The Riverlands ― South of the Gods Eye...
Following the unsuccessful assassination attempt at Harrenhal, Ser Criston Cole took charge of the remaining Caltrops' forces. With Aemond unable to lead due to his injuries from his fight with Prince Jaehaerys, Criston gathered any able-bodied men he could find and made the difficult decision to abandon the castle of Harrenhal, preparing them for a strategic retreat. The urgency of their situation became increasingly apparent as news of the Westerlands' surrender to the Blacks reached them. With the enemy closing in from all sides, time was of the essence. Criston knew they would be overwhelmed if they didn't move. With death, disease, and desertion thinning their ranks, the once 8,000 Caltrops had rapidly declined to 3,600 troops. As they made the grueling march south along the western shore of the Gods Eye, they faced numerous challenges along the way: weather conditions, scarce resources, and constant threats from enemy scouts. The rough and unforgiving terrain made it difficult for the men to travel quickly. Supplies were running low, and morale was beginning to wane as the reality of their situation set in.
"Pick up the pace, lads!" Criston called out to his men. At this rate, we won't be able to maintain our present course. The situation was dire, as a sense of despair had engulfed the hearts of many. The surrender of the Westerlands had shattered their hopes, and the news of Dowager Queen Beatrice's gruesome execution by wildfire had only added to their despair. With the Blacks closing in on them, what remained of the Caltrops' military forces were left with three grim choices, each more harrowing than the last: surrender to an uncertain fate, face the inevitability of certain death, or flee into exile in some distant land.
The first option was to accept a fate of subjugation and humiliation. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but it seemed like the only way to preserve what little remained of their lives for some. The second choice was to stand defiantly against the overwhelming might of their enemies. It was a desperate gamble, but the odds were stacked against them, and the outcome seemed inevitable. The thought of sacrificing themselves for a lost cause weighed heavily on their hearts, yet some found solace in the idea of dying with dignity. The final option was to abandon everything they held dear and seek refuge across the Narrow Sea. It was a choice that carried its own set of hardships and uncertainties. Leaving behind their homes, their loved ones, and their identities was a painful sacrifice, but it offered a glimmer of hope for a future free from the clutches of those who sought their destruction.
"Lord Commander! Off in the distance!" a sentry called out.
Criston turned in the direction his soldier was pointing at. "What the...?" he said with near surprise. Smoke rose before him, a scene of utter carnage.
"Behind us!" another warned.
Criston pivoted, catching sight of additional smoke billowing from the rear of his formation. Regardless of the direction he faced, be it left or right, the scenery remained unchanged. Each village he encountered along the way was found burned and abandoned. The streets were deserted, devoid of life, and filled with haunting silence. As his troops cautiously advanced, they traversed through eerie forests that seemed to mirror the devastation they had left behind. The once lush and vibrant trees now stood lifeless, branches reaching out like skeletal fingers toward the gray sky. The air was heavy with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the occasional creaking of branches or the distant howl of a lonely wind. It was as if nature itself mourned the loss of life, the absence of the vibrant colors and melodies that had once filled these woods. The silence was deafening, and he couldn't shake the feeling that unseen eyes watched their every move. Shadows danced and flickered, playing tricks on their weary minds. It was as if the ghostly forest was alive, whispering secrets and warnings only the wind could understand.
Criston felt uneasy. Something's wrong... As he pondered the situation, he couldn't shake off the feeling that it was a carefully laid trap. The circumstances seemed too perfect, too convenient. Throughout his line of march, he witnessed a trail of destruction, with flames engulfing the entire landscape. Everything was mercilessly set ablaze, from farmlands to holdfasts, fields to villages, and even small castles. The eerie silence was deafening, broken only by the crackling of flames. The air was heavy with the putrid odor of rotting livestock and human corpses in every brook, pool, and village well, creating an atmosphere of desolation. All were swollen and stinking, defouling the waters. "Don't drink, men," he warned. "Keep an eye on your surroundings! I think we're being watched."
"By who, ser?"
"Lord Commander, we've been marching for four days! Our supplies are almost gone!"
"I'm so hungry..."
"So... thirsty..."
"How are we supposed to live like this?"
"We can't eat or drink anything! There's no crops, no meat, and the water's tainted!"
"I don't... I don't feel so good..."
Criston tightly held onto the reins of his saddle, his horse whinnying anxiously. "Steady now," he cautioned. The horse's whinnies grew louder with each stride, a desperate plea for safety and reassurance. From a distance, Criston could see scouts hurriedly coming back. "What is it?" he inquired.
"Ser," they panted, struggling to catch their breath, their faces drained of color. "We... we..."
"What? What did you see?"
"You... You'll want to take a look at this."
The scouts led Criston to the discovery they made a few yards away. As he examined it more closely, Criston's expression contorted in disgust. He came upon a horrifying scene where dead soldiers were seated under the trees in decaying armor, resembling a mocked version of a feast. The feasters, once men, had skulls peeking out from under their rusted helmets, with their green and rotted flesh sloughed off their bones. Who could have done this?
« We're in the grave. Your grave, Cole. »
Criston's head snapped back abruptly as the sounds echoed through the air, grabbing his attention. "Who is it? Show yourself! Who's calling me?!" he shouted. Scanning his surroundings, he found no one in sight. Yet, the chorus of voices persisted, taunting him.
« So easy to predict. Like a moth to a flame. This place will be your grave, Cole. »
Criston's heart raced as he tried to make sense of the situation. Was he losing his mind? Or was there indeed something supernatural at play? As he stood there, the voices grew louder and more insistent. They seemed to be coming from all directions, surrounding him in a cacophony of sound. "Where are you, coward?! Come out! I know you're here! Show your face!" he yelled. His horse whined in fright.
« The shadows are our ally. You've known all along, Cole. You've always known. This place will be your grave. Hahahahahaha! »
Criston's hand instinctively reached out for his morningstar, his fingers wrapping tightly around the handle of his melee weapon. With a firm grip on his morningstar, Criston dismounted and cautiously stepped forward, his eyes darting from tree to tree, searching for any sign of movement, his senses on high alert. The fog seemed to thicken around him, obscuring his vision. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, heightened his sense of unease. The tension in the air was palpable, the silence broken only by the distant cawing of crows. The ghostly forest, with its twisted branches and eerie silence, seemed to conspire against him. The voices, relentlessly mocking, echoed through the air, taunting him. Criston strained his ears, trying to catch a glimpse of the unseen. He was sure that someone lurked in the shadows, and deep down, he knew that only one person possessed a voice so distinct. "Aeonar...?"
« BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! »
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, an unrelenting barrage of arrows flew at the Caltrops from nearly every direction. The attack was launched with surprise, catching the already weary Caltrops soldiers entirely off guard.
"Ambush!" one of the soldiers cried out.
"Find cover!"
Their eyes widened in shock as the arrows rained down upon them, piercing the air with deadly precision. The field was filled with the chaotic symphony of whistling arrows and panicked cries. Chaos ensued as each soldier scrambled for cover, desperately seeking refuge from the onslaught. Archers hid amongst the trees, picking off outriders and stragglers with longbows. The arrows seemed to come from all directions as if the forest itself had turned against them. Leaves rustled violently as the projectiles tore through the foliage with deadly accuracy, piercing through armor and flesh alike. Men died. Men fell behind the rear guard and were never seen again. Men fled, abandoning their shields and spears to fade into the woods. Their numbers dwindled rapidly as the attackers continued their assault, picking off their targets one by one.
"Fall back!"
"Fall back! Retreat!"
Some of the Caltrops sought refuge in the village commons at Crossed Elms, unaware that they would encounter yet another horrifying scene - another collection of decayed, armored bodies arranged in a grotesque and macabre display like those ghastly feasts they first saw earlier. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of decay and despair. Ser Criston's outriders, accustomed to such sights, hurriedly passed by, paying no attention to the rotting dead until the corpses sprang up and fell upon them.
"They're coming out the ground!" a soldier shrieked in terror. "They're coming out of the fucking ground!"
"Seven hells, save us!"
"They're like the undead!"
"Run!"
"Help us!"
A Myrish sellsword and former mummer, Black Trombo, had skillfully disguised himself and his soldiers by pretending to be corpses before setting up yet another ambush. "Kill them all!" he bashed a soldier's head in with his spiked morningstar.
Sabitha Frey fearlessly guided her troops through the thick fog as they executed a strategic flanking maneuver. "Run them through! Give them no time to retaliate!" she let out a war cry. Leading the vanguard, Sabitha's cavalry swiftly galloped ahead, their hooves pounding against the earth like a relentless storm, overtaking and overpowering the scattered enemies who were left defenseless or attempted to flee. Unfortunately, their attempts to escape were in vain, as they were mercilessly trampled under the hooves of the charging horses. Swords clashed, shields shattered, and the air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat. Above their heads flew King Aeonar's banners.
Alysanne Blackwood swiftly plunged into the midst of the battle, expertly manipulating her bowstrings as she unleashed a barrage of arrows upon the enemy forces. "May the Old Gods and the New guide my hand and let my aim be true," she prayed to herself. Retrieving another arrow from her quiver, Alysanne gracefully drew back again and let it fly, skillfully hitting additional Caltrop stragglers who unexpectedly appeared within her line of sight.
Ser Criston let out a deep groan of frustration as his men scattered in all directions, their panic and disarray evident. The relentless rain of arrows and the swift strikes of the enemy's cavalry were taking a toll on his forces. "Damn it!" he cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of the situation pressing upon him. With a swift motion, he mounted his horse again, determined to regroup and retreat. However, his path was obstructed by a group of fierce Blacks who charged towards him. Without hesitation, Ser Criston swung his morningstar with all his might, crushing the skulls of four men in a single blow. Blood splattered across the battlefield as he tightened his grip on the reins of his horse's saddle. "Yah!" he urged.
The horse, its powerful muscles rippling beneath its sleek coat, rose on its hind legs, its hooves striking the air with a thunderous force. A resounding neigh erupted from its throat, reverberating through the misty air. Red Robb Rivers strained his eyes through the dense fog that enveloped the battlefield, desperately searching for a glimpse of Criston amidst the chaos. Finally, a flicker of movement caught his attention. In the distance, he saw him - Criston, his armor gleaming in the pale light. Determination etched across her face, Red Robb raised his bow, his fingers expertly gripping the string. He pulled the bowstring taut with practiced precision, feeling the familiar tension beneath his fingertips. His eyes locked onto her target; his focus was unwavering. In one fluid motion, he released the arrow, watching as it soared through the air, a streak of deadly grace. Time had seemed to slow as the arrow closed the distance between them, its trajectory honed by Red Robb's unwavering aim. It sliced through the mist, its path true until it grazed Criston's shoulder plate armor by a hair's breadth. Red Robb's heart skipped a beat as he witnessed the near miss. He knew that his shot had been close, too close for comfort.
"Damn it!" Criston's frustration was evident as he let out a string of curses. However, his attention was quickly overshadowed by a sudden impact that struck his horse with an immense force, sending him and his steed flying through the air. "Waaah!" A startled cry escaped his lips as they crashed onto the ground with a resounding thud. "Ngh!" Gasping for breath, he struggled to regain his composure as the wind was knocked out of him. Before he could even stand, the terrified whinny of his horse reached his ears, only to be abruptly silenced. Looking up, Criston's eyes widened in disbelief as he witnessed Vaelor snatch his horse in its jaws, effortlessly biting it in half before swallowing it whole.
"Dragon!" a Caltrops sentry screamed.
As the last remnants of the horse disappeared into the dragon's gaping maw, the Swiftrunner's crimson eyes stared down at the human before him with a pang of predatory hunger. "*Grrrrrrrrr!*" Vaelor emitted a low, guttural growl from deep within his chest, a primal sound of malice. He clearly remembered Criston firing the scorpion bolt into his shoulder almost a year ago during the Battle of Duskendale. The scar on his shoulder, a jagged reminder of the attack, throbbed with every beat of his heart. The dragon's fury burned hotter than the flames that danced upon his scales, fueled by the seething hatred he harbored for the human who had dared to strike him. With a menacing hiss, Vaelor bared his razor-sharp serrated teeth, each one gleaming with a deadly sheen. His powerful muscles tensed, coiled like a spring ready to unleash its deadly force.
Struggling to his feet, Criston's body trembled with adrenaline. His eyes locked onto Vaelor, who was almost the same size as Vhagar now. But as he took a step forward, Vaelor let out a loud roar, its fiery breath engulfing the surrounding area. The intense heat seared Criston's skin, forcing him to step back. The dragon's power was undeniable, and Criston knew he stood little chance against such a formidable foe. It was as if Vaelor was mocking him, daring him to make a move.
As the dragon prepared to strike, the air crackled with anticipation. His immense wings unfurled, casting a shadow that swallowed the trembling human whole-at that moment, time seemed to stand still. The world held its breath.
Vaelor's eyes narrowed, his gaze unwavering, as he prepared to unleash his wrath upon the human who had dared to cross him. The dragon's hunger for vengeance burned brighter than the fires of any inferno, consuming his every thought and driving him to the brink of madness. And then, with a thunderous roar that shook the very foundations of the earth, Vaelor lunged forward, his massive jaws opened wide, ready to snatch him.
"Dohaerās. (Serve.)"
Criston's reflexes instantly kicked in, his body moving on instinct. His heart pounded in his chest as he tightly squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself to be devoured. Every muscle in his body tensed. As the seconds ticked by, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Criston cautiously reopened his eyes only to find Vaelor's teeth were mere inches from his body, threatening to tear him apart with a single snap of his jaws. What?
The putrid stench of Vaelor's fiery breath filled the air, assaulting Criston's senses. It was a sickening combination of sulfur and decay, a smell that lingered long after Vaelor had passed. The noxious fumes made Criston's eyes water and his stomach churn, but he fought to keep his composure."*Grrrrrrr!*" Vaelor emitted a low, menacing growl, reverberating through the air like a warning that seemed to come from the depths of darkness itself. Vaelor reluctantly pulled his head back, but his gaze remained fixed on Ser Criston Cole.
Criston's ears caught the faint sound of approaching footsteps. He instinctively shifted his gaze from the dragon to the source of the noise. With a firm grip on his morningstar, he prepared himself as the dense fog enveloped the Blackwater. Suddenly, an armor-piercing arrow swiftly soared through the mist, striking Criston's shoulder. "Gah!" he exclaimed in pain. Grunting, he snapped off the end of the arrow and redirected his gaze upwards, only to find Aeonar Targaryen emerging from the mist, his Yi Tish longbow in hand.
"I should have taken your head when I had the chance," Aeonar said darkly. "Now I have the opportunity to rectify that mistake."
"Aeonar." Criston shifted his gaze upwards, his eyes fixating on a stony ridge nearby to see 300 mounted knights in armor, as many longbowmen, 300 archers, and 3,000 ragged rivermen with spears. It became clear to Criston that he was surrounded with little hope of escaping unscathed, regardless of the outcome. With a deep breath, Criston turned his attention back to Aeonar. The Young Dragon's pale lilac eyes had turned a menacing shade of blood crimson red. At the same time, his fair complexion and Valyrian silver hair now gave him the appearance of a malevolent demon, a stark contrast to the person he had once known. The Targaryen madness had taken firm hold of Aeonar, twisting him into a vengeful and ruthless tyrant. The man he had once called friend was now his greatest enemy, and he knew that defeating him would not be easy. "I suppose we both knew it would end this way." He contemplated his life and career as a common-born foot soldier for House Dondarrion, risen to a knight of King Viserys I Targaryen's Kingsguard, now publicly declared a traitor to the realm, shaking his head with a sigh. "When we first met at that tournament, before Queen Aemma's passing, I... would never have thought so. But the tournament seems like it happened in another lifetime, to someone else."
Aeonar remained silent, shifting his Yi Tish longbow instead, positioning the upper loop over his left arm as a makeshift sling. This clever adjustment allowed the bow to rest comfortably against his back, supported by its own weight. Could the Young Dragon be granting Ser Criston the opportunity to utter his final words? Following a brief yet intense exchange of stares, Aeonar firmly grasped both Blackfyre and a Westerosi longsword, one in each hand.
"I have wronged you, Aeonar. I have betrayed your trust and dishonored our friendship. I know that no words can undo the harm I have caused. If I strike my banners, do you promise us our lives?"
Aeonar's expression sneered, his gaze unwavering as he listened to Ser Criston's words. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice bitter and filled with a sense of finality. "Words are wind, Ser Criston Cole. And empty words from a traitor are nothing," he spat. "You... are all... NOTHING!!" his voice boomed, full of vengeful wrath and fury. "Look at this," he held up a torn piece of a black tunic with ripped green embroidery, all that remained of his dead youngest son. "When a parent dies, their children are all that remains of them. But when a child dies long before their time..." His face scrunched. "You cannot comprehend the pain and suffering a parent is forced to endure!" Aeonar raised the tip of Blackfyre, pointing it at Criston. "I've spent more than 30 years of my life... trying to preserve the Old King's legacy, and re-establish the House of the Dragon as a proud dynasty worthy of lasting more than a thousand years. That was my destiny, Cole. And everything I did, no matter how cold-hearted, harsh, or cruel, is for the greater good of my house!" He angrily gritted his teeth, his grip on his swords tightening. "And now... I have no purpose. My life... that is what your masters... have taken FROM ME!" Aeonar's angry rant then turned to a dark chuckle. "Hahahahaha. Oh no, no, no. After all you've done, Cole, you and your men will die. Every. Single. One!"
Ser Criston's face contorted into a deep frown. It was disheartening to learn that Aeonar had not only rejected his request to spare his men's lives if they surrendered but had also reiterated his intent to mercilessly have every single one of his demoralized troops put to the sword. Gripping his morningstar tightly, the former friends would fight to the bitter end. "As you will it. We can begin here, the two of us. Me against you. Will that be enough to make a fight of it?"
"A fight? Hmm-hmm-hmm. You entered the dragon's lair, Cole. Now BURN!"
Criston swung his morningstar with a force that could shatter bones, but Aeonar evaded the swing. His body contorted with a dancer's grace as he sidestepped the spiked weapon. As Criston's morningstar missed its mark, Aeonar seized the opportunity to launch his own counterattack. With a forceful thrust of Blackfyre, Aeonar compelled Cole to take a step back, simultaneously using his other longsword to disrupt his opponent's balance. Having sparred countless times before, Criston and Aeonar were well acquainted with each other's fighting styles like the back of their hands, adeptly sidestepping their adversary's strengths and targeting vulnerable areas, their minds working in perfect synchrony to anticipate and counter each other's moves. As the battle raged on, the two continued anticipating each other's moves, their familiarity with one another becoming their most significant advantage. They knew when to strike and defend, exploiting the smallest openings in their opponent's defenses. Each strike was met with a counter, each parry followed by a riposte.
Even so, despite his spiraling descent into Targaryen madness, Aeonar had to exercise caution. Ser Criston Cole was renowned as one of the most skilled swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms, having been the only one to defeat his uncle Daemon Targaryen in a tournament twenty-one years prior. A single swing of Criston's morningstar could cause significant bodily harm if he's not careful. To compensate, Aeonar deftly used the longsword in his left hand to redirect the spiked ball and chain while simultaneously launching attacks with Blackfyre in his right hand. Once again, Criston managed to evade each strike from Blackfyre. He was aware that the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister, which Daemon had wielded against him in the tournament, was light and fast, whereas Blackfyre, the blade once possessed by Aegon the Conqueror, was broader and heavier. A single misstep could prove disastrous, as even Cole's armor would be unable to withstand a well-placed penetrating strike. Each swing and parry was executed with precision and determination as both fought to kill the other. Aeonar's madness had not dulled his fighting prowess, but it had made him more unpredictable, adding an element of danger to the duel.
With one mighty swing, Criston's morningstar came crashing down with enough force to shatter Aeonar's longsword into countless fragments. The broken pieces flew in all directions, glinting in the sunlight before scattering across the blood-soaked ground. With his left hand now empty, Aeonar tightened his grip on Blackfyre in his right hand. The Young Dragon's fury burned hot, directed squarely at Cole. However, Aeonar let out a dark chuckle.
"Ah, now... Now it's getting interesting."
Criston swung his morningstar once more. The heavy iron ball at the end of the chain whirled through the air, skillfully entangling the chains around Blackfyre. As Aeonar and Criston locked in a fierce tug-of-war with the Valyrian steel bastard sword, the knight forcefully yanked back, attempting to draw in the Young Dragon. However, his efforts were met with a savage headbutt to the face. Blood dripped from Criston's split lip, his face contorted with frustration. Momentarily staggered, Aeonar clutched onto Criston's arm, refusing to release his grip. It was a move reminiscent of the one Criston had used against Daemon in the previous tournament, and now it had come full circle. However, Criston was not caught off guard. He had anticipated this counterattack and swiftly swept Aeonar's legs from under him. Yet, Aeonar was not one to be easily subdued. With lightning speed, he retaliated with a 360-crescent kick, effectively knocking Criston off his feet as well. They landed with a thud, their bodies covered in filth. For a moment, they lay there. With a surge of adrenaline, Criston pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He locked eyes with Aeonar, a fire burning in his gaze. Aeonar rose to his feet, a smirk playing on his lips.
The clash of steel echoed through the air as Criston and Aeonar resumed their battle. With a roar, Criston lunged forward, his morningstar whirling through the air. Aeonar deftly dodged the attack, his movements fluid and graceful. He swung it with all his might, aiming for Aeonar's head. But Aeonar was too quick; his reflexes honed through Lykirī Mēre training. He effortlessly sidestepped the attack, his movements fluid and graceful. The Young Dragon understood the endurance and stamina required to generate enough power behind each swing of the morningstar's spiked ball. In response, Aeonar countered with a series of lightning-fast strikes, Blackfyre dancing in his hands. As Criston's morningstar whistled through the air, Aeonar seized the opportunity. With a swift motion, Aeonar brought Blackfyre down with enough force to shatter the chain of Criston's morningstar. The shattered chainlinks of the morningstar flew through the air, scattering like shards of broken dreams. Criston stumbled backward, momentarily stunned by the force of Aeonar's strike. Aeonar seized the opportunity, closing in on his opponent with a predator's grace.
Sensing the imminent danger, Criston quickly drew his longsword from its sheath. With a surge of adrenaline, he lunged forward. Their clash intensified, each strike resonating with a primal intensity. The clash of their weapons echoed through the air, a testament to their unwavering resolve. Sparks flew as their blades collided, the sheer force threatening to shatter the ground beneath them. Aeonar's movements were a mesmerizing dance, his every step calculated and precise. He weaved through Criston's attacks effortlessly, his body a blur of fluid motion. But Criston was no novice in combat either. He had honed his skills through countless battles in the Dornish Marches against Dornish raiding parties, matching Aeonar's attacks blow for blow. With every strike, he pushed himself to the limit, his muscles straining against the weight of his opponent's onslaught.
As the battle raged on, the atmosphere crackled with an electric energy. The clash of their weapons reverberated through the air, sending shockwaves across the battlefield. Each strike was a testament to their unwavering determination and will to emerge victorious. The clash between Criston and Aeonar intensified, their swords clashing with a symphony of steel. The air crackled with electricity as their battle raged on, each combatant pushing themselves to their limits. Sweat poured down their faces, mingling with the dirt and blood that stained their bodies. In a moment of respite, Criston locked eyes with Aeonar. There was a mutual respect between them, an acknowledgment of the skill each possessed. But there could only be one victor in this duel, and both knew it.
Summoning every ounce of strength left within him, Criston unleashed a final, desperate attack. He swung his sword with all his might, aiming for Aeonar's exposed chest. But Aeonar was ready. With a swift sidestep, he evaded the blow and countered with a devastating strike of his own. Aeonar swiftly backhanded Criston, causing his face to sting, and followed it up with a forceful kick to his breastplate, sending him tumbling down the slope. As Criston rolled down the hill, he shook his head to clear his dazed mind and quickly retrieved his sword. However, as he glanced up, he was met with the sight of Aeonar aiming an arrow directly at his face. Aeonar's fingers were firmly gripping the string of his Yi Tish longbow, ready to release the arrow at point-blank range.
There wouldn't be enough time to get out of the way.
"Haah... haah... not bad, old friend. In a way, this... reminds me of the good old days," Criston panted wearily, lowering his head and accepting his inevitable fate. "I suppose I can let you win... one last time."
ooOoo
Flashback: 17 years ago (116 AC)...
"When my sister informed me of her decision to recommend you to the Kingsguard, I would have laughed at the notion that any knight could replace Ser Ryam Redwyne. But I stand corrected. She chose well."
"I hope this means we can call each other friends."
"I hope so, too. I have so few friends these days because of my status as royalty. We still have a long road ahead of us, Ser Criston. Wherever it takes us, we will make the world a better place."
ooOoo
For a brief moment, a flicker of sanity flashed in Aeonar's eyes upon hearing those words. Yet, his expression hardened, and he let go of the bowstring. The arrow zipped through the air, piercing Criston in the face. Blood spurted from the wound, staining Ser Criston's once noble visage with a grotesque crimson mask. The arrow's impact sent him sprawling backward, his body crashing against the cold, unforgiving ground. "Huh. You were an excellent warrior, Ser Criston Cole. Yes, a worthy foe. However..." he turned around to walk away, still speaking to a corpse, "I'll have no songs about how brave you died... Kingmaker. Ipradis jāla, Valor. (Eat him, Vaelor.)"
"*Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!*" Vaelor emitted a low, menacing growl as he bent down to retrieve the lifeless corpse of Ser Criston, devouring it in one swift motion. With a contented shake of his head, the dragon then shifted his attention towards his rider, awaiting further commands.
"Dracarys."
Vaelor shifted his attention back to the captive Caltrops lingering nearby. With a menacing growl, he opened his jaws and released a torrent of scorching dragonflame. Their bodies writhed in pain as the intense heat seared their flesh, turning it to charred black. The acrid smell of burning hair and melting armor permeated the air, mixing with the sickening scent of charred flesh. The once defiant captives now begged for mercy, their voices choked with fear and desperation. The flames danced and twisted, licking at the air with an insatiable hunger. The men's agonizing screams filled the air as they were engulfed in the Swiftrunner's fiery wrath. The ground beneath the men's feet turned to molten lava, trapping them in a fiery prison from which there was no escape.
As the flames subsided, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins in their wake, Vaelor surveyed the aftermath of his wrath. The captives now lay motionless, their bodies reduced to mere ashes. The ground was scorched and scarred, a testament to the destructive force that had been unleashed. With a final snarl, Vaelor turned away from the charred remains and returned to his rider's side.
But even as Aeonar unleashed his wrath upon his enemies, a part of him remained aware of the darkness that had taken hold. The flicker of sanity that had briefly illuminated his eyes continued to fight against the encroaching madness, desperately clinging to the remnants of his humanity. It whispered to him, reminding him of the consequences of his actions, urging him to find a way back from the precipice he had teetered upon. Yet, with each life he took, the flicker grew dimmer, overshadowed by the all-consuming darkness. The line between right and wrong had blurred, and he found himself sinking deeper into a moral abyss from which there seemed to be no escape.
As the battle raged on behind him, Aeonar's expression remained hardened, his eyes devoid of any trace of the man he once was. With Ser Criston dead, whatever remaining Caltrops who had followed him from Harrenhal lost heart. They broke and fled, casting aside their shields as they ran. Their foes came after, cutting them down by the hundreds.
Today was not a battle...
...it was savage butchery.