Dacey's boots churned the muddy shoreline as she pushed and pummeled her way through the royal army. From the other direction the rebel vanguard shoved, shields high, water to the knees. Peasants from the Reach broke and ran while Dornish pikes braced. Off to her right Ser Selmy led an assortment of crownlanders and rivermen against the Vale foot. And at the center of it all was Rhaegar Targaryen.
Rhaegar rode the river like a dancer on a narrow stage. His black destrier stepped sure on the slick stones. The prince kept his blade close and quiet. A cut to a wrist. A prick to the gap at a gorget. A tap to a knee that stole a man's stance. Each touch was neat. Each man who met him fell back or fell down.
Robert refused to give him space. He hunted him along the shallows, bulling through knots of men with the hammer canted to guard and strike both.
Horns called from downriver, adding to the chaos. A low barge slid out of the mist like a dark tooth. Oars rose and dipped. Fire bowls burned at the bow. Red priests stood packed along the gunwales with ash staves and censers.
The barge kissed the bank near Connington's griffon standard. Jon seemed surprised but grateful, barking orders and pointing. Crownlanders made space for the arrivals while saffron robes stepped into the mud. A large dark skinned priest with white hair and fire tattoos raised his staff and spoke something Dacey couldn't make out. The nearest men cheered as if a wind had turned.
Dacey couldn't fathom why Essosi priests had shown up to the battlefield, but she didn't have the time to contemplate on the oddity. Knights could run amok on a battlefield in their plate armor, but Dacey had to be careful. Armed as an escaped hostage, Dacey's blacksmithing hammer was not designed for parries, and her pine shield was one good hit from ruin.
Yet Dacey's pursuit of the Crown Prince continued unrelenting. She fully channeled her ursine nature, jogging through mud and bodies with unnatural endurance.
Most men looked at her in confusion, no doubt wondering what a poorly armed maiden was doing in their formations. Those foolish enough to try and stop her suffered a hammer blow with the strength of a bear behind it.
Slowly, the distance between Dacey and Rhaegar disappeared. But when she was finally about to engage the prince, Robert got to him first.
Rhaegar rode light and clean. Sword in one hand, reins soft, he turned his black destrier with a knee and made the blade talk. He darted the point around the stag's strong swings, drew it back before a counter, and tapped Robert's helm to ring it. He had the better craft. Yet each time steel kissed plate it skittered or left a shallow scratch. A sword's edge could not cut steel, not without magic.
Rhaegar looked for a gap, any opening in the metal behemoth, but Robert's plate was truly excessive. With metal overhangs for the joints and a great bascinet helm, there wasn't even an eye slit for the sword to fit in. How Robert could move in such was a testament to his strength.
Lord Baratheon took the touches and kept coming. His breathing came like bellows through his helmet's perforations. His stallion stumbled when he swung, foaming at the mouth, but somehow it hadn't yet toppled from the weight.
The first time the hammer found the rim of Rhaegar's shield, the prince rocked. The second time it nicked a pauldron, and the prince's horse lost a step.
Smooth stones shifted underfoot as Dacey pushed past onlookers. A spear jabbed from the side; she took the shaft on her shield edge and shoved it aside with a short, mean twist. At last, there was no one between her and her quarry.
Only it seemed her pursuit was all for nothing. The cold bit her calves as she watched, but Robert seemed to have victory in hand. Dacey decided to let the duel play out before acting. Overhead, a black raven circled at low altitude, entranced like everyone else.
Robert swung high. Rhaegar slipped the blow and flicked a cut that kissed the hinge of Robert's right elbow. A clean hit, but unable to draw blood even at a joint.
A horn blared from the rebel bank, and Robert surged with it. He slapped the sword aside with a gauntlet and swung the hammer upwards one handed. It thudded into the Rhaegar's left shoulder, not a true crush but enough to break bones.
Prince Rhaegar lurched, saddle bit creaking. He tilted just a bit too far, and the leather finally gave way. Rhaegar toppled to the right, splashing water in all directions as most of his body submerged.
With the prince's fall, the enchantment over the spectators ended. Soldiers stirred, a few men moved to help Rhaegar up, but Dacey struck them down.
In the tumult another figure broke into the encirclement, dark skinned and dressed in crimson. A red priest stood on a half buried boulder, a strange green pot in one hand. He flung it, and Robert lazily bat it aside with his hammer.
Or at least, that was what the stag intended.
When the jar shattered, green liquid sprayed in all directions, instantly combusting. Half went into the river, lighting the surface, and Robert's poor mount took most the rest.
Robert dropped his burning hammer, but flame licked the reins, ran the girth leather, and climbed the horse's flank. The beast screamed and reared. Robert kicked free and launched himself off, diving into the water while aflame. When he submerged, the fire stayed at the surface and floated downstream.
Seeing an opportunity, Rhaegar pushed to a knee, water sheeting off his helm. His sword came up for the finish.
"Not today," Dacey said.
Dacey planted herself and dug deep, drawing on every ounce of strength as she sent her hammer flying.
A blacksmithing tool traveled with a speed it should never possess. Then, it hit the prince's helm above the ear with a sound like a bell struck wrong. He swayed. Rhaegar dropped to both hands, blade once more submerged.
The red priest rounded on her as he bellowed. "Heathen! You cast darkness upon the glory of the Lord of Light."
The man was built like a boulder, a bit taller than Dacey herself, and he carried a large iron staff with a dragon's head at the end burning green. The red priest swung it in wide arcs, using the threat of burns and contusion to create space.
Dacey had no weapon, no armor, nothing except a rickety pine shield that she tossed aside, lest it catch fire. Dacey knew that for this fight, she would need to gamble.
When the blow came horizontally, Dacey stepped in rather than back and smacked the middle of the staff to redirect it. Dacey could feel heat blisters forming, but she drove a short jab into the priest's ribs and felt the give of flesh.
He swung down. She sidestepped, let the iron head bite water, and hooked his wrist with her free hand. Slippery footing tried to steal her base as the staff reemerged, somehow still burning. She spread her toes inside the boot and let herself settle, locked into a contest of control for the staff.
Both combatants had might, they had magic, and they had mettle. Blisters grew and burst along Dacey's arm near the staff's head.
Dacey's life flashed before her eyes as she struggled, thinking back on the hardships of being a warrior woman. In all her life, only one person outside Bear Island had accepted her for who she was. Lyanna. And Dacey had sworn before the heart tree that she would protect Lyanna. Someone had threatened her cub, and Dacey needed to teach them a lesson.
Dacey bellowed with rage, and took possession of the burning staff. The red priest tried to wrench it back. Dacey heaved with everything she had, a short upward rip that broke his grip. The staff flew as the resistance finally ended, spinning several meters away.
He shouted a prayer, but Dacey didn't care to listen. She ducked a wild punch and answered with two to his gut, fast and straight. He swung again. She slipped left, feet whispering over stones. Then she set and rose with all her legs, fist under his chin. The uppercut lifted him from the water entirely, and the priest's neck cracked like a broken log. He went slack and splashed onto his back, unmoving. Steam lifted where his hair met the current.
Robert had already staggered upright, armor smoking. He looked for his warhammer that wasn't there, saw the prince on hands and knees, and grabbed the blacksmith's hammer nearby instead. He lowered his shoulder and charged.
Just as Prince Rhaegar dizzily got back on his feet, the charging stag arrived with full force. Lord Robert Baratheon swung the hammer with both hands, driving it right into the center of the dragon sigil breastplate. The armor was well made, but even the steel had its limit, and it caved in alongside the prince's chest. Rhaegar toppled for the third time in minutes.
Robert lifted the hammer again and slammed the same spot twice. By the third blow, the rubies had all jumped ship and the man under the plate stopped moving.
The ford went quiet in the way battle only does when a single fact is larger than noise. Then the noise came back in a flood. Rebels howled with triumph. Crownlands men threw down pikes. Dornish spears backed up step by step.
Robert stood above the body, chest heaving. Soot smeared his armor. He turned and saw her. For a breath they stared at each other through falling spray.
"Who—" he began.
"Dacey Mormont," she said. "Remember it as the hand that kept you breathing."
He barked a laugh edged with pain. "Then I owe you a cask, Mormont."
"You owe me nothing," she said. "But hear this. Lyanna belongs to no one. She is her own person and makes her own choices."
The smile died. The eyes under the antlers hardened. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Men were rushing toward him now, splashing, shouting his name. Ned Stark forced a way through with Howland Reed right behind him.
"The prince is dead," Ned said, voice clear and heavy. "Long live King Robert."
"Long live King Robert!" the men roared, and the cry rolled up the slope and across the bank. Pikes dropped. A Hightower banner dipped. Someone began to weep and did not know why.
At that moment, exhaustion caught up with the newly proclaimed king. "Ned, we did it." He stumbled a few steps then collapsed into his foster brother's arms.
Dacey stepped back from the ring before it closed. She did not want the crowd. Her work here may be done, but Lyanna was still waiting for her.
She cut sideways through men who had not yet remembered they were tired. A Manderly soldier tried to grab her wrist and thank her. She shook free without looking at him.
Overhead, a raven circled close in persistent distress. Dacey wasn't sure if it was surprised, angry, or something else. She didn't speak crow. It made her wonder where Dijkstra had wondered off to.
Speak of the devil, Dacey thought. The white raven flitted onto her shoulder and peered at her, head cocked. "You are wet," he observed.
"So is the world," she said, and climbed into an abandoned rowboat. "Keep low."
Dacey took the oars but let the current do most of the work. Behind her the ford roared and sang. Ahead the river bent and offered refuge. Dacey Mormont had a task still, the same as always. Find the girl. Stand where she can find me.