Chapter 24: The Trident's Call, The Dragon's Fall
The victory at Stoney Sept had infused the rebel army with a renewed, almost feverish sense of purpose. Robert Baratheon, his wounds healing, his spirit buoyed by the adulation of his men and the tangible taste of Targaryen defeat, was eager to press his advantage. The disparate forces of the Stormlands, the North, and the Vale, now blooded and unified by shared victory, marched with a grimmer determination towards the Trident, where all intelligence indicated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was gathering the main royalist host for a final, decisive confrontation.
Lord Vorant's contingent remained a distinct, formidable entity within this great allied army. The Obsidian Guard, their black iron armor now scuffed and dented from the brutal street fighting in Stoney Sept, moved with their customary chilling discipline. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, having earned fresh laurels and tasted Targaryen blood, marched with a renewed Northman ferocity. Vorhax himself rode at their head, a figure of cold, calculating power. He had used the brief respite after Stoney Sept to re-equip his forces, integrate captured supplies, and ensure his intelligence network, spearheaded by Will and Anya operating covertly within the army's vast train, fed him constant updates on Rhaegar's movements, the composition of his army, and the morale of its commanders. Nyx, his goshawk, was an invaluable aerial scout, her Force-enhanced vision providing Vorhax with a detailed understanding of the terrain that lay ahead.
In the rebel war councils, Vorhax's voice, once a surprising interruption, now carried significant weight. Robert, while still the boisterous, charismatic leader, had developed a grudging reliance on the Hawk Lord's unnervingly accurate intelligence and his often unconventional but brutally effective tactical suggestions. Eddard Stark, though his honorable nature clearly found Vorhax's methods and demeanor discomfiting, could not deny his military genius. Jon Arryn, the elder statesman, treated Vorhax with cautious respect, recognizing him as a powerful, if unpredictable, force within their alliance. Only Stannis Baratheon maintained his overt, icy suspicion, his gaze constantly probing, dissecting Vorhax's every word and action for hidden meaning or treacherous intent.
As they approached the Green Fork of the Trident, Vorhax, drawing upon his Force visions of the coming battle and his own strategic acumen, subtly guided the rebel leadership in their choice of ground. He advocated for a position that would allow their superior heavy infantry to anchor the line effectively, while also offering opportunities for his own more mobile and hard-hitting forces to be deployed as a decisive reserve or a devastating counter-attacking element.
His personal aims for the Battle of the Trident were clear: Rhaegar Targaryen had to die, preferably by Robert's hand, as this was the emotional and symbolic linchpin of the rebellion. The Targaryen loyalist army needed to be not just defeated, but shattered, its key commanders eliminated or captured. His own elite forces, the Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade, were to play a demonstrably crucial role in this victory, yet be preserved as much as possible. And from the ashes of the Targaryen defeat, his own influence and power must rise significantly.
On the eve of the battle, the rebel camp was a vast, sprawling city of men and horses, alive with a palpable tension. Forges glowed, armor was mended, weapons sharpened. Priests and septons moved through the ranks, offering prayers and blessings. Vorhax gathered his own commanders, Ser Gareth and Brandon Snow, in his stark command tent.
"Tomorrow," he told them, his voice devoid of emotion, "the fate of the Targaryen dynasty will be decided. Prince Rhaegar is a skilled warrior, and his army is large, including many loyal veterans and the Dornish levies under Prince Lewyn Martell. They will fight fiercely for their prince." He unrolled a map of the battlefield, marked with his own precise notations. "We will initially hold the center-left of Lord Robert's line, anchoring it against the expected Dornish assault. The Obsidian Guard will form the first rank, the Wolf Brigade in support. You will hold that line, no matter the cost to the enemy." He paused, his gaze intense. "When the moment is right, when Rhaegar commits his own elite guard or when Robert engages him directly, we will be the anvil upon which the Targaryen hope is broken, or the hammer that shatters their resolve. Await my signal. Discipline and precision will win this day." He subtly used the Force, not to command their minds, but to instill a cold, unwavering resolve, a heightened sense of focus and readiness.
The dawn broke grey and misty over the Green Fork. The two armies faced each other across the ruby-red waters of the ford, a vast sea of men, horses, and banners. The air was thick with the metallic tang of fear and the thrum of impending slaughter. Trumpets blared, and with a roar that seemed to shake the very earth, the Battle of the Trident began.
The initial clash was furious. Dornish spearmen, under the fiery command of Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, surged across the ford, crashing into the rebel left flank held by Jon Arryn's knights of the Vale and a portion of the Stark forces. The fighting was desperate, the Dornishmen pushing deep. In the center, Robert Baratheon, his great warhammer a terrifying blur, led his Stormlords in a direct assault on the Targaryen line, seeking Rhaegar.
Vorhax's contingent, positioned as planned, became an unbreakable wall of black iron on the center-left. The Obsidian Guard, their hawk-helms giving them an almost demonic appearance, met wave after wave of loyalist assaults – Crownlands knights, Riverlands levies still loyal to the Targaryens, and eventually, the disciplined ranks of Prince Lewyn's own household guard. They fought with a cold, silent ferocity, their Stonefang steel biting deep, their shield wall impenetrable. Brandon Snow's Northmen, roaring their battle cries, moved up to plug any gaps, their heavy axes and greatswords wreaking havoc. Vorhax, from a slightly elevated position behind his lines, directed his troops with uncanny precision, his commands relayed by runners and a system of black flag signals. Nyx circled high above, a dark speck against the clouds, her Force-enhanced senses feeding him a constant stream of information about the shifting tides of the battle, enemy movements, and potential weaknesses.
As the battle raged for hours, the river running red with blood, a critical moment arrived. A powerful loyalist counter-attack, led by the remnants of the Dornish and several crack companies of Crownlands knights, threatened to buckle Robert's own center, where the fighting was thickest and Robert himself was heavily engaged. Jon Arryn's forces were hard-pressed, and Eddard Stark was desperately trying to reinforce him.
This was the moment Vorhax had anticipated. "Signal the advance," he commanded Ser Gareth. "Obsidian Guard, forward. Shatter their center. Captain Snow, the Wolf Brigade will follow, exploit the breach. No mercy."
The Obsidian Guard, who had thus far fought a largely defensive battle, now moved with terrifying speed and purpose. They advanced in a perfectly formed wedge, their black shields locked, their heavy swords and axes held ready. They struck the overextended loyalist counter-attack like a thunderbolt. The impact was devastating. The loyalist knights, exhausted from hours of fighting, recoiled before this fresh wave of black-armored death. The Obsidian Guard carved a bloody swathe through their ranks, their disciplined fury, superior armor, and the subtle, fear-inducing properties of their blades shattering enemy morale. Brandon Snow's Northmen poured into the gap they created, their wild ferocity completing the rout of that sector.
Vorhax's intervention was decisive. The loyalist center buckled, then broke, sending a shockwave of panic through their lines.
It was at this moment, amidst the growing chaos of the Targaryen collapse, that Robert Baratheon finally found his quarry. Across the ruby ford, he spotted the silver-chased black armor and the three-headed dragon banner of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. With a roar of pure, unadulterated hatred, Robert plunged into the river, his warhammer raised.
Rhaegar, seeing his army wavering, knew this was his last chance to turn the tide. He met Robert's charge in the shallows of the ford. Their duel was a clash of titans, a battle of primal fury against desperate valor, watched by thousands. Vorhax, from his vantage point, observed the iconic confrontation, ensuring his nearby forces were positioned to prevent any loyalist interference that might save the Prince. Rhaegar fought with skill and grace, but Robert's grief-fueled rage and raw strength were overwhelming. With a devastating blow from his warhammer, Robert smashed Rhaegar's breastplate, shattering ribs and scattering the rubies that adorned it into the blood-stained water. The Dragon Prince fell, his lifeblood mingling with the Trident's current.
The death of Rhaegar Targaryen was the final, fatal blow to the loyalist army. A cry of despair went up from their ranks, quickly turning into a panicked, disorganized flight. The rebellion had broken its back.
The rebel pursuit was relentless. Robert, despite his own wounds from the duel, led the vengeful chase. Vorhax, however, directed his own forces with calculated precision. While the Wolf Brigade joined in the bloody pursuit of the fleeing foot soldiers, he tasked the Obsidian Guard with rounding up high-value prisoners – knights and lords who could be ransomed or interrogated – and securing captured Targaryen standards and equipment. He also ensured that key loyalist commanders who might rally the remnants were specifically targeted and eliminated. Ser Barristan Selmy, grievously wounded while defending his fallen prince, was captured by Vorhax's men. Prince Lewyn Martell lay dead on the field. The Targaryen cause on the Trident was not just defeated; it was annihilated.
As dusk fell over the charnel house that had been the battlefield of the Trident, the scale of the rebel victory became clear. The Targaryen dynasty's primary field army was shattered, its Crown Prince slain. Robert Baratheon was the undisputed hero of the hour, his name forever linked with Rhaegar's fall.
But in the councils that followed, amidst the grim accounting of losses and the triumphant planning for the march on King's Landing, Lord Ellys Vorant's contribution was recognized as pivotal. His forces had held a critical part of the line, their counter-attack had broken the loyalist center at a crucial moment, and their discipline in the aftermath had secured valuable assets. His reputation as a military genius, already formidable, was now etched in the blood of the Trident. Even Stannis Baratheon, though his eyes still held their deep, unwavering suspicion, could not deny the Hawk Lord's almost preternatural battlefield acumen.
Vorhax, for his part, accepted the accolades with his usual chilling composure, attributing his success to the valor of his men and the inspiring leadership of Lord Robert. He knew the truth: his victory was a product of superior intelligence, meticulous planning, disciplined troops, advanced (if subtly applied) Sith tactics, and the guiding hand of the Force.
Surveying the carnage from a promontory overlooking the ruby ford, Vorhax felt a cold, grim satisfaction. The Dragon had fallen. The path to greater chaos, and ultimately to his own ascendant order, was now clearer than ever. King's Landing, and the Mad King Aerys, were the next objectives. And beyond that, a realm ripe for the taking. The Trident had been a call to destiny, and the Hawk had answered, its talons dripping with the blood of a dying dynasty.
(Word Count: Approx. 4400 words)