Battles and Bells

Alistair stared at the man who sat across from he and Robert. Ser Wilbert of Stony Sept seemed saddened as he spoke, at least, and Alistair could not honestly blame or hate the man. Even if he were making the next few days of their lives far more difficult then they might have otherwise been. But there was nothing for it. The man spoke truth, when he said that the Royalists led by Lord Connington would arrive a day or two before the army he and Robert had ridden ahead of. 

It was frustrating, of course, that their effort to warn Stony Sept in the hope that the toll their army would take on the land and people of the region would lessen, was instead the very thing which left them so exposed. But they could not expect the knight who only nominally ruled the land to try and take charge of the most decentralized city in the realm, to stand against an army.

Alistair supposed they would have to run. There was not much of a chance, not when Connington's knights had fresh horses after days of being encamped, but there was little choice. Their own entourage of around fifty knights was a decent force, and perhaps - perhaps - they might find a way to fight against the enemy for long enough to trek through the wilderness to their own army, should they abandon their horses. Or perhaps they could simply ride, and hope that not too many knights would be sent to kill them? Connington already knew they were in the town, after all, so there would most certainly be knights. But hopefully not too many.

Of course, even as he thought, and agued, Alistair was quite certain that either he or Robert would die. And Probably both. But, if he had anything to say, Robert would survive. Alistair had already shared all his knowledge, and perhaps his long, night-time conversations with Robert about the future of the realm would come to be, even without himself, should he die a martyr.

Alistair let out a deep breath, and nodded to Ser Wilbert as Alistair rose from his seat.

"Thank you, Ser Wilbert, for speaking with us, and for warning us, even when you could have done much less, for far greater rewards. If you wish it, I am sure Robert and I could put on a bit of a mummery as we 'escape' Stony Sept? That way, your people are beyond reproach, and hopefully beyond the flames of the Mad King." Alistair smiled with grim humor then, and continued, "then again, one would also think that a Lord Paramount was beyond the flames of the Mad King, but I saw myself that Aerys does not much care who would normally be seen as innocent. So I advise you curse our names, when Connington comes."

Something guilty flashed across the mustachioed face of Wilbert, as his lightly lined face twisted slightly in held back guilt. The man was only thirty, at Alistair's best guess, with mousy brown hair, and dark eyes.

Robert must have seen it too, for he held up a warding hand as he too stood from his seat.

"None of that now, Ser Wilbert. You're doing what is right for your people. You're doing a Lord's work, rather than chase unlikely glory as a possible man of the Stag's Rebellion, or whatever they might call it if we win. If you had more reason to think you might hold against Connington, I might be angry with you. But this? This is good sense, for the sake of your people." Robert was solemn as he spoke of duty, in a way that surprised even Alistair, who had not heard such from Robert in an actual situation yet. Then Robert smiled widely, his handsome face grinning as he laughed a booming laugh. 

"Perhaps more sense than we had, when we started this whole war. Mayhap Ned and I should have let Aerys have our heads, or have just fled to Essos till the man died upon the throne, ey?"

Robert's smile dimmed then, as he shook his head. "No. I should not deceive you, like that. You, and everyone, deserves to know what sort of man they are ruled by." His stare was serious as he looked into the eyes of Wilbert. "For had we given our heads, Aerys would have come for our brothers as well, thinking that Ned and I had planned to be martyrs for our brothers to rebel. And had we fled to Essos, the good king would have declared war upon the free cities for planning to make me the puppet upon the Iron Throne. The man is mad. Mad as anyone can be." Robert finished, with a slow shake of his head, as if he were still in stunned disbelief of Aerys' madness.

Ser Wilbert was quiet then, and so were they, as they made to exit his solar. Yet something nagged at Alistair, and as he realized what it was, he slung Heartsbane from his back, and leaned it against a cushioned chair, before looking back to Wilbert.

"Would you mind hiding this, at least for some time? I swore that Tarly would get a chance to regain this sword, even should I die. I have my doubts as to how important this sword will be for our flight, and even further doubts as to whether or not Aerys will claim the sword as a punishment to Randyll for failing him. So, I would appreciate it if you could take care of it, and should the worst come about, get it to a group of bakers in Sunspear known as the Biscuits Union. Tell…" Who was the best with the blade? Didn't Beldor have some experience with it? "Tell Beldor that he will have to dual Randyll Tarly or his champion for the right of the house of Biscuits to keep the blade, in a five years time."

Alistair could not truly be bothered to await an answer, he knew Wilbert was a good man, somehow, and was already preparing to jest with Robert about the temporary name of his house when Wilbert called out to them.

"Wait! Just- just wait a moment, I have an idea." Ser Wilburt hurried from the chair he had sat in across from them and went to grab a map stowed away in some drawer of his desk. He rolled it out and beckoned for them to come.

"I assume that you brought ravens headed for Riverrun when you left, and sent one, with word that you were headed here?" At Robert's nod, Wilburt grinned.

"Good, then, because it has been received, and the forces of both the Starks and the Arryns are marching to meet with you. I believe they have also heard of Connington's army and are planning to crush it thoroughly. My scouts say they are only five or so days away. Now, Stony Sept might not defend you at all, even should I order it, and Connington is only hours away, which leaves us nowhere near enough time to prepare defences fit to resist him for even one day, so that your forces may come, never mind five days. However, I do believe we can hide you for such a period, and then I would be most surprised to see Connington defeat Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark combined." Wilburt said, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he smiled at being able to at least offer them a chance.

Robert and Alistair exchanged glances, but it was Alistair who spoke first, his concern rising. "What of your people, Ser Wilburt? I can only imagine what Connington might be driven to do should he know for certain that we are here, and that we remain out of his reach." Alistair was happy that his charisma was high as it was, else he might not have had the skill to control his voice to stop hope from seeping through. He would not use his charm to drive leaders into choices that would harm their people.

Yet Wilburt's eyes only glinted with pride and determination.

"My people, the people of Stony Sept, are good folk. They will see that if that lord harms innocent men and woman to scare us into serving their mad king, then we are only more right to conceal you from them." His voice was proud as he spoke, and venomous as he spoke of Connington. He glanced around then, almost as if afraid that someone might hear him, before he leaned in to speak in a whisper.

"Besides, if I have had my ear properly to the ground for the last little bit, I then it seems as though people - the common folk that is - support you and the Brightblade, King Robert. No one likes a Mad King," he said, smiling conspiratorially.

Roberts lips stretched into a broad grin as he patted the shoulder of Wilburt and clasped his wrist.

"Good man, and good people. Now grab your sword, Alistair. We have places to hide like children behind their mother's skirts." Robert said, laughing.

He strode out of the room then, and Alistair followed at his side, jesting with Robert even as they went to explain their plan to their men.

The days spent hiding were not pleasant.

Their men had received the equipment of the city guard and they had tried to always have them stationed around the area he and Robert hid in, before eventually Connington banned the city guard due to clear rebel-sympathizers in their ranks. Not that he was wrong to do so, but it was frustrating all the same. 

Even more frustrating, though, was hearing the screams of helpless commoners as they were stuffed into crow cages and starved, or slammed into the pillory for days, or any number of other contraptions such as the wooden horse, as Connington got more and more desperate, and began to use far more stick than carrot. 

He still offered pardons, land, and wealth to any who told them where we were, of course. He simply also made not telling less and less fun for everyone involved, as Stark and Arryn forces neared. Alistair had heard whispers that even Connington's own men were beginning to sicken at their works of fear and terror.

Yet Stony Sept did not break. At least, they not properly and truly break. Some did, of course, but when he and Robert were moved quietly from place to place rather often, it was not such a great problem.

And as they were moved from carpenters to minor merchants to tailors and to butchers, something became strangely clear to Alistair, which he had not truly, honestly considered before then. 

He and Robert were becoming myths and legends, just as Arthur Dayne, Barristan the Bold, and the Dragon Knight were.

And they had the support of the people. These people, at least. For when they were served soup by children and apprentices or were welcomed into the homes by man and wife to be hidden at great risk, they were asked to tell their stories, Alistair even more so than Robert, given that he was unquestionably on of them, as it was the one thing all stories agreed upon. 

And even though it was exactly what Alistair had wished to accomplish with his high charisma and shows of prowess and competence, it was still strange to be treated as though he was more than a man. 

But he supposed he would have to get used to that. It was exactly what he wanted, after all. To become a symbol for the power and potential of the common people, rather than a person.

Still, it was strange for kids who were only five years old to ask to hold his sword, and if they could join the Biscuits Troop when they grew up. He told them that if he had done what he swore to do, then there would be no need for a Biscuits Troop when they were grown.

Alistair was wrenched from his musings as the door to the wine celler he and Robert had been hiding within slammed open, and a panting tavern owner standing in the bright doorframe.

"Brightblade! Lord Robert! Banners are waving over hill and dale, and the Dragon-clads are growing desperate! They've stopped caring for any sort of protest or reasonable- anything! They're breaking into house and home of everyone in the damn city, and they're coming here as well! Sweeping through this place like a plague through fleabottom, breaking down doors I tell you! They're coming from east, where your folk are gatherin', so we better get you far west as we can even if you can't join with your host as quick when they breach the walls!" The man said, practically falling over from lack of breath, not deeming it essential to do so when he had news to share.

Robert had already sprung to his feet, already mostly armoured as he had been for days, gesturing to Alistair to come and help him with the last of his plate.

"You know, Alistair, correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me that this is the second battle out of three where you've owned plate armour of your own, but for some reason aren't using it. I'm starting to get concerned that my best councillor has a bit of an infatuation with the stranger. Could be why you refuse all advances even from the few 'Proper ladies' who we happen to come by, now that I think of it." Robert said, and though Alistair couldn't see his face from where he was working on his pauldrons, he knew the other man was grinning.

"All I hear is jealousy that you have to do your own chasing, while others chase me," Alistair said, which was a statement as false as they came. No, many ladies, highborn and proper ones especially, had tried their very best to persuade Robert that he should set aside Lyanna for varied reasons - each more meanspirited than the last - yet Robert held firm, and… tersely so. Yes, terse was definitely the word for how he had spoken to those women.

"Now then," Alistair continued "as far as the plan mentioned goes, it isn't the worst. However, I have another idea, because one of us needs to make it back as quickly as possible, and that one of us is you, Robert."

Robert shifted beneath the armour, and Alistair knew that he didn't like the idea before he even spoke.

"I don't like it."

"Good that you only have to see the reason in it, then."

"I know, Albright, hence why I only said I didn't like it," Robert grumbled, shrugging his shoulders, and grunting in satisfaction at how his armour felt. They both knew that morale was essential to any battle, and the uncertainty of Robert's fate would impede the army as sure as any wall would.

"So, what's your new plan, Albright? Wooden bowls? Barrels of tar? Getting rows of women to expose themselves and draw all eyes away from me as I scurry past them like a rat?"

Alistair cracked a grin at Robert as they walked side by side to gather their weapons, and made sure that nothing of great importance was left behind. And as Robert took one last swig of heavily watered down wine from his skin.

"No, not quite rows of naked women, but if it makes up the difference, then I've been told before that I am beautiful as any woman who has ever lived. Besides, even they may be more inclined to give chase after me than after a pretty woman when I carry a blade of Valyrian steel, don't you think?" Alistair grinned at Robert, who didn't seem delighted at the plan, even if Alistair was sure that Robert had already guessed it. 

Still, they both knew it to be the best shot they had, and knew it was time to prepare themselves for the battle to come.

"Oh, and hide in the brothel in the eastern part of town when you get there. You wouldn't know, but most of those sorts of establishments have a hide-away hole, for whenever a highborn gets attached enough to throw a tantrum." Alistair said, before running into the night, to prepare his part.

Minutes later, for that was all the time he had, Alistair stood right at the door of a house only three houses down of where Robert lay in wait, and he knew that it was soon time for him to act. Most of the Dragonclads were, after all, stationed at the walls, leaving only a single line of men searching through the town. Which meant that so long as he drew all attention from the men, then Robert only needed to make it slightly further.

Still not ideal, of course, given that it still meant that Alistair would have to distract at least thirty men, an uncomfortable portion of whom carried loaded crossbows. Granted, any amount of crossbows was an uncomfortable amount when you wore no armour, but five was certainly worse than one. The fact that the others wielded clubs and bucklers - far better weapons for fighting within a cramped townhouse than his greatsword, no matter it's metal - was also not fun.

But he had laid his trap as best he could, and now was the time to spring it. For he had chosen his place of ambush with care, and now, he stood within his fortress, his home field. 

He stood within a bakery. 

There was a small hollow outside of the entrance door, where people could shelter from wind and snow of winter, and keep their doors clear of snow, and their homes clear of winter winds which might leak inside. The hollow went north, into the home and at a right angle against the street outside, meaning that the door faced west, same as the direction the dragonclads were marching towards. It was a good thing too, for the hollow was not very deep, and so long as the crossbowmen meant to fire into the home, they would be forced to go further down the street, and away from Robert.

Moreso than any door, however, flour was his friend. And he started a heated argument with himself, yelling at himself, both in his own voice, and in his best approximation of Robert.

Alistair still took stock of the room, however, and pushed the tiny podium where a baker would take your order over so that it would trip anyone who tried to enter, even as he carefully rearranged the covered bags of flour, so that they looked ever more like a fallen body. He quickly stabbed at the bags, giving the flour a clear path to air, even as he continued to yell, declaring that he was leaving, no matter what Robert thought. Then he grew silent for a moment, until he threw pots and pans on the floor right beside the bags of flour on the floor of the main baking room, the only other room on the first floor, to create a clatter loud enough for even men outside the house to hear. Now, if he was lucky, they were convinced that he had ended up fighting Robert, and that the bags on the floor, in the darkness, was Robert's fallen form.

He looked at the stairs then, stairs which began in the opposite corner of the entrance, and ended around the middle of the wall away from the street, over the empty fireplace, which meant that to see up the stairs, you would have to go all the way across the baking room, navigate the isle counter in the middle of the room, and stand in the corner opposite of where you entered to see up the stairs. It was, thankfully, a rather large room.

But what you could see, even from the entrance, was the flickering light of the lantern Alistair had placed on the floor above, at the middle point of the hole which the stairs created, where the railing would have been, before he removed it.

Then Alistair cut off the tops of four heavy bags of flour, and placed them on the table right next to the bottom of the stairs. It wasn't strange looking at all. After all, tables lined all the walls of the room, all with things meant for baking on them, except the ones right behind the formerly upright podium, which were filled with finished baking goods.

Then Alistair ran, light as a feather and unbothered by any of his many obstructions through the kitchen, his nineteen dexterity enough to be almost elflike on his feet, as he stood against the door, listening, sword in hand. There were, indeed, voices outside. Good.

Alistair sprung open the door, springing out as though he was ready to run through the streets for as long as he was able, before seeing the red Dragons all around him lit by torches held by those who planned to remain outside. He let his eyes widen in surprise and fear not altogether false, and spun to duck back into cover while crossbow bolts released a moment too late thunked into the wood of the door which was still open.

His heart hammered in his chest. He had no backup this time, no men to fight alongside him and shield him from the full wrath of those who wished to kill him. He bared his teeth and snarled, sticking out his sword from behind his cover, and felt and heard the slight resistance offered, before the gurgle of a pierced throat was heard, and Alistair ran further into the bakery, the advance of the men behind him halted momentarily, by the death of one of their own.

Alistair sprinted, and leapt over the isle to land feet together in a crouch, ducking down behind it, and into a small alcove beneath it. Soon enough the men entered behind, him, but no light filled the room, and just as Alistair had hoped, they wished to avoid starting a fire within the densely packed town, and kept the torches outside.

"Where- He's upstairs! The lantern light is shining from up there! And- what is that? Is that the other one? The Baratheon? Quick, finish him off, he's the most important one! You three, keep an eye on the stairs!"

Alistair heard the thuds of clubs against cloth and flour, and it wasn't long before he felt a fine coat of dust fall over his skin as they beat the flower into the air through the holes he had poked in the bags. His breath was stuck in his throat, for with only a table between them, at least seven men were beating what they thought was an unconscious mas as hard as they could while three looked for him to beat as well, and more than ten others waited around to get their turn.

He was thankful for his alcove. Because surely, someone had wandered to his side of the isle, and surely, it was the only thing keeping him from being broken beneath the clubs of thirty men. At least their shields were only bucklers.

Eventually, they did realize his trap, as after nearly a minute of Alistair hiding with his heart beating wildly, one of them called for them to stop.

"Wha'- Damn it, lot of morons have been beating bags of flour! By the seven it's everywhere! How didn't you notice? Did a snark come down from beyond the wall and snatch your brains while you were sleeping? For shit's sake, the Brightblade might've cut a hole in the wall and escaped while we were kneading flour!"

Alistair knew it was his moment then, for even if he got incredibly lucky and they didn't see him, they would surely see Heartsbane, and it would doom his just as surely. So, he fell forwards out of his alcove as he turned and streatched, smiling his most roguish smile as he did so, and learing at the Dragonclads around him.

"Oh, no need to worry about that, I'm quite present."

All the men stared owlishly at him, stunned by his sudden appearance out of thin air, and Alistair took the chance to throw his sword on the counter with a clatter and grab the four bags of flour with their tops cut off from the bottom of the sacks, two in each hand, straining his grip as he spun with them and flung out flour all over the place, causing an even denser cover of dust over the room.

He did not halt for a moment, though, as he grabbed his blade and spun to dash up the stairs, reaching up and grabbing his lantern, flicking it open, and throwing it behind him into the flour filled room below. 

Then his stomach lurched as he saw how far up the stairs yet were, and knew that running wouldn't let him gain safety. So with a leap, he kicked off the railing of the stairs and the wall it stood against to land to the side of the stairs opening, on the floor above him, and seconds later he was suddenly very thankful that he had removed the railing on the first floor, because as fire roared in a flour dust explosion, he was certain he would not have made it if he hadn't.

And wind and flame truly did roar, as tongues of flame lashed from the stairs opening, and fire sought release in the only direction it had to go. But it did not go far to the side, and for that, Alistair was thankful, for even he could feel the heat of them against his skin, like sunlight on scalded skin.

But he didn't have much time, it would hurt them, stun them, and cause them to fall, but it was not deadly, and he would have to finish the battle before they regained what they had lost. His hands gripped the leather of Heartsbane tightly as he vaulted over the side of the ledge, down onto the stairs, and took stock of the situation.

Men lay scattered over the ground. Some clutched their burned faces, others simply groaned, but none were on their feet.

Alistair sighed, hefted his sword, and sprang into action, and began his butchery. For that was all it could be described as, as he spun, jumped, kicked and lunged, hacked and slashed, sent limbs flying and heads rolling as his sword only slowed for a moment, even as it met bone or chain. He kicked at the heads of men crawling to their knees, stomped on hands grasping after clubs, and performed coup de grace one after the other as he spun his sword in deadly arcs, killing the disoriented men as they scrambled over the ground, till none were left.

Then he stood, silent, in the kitchen with the cold dead furnace, looking over the nearly thirty men he had killed. He supposed he had counted wrong. What did it matter. It had only taken him a minute to kill them all, once he had them on the ground. What would two more men have done?

He felt the quiet ding of a stat point earned echo in his mind, and resignedly brought dexterity to twenty. He wasn't numb or empty, not exactly, but killing always left him sombre. Or perhaps exhausted was a better word? He read over the perk he got from reaching twenty.

Arrow Time

Well, it's not quite bullet time, and you aren't moving any quicker than you normally would - gotta pump at least a bit more Strength for that, even if Dexterity has limited effects in this area - but you certainly can keep up with what speed you do have! From now on, whenever the adrenaline is pumping, your dexterity actually reflects the speed at which you see the world, slowing down your perception to - at the moment - half the speed of a normal person. Don't go trying to catch arrows, though. You aren't quite there yet, buddy.

It was a good perk. Amazing, even. It would let him act, rather than simply react during battle. Let him think. It would certainly also help him look even better than he already did, combined with his charisma perk. 

He shook himself out of his thoughts, however, and began to walk towards the exit, to join Robert, Jack, and his men in battle as quick as he could, when he, right as he stepped over the tiny podium, was barrelled over by Robert's hulking metal clad form and fell to the ground with a clatter. Thankfully not atop any corpses.

"Alistair? Are you whole? I came to rescue you, where are the-" Robert's words halted as he tugged off his helmet, and stared at the slaughtered men withing the bakery, dumbfounded. 

"B0y the old gods and the new, man, I knew you were a talent with the sword like no other, but to take down thirty men alone… There might be stock in what the smallfolk whisper about. About you being sent down here by the seven, to help me." Robert spoke, for the first time seeming awed since Alistair had met him.

Alistair didn't like it. He much preferred having Robert as a friend.

"Sure, if you call a flour explosion to stun them a gift from the seven. Although, in that case, you may wish to go around Westeros and visit every bakery. You'll gather a miracle every visit, that way," Alistair dryly said as he got off the ground. Killing always did make him more sarcastic.

And Robert… Robert seemed to understand. To really, truly understand. Perhaps it was a virtue of him being of the highest nobility, which let him understand isolation by excellence, even as people tried to get close to you? Understand the feeling of people trying to get to know the legend behind you, rather than you? But whatever it was that caused Robert to simply study him for a moment before speaking as though nothing had changed, Alistair was thankful for it.

"Well, if every baker is your kind of miracle, then I'm more worried about any sort of bakers revolt than I am about dragons!" Robert said, laughing his booming laugh.

"Now, let's get to battle, shall we? I can't wait for you to meet Ned and Jon. Gods, I cannot wait for how they'll look at me when I only drink watered wine. They'll think Storms End turns anyone who sleeps in her halls into Stannis!" Robert said, laughing, before turning to exit, and join in the battle.

Alistair smiled and shook his head, even as he followed after. He was about to chime in about how Robert broke the plan without need, and needle him a bit about it, when he walked outside and saw two crossbow men with their skulls caved in. He supposed Robert coming wasn't wholly a bad thing after all. 

And, Alistair thought, as he jogged with Robert towards the grand battle, it was nice to know he cared so deeply, too.

Ned would readily admit that he was growing more and more frantic in his swings of Ice as he waited for longer and longer to see Robert appear. Waited for him to crash through the enemy line like a storm, or to thunder out, half drunk, from some brothel, swinging his hammer over his head and carving a channel through his enemies. Perhaps with his new… sworn sword, or advisor, or whatever the Brightblade was to Robert at his side. The two had entered the city together, after all.

But nothing of the sort had happened, and Ned could feel concern growing and festering within his heart.

Ned cut through a spear shaft headed for a man beside him, leaned to the side, and was just about swing Ice's wide blade down on the cap of his attacker when a knight in Arryn blue sprung in, and did it for him even as another knight clad in the same colour joined in filling out Ned's spot in the line of men killing each other.

Ned knew them of course, from his years in the Vale, and knew that they were members of Jon's personal guard, and that they were meant to give Ned a chance to join Jon.

He did just that, and hurried as best he could to join Jon in overlooking the battle, even as he heaved for breath. He knew he had let his discipline slip, if he let himself weary to such a point.

"What is it, Jon? Have you heard word of Robert? Or perhaps of the Brightblade, who may know something?" Ned kept his voice firm and clear for the sake of his men, but the festering only grew worse as Jon shook his head.

"I'm afraid I haven't Ned, but do not falter. I am certain Robert remains free within the city, otherwise Connington would not be here." Jon grew quiet then for a moment, looking out into the dark of night for the man Ned knew Jon thought of as a son.

"He must."

It was a quiet mutter, not one meant to be heard, and so Ned did what honour demanded, and pretended he had not.

"No, I called you because Connington has retreated from my portion of the line, and I assume he is planning a charge of his elites on your ranks, due to your age. I would like to station Denys here with a troop of Arryn knights, so you can strengthen wherever he strikes without weakening your lines?" Jon asked, and Ned appreciated that he did so, and showed their equality as lords Paramount, rather than simply doing as he knew was best. He had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, after all.

"Thank you, Jon, I appreciate your aid. How long do you believe it will take for-" Then he halted as a cheer rose from their ranks. 

The reason for the cheers was obvious as a storm, for it was exactly that which seemed to be sweeping through their enemies as Robert and the Brightblade charged from behind, two men a hammer against the Targaryen forces.

Although, in that moment, Ned hesitated to call them mere men. Robert fought like a man born for war, like all the small things he lacked in the melee of tourneyes was here, and made him untouchable and unstoppable as he seemed a giant with his antlered helm, and wielded the strength of one as well as he caved man and armour both with each swing of his great Warhammer. He roared and swung, and clattered and crushed arms and chests like shells of eggs, and drove the spike of his hammer through plate and man alike. He was war incarnate. He was the Warrior descended, if Ned believed in the seven.

And then there was the man beside him, who fought with grace and beauty unmatched, whose fine, saintly features were unmatched even by prince Rhaegar, whose every move was quick as the wind itself, and whose illusive, unarmoured form wove and cut and swung and lunged with a greatsword wielded with such skill that it may have been a Braavosi duellist's sword, and brought shame to every swing Ned made. And where Robert was war, this man was a duellist. He simply happened to be fighting a thousand duels at once.

And together? Robert was thunder, loud and booming and strong. The Brightblade was lightning, both quick as it, and deadly precise, with skill which made Ned look a bumbling toddler, even though Ned was far from even average under Jon's guidance. And when they came together? Together, they were the Storm. An unstoppable force of nature, Inexorable and relentless in their advance, throwing the resistance of mere men aside as though it was no more trouble than walking through grass, cutting a hole so wide into the Targaryen line that Denys Arryn surged forwards to hold the gap, and Northmen and Stormlanders came together to surround the Dragonclads within the square they fought in.

Not even Jon Connington's charge halted them, as Alistair blocked a strike meant to kill Denys Arryn, and Robert swung from below, hitting Connington so hard in the jaw that his neck was torn open by the force of his head snapping back with sickening twist to it that necks were not meant to have. 

The battle lasted not long after that, as Robert and the Brightblade began to call for encirclements and take command, and he and Jon hurried to join them as they finally got a hold of themselves, and the dragonclads were cut down until they threw down their swords in surrender.

When all was over, Ned hurried to embrace his brother in all but blood, and Jon was with him swiftly to do the bare minimum of catching up before they attended to their armies and spoke with the local knight. 

The Brightblade gave them space to speak, which Ned appreciated from the other man. Ned wasn't certain how old the man was, his appearance having a timeless quality, but Ned quickly saw that perhaps it was both maturity and a need to speak with his own brother in all but blood which kept him from interfering with their reunion, as the Brightblade spoke with the very competent Ser Jack Ashenwind.

Still, the battle was over. And finally, their forces were united to face the Targaryens.

At least, Ned thought so. And yet the morning after, Alistair came with an announcement as they were breaking their fast.

"I believe it is time for me to leave and go to Tywin Lannister as an envoy of the rebellion." He said, a determined fire ablaze in his blue eyes, as Robert choked on his breakfast, and Ned and Jon stared at him in surprise.