Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 288 The Battle of the Trident River

In the summer of Aegon 283, the air along the Green Fork was so heavy it felt like you could wring water out of it.

Rhaegar Targaryen's 40,000-strong royal army set up a long encampment on the south bank, and the royal banner embroidered with a three-headed dragon fluttered in the morning breeze.

Across the river, the clamor of the allied camp was like muffled thunder. Ice wolves, crowned stags, trout, falcons, sunburst spears, and golden sea monster banners stood side by side, a force assembled to overthrow the Dragon Clan's rule.

Rhaegar, clad in black armor, stood alone at the front of the battle. Gazing at the murky river, he whispered to Ser Barristan Selmy beside him, "Barristan, after today, regardless of victory or defeat, an era will come to an end." The old knight nodded silently, gripping his sword hilt tightly.

On the north bank, Robert Baratheon's warhammer slammed against his shield, unleashing a deafening roar: "Today, we will stain this river red with Targaryen's blood!" Eddard Stark calmly examined the blade of "Ice," while Euron Greyjoy's gaze remained indifferent. Though the battlefield was not at sea, he believed that on any battlefield, the outcome would be the same: with him, there was no invincibility!

The waters of the Trident River were scorching hot under the midday sun, and when the Allied forces' bugle calls tore through the sky, the entire riverbed instantly turned into a boiling furnace.

Robert Baratheon led the charge, and the heavily armored Stormtroopers, like a golden torrent of iron, followed him straight to the widest shallows of the river.

Wang Jun was already on high alert.

The dense phalanx of spearmen advanced steadily, like a moving steel forest, carrying an oppressive, suffocating atmosphere. Arrows soared from the royal archers' ranks on the opposite bank of the river, transforming into a cloud of death, whistling sharply as they fell into the charging cavalry ranks, instantly creating a scene of men and horses falling to the ground.

The two armies collided like two surging torrents of iron. The charging cavalry clashed violently at the forefront, and in an instant, men and horses fell, the sounds of breaking bones, clashing metal, and the cries of the dying mingling together.

The ensuing torrent of infantry quickly filled the gaps, shield against shield, spears thrusting out from the gaps, and blades slashing wildly at extremely close range, instantly turning the entire riverbank into a bloody vortex that devoured lives.

At either end of this chaotic battlefield stood a commanding banner, unmoving and immovable.

On the allied side, Lord Jon Arryn, clad in Vale blue glazed armor, sat calmly beneath the Moon Gate banner. His deep, sharp gaze, like that of a seasoned eagle, swept across the bustling battlefield with a cool composure, not missing a single subtle change. He waited, waiting for the royal army's formation to crumble on its own in the heat of battle, revealing the fatal flaw that would decide the outcome.

On one side of the royal army, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, clad in black steel armor, stood before the Targaryen black dragon banner, his handsome face bearing a lingering melancholy, yet his eyes held an unwavering resolve. He, too, was surveying the battle, searching for the perfect opportunity to lead the Kingsguard in a decisive strike, striking at the heart of the rebel forces.

Although the two commanders did not directly clash, they had already begun a silent yet equally dangerous contest of will and patience on this noisy battlefield.

But Robert Baratheon, the enraged stag, was unstoppable. His massive hammer, Robert's Wrath, ripped through the air with a terrifying hum. Each swing was accompanied by the horrific sounds of shields shattering, armor denting, and bones breaking; wherever he went, a storm of flesh and blood seemed to erupt.

A loyal knight from the House of Fossowey rode up on horseback, spear in hand, to stop him.

Robert didn't even dodge; instead, he met the spear tip head-on with a simple, unadorned sweep! The warhammer, carrying immense force, slammed into the side of the knight and his horse. With a sickening cracking sound, the knight's chest and the horse's ribs instantly caved in. Both man and horse were twisted and deformed by the blow, collapsing into the river like crushed berries, their blood quickly staining the surrounding shallows red.

The midday sun baked the shallows of the Trident River into a steamy haze. The allied forces' all-out offensive was like a flood bursting its banks. Warriors from various families displayed distinct fighting styles, weaving a bloody yet magnificent picture on the battlefield.

Lord Eddard Stark himself led the charge at the front. The shield wall formed by the Northern infantry resembled a steel fortress moving across the riverbank, its steps steady and its formation impeccable. The warriors of House Umber, wielding their great axes, roared the ancient battle cry of "The North will never forget!" Like giant bears on the snowfield, each swing of their axes easily cleaved through the fragile armor of the royal cavalry, severing both horse and rider.

On the right flank, the Knights of the Vale, Lord Jon Arryn, launched a classic flanking charge. Their fluttering banners billowed in the rising dust as the knights, lances in hand, charged forward with synchronized, ruthless precision. Their lances, like serpents unleashed, used the momentum of their horses to slay enemy after enemy, leaving behind a trail of screams.

Prince Oberyn Martell moved like a phantom through the battle, his lance like a viper's tongue, each thrust swift, cunning, and deadly. He did not pursue brute force, but rather targeted the gaps in armor and vital points; wherever he went, enemies often collapsed before they even realized they were wounded.

Most striking was Euron Greyjoy's five hundred Ironborn cavalry. Euron himself wielded two curved blades burning with eerie flames, like a sea monster emerging from the abyss. Wherever his blades struck, they not only tore flesh apart but also brought the terror of burning. This berserker force sliced ​​through the royal army's lines like red-hot daggers cutting through butter, leaving only flames and severed limbs in their wake.

With seamless coordination among all units, the coalition forces combined steady and methodical advances with fierce assaults, and began to firmly seize the initiative on the battlefield.

Once Robert Baratheon was engaged in battle, witnessing bloodshed and carnage, the warrior's ferocious blood within him boiled over. As if possessed by a god of war, he swung his warhammer, Robert's Wrath, with ever-increasing ferocity, each strike carrying the power to shatter mountains and split rocks, mowing down the surrounding enemy soldiers like grass. However, he was completely unaware that, driven by his rage, he had advanced too far, plunging deep into the enemy ranks and becoming disconnected from his main force.

In the distance, Lord Jon Arryn, who had been calmly observing the battle from beneath the Moon Gate, frowned deeply. He realized that Robert's perilous situation meant that if the enemy reacted and amassed a large force to encircle him, even someone as valiant as Robert would be in mortal danger. He was about to give orders to the messenger beside him, instructing nearby generals to lead reinforcements and pull the bloodthirsty stag back from the brink of death.

But someone was faster than him.

A small cavalry squad, like a sharp dagger, led by Euron Greyjoy himself, cut into the chaotic enemy ranks with astonishing speed and precision, leaving a trail of blood and carnage in its wake, and quickly reached Robert's side.

Euron rode close to Robert, his voice piercing Robert's ears clearly amidst the chaos of the battlefield, carrying an undeniable calm: "Robert! You are the commander-in-chief, not a suicide squad charging into battle! At this moment, you should be among the heavy cavalry, waiting for the decisive moment, not wasting your energy here! Go back!"

This sharp shout was like a bucket of ice water poured over Robert's head, instantly bringing a sliver of clarity back to his wide-open eyes, which had been filled with hot blood.

He looked around and instantly understood his situation. He took a deep breath, suppressed his surging fighting spirit, and nodded heavily to Euron: "Understood!" With that, he turned his horse around, swung his warhammer, and, under the cover of Euron's squad, charged back towards his own lines.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, amidst the chaos of the battlefield, immediately spotted Robert Baratheon's conspicuous banner and ferocious figure. As commander-in-chief, he instantly made the most tactical decision—he could not let this golden opportunity of the enemy commander's isolated advance slip by. He immediately ordered Ser Jon Darryl of the Kingsguard beside him: "Darry! Take our cavalry, intercept Robert Baratheon, and take his head!"

Ser Jon Darryl received the order and quickly assembled several hundred elite cavalrymen, who, like an arrow released from a bow, rushed straight towards the direction Robert was retreating, intending to surround and kill him.

However, just as this elite cavalry was about to close in on Robert, a figure suddenly appeared like a ghost, blocking their path. Euron Greyjoy, alone on horseback, stood firmly on the ground, his eyes, which held the depths of an abyss, sweeping over the charging royal cavalry, a familiar, unsettling smile playing on his lips.

Ser Jon Darryl and his royal cavalry, poised to charge, paused in surprise. They recognized Euron Greyjoy before them—the very man who had triumphed at the Tournament of Harrenhal, the champion of the singles! His skill was far beyond that of any ordinary knight.

Euron spoke to Jon Darryl, the leader, in an almost casual tone: "This road is blocked, sir. If you want to pursue Robert, you'll have to ask the sword in my hand first."

"9

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chilling confidence, as if he were facing not hundreds of iron cavalry, but a pack of chickens and dogs. This composure, born of absolute strength, actually caused the pursuing force to halt its momentum.

The battle between Euron Greyjoy and Ser Jon Darryl was not the long and elegant contest of chivalric legends, but a brief, brutal, and predictable kill.

Ser Jon Darryl, upholding his knightly honor, drew his sword and spurred his horse in a standard charge. His swordsmanship was superb, his steps steady; he was a reliable member of the Kingsguard. However, he faced Euron.

Euron didn't even charge head-on; he simply watched Darryl charge until the very last moment, deftly dodging the seemingly inevitable thrust. In the instant the two horses passed each other, Euron's longsword, burning with eerie flames, shot out like a venomous snake, not aiming for the heavy breastplate, but precisely slicing through the foreleg tendon of Darryl's warhorse.

The warhorse neighed mournfully and fell to its knees, throwing Jon Darryl heavily to the ground. Darryl reacted swiftly, rolling on the ground to regain his footing with his sword, but he had already lost the initiative. Euron had already dismounted, twin swords in hand, and was closing in step by step.

Daryl raised his sword to parry, but Euron's attacks were like a storm, with tricky angles and immense power. The flames not only caused burning pain but also obstructed his vision. In just a few rounds, Daryl's sword was locked in place by a knife, while another knife sliced ​​through the gaps in his shoulder armor like a hot knife through butter, piercing deep into his body.

Jon Dayne groaned and fell to his knees. Euron looked down at him, his eyes devoid of any joy of victory, only a cold emptiness. He drew his longsword, and Darryl's body slumped into the mud, his blood quickly staining the ground beneath him.

This loyal Kingsguard, unable to fulfill His Highness's orders, fell just a step away from his objective. Euron, as if he had accomplished a trivial task, remounted and coldly surveyed the royal cavalry, now enraged by their commander's death.

Euron Greyjoy stood like a rock in the center of the chaotic battlefield, surrounded by surging royal cavalry. Swords slashed and thrust from every angle, while arrows and throwing axes whistled through the air. In this deadly vortex, ordinary warriors would have long since been hacked to pieces.

Euron's inhuman fighting prowess was on full display at this moment. He didn't even bother to dodge most of the attacks that were coming at him. Just as a longsword was about to strike his shoulder armor and a stray arrow was about to hit his back, in that split second, Euron's muscles tensed up in an incredible way, and his whole body seemed to be enveloped by an invisible aura of steel.

"Iron block!"

With a deep command, the longsword struck his shoulder, producing a deafening clang of metal against metal, before being forcefully deflected, leaving only a white mark! The deadly arrow struck his back, its tip twisted, and fell limply to the ground. Ordinary sword and saber strikes were utterly ineffective against his bizarre defense.

He was like an invulnerable monster, rampaging through the enemy ranks. Enemy attacks rained down on him, only to futilely create sparks and intensify their fear. Euron's twin blades mercilessly reaped lives, leaving a trail of blood with every step.

This unconventional defensive capability transformed the initial bravery of the cavalry besieging him into utter fear. They were no longer facing ordinary men.

As both sides committed more and more reserves to the battlefield, this shallow area of ​​the Trident River was completely transformed into a massive meat grinder that devoured lives.

The shouts, the clash of weapons, and the dying cries were deafening. Blood stained the river red, and corpses piled up like mountains. Every step forward could mean stepping on a mangled limb.

Just as this hellish scene reached its climax, the gloomy sky finally gave way, and a light drizzle began to fall. At first, it was just a few scattered raindrops, which made a soft "sizzling" sound as they hit the scorching armor, mixed with the bloody smell in the air.

Soon, the rain intensified, turning into a torrential downpour. The dense curtain of rain enveloped the entire battlefield, blurring the soldiers' vision, washing away the bloodstains on their blades, and diluting the rampant blood on the ground into pink streams that flowed into the surging Trident River.

The rain did not extinguish the flames of war; instead, it made the fighting even more muddy and difficult. The ground quickly became slippery and muddy, requiring more effort for each swing of the weapons, and those who fell often could not get up again.

The cold rain soaked through my clothes, taking away my body heat and exacerbating my fatigue.

This torrential rain was like a divine baptism, washing away evil and witnessing glory and death. On this battlefield shrouded in blood and rain, the final fate that would determine the future of Westeros was being forged step by step.

As the main battle at the Trident River devolved into a fierce stalemate, with the blood of soldiers from both sides nearly staining the river red, a Berserker unit of Ironborn launched a risky but deadly raid that turned the tide of the battle.

Instead of attacking the Wang army's tight lines head-on, they moved like real sea monsters, using the dense reeds along the riverbank as cover, silently creeping downstream, heading straight for the Wang army's relatively weak left-wing logistics camp.

This meticulously planned surprise attack instantly became the turning point of the entire campaign.

While the royal army's logistics soldiers were still busy moving arrows, a chilling battle cry suddenly erupted from the reeds! The Ironborn, chanting their ancient slogan "The dead shall not die!", surged towards the unprepared camp like demons from hell. Instead of using conventional tactics, they wielded fishing nets, barbed iron hooks, and heavy battle axes, launching a chaotic yet terrifyingly frenzied attack.

These iron-willed soldiers, disregarding their own casualties, charged through the Wang army's auxiliary transport units with a suicidal frenzy. They swiftly set fire to the mountains of grain and supply wagons, the towering flames and thick smoke clearly visible even on the main battlefield. The camp was instantly plunged into chaos, filled with shouts and explosions.

Hearing the commotion from the rear and seeing the rising smoke, the morale of the main force of the Wang army at the front wavered instantly. News of the cut supply lines spread like wildfire, and the scales of victory began to tip in favor of the Allied forces.

When the towering flames and chaotic shouts of battle from the left-wing logistics camp reached the front lines, Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard faced an extremely painful decision. This loyal knight knew the importance of logistics and had no choice but to sever an elite force from the already strained central defenses and rush back to reinforce them.

This troop movement, though necessary, was like opening a fatal breach in a sturdy dam. The strength of Wang Jun's central defense line was instantly weakened, creating a brief but fatal vulnerability.

Robert Baratheon, who had been calmly observing the battle from his vantage point, seized this fleeting opportunity with his beast-like combat instincts. His eyes gleamed, and he let out a roar that shook the entire battlefield. He personally led his elite reserve force, which had been poised for action, like a final, devastating blow, in a decisive all-out attack on the newly appeared breach in the defensive line.

Robert charged ahead, his massive warhammer, Robert's Wrath, seemingly losing its weight in his hands, transforming into a destructive whirlwind. He plunged into the enemy ranks, each swing imbued with pent-up rage and overwhelming power. Wherever he went, shields shattered, armor crumbled, and men and horses perished; none could withstand his onslaught. Under this thunderous assault, the king's army's lines began to crumble and retreat.

As the chaos created by the Ironborn at the left wing camp spread to the main battlefield, two figures collided in the melee: Euron Greyjoy and Ser Barristan Selmy met on a riverbank littered with corpses.

Euron flicked the blood from his twin blades, gazing at the battle-hardened old knight before him, his eyes burning with a mixture of old grudges and new hatred. He proclaimed, "Sir Barristan! Last year at the jousting tournament, I was defeated by you. Today, on this true battlefield, how about we settle our score once more?"

Sir Barristan's white robes were stained with blood and mud, but his sword-wielding hand remained steady and his gaze sharp.

He responded calmly, his voice carrying the dignity of a warrior: "Whether in the past or present, victory will ultimately belong to justice and loyalty."

Euron shook his head and said, "I acknowledge your loyalty, but I reject your so-called justice!"

The cold rain lashed against the black steel armor and the pure white armor of the Kingsguard, while blood pooled in the mud at their feet, forming dark red puddles. Time seemed to stand still as Euron Greyjoy and Ser Barristan Selmy locked onto each other amidst the chaos of battle.

Euron Greyjoy has shed the shell of his youthful days as a noble scion seeking glory in duels. Sailing, conquest, and the mystique bestowed upon him by the One Piece system have forged Euron into a completely different being. His martial arts are no longer bound by form; his speed is so fast it leaves only afterimages in the rain, his strength enough to cleave through thick shields. His fighting style blends the almost barbaric fighting techniques of the Ironborn with the flames and lightning of the Soul-Soul Fruit. With each swing of his twin swords, the scorching heat even evaporates the falling raindrops into white mist. His burning pupils hold no knightly honor, only the cold, excited lock of a predator.

Sir Barristan Selmy's white robes were stained with blood and mud, but his figure remained as upright as a pine tree.

This legendary figure of the kingdom, however, was now at his last gasp. To stabilize the crumbling empire, he led from the front, enduring more than ten wounds—a deep gash in his shoulder armor, from which blood seeped continuously; an arrow wound in his thigh that slightly slowed his movements; each powerful swing of his sword aggravated the wound in his ribs, bringing excruciating pain. Rain mixed with blood dripped from his white beard, but his sword-wielding hand remained steady, his eyes still as sharp as a hawk's, like an unyielding rock, defending the prince's banner behind him and the crumbling dynasty.

The fight erupted with a thunderous roar!

Barristan launched the first attack, his sword flashing like a bolt of lightning, aimed straight for Euron's throat. His moves were simple, precise, and efficient—the hallmarks of knightly skill honed through countless trials. Euron neither dodged nor evaded; his left-hand scimitar moved with a strange upward slash, the flames coiled around the blade colliding with the sword's edge, producing a piercing shriek that deflected the longsword. His right-hand scimitar then shot out like a venomous snake, aiming for Barristan's exposed waist and abdomen.

Sweet Jazz, with his vast experience, dodged to the side while his sword tip was already aimed at Euron's wrist. The two fought with lightning speed, sparks flying from their clashing blades in the rain. Barristan's swordsmanship remained exquisite, always managing to deflect or parry Euron's deadly twin blades with minimal movement, his occasional counterattacks still sharp and forcing Euron to defend.

But the difference in physical strength and the severity of his injuries were insurmountable obstacles. Barristan's breathing grew increasingly heavy, and although his movements remained unchanged, they inevitably slowed for a moment. Just as he was about to deliver a heavy blow to Euron, his old strength exhausted and new strength yet to arise, Euron seized the opening!

With his left hand, he forcefully pressed down on Barristan's longsword, while his right hand followed closely, hooking the sword servant with the back of the blade. His arms unleashed terrifying power, twisting and pulling sharply!

With a crisp clang, Barristan Selmy's longsword finally flew out of his hand, spinning as it embedded itself in the mud not far away.

Sweet Jazz stumbled backward, and before he could regain his footing, Euron was already close behind like a ghost, delivering a powerful Naval Style 6 - Shave!, slamming the back of his blade hard against the side of his helmet!

"Bang!"

Barristan Selmy, the Kingsguard's captain of horses, a living legend of Westeros, saw the world's light dim rapidly in his eyes. His imposing body swayed, and he finally collapsed to his knees, then slumped into the cold mud, losing consciousness.

His fall, silent yet more chilling than the sound of a drumbeat. The pure white flag, symbolizing the last glory and bulwark of the Tanilian dynasty, seemed to fall sadly in the wind and rain at that moment.

As dusk fell, the clouds hung low, and the waters of the Trident River were dyed blood-red by the setting sun.

Prince Rhaegar Tannrian spotted the golden crowned stag banner fluttering in the wind amidst the chaos of the porcelain fields. He knew the final moment that would decide the fate of the kingdom had arrived. Leading the last of his Kingsguard, he resolutely crossed the shallow river and, on the sandbar in the middle of the river, intercepted Robert Baratheon, who resembled a raging porcelain god.

Rainwater mixed with blood flowed rampantly across the sandbar in the middle of the Suochaji River.

When Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Tannrian's gazes locked onto each other through the chaotic battlefield, the surrounding clamor seemed to fall silent instantly. Between them, only the flowing river and the piled-up corpses formed a cruel stage, and an unwavering, relentless killing intent remained.

Prince Rhaegar Tannrian, the dragon emblem on his black steel armor appearing as if weeping blood in the gloomy light. His face remained handsome, yet shrouded in an impenetrable melancholy and a resolute air of destiny. He gripped the rune-adorned longsword tightly in both hands, his movements as elegant as a ballet of death, each step precise and deadly. The blade sliced ​​through the rain, leaving trails of silver arcs; the sharp sword energy even cleaved the falling raindrops in two. Facing Robert's frenzied charge, he did not meet it head-on, but skillfully sidestepped, his longsword slashing out at an exquisite angle with a resounding clang!

A piercing, sharp sound rang out! Robert's heavy oak shield, engraved with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, trembled violently, and the bronze antlers on the shield, symbolizing honor and family, were severed clean off at the base, flying to the ground and instantly engulfing the mud!

Robert Baratheon let out a furious roar, his massive body trembling slightly with rage, his blue eyes burning with a fire capable of incinerating the world. Rhaegar's strike was not only the destruction of his weapon, but also the ultimate humiliation of his family and his fiancée Lyanna! With his almost savage strength, he managed to withstand the remaining force of the sword with his tattered shield, not retreating but instead using the momentum to slam into Rhaegar's arms like a runaway, hate-laden steel chariot!

The clash of their armor produced a dull thud. At such close range, Rhaegar's longsword was difficult to wield. Robert's right hand, wielding the massive porcelain hammer that struck fear into the hearts of all the Seven Kingdoms—"Robert's Crawler"—was brimming with the pent-up resentment, jealousy, and pain of countless days and nights. He swung it upwards with a resounding crash, slamming it squarely into the center of Rhaegar's breastplate, which bore the coat of arms of the Tannhians!

"clang--!!!"

A terrifying, deafening roar, a mixture of metal breaking apart, dragon's young support shattering, and chest collapsing, reverberated across the entire river like a death knell, even briefly drowning out the surrounding clamor!

Rhaegar's exquisite Valyrian steel breastplate was visibly dented, twisted, and cracked around the point of impact!

The rubies inlaid on it, symbolizing the bloodline of the Tanprians, shot and leaped up like weeping tears of blood, drawing hundreds of beautiful but brief scarlet trails under the gloomy sky, before finally scattering helplessly into the turbulent and muddy river. They only flashed for a moment before endless waves swallowed them up and swept them into the unknown darkness.

Rega's body flew backward like a puppet with its strings cut, crashing heavily into the cold river water.

Rega's slender body swayed, his longsword slipped from his hand, and he fell heavily to his knees in the cold river. He raised his head, gazing at the gloomy sky, his final whisper swallowed by the eternal sound of the flowing water.

Robert ripped off his already tattered and deformed helmet, rainwater and the blood of his enemies mingling and dripping from his thick beard. He didn't shout a victory cheer, but just gasped for breath, looking down at Rhaegar's lifeless, pale, yet still handsome face on the sandbar.

After a long while, he raised his head and let out a roar from deep in his throat that was both a cry and a laugh, containing endless emptiness and liberation. This sound overwhelmed the noise of the consultation hall and echoed for a long time over the Suochaji River.

Robert Baratheon, panting heavily like a bear fresh from its hunt, approached Rhaegar, who lay collapsed in the river. His massive hands gripped the long handle of Robert's Crawler, his knuckles white with strain. Blood and rain streamed down his contorted face, his eyes burning with a primal, destructive killing intent. He raised the hammer high, casting a shadow over Rhaegar's pale, serene face—he wanted only one thing: to use this hammer to smash the head of the silver-haired prince who had stolen his hope into pieces, like a ripe pumpkin!

"Robert! Stop!"

A desperate shout pierced Robert's ears, which were filled with the sound of fire. Eddard Stark rushed across the shallows, disregarding the ground, and leaped down to grab Robert's arm as he was about to strike.

"Wait! We need to kill him now!" Ed's voice was hoarse with anxiety as he gripped his frantically climbing friend, urgently saying, "Lyanna! We still need to know Lyanna's whereabouts! That's what he promised!"

The name "Lyanna" struck Robert's chaotic mind like a cold lightning bolt. His massive body jolted, the destructive urge that had been building up at its peak abruptly subsiding. He gasped for breath, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Eddard, then on the dying Rhaegar, before finally letting out a low, unwilling growl and heavily lowering his hammer, a gesture of tacit consent.

Ed immediately crouched down and carefully lifted Rhaegar's upper body from the icy river water. Rhaegar's breastplate had completely collapsed, and his life was rapidly slipping away with each rise and fall of his chest. His famous indigo eyes had become unfocused, yet they still struggled to concentrate on Ed's face.

Ed lowered his head, bringing his ear close to Rhaegar's moving lips: "Is Lyanna in there? Tell me!"

Rhaegar's lips trembled slightly, his breath as faint as a whisper. With the last of his strength, he kept his promise made in stealing the book, uttering six indistinct yet incredibly clear words, each one extinguishing the last trace of his existence on earth: "Tower of Elysium."

He paused, then added his final words in a softer, yet deeply complex voice: "Protect—and—her—".

As soon as he finished speaking, Rhaegar Tannrian's head tilted limply to one side, and the light in his eyes went out completely.

Eddard Stark stood frozen in place, the gradually cooling corpse in his arms, the riddle of the word "Tower of Bliss" echoing in his ears, along with that heavy entrustment.

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