Scene 1: The Duel
Location: The Center of the Ford.
Time: High Noon.
The battle had become a slaughter, but the head of the snake was still intact.
Robert Baratheon stood on a mound of dead horses in the middle of the river. He was a statue of black iron, unmoving amidst the chaos.
In his hands, the Dragonbone bow hummed like a angry hornet.
Thwack.
A heavy war-arrow punched through the breastplate of a Crownlands knight who was trying to rally his men. The knight fell backward into the crimson water.
"The Captain is down!" a levy screamed, throwing down his spear. "Run!"
Thwack.
Another arrow took a standard-bearer of House Ryger in the throat. The banner fell. The unit, seeing their sigil fall, broke formation and scrambled over each other to escape the phantom archer.
This was Robert's strategy. He wasn't firing at random. He was surgically removing the brain of the Royalist army. He was killing the officers, the knights, the men who gave the orders.
Without them, the starving, sick levies were just a mob.
"They are breaking on the left!" Ned Stark shouted, wading through the press, Ice cutting a bloody arc through the air.
"Not yet," Robert grunted. He reached for another arrow.
But his hand stopped.
The Royalist line, which had been buckling, suddenly stiffened. A roar went up from the southern bank—not a roar of fear, but of fanaticism.
The line parted.
Rhaegar Targaryen rode into the ford.
He had lost his horse earlier in the battle, but he had mounted a fresh destrier. His black armor was still pristine, the rubies blazing. His visor was up, revealing a face of grim, tragic determination.
He wasn't running. He was charging straight for the center. Straight for the chaos.
"To me!" Rhaegar shouted, his voice cutting through the din. "For the Throne! For the Prophecy!"
The Royalists rallied. Men who had been fleeing turned back, drawn by the gravity of the Silver Prince.
Robert watched him come. He watched the white cloak of the Kingsguard fluttering behind him. He watched the arrogance of a man who thought destiny was a shield.
Robert lowered the Dragonbone bow.
He turned to his squire.
"Take it," Robert said, shoving the priceless weapon into the boy's hands.
"Your Grace?"
"I don't need a bow anymore," Robert said. His voice dropped an octave, becoming a low, grinding rumble. "I need to crush a beetle."
He reached down. His gauntleted hand closed around the haft of his warhammer.
It was heavy. Immense. A weapon that no ordinary man could wield effectively in battle. But in Robert's hands, it felt weightless.
He stepped off the mound of corpses.
The water rushed around his knees. The mud sucked at his boots.
"RHAEGAR!" Robert roared.
The sound was primal. It wasn't a challenge. It was a judgment.
Rhaegar pulled his horse up. He looked across the twenty yards of bloody water separating them. He saw the black armor. He saw the antlers. He saw the man whose life he had ruined for a song.
Rhaegar dismounted.
He did it gracefully, splashing into the water, drawing his longsword. It was a beautiful blade, castle-forged steel that shimmered.
The two armies seemed to pull back. The fighting didn't stop, but a circle of emptiness formed around the two titans. The levies scrambled away, terrified of being caught in the collision of gods.
Robert walked forward. He didn't run. He stalked.
"You took her," Robert said. He didn't shout it. He said it with the cold intimacy of a executioner.
"I did what I had to do," Rhaegar replied, raising his sword. "For the realm. You cannot understand, Robert. You are a man of earth. I am looking at the stars."
"Look at the mud, Rhaegar," Robert growled, swinging the hammer in a testing arc. "Because that's where you're going."
He lunged.
Robert moved with a speed that belied his size. The hammer came down in a overhead smash that would have caved in a castle gate.
Rhaegar was fast. He sidestepped, the water splashing as he pivoted. The hammer hit the water, sending a geyser of mud and spray into the air.
Rhaegar riposted. His sword flashed, cutting a line of sparks across Robert's pauldron.
It was a good hit. A hit that would have severed an arm if Robert had been wearing mail. But the heavy plate held.
Robert didn't even flinch. He used the momentum of his missed swing to bring the hammer back in a brutal backhand.
CLANG.
Rhaegar caught the blow on his shield.
The shield—painted with the three-headed dragon—shattered. Wood and steel splinters exploded outward. Rhaegar was thrown back three steps, barely keeping his footing in the slippery riverbed.
He looked at his arm. It was numb. The sheer kinetic force of the blow had rattled his teeth.
"You fight like a beast," Rhaegar hissed, switching his grip to two hands.
"I fight like a winner," Robert retorted.
He pressed the attack. He didn't give Rhaegar room to breathe. He didn't give him room to use his superior reach. Robert was a storm of black steel. Swing. Bash. Pummel.
Rhaegar was fighting for his life. He was parrying, dodging, weaving. He was a master swordsman, trained by the best. He landed two more hits—one on Robert's thigh, one on his helm.
But Robert didn't stop. He didn't slow down. He was fueled by a year of rage and a month of sobriety.
Robert caught Rhaegar's blade with the shaft of his hammer, twisted, and slammed his shoulder into the Prince's chest.
Rhaegar went down into the water.
He scrambled to rise, his eyes wide. The prophecy hadn't said anything about this. The song hadn't mentioned a demon with a hammer.
Robert raised the weapon for the killing blow.
"NO!"
A blur of white flashed into Robert's peripheral vision.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
The Lord Commander, battered and muddy but still the finest knight in the realm, threw himself between the King and the Prince.
"Get back!" Barristan shouted, thrusting his sword at the gap in Robert's visor.
Robert jerked his head back. The tip of the blade scratched across his helmet, screeching like a banshee.
Robert looked at the old knight. He respected Barristan. In another life, he would have spared him.
But today, Barristan was in the way.
"Move, old man!" Robert roared.
"Only over my corpse!" Barristan declared, standing his ground in the rushing water.
"So be it."
Robert didn't use the spike. He used the flat face of the hammer.
He swung with a terrifying, controlled violence.
Barristan tried to block. But you cannot block an earthquake.
The hammer smashed into Barristan's side.
CRACK.
The sound of ribs shattering was louder than the battle. Barristan was lifted off his feet. He flew five yards through the air, crashing into the river like a ragdoll. He didn't rise. He floated, the water around him turning pink.
Robert didn't look to see if he was dead. He stepped over the spot where the Bold had stood.
He looked down at Rhaegar, who had used the distraction to get back to his feet.
The Prince was dripping wet. His beautiful black armor was dented. His breathing was ragged.
For the first time, Rhaegar Targaryen looked afraid.
He looked past Robert. He saw his army crumbling. He saw the "machine" of the Rebels grinding his levies into dust. He saw Barristan floating downstream.
"The song..." Rhaegar whispered, raising his sword with shaking hands. "It cannot end here."
Robert rested the head of his hammer in his palm. He stepped closer, the water swirling around his waist.
"The song is over, Rhaegar," Robert said, his voice flat and dead.
"Now comes the silence."
He raised the hammer.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 26: The Ruby Ford: Part 2
Scene 2: The Talk
Location: The Center of the Ford.
Time: Seconds later.
Robert raised the hammer. The shadow of the iron head fell over the Prince.
"My Prince! Move!"
A young knight in checkered silver-and-black armor—a minor cousin of House Staunton—threw himself into the gap. He didn't have a shield. He didn't have a plan. He just had a sword and a lifetime of listening to singers praise the Dragon.
He swung wildly at Robert's knees, screaming a war cry that sounded more like a plea.
"For the Silver Prince!"
Robert didn't even look at him. He didn't pause his stride. He simply lowered his shoulder and slammed into the boy.
It wasn't a fight. It was a collision between a siege ram and a wooden door.
The young knight flew backward, the air driven from his lungs with a sickening wet crunch. He splashed into the water next to Rhaegar, wheezing, clutching a chest that was now concave. He tried to rise, blood bubbling from his lips, his eyes fixed on Rhaegar with adoring, dying devotion.
"I... I tried..." the boy gurgled.
Then he died. Just another piece of debris in the river.
Robert stepped over the boy's body. He looked at Rhaegar.
"Another one," Robert said, his voice thick with disgust. "Another boy dead because you can't keep your cock in your breeches."
Rhaegar stared at the dead boy. Then he looked up at Robert, hastily bringing his sword back up to a guard position. The Prince's violet eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. He didn't look like a warrior. He looked like a Maester who had stared at a star chart for twenty years only to realize the stars had moved.
"You don't understand," Rhaegar whispered, circling slowly to his left, trying to keep the deep water between them. The sounds of the battle around them—the screaming, the steel—seemed to fade into a dull roar.
"I read the signs," Rhaegar said, his voice trembling but fierce. "The comet. The season. The lineage. It was all written."
He pointed his sword at Robert, keeping the tip steady despite his fear.
"You are not supposed to be here, Robert. You are an anomaly. You are the Storm, but the Song requires the Ice."
"I am the man who is going to cave in your chest," Robert said, taking a heavy step forward. The water swirled around his waist.
"Wait!" Rhaegar shouted, backing up as his boot slipped on a mossy stone. "Think, Robert! The Long Night is coming! The Others! Only the Prince that was Promised can stop them! If you kill me, you doom the world to darkness!"
Robert stopped. He tilted his head, the antlers on his helm catching the grey light.
"The Others?" Robert asked.
"Yes!" Rhaegar's face lit up with a desperate hope. He thought he saw a flicker of understanding. "The cold winds are rising in the far North! I saw it in the scrolls! Everything I did—Lyanna, Elia, the prophecy—it was to save us! To save you!"
He kept his sword raised, but his posture was pleading.
"Strike your banners. Let me win. And I swear to you, by the Old Gods and the New, when the darkness comes, I will save your people. I will save the North. But I must live. The Dragon must have three heads."
Robert looked at the beautiful, delusional man.
He saw a man who believed his own narrative so completely that he thought it justified kidnapping, rape, and the slaughter of thousands. He saw a man who would burn the world to fulfill a riddle in an old book.
Robert laughed.
It was a harsh, barking sound.
"You think you're the hero," Robert said, shaking his head. "You think because you read a book and plucked a harp, the sun shines out of your arse."
Robert gripped the haft of his hammer tighter. The leather creaked.
"There is no destiny, Rhaegar. There is no song."
Robert pointed the hammer at the dead Staunton boy floating between them.
"There is just mud. And blood. And the men you killed to feed your ego."
"It is not ego!" Rhaegar screamed, his composure finally shattering. "It is fate!"
"Fate?"
Robert stepped forward, closing the distance. The water rose around them.
"Fate is what happens when you step in the ring with a better man."
Rhaegar realized then that there would be no debate. There would be no conversion. The man in the black armor didn't care about the Long Night. He didn't care about Azor Ahai.
He just wanted justice.
Rhaegar braced his feet against the current. He tightened his grip on his sword. He was the Blood of the Dragon, and he would not die begging.
"Then let it end," Rhaegar whispered, tears of frustration mingling with the river spray. "Let the gods decide."
"The gods aren't watching," Robert growled, pulling the hammer back for the final swing.
"Just us."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 26: The Ruby Ford: Part 2
Scene 3: The Kill
Location: The Center of the Ford.
Time: The Turning Point.
Rhaegar moved like water.
He was fast—faster than Robert remembered from the stories. He feinted high, dipped low, and thrust his sword toward the gap in Robert's armor at the armpit.
Scrrrrape.
The Castle-forged steel bit into the mail beneath the plate, drawing a line of hot blood.
Robert grunted, but he didn't back up. He stepped into the cut.
He slammed his shieldless left forearm into Rhaegar's chest, checking the Prince's momentum. It was a brawler's move, ugly and effective. Rhaegar stumbled back, his boots finding no purchase on the slick, mossy stones of the riverbed.
"You are slow!" Rhaegar shouted, breathless, trying to circle to Robert's right. "You are heavy!"
"I am an anchor," Robert growled.
He swung the hammer. It wasn't a killing blow—it was a zoning strike, forcing Rhaegar to duck.
Rhaegar went low, slashing at Robert's legs. The blade sparked off the greaves.
The Prince was fighting a duel. He was looking for openings. He was looking for the perfect, elegant strike that would end the rebellion and fulfill the prophecy.
Robert was fighting a war. He was trading health for position.
He took another hit—a slash across his gorget that rattled his teeth.
But in exchange, he cornered him.
Rhaegar backed up, and his heel hit the carcass of the dead horse behind him. He faltered for a fraction of a second, his balance compromised by the corpse of the beast he had ridden into battle.
The mud catches everyone, Robert thought.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't monologue.
He shifted his grip on the warhammer. He put his entire back, his hips, and the sheer torque of his massive frame into one swing.
Rhaegar saw it coming. He tried to bring his sword up to parry.
It was a mistake. You can parry a sword. You cannot parry a sledgehammer.
The iron head of the hammer smashed into Rhaegar's blade. The sword shattered into shrapnel.
The hammer didn't stop.
It continued its arc, carrying the force of a collapsing building, and slammed directly into the center of the three-headed dragon on Rhaegar's breastplate.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. It was the sound of steel collapsing, of ribs snapping like dry twigs, of a heart bursting under pressure.
Rhaegar's feet left the ground. He was lifted backward, suspended in the air for a heartbeat of pure violence.
The rubies scattered into the water, worthless stones washing away in the current.
They didn't glow. They didn't explode with magical power. They just fell—red glass and stone—splashing into the mud alongside the blood and the spit.
Rhaegar hit the water. A massive splash that soaked Robert's visor.
The Prince tried to rise. Instinct drove him. But his chest was a crater. His lungs were punctured.
He fell back, the water rushing over his black armor.
Robert walked over to him. The water was waist-deep here.
Rhaegar's helmet had flown off in the impact. His silver hair fanned out in the bloody water like a halo. His violet eyes were staring up at the grey sky, wide with shock.
He couldn't breathe. He was drowning in his own blood.
He looked at Robert. He tried to speak. His lips moved, forming a name.
Lyanna.
Robert stared down at him. He felt the adrenaline draining away, leaving only a cold, hard clarity.
"She won't hear you," Robert said, his voice a low rumble amidst the screams of the dying battle around them.
Rhaegar's hand twitched, reaching for the empty air, reaching for the prophecy that had promised him victory.
Then, the light went out.
The violet eyes glazed over. The chest stopped heaving.
The Last Dragon was dead. Not by magic. Not by destiny. But by a hammer swing in a muddy river.
Robert stood over the corpse. He breathed in the smell of iron and death.
He looked at the rubies floating downstream, carried away by the indifferent Trident.
"Worthless," Robert whispered.
He looked up. The Royalist army had stopped fighting. They were staring at the spot where their Prince had fallen.
Robert Baratheon raised his blood-slicked hammer high into the air.
He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
The silence of the grave swept over the ford.
[End of Chapter 26]