spearhead to Highgarden and Sansa and Davos managed things back North, she and Tyrion stayed at Stoney Sept, close to the all important crossroads at the Blackwater Rush.

He sipped at his goblet. "Ned Stark always seemed as if his honor overwhelmed the most basic political reason. He didn't live long enough to find anyone discovering the depths of his cunning, concerning Jon's real parentage. Now, at least I could see his son/nephew demonstrate the cunning of an honorable man for me."

At that moment the tent-flap flew open and in walked Robb, face stretched in anger. Dany had seen that before. It had been when he notified her of Daario arriving in Dragonstone - only to betray her. "What is it, brother?" she asked him.

"We've captured a Lannister scout, Daenerys. And you'll never guess who it is." The Dragon Empress' cocked a single eyebrow.

Hood draped over his head, the prisoner found himself shoved onto his knees. 'Finally, off my blisterin' feet.' He had been moved quickly by the scouts after identifying him as high profile. All within the northern army remembered what happened when the Kingslayer was captured - the rift he created in between the Lords that caused the fall of the Young Wolf. Now, they were not taking any chances with any high profile prisoner. Hood over the head, smuggled into the castle so as the men couldn't see him. He heard the Stark Bannermen mutter amongst each other… until they fell silent.

"What the fuck's goin' on?" Asked Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. "I know we're at the Stoney Sept, so you cunts can take this fuckin' thing off."

"This isn't about our protection from you, Ser Bronn," came a placid yet chilled female voice. Bronn found the hood finally ripped away, blinking from the bright torchlight. "It's more for your protection from our men." As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was face to face with a petite, silver-haired goddess.

The Dragon Empress in the flesh.

She gave him a small smirk, lips ghosting upwards at some silent humor. "Lannisters and their running dogs aren't the favorite guests of northern soldiers."

Blinking, Bronn's gaze was naturally drawn to the diminutive form of the Empress' Hand. "With all due respect, my Lady. Then what's he doin' here?" Hands bound behind his back, all the former sellsword could do was gesture with a tilt of the head.

"I can see what you always said about him," chuckled Daenerys.

"He hasn't changed one bit," Tyrion remarked, hand drifting to the scar on his cheek. "When Lannister blades mark you up, then the northerners don't seem to be as violent towards you." He walked over and slapped Bronn on the back. "It's good to see you, old friend."

"Your brother told me that if I ever saw you again, I would cut you in half for betraying your family, but he didn't do so at the Dragonpit - I guess it's off."

Tyrion smiled sheepishly. "Good. Quarter man isn't near as good a nickname as Half man."

Clasping her hands together, Daenerys cleared her throat. "As amusing as this reunion is, Ser Bronn, why are you here?" The way she paced - stalked rather - around him, the small-framed Empress looked every inch a dragon. "They wouldn't send the Hero of Blackwater Bay on a routine scouting mission unless it were scouting something important, or it was something personal for you or your masters. So which is it?"

The Empress wouldn't accept bullshit, or flowery asskissing - not that Bronn would debase himself so. 'Best out with it, cunt.' "I wish to switch sides… not just me, but I won't name names just in case it gets back to the cuntface King."

Sharing a glance with Tyrion, Daenerys didn't give anything away. "And what would you offer to prove your sincerity? My Hand trusts you, but I need more."

"How about the eleven thousand men that are advancing against the Blackwater Rush as we speak? Would that suffice?"

"Why haven't you taken the castle, Grey Worm?" Watching the Emperor climb down Rhaegal's spines, it was obvious to the various Unsullied captains and lieutenants that the quite annoyed Jon was about to explode. Around him, the Dothraki bloodriders grumbled in the same irritation. They had grown accustomed to soft beds, hearty ale, and meaty pies since arriving in Westeros and couldn't wait for the accommodations of Highgarden.

Stepping forward, Grey Worm bowed to Jon. "Your Majesty, my men needed several hours to rest feet from march. When I began the order for advance, Lady Tyrell order me to halt."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "Your orders come from me, and if I am unavailable then from General Caryn."

"I know, but…" Grey Worm's lips formed in a slight grimace. "Lady Tyrell… she quite persistent."

"Show me," Jon replied, coldly. He did not want to deal with this right now. Grey Worm nodded, leading him to the command tent.

The tent had been erected hastily over a large rock face - one of the few natural structures that marred the beautiful fields of the Reach. Several miles away and as majestic as it would have been to someone at the gates, the beauty of Highgarden castle was obscured by several pyres of smoke that rose into the blue sky like the deepest obscenity. A column of Unsullied stood shock still, waiting for orders. The Dothraki cavalry milled about off the Roseroad in far less discipline, bored out of their minds.

Occasionally a boom of an emplaced cannon roared across the landscape. No one but Jon looked up at it, and only the latter out of curiosity. "Some Lannisters dug in at scattered hamlets. We're blasting them out,' Grey Worm explained.

"Good."

The subject of their earlier discussion sat in a wood and canvas field chair, cane tapping upon the ground in a bored contemplation. "Greetings, sire. I can recognize your footsteps a mile away. Just like Ned Stark's." Saying nothing, Jon took a seat in the camp chair just across from her. "You're not so dishonorable to make an old woman stand on crippled feet?"

Jon didn't answer. "Why did you see it fit to halt my army?"

"I'm not having my home looted and burned by a bunch of horselord savages." She was as blunt as ever.

"It seems to be doing a good job of that already. We need those food stores, Lady Tyrell, and your orders are delaying their capture."

"The people of Highgarden are loyal to House Tyrell. I can assure you, no Lannister cunt could burn the food stores there without cooperation, and they won't give it."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jon felt the frustration threatening to boil over. It had plagued him in this new iteration since that night at Winterfell with Catelyn and Caryn, confessing the truth to Dany only soothing it. She wasn't here, and the frustration returned. "Lady Tyrell, I appreciate your family's loyalty, but those people there have not sworn that same loyalty. They are pledged to Joffrey, and thus suspect."

A snort left the old woman. "They would no more wish to follow Joffrey than they would fellate a Dornish cactus."

He was just so sick of it all. Sick of the complexities, sick of the squabbling Lords, sick of the constant strain of imagining his impending death around every corner - even though it was his plan, the temptation of shoving it into another's hands so he would have one less thing to deal with was quite intense. "Then what could you possibly offer me in this situation?"

Cane clinking on the stone, Olenna hobbled over to Jon. Her gait was in shambles, but her piercing eyes belied a sharp mind. "I may be old, but I'm not useless. Send me in there under a banner of truce and you shall have Highgarden free and clear."

Irritation nearly causing Jon to rebuff her and simply burn away the troublemakers with Rhaegal, the honor in his heart banished it away. "Very well. You have a day, Lady Tyrell. Appeal to their loyalty, or the Dothraki will have to appeal to their fear." Smug grins broke out amongst the bloodriders at this statement. Looking over his shoulder, Jon's attention shifted to another matter. "Sam, a word?"

It had been a surprise for Sam when his friend had instructed him to leave the Riverrun library - his home base for research efforts - and trek down with Gilly and Little Sam to the Riverlands following the Dragonpit meeting. He knew how Jon's mind worked, so figured that he had something big planned during the doubts and tight-lipped periods. But this was unreadable. It heartened the disinherited half-maester to see his ancestral kingdom once more, especially after facing his father, but he hadn't a clue what Jon wanted.

Soon, the two were walking along the grass. Unlike further north, the weather was perfect - sunny and warm but with a cooling breeze. They both felt out of place in their northern-style leather. "The end of the middle is coming soon, Sam," Jon said cryptically, staring at the greasy black smoke over Highgarden. A small troop of horses were already galloping towards it, white flag fluttering. "The true fight awaits after, regardless of who wins."

"You will win, Jon." He glanced over at the Emperor, so young yet still so old at the same time. They had both been through more than most men would in multiple lifetimes. "If I've learned anything, it's to never bet on Jon Snow."

Jon smiled, grateful at Sam's comment. When before his bastard name brought him only shame and self-loathing, now it grounded him. Reminded him to not let the power and dignitas infect him completely. "I appreciate that, my friend. But we must plan for the worst." He looked back at the countryside, to the south. "That is why I am ordering you to Oldtown - to be my personal representative to the College of Maesters."

Sam blinked. "What?"

Clasping Sam's shoulders, Jon locked eyes with his oldest friend. "I need you to do this, Sam. I need to know that there is a fallback. That there is someone to spread the warning of the Long Night."

The earnestness evident in Jon's voice, Sam nodded. "I shall, Jon. Don't worry."

"Keep Gilly and my godson safe." The Emperor allowed himself a small smile. "And if you find the secret to Valyrian Steel and I live, let me know." The two shared a grin.

"Your Majesty." Trotting up to them, Ollie handed Jon two leafs of paper. "A raven from Oldtown and from Blackwater Rush."

Mumbling his thanks, Jon looked each over. The one from Oldtown was simple. Having taken a fast horse, Tyene Martell had raised several thousand Dornish from several houses still loyal to the legacy of Elia and Oberyn Martell. She had met up with Podrick, marching north with the reinforcements from Essos and all the Ironborn marines after landing. 'All going to plan,' he thought.

The second was far shorter - from Dany.

-Lannister forces less than a day's march away. Gendry a day's march away. Do not come north, we'll hold them off-

Jon closed his eyes, breathing deeply. In all of this, one feeling he had yet to cope with was helplessness. Being unable to protect his family. The feeling had to be willed away. "Father," he prayed. "Mother. Uncle, watch over Daenerys." Only the wind answered him.

"Seven Hells," muttered Kevan Lannister under his breath. Addam Marbrand had been right, exaggerations correct. Before them stood what had to be the combined forces of all the Northern Houses - and despite the massive losses and divisions they had suffered since Robb Stark called their banners years before, the Young Wolf still commanded an impressive host.

Spyglass dropping, Kevan's aide was pale. "The Dragon Queen is with them… with her dragon."

"Just one dragon?" At Riverrun, she had three.

"Aye. There are smaller ones, but the scouts have them still at Riverrun."

'At least they get something right.' Kevan wished he had access to the Little Birds of Varys or Qyburn, but the former was with the enemy and the latter was quite tight lipped.

Officers and Lords riding on horseback in front of their men, guiding the rows of warriors into position, each side maximized their advantage. Kevan had spread his forces out four lines deep across a wide front, hoping to use his superior numbers to overwhelm the Young Wolf in a double envelopment before any reinforcements could envelop him as the Knights of the Vale had at the Battle of the Bastards. Meanwhile, the furious digging and entrenching had paid off for the Imperials. The northerners made up for their deficiency in armor - chainmail and leather comparing to the plate-armor of the Westerlands regulars - with a line of earthworks along the shallow hillside west of the Blackwater Rush. Wooden spikes extended out like spines of a hedgehog, sparing warriors for reserve lines behind in case of any breaches. Designed as a static formation to deal with heavy cavalry, Robb cursed as he found that only the light sellsword cavalry accompanied the enemy regulars.

"They won't be launching any cavalry assaults," he explained to his sister by marriage. "Stormcrows by their markings. Light cavalry, probably to hit us on the side."

"Their infantry will still be halted by the earthworks," Daenerys responded, clad in a white leather dress. She looked every inch a northern conqueror. "Any advantage to equalize the numerical disparity is welcome for us."

Robb shook his head. "That's not what I'm worried about." He gestured to the enemy flanks. "They're spreading out. I'll need to put men out of the reserves to plug our left and right. That leaves only my cavalry in reserve. We need reinforcements."

"Gendry and the Stormlands forces will arrive shortly," Dany answered, though she wished she was as confident as she sounded. In any case, they had Belarion. Kevan Lannister undoubtedly had nests of scorpions and rockets just for that eventuality, but it was just a risk she had to take. Patting Saracen, she left the command tent to take her place within her army.

It started in the center. Deliberately ordering his flanks to hold back for the right moment, Kevan Lannister sent in the cream of his Lannisport men at arms directly at the Imperial earthworks. Men that had bled and died at Whispering Wood, Riverrun, and the God's Eye - men that had never broken - charged forth in good order, covered by the barrage of a quarter hundred rocket batteries. The earthworks afforded decent protection the northerners, Robb Stark and Robett Glover answering back with the three dozen cannon snugly emplaced behind their men. Scores of men fell in bloody heaps as the Lannisters reached the earthworks, beginning the melee.

Smoke from the firing artillery wreathed the battlefield in a haze, the roar of the guns and rockets only joined by the clash of metal and the screams of the fallen. Cohesion among the attackers was weakened yet not eliminated by the staves, organized formations falling upon the less armored northern shield wall in a contest of muscle and grit. Archers and crossbowmen added their payloads to the fray, earlier scores changing to hundreds as each of the minutes ticked past. Whatever tactics had begun the battle now devolved into a pure chaotic brawl.

Present throughout the carnage was the black form of Balerion the Dread Reborn. Flying low, Daenerys guided him on attack run after attack run - lessons learned from the near tragedy at Riverrun almost what seemed like an eternity ago. Fire spewed from his open maw, targeting whatever cluster of forces he could before bolts or rockets forced Daenerys to break off. Nevertheless, many struck home. Every minute or so Balerion bellowed with pain as a bolt slammed into his flesh or a rocket exploded close and peppered him with shrapnel. Hitting closer to the front would have been safer, but Dany refused to put any of her own men at risk of friendly fire.

Viserys would undoubtedly have, as would many Kings, Queens, and conquerors - but not Dany. She wouldn't crush her own under the wheel.

Flame drying up as a cluster of Lannister forces on the far left of their line immolated in a fiery inferno, Dany had just urged Balerion to gain altitude when a loud explosion detonated just under his abdomen. A pierced cry of pain left the dragon's maw, Dany holding on tight to his spines at the sudden jolt. She urged him higher, pleaded for him to rise above the threat of the ranged artillery but he refused, stunned wings refusing to flap as the mighty beast slammed into ground muddy from the snowmelt. Dany tumbled off into a soft patch of grass. Her body ached, bruises likely all over her body, but a quick pat down and listening to her child's grunts and roars indicated all was - relatively - fine.

"It's the Dragon Cunt!"

Eyes widening in alarm, Dany scrambled to her feet to find at least half a dozen Stormcrows galloping towards her, scimitars gleaming in the sun as they gunned for her. On instinct, she drew Saracen from her hip and waited for the onslaught.

Dragon incapacitated from the sheer pain of his wounds, the raider in the van saw the grounded Empress as an easy target - gross underestimation. Nimbly, Daenerys crouched to her knees, dodging the downward slash. Saracen sliced clean through the horse's legs, sending it and the rider toppling to the ground in sickening crunches of bone. The one behind pulled on the reins to dodge, only to fall from the horse all the same. Dany brought her blade up to slash across a third's stomach. The second had then scrambled to his feet, attacking Dany with ferocity. She parried blow after blow, reflexes quicker than her foe. The final blow sent his head clean off with nary a drop of blood marring the fine metal…

...before the fist of a fourth sellsword, this one dismounted, slammed into her gut and sent Dany to the ground.

Coughing dust from her lungs, in a blink of an eye Dany's sight shifted from the sellsword raising his scimitar to the crimson blood spurting from his chest as a northern knight ran him through with a broadsword. The attacker collapsed on the ground, nothing but a boneless corpse spilling blood upon the ground. "Your Highness," stated the knight, extending his hand.

Daenerys took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. All around, laid the still bodies of the remaining sellswords, the detachment of northern cavalry milling about on the very edge of the battle. "All thanks upon you, Ser…"

"Cassel, your Highness. Of Winterfell." He was a young lad, likely no more than two and twenty passed his name day. He glanced at Balerion, who was coming to from his torpor and pain. "Will he be alright, Empress?"

Willing herself not to sigh and dishearten her men, Dany nodded. "My children are strong. They have survived worse." The stories Jon had told of how Rhaegal nearly died at Hardhome still haunted her. She moved to Balerion's side while the night mounted his horse. "May the old gods grant you their blessings, Ser Cassel." Gently stroking Balerion's scales as the knight rode away, Daenerys heard the thunder of thousands of hoofbeats over the din of battle. It was the Stormcrows, moving into position to attempt to turn their flank. She cursed, not enough reserves to hold them back for too long.

Where in seven hells was Gendry?

Sitting high in the saddle, Gendry Baratheon felt every inch a true highborn for the first time in his life. His feet dangled in the stirrups as he guided his mount across the front line of tightly packed troops. Shields packed tightly, swords and spears drawn, six thousand steel helmets glinting in the sun. They stretched five battalions wide, two deep, banners glinting in the cool wind that brought them relief in their sweltering armor - the finest the Stormlands had to offer, bending the knee to Empress Daenerys at Riverrun and fighting for the bastard lord rather than the Lannister lord. Gendry looked upon the closest banner. A mighty stag, antlers high in defiance to the scorching fires surrounding it.

The fires of his forge, only this time to reforge the destiny of House Baratheon from one of treason to one of loyalty. Of honor and fidelity.

"Men of the Stormlands!" he cried, his usually reserved demeanor being swept up in the moment. "This is our time! Too long have we fought and bled for the wrong cause, one that brought nothing but ruin for the world. Today, we reclaim our honor!" He drew out his warhammer, holding it mightily in the air. "Forward for Storm's End!"

As the men cheered, Gendry was clearly a sight to behold. A true stag, a Lord his uncles would have been proud to see. Preparing the charge across the sunlit field of glory, he looked every inch what Robert Baratheon should have been.

"They're comin'!" The hue and cry rang out all across the Lannister front - from the reserve forces to the footsoldiers already engaged in the bloody melee with the dug in northerners. Positioned perfectly on the gently sloping hillside to see the roadway to the north. See the gleaming steel and waving banners of the Stormlanders, fully rested and advancing at double quick time to slam into the unprotected flank.

Orders came quickly. All forces on the Lannister left, initially being held back in order to hit the forces of House Manderly currently battling with those men of House Marbrand fighting to avenge their fallen lord, were commanded to swing back and face Gendry Baratheon - who outnumbered them three to one. The Stormcrows had already broke out into a half-charge by the time the order to recall reached them. Sellsword captains rapidly attempting to reel them back, Robb Stark personally led in his reserve of five hundred northern cavalry in a countercharge. Lances and swords sliced through the unarmored sellswords, the Lannister right turning into a slaughterhouse of man and steed that reminded many a northerner of the Battle of the Bastards.

It was a single battalion of troops that held the line. Brave farmers and ranchers hailing from the same collection of villages and hamlets thirty miles southeast of Lannisport. On the orders of Kevan Lannister himself, ashen-faced and with his mount bleeding from several wounds, the three hundred men hunkered down in place with fifty crossbowmen and a rocket battery. They formed into a tight square, spears and shields pointed outward just as the Stormlanders swarmed around them in their mad assault on the hated Lannister Army.

Time stretched out interminably while combining with the duopoly of the rapid motion of savagery racing past each man on each side of the conflict. Shadows danced upon the dead grass, obscured by the grey smoke of power and the greasy-black smoke of smoldering dragonfire. Men stood, men ran, men collapsed in bloody heaps all in one fluid continuum - they hacked away with blades, poured water or wine down thirsty gullets out of leather waterskins, picking up weapons from the fallen once theirs were damaged beyond repair or lost in the melee. Imperial cannon and Lannister rockets fired with wild abandon, archers on both sides just aiming in the direction of the enemy and firing. Anything to increase their fire rate.

Gendry forced his command forward at the Lannister flank and away from the distraction that was the battalion square - but there was no truly escaping it. The presence of hundreds of armed enemy forces right in the center of their force was a threat unable to ignore, thus minimizing the impact of their envelopment. The men within the square, surrounded by a snarling mass of humanity bent on ripping them apart for the actions of their leige lord, burrowed their spears and shields upon the ground in defiance. They cut up their banners out of honor as the archers and rockets unloaded in every direction. Standing until overrun, every minute found themselves pulling back as comrade upon comrade fell and the sheer weight of the Baratheons forced them closer together…

Until the battle stilled with the arrival of the Black Dread.

Blood oozing out of over a dozen wounds marring his red-black scales, Balerion nonetheless stilled the entire field with his ear-splitting bellow. Bracing for the fiery death by inferno that far stronger and braver warriors before them that failed to live to tell the tale, the battalion square only found a shower of slobber drenching them. The dragon kept his fireglands dry for the time being.

Atop him, the majesty of the Dragon Empress - blade gleaming in the sun - gazed down upon them. Her formally ice blue jacket was marred with blood and greasy soot. Not her blood. "Men of the Westerlands, I implore that you surrender." It was a plea, but Daenerys did not lower herself while giving it.

In the stilled fighting, the battalion commander - a knight of mid-level repute - stepped forward. His arm hung limply, bleeding from his shoulder. "How much time did we buy?" he asked simply.

"Enough," Dany replied, indulging him. "You demonstrated your fighting spirit. Now surrender honorably. Enough lives have been shed in this war - do not sacrifice your brave men for the savage brute that sits in King's Landing." Blood dripping from Saracen, Balerion hissing once she finished her plea, it was unsaid on what Daenerys would do if they declined.

Silence, for the first time since the battle had begun, reigned for interminable moments. The standoff brought a great tension upon both sides as the decisions of one man hung in the balance. Would he choose a personal humiliation and let his boys live another day, or choose the Fire and Blood offered by the Targaryen Empress as punishment for defiance.

His choice would be the opposite of the brother of his liege lord outside Riverrun on another fateful day like this. "Put down your spears and shields boys! Our war is over!" A relieved breath left Dany's lungs at the decision. These brave men didn't deserve a fiery death simply for owing allegiance to evil men with black intentions.

Although the Lannister force lived to fight another day thanks to the sacrifice of the boys of the Westerlands - armed with the knowledge that the reports that Addam Marbrand had died to deliver to the Army of the Divine Chimera - the lion had been beaten off with its tail between its legs. The dragon placed the laurels upon her head, for she had secured victory that day.

Rows of Unsullied remained completely still out of training and familiarity as the Black Dread Reborn landed on the ground with a loud thud. He spread his wings, roaring loudly as Daenerys held her position dragonback with ease. Soon the dragon settled from exhaustion and the fatigue of his various wounds. Bundled in an all-black coat, Saracen strapped to her hip, Dany climbed down and found what she was looking for.

Stark and Targaryen banners unfurled in blurs of red/black and grey fluttering in the wind, Jon stepped from the welcoming party to meet his beloved half way. Behind them, a massive rose banner graced the highest point of the newly restored seat of House Tyrell - wardens of the Reach by order of the Empress.

Expression regal, Dany gave a curt nod. "Emperor Jon."

"Your Highness." Jon bowed, inwardly enjoying the theatrics of it all. Based on the barely hidden dragonfire smirk on her face, he knew she was enjoying this as well. "May I present as a present for you, Highgarden Castle."

Smile stretching from ear to ear, Daenerys returned a short curtsey. "You are most appreciated, your Majesty." And with that, it was done. The Targaryen Emperor had succeeded in his quest. Highgarden was captured along with all the food stores for King's Landing, a prize that none in the Lannister Army could ignore. Jon had forced Tywin's hand, and ensured the sight of the next field of battle.

The one that would decide the Emperor's War.