[Jaime's POV]
The Westerland banners were thrown to the rear of the Royal Armada, something Jaime himself wasn't too fond of due to the lack of action... but now an entire fleet was pressing upon them. The morale of the men around him couldn't be any lower. The Kraken had devastated a good part of the Royal Armada, and now they had to hold against a second fleet with far fewer ships, as the vanguard was the priority, and they were already outnumbered.
So, this is the end...
Jaime laughed at himself. After all this time, he'd die a world away from home, alone and forever known as Kingslayer. He wondered if it was better to have died at the Golden Tooth. Now, he was giving his life for the very boy who had smashed his father's head against the ground and ensured Lannister defeat... the same one who had saved him from an execution despite everyone around him seeking his death. The son of the Usurper who had butchered his beloved sister...
Ever since that defeat, he had never felt more lost.
Who was he - what did most men first call him? Kingslayer. One King was mad, and the other had slain his sister and come for his head. Would it have been better to let everyone in King's Landing burn... or simply stand there and let Robert slay him? Noble and righteous or sinful, it hadn't mattered. He was always in the wrong.
Was there ever a moment when he could've changed his fate... and lived up to the ideals he once had?
Jaime observed the chaos around him as if he were in a different world. The men already looked defeated before ever engaging in battle. When had he ever turned away from battle? There was nothing quite like it... it was the only time he truly felt alive.
He was the first to draw his sword.
"We hold the rear," Jaime Lannister commanded, his voice cutting through the din. "Let them come with all their ships and soldiers - it changes nothing. We stand our ground!"
"But… that's suicide."
"Better to die fighting," Jaime frowned. "Are you lions, or sheep waiting for the butcher's blade? Kill - or be killed. There is no third choice!"
The men rallied under him, regaining their will to fight. Jaime himself was perfectly aware that death was all but certain, yet he didn't hesitate. Let the Kingslayer's last battle be one to remember.
They blocked the path of the Lyseni ships and engaged in battle against what seemed to be pirates, sellswords and men seeking gold and glory. They were no knights, no warriors... no true soldiers. For what it was worth, his men were better trained, far more seasoned. Most of them were veterans of the Lannister Rebellion and the battles on the Iron Islands that followed during the Second Greyjoy 'Rebellion'.
Once they found their will, the true warriors began to make their mark.
Jaime Lannister himself was carving through one man after the next as if they were all made of butter. His mind was entirely focused on slaying as many of them as his body could manage. He had never felt sharper, more refined.
Each stroke of his blade was intended, calculated... and all too lethal.
More... and more...
It was never-ending.
Even after dozens of men falling to his blade.
The men around him began to perish, one after the other. Even he grew weary. His armour grew heavier, his strikes weaker, his movements slower, while the men he faced were fresh. There was no time to so much as catch a breath. Even so... he kept fighting.
The taste of iron filled his mouth, whether from blood or the bitter tang of battle, he could no longer tell. The constant clashes across the sea ringed in his ear, but he silenced them.
A man lunged - too wide, too desperate. Jaime slid aside, turning the thrust and splitting the fool's throat in the same motion. He did not even watch him fall.
Three more came. He pivoted, blade flashing, catching one in the ribs before spinning his pommel into another's jaw with a wet crack. The last tried to flee, but Jaime's sword took him in the back with a single decisive step.
A shadow moved to his right - an axe arcing toward his head. He ducked low, feeling the wind of the swing pass above him, and drove his sword through the man's stomach, twisting until the body went limp and drew out a fountain of blood.
Still they came. Always more.
Jaime could feel his lungs burning, his muscles aching. His sword felt heavier with each swing. His vision narrowed, the world beyond the next enemy fading into nothingness.
A spear struck his shoulder, sliding off the plate but jarring his entire arm. He staggered, parried a blow from the left, then slammed his boot into a knee with enough force to send the man screaming into the sea.
He wanted to stop. His body begged for it. But he knew - the instant he slowed, the instant he faltered - the tide would swallow him whole.
Another came at him, this one with the hard eyes of a man who had killed before. Jaime grinned, blood staining his teeth. He only saw red. The death of every man who dared face him.
The man's curved blade approached, and Jaime deflected it with all the skill of the prodigy he had once been heralded as - following up with a stab to the knee and a slash across the throat.
A band of Lyseni pirates followed, charging him with a roar in a tongue foreign to Jaime. One shot a bolt at his leg, piercing through his plate. He tilted his head and dodged the next - using the momentum to drive his sword into the chest of one of them.
Next came a diagonal slash aimed at him, but he parried it all too effortlessly, yet an axe was aiming for his side at the very same time. He took the blow on his shoulder, moving only forward... and cutting down his foe.
Then, he turned to the axe wielder and danced around him with his last burst of speed as he recalled the great knights whom he had learned under... the White Bull, Barristan the Bold, Prince Lewyn of Dorne, Ser Oswell Whent, Jonothor Darry and Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, most of all...
It was coming back to him all at once.
The day he had been knighted, the day he first wore the white cloak and swore his vows, the day he broke them and pushed his sword into Aerys' back...
Another came. Another died.
And yet, he knew the end was near...
Another crossbow bolt struck his other shoulder, and he could hardly raise his sword to block the next attack that aimed for him...
He stepped back, his sword almost flying out of his hand.
A spear punched into his side, pushing him down to one knee.
He looked up as the sun shone over him.
It was a beautiful sight.
The gold... it reminded him not of a queen, but of the girl that once dared him to soar higher, move faster, fight harder than anyone else. He was too helpless to even rise once more and embrace his fate standing up.
"You… want to redeem your honour, don't you? Don't die as the Smiling Knight, Ser Jaime."
He recalled the words of a bastard.
"If you're going to die… die as a hero."
Jaime muttered and laughed thereafter, coughing up his own blood.
It seems that you were too optimistic...
There was never a good end for me.
He closed his eyes, embracing the fate that awaited him.
And yet... it never came.
A cold breeze washed over the sea.
Seconds passed... and there was only silence.
It was freezing. Colder than the North, colder than anything he had ever felt... and yet it was strangely warm. His heart was still, focused. Clarity returned to his eyes as he opened them. He rose, breaking through the ice.
It was as if he had been reborn, leaving a broken statue of ice where he once kneeled. His body felt fresh; the pain he had felt faded along with the wounds.
The sellswords opposing him were all frozen, entirely unmoving. In the blink of an eye, they broke into ice crystals, and the wind took them. Jaime grasped his blunt and damaged sword tightly, a layer of ice covering it and filling the holes.
The men behind him stood still as if they were frozen as well.
"Nothing has changed," Ser Jaime said with peerless confidence. "We will hold the rear until the very end."
"Yes, Ser!"
[Ser Arthur's POV]
Was it absolutely mad what he was about to attempt?
Yes... it was.
Was he afraid?
Yes.
But... he felt something far stronger than that—the will to win. The desire to shift the tides of battle and save as many of his comrades as he could manage. And so...
He engulfed himself in his own flames, leaping into the dragon's flames.
There was not a moment of doubt.
The flames struck him... and they did not burn.
He descended from his long jump like a comet, burning all of the Golden Company soldiers around him and spiralling them into chaos. Some ran around in desperation, others leapt for the water, and the rest burned to death. Even then, he was still surrounded by a wall of flames.
He focused it all into his sword, watching as the flames shifted around it.
As he turned to slash, the men in front of him flinched in fear.
They were right to do so.
He made a long horizontal slash, unleashing the flames in a wide arc which burned right through everything in its path. It kept going to a ship further up, burning into it and exploding... greatly damaging it. The galley they had boarded was mostly clear, with the rest of the men having lost their will to fight him. He had them all cut down.
There was no room for error... they had to keep advancing.
The hound looked at him, sweating.
Arthur awkwardly smiled.
"Forgive me."
He knew he wasn't all too fond of fire, but he didn't have much of a choice.
As the battle raged on, more men had awakened their magical talents. To the right, Valaegor commanded the winds and, as the dragon had aimed to burn them up once more, Balon Swann protected them with a strange shield that affected everyone around him. Whether it was prior training, the dragon, Edric's residual magic, the pressure of the battle hanging on everyone's shoulders or even all four factors at once... this very battle seemed to be the ideal place to awaken magic.
Eventually, the Hound had done so as well... except his own power frightened him almost immediately. Why would such a man fear his own strength? Well, the Gods were cruel and chose fire. It's definitely one way to force him to face that fear.
Despite all of these developments, the battle was far from won. The dragon had learned to target other ships... far from their reach. Arthur began to split the magic users and make them lead separate ships, expanding their influence across the sea rather than stepping on each other's toes.
This strategy proved extremely effective, leading to the right flank of Volantis' great fleet to begin collapsing. The Golden Company, for all its discipline, did not have an answer to the Kingsguard. However, losses were nearly equally as great for the Royal Armada on the left flank. They were barely hanging on.
At best, it would be a pyrrhic victory... if that.
[Edric's POV]
After passing out, I returned to my Inner World... or what remained of it. The great tree at the centre that once blossomed so beautifully had fallen dead - all of its petals dried up and scattered by the wind. The sky seemed darker, and a black fog loomed over the horizon. The world wasn't exactly colourful before, but now... it just looked depressing.
My children were resting on the ground... and so was Raiden, yet her skin looked far paler than usual. I sat down beside her and couldn't find a pulse. My heart stopped.
That... can't be.
I held her hand with my left, only to realise that her mark had entirely vanished. Even when I cut across it, it had never vanished. Even when she was dead... it existed. Why now?
I looked at my status screen, all the way down, ignoring everything else.
Storm Manipulation was... gone.
"System, this is a horrible joke, right?" I chuckled. "It's not like you to play with my emotions."
[System: My data is always 100% accurate. You've effectively severed your Storm-related magic.]
"What are you talking about...?" I raised an eyebrow. "I..."
"Well, well, well... I didn't expect this day would come so soon."
Aerion descended upon my Inner World, his long silver hair dancing in the air.
"What do you mean?"
"See, there are about four levels of magic overusage in this universe that I've altered. The first is when it begins to drain from your physical body, the second is when your body is greatly weakened over a long period of time, the third is when you draw power from the very root of your magic and permanently damage it... and the fourth and final stage is where you outright die."
"You were meant to die, Edric Storm... but someone else took the fall for you." Aerion glanced at Raiden. "Such a sweet thing, I could almost pity her."
"... And who was it that sent a god-sized Kraken my way?"
"This Kraken always existed, my little stag." Aerion chuckled. "You simply overreached with your ambitions and got yourself into battles you shouldn't have. You thought yourself invincible in the mortal world - and why wouldn't you? Although I can admire such ambition, it isn't all that pretty when it burns you..."
"..."
The worst of it was... that he was right.
"For instance, the Other Edric you've grown accustomed to had stayed in the Seven Kingdoms. It would be about... two years before he'd have to face that Kraken. By then, he possessed more than enough power and tools to handle it singlehandedly, albeit having to sustain some heavy wounds. The western part of the continent sure did suffer until he got there... but, hey... Raiden didn't die. Pick your poison, heh."
"So..." I took a deep breath. "She's dead... because of me?"
I had to say it out loud for it to sink in.
"She sacrificed herself, again... but that is one way of looking at it, I suppose." Aerion shrugged. "Regardless, our deal hasn't changed. She just won't be around until you complete your side of it."
"... And what of my magic?"
I didn't remember the last time I felt so powerless... so hopeless.
"Well, for now, your Storm Manipulation is entirely dead. But... there is a way to restore your root." Aerion smiled, creating a purple flower out of nothing before burning it. What was the point in that? "You would need to find a way to restore the root of your magic and then awaken it. A rebirth, if you will. Considering the sheer depth of your original root... you will need quite the kickstarter."
There... was some hope.
"And how much would that set me back?"
"Well, it all depends on how you do it. If you put enough juice into it... you might come out of the whole process much more powerful than ever before, with a great boost in your potential on top of that. Now that I think about it, that younger reflection truly was onto something... heh, I suppose the essence of my spirit always was to defy fate."
Much more powerful than ever before...
It was the only part of what he said that I truly heard.
I clenched my fists.
"And what of my children?"
"You mean, the Other Edric's children? They will regain strength in due time... but they don't have much of that left here. Soon enough, it will only be you."
"...I see." I slowly nodded. "Thank you for clarifying these things."
"I expected you to be a little bit more furious, but you surprisingly only blamed me once."
"You've gone out of your way to make matters more difficult for me before... but this is all on me."
"... That look is one I recognise all too well... heh, I'll leave you to it."
...
It felt like an eternity had passed in the Plane of Euthymia before I had awakened once more. The first person I saw Arya, who had been sitting by my side. Her eyes widened as I looked at her. I sat up with great difficulty.
I hadn't remembered the last time I felt so weak.
"You... need to rest." Arya insisted, standing up.
The sound of battle was not so distant; I could hear it all too well. Screams, roars, the clashing of weapons...
"I'll rest when I'm dead."
My blood was on fire like never before. My heart beat with fury, again and again, like a hammer. The only thought in my mind was victory.
I rolled of the bed and, with great effort, forced myself to stand.
"That will be today if you go out there... what do you even hope to do in your condition?"
"Win..." I muttered. "I'll... win."
I put my hand on her shoulder and walked past, pushing myself through the door. I leaned against the sides, forcing myself up to the upper deck. The entrance was well-guarded and secured, with the fighting being mainly on the outskirts of the ship.
"Your... Grace!"
"Argh..."
My legs failed me, and I almost fell to the ground, if not for Brienne dashing to my side.
"What are you doing here? You should be in your cabin..."
"What's the state of the battle?" I questioned. My eyes were suddenly hazy.
"We're... holding on. The tides of battle seem to be evening out."
"Sounds like... losing," I remarked. "Don't worry, I... will change that."
There was only one card I could truly play.
And... it was just as mad as facing the Kraken was, if not more.
"How?"
"You'll see..."
My raven flew to my side, and I looked through its eyes, leaving my body. Viserion was still reigning supreme over the skies, with seemingly only a few arrow wounds which weren't too significant. I flew to meet him, and once I met eyes with him...
I tried to warg into the dragon.
It was like being blasted by a comet all at once. My mind was thrown into an inferno... entirely unwelcome. The dragon resisted my attempt with such viciousness that I was the one breaking, bit by bit. And yet...
The rage in my heart burned brighter than any dragon flame ever could.
I was never so determined.
"No matter how hard you resist, I'll keep fighting... over and over... until you embrace these shackles."
Even if the dragon could not understand my words entirely, it understood my will... which was, at this moment, entirely unshakeable. I did not have a single fear, only a goal... to gain control of this dragon... and I was more than willing to throw away anything to accomplish it.
I began gaining ground, bit by bit... feeling its domineering ego burning my mind, yet I kept marching forward. The deeper I went, the less of a chance I had at retreating safely. It truly was all or nothing.
"I'm going to make you kneel and regret ever resisting me..."
The more time passed, the more I adapted to the dragon's mind, finding weaknesses and piercing through them. My will was many times greater than Viserion's... and more enduring. The dragon, for all its pride and ego, was no match for the resolve that possessed me.
Nothing...
Nothing was going to stop me.
Nothing at all.
And, in time, the dragon grew to realise this all too well. All of its attempts at resisting me were no more than a delay of the inevitable.
I became its master... forcing it into a retreat.
I became the dragon.
ROAAAAAAAAAAR!
I alone ruled the skies.