He loomed like a giant before him in the trident, a shadow that seemed to eclipse the entire battlefield. He was taller than Rhaegar remembered as well and the manner in which he carried himself was entirely different. Robert Baratheon was an irate drunkard, a covetous, possessive devil of a man who claimed what he pleased and discarded with the same capriciousness his little brother possessed. Though he fought like a man possessed by the warrior, there was nothing of the joviality or the lack of care in his posture now. No, indeed, he had dismounted well before entering the riverbed and then proceeded to kill half a dozen men with a single swing of his hammer a feat that came out of legends and fables. Perhaps not a man, but a thing? A thing wearing Robert’s skin?
Was that it? Aemon had warned him that if his interpretation rang true then it was possible the darkness would find a champion of its own, a discordant note to contest his song. Then if he is a demon, Rhaegar thought. For Lyanna and for Elia our daughters and our son. For the whole world.
Unsheathing his blade, the prince traced his memories, the accounts his spies (For he little trusted his father’s Spider.) of how Robert Baratheon had taken a particularly terrible wound during the final battle at Summerhall that all thought would claim his life. Fever and pain wracked him for a day, and he fell off his horse and all thought corruption was going to claim his life yet he awoke the next morning by all accounts a changed man. His participation in the battle of Ashford was noted to have been particularly savage yet he yielded the day to Randyll Tarley rather than risk further loss to his men. Nothing like the boisterous Robert that viewed his second bride as a piece of meat. Now, standing before him, sensing the subtle charge in the air (What surely must have been magic.) and seeing his arm strain as his muscles bulged, the stoic countenance.
Rhaegar was certain of it.
Lord Robert had died.
Whatever might have passed for the chieftain of the other’s had sent a demon to occupy his body.
It was madness.
But only the intervention of a dark power could explain how everything had gone so horribly wrong. But very well, he knew there was a chance that he would have the prelude to the trials his children would confront.
His sword pointed forward, its tip shimmering in the sun. “I will send you back to whatever hell you came from creature.”
To his surprise, the creature laughed a deep, rich laugh that was surprisingly melancholic? “Would that you could Heika, because that was my chosen fate, yet here I stand and you’re not strong enough to send me back.”
It was a voice deep and rich and it sounded like it came from the throat of Robert Baratheon, but it belonged to a much older man, the use of a word that sounded Lengish confused him or would have had not the coldness of that voice sent chills down his spine.
" As things stand, you are not worth much more than a portion of my might.”
Perhaps it was the din of battle, the blood in his head, or the sense of euphoria mixed with dread that Rhaegar felt as his fears were confirmed, but it seemed as if Robert’s body grew in size, armor buckled against muscles, and it seemed as though the flow of the river twisted about him. But Rhaegar was no ordinary man to be cowed, he was the Dragon, the sire of the sovereigns who were promised and the master of destiny and it was his fate to lay this monster low and save the world through his son and his sister wives.
Rhaegar Targaryen charged, roaring that the dawn would come again in high Valyrian and as Robert Baratheon brought his hammer forward, something awoke within Rhaegar and his sword seemed to blaze as it cut through the shaft of the hammer, sending the head flying.
His sword dug into Robert’s chest, crunching armor and spilling hot blood, blood that was unnaturally dark for a man so hale and young. But he is no man.
And when Rhaegar pulled back his blade to prepare for slash to the creature’s throat a mailed fist the size of his head smashed into the prince’s chest.
Rhaegar was vaulted backwards, blood, bone and rubies sprayed across the trident. A name thought, never spoken died on his lips as the last Dragon’s chest exploded.
What fell into the trident was the broken ruins of a dynasty.
And the end of an era.