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Chapter Fifty-Five: The Dragon Strikes
The battlefield stretched before them—two great hosts facing one another across the Green Fork, banners fluttering in the wind, the silence before the storm.
At the head of the Northern army, King Daeron Targaryen sat atop his warhorse, his valyrian steel armor gleaming in the morning sun.
Beside him, his uncle Ned Stark rode with Ice strapped to his back, his expression calm and resolute.
The Northern army—twenty thousand strong—stood in formation behind them.
Mostly foot soldiers, with only one thousand cavalry.
The Lannister army had thirty thousand men, more knights, more cavalry, and had taken strong defensive ground on the hill.
By all accounts, the North was at a disadvantage.
But Daeron was not worried.
He knew something Tywin Lannister did not.
From what Daeron can see and had gathered from reports and scouting, the Lannister forces were arranged in four divisions:
The center, commanded by Ser Kevan Lannister, held ten thousand men—heavy infantry, pikemen, and archers.
The right flank, commanded by Ser Addam Marbrand, held four thousand knights and heavy cavalry.
The left flank, commanded by Ser Gregor Clegane, held one thousand mounted freeriders, sellswords, and smallfolk conscripts—the weakest part of the army.
The reserve, commanded by Lord Tywin Lannister himself, sat on a high hilltop with five thousand more men, ready to reinforce wherever needed.
The Lannisters had the advantage in numbers, positioning, and cavalry.
They had spent the last five days preparing, while the North had deliberately delayed to give Robb time to relieve Riverrun.
But that delay had allowed Tywin to set the battlefield in his favor.
Now, the Lannister banners waved proudly in the wind, the golden lions of House Lannister glimmering beneath the sunlight.
Drums and war horns sounded from the Lannister side as they prepared for battle.
The Northern soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, waiting for Daeron's signal.
Ned Stark turned to his nephew.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked quietly.
Daeron only smiled.
"You'll see, Uncle," he said.
Then, without warning—
A roar split the sky.
The Lannister army never saw it coming.
One moment, they were standing in formation, ready to crush the Northern rebels.
The next—
A massive shadow fell over the battlefield.
Then—fire.
Lyrax swooped down from the sky, her black-and-blue wings blotting out the sun.
Her earth-shaking roar sent terror through the Lannister ranks—and then she unleashed her dragonfire.
A torrent of blue-black flames engulfed Ser Gregor Clegane's vanguard, the Lannister men, sellswords and freeriders screaming as they burned alive.
The entire left flank turned to chaos as horses reared and bolted, men threw down their weapons, and the flames consumed everything in their path.
But Daeron had given Lyrax a command—
Do not burn the entire army.
Instead, scatter them.
And that was exactly what she did.
The sight of a dragon descending upon them shattered the Lannister discipline.
Men began to flee in panic, some trampling over each other, others abandoning their positions entirely.
The center wavered, the right flank hesitated—
Even from his distant hilltop, Tywin Lannister could be seen standing suddenly from his horse, his golden armor flashing in alarm.
The Lion of Casterly Rock had not expected a dragon.
And by the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.
The Lannister army was breaking.
The great golden banners of House Lannister were tossed aside as men ran for their lives.
The Northern army stood frozen in place, watching in stunned silence as a dragon burned and broke their enemies.
Every man had heard the old tales—
Of Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons.
Of House Targaryen's rule through fire and blood.
But now—
They were seeing it with their own eyes.
A dragon, fighting for the North.
Fighting for King Daeron.
The men looked to their king—
And saw him smiling.
"NOW!" Daeron roared, raising his axe high.
"CHARGE!"
And the North surged forward like a storm.
The Lannister army was already breaking, their lines in chaos—
And the Northmen fell upon them like wolves among sheep.
Swords clashed, spears pierced, axes fell—
And the Lannister forces shattered completely.
The men did not fight—they fled.
The great army of Tywin Lannister was no longer an army.
It was a mass of terrified, fleeing men.
As Daeron rode forward, cutting down any who dared resist, he raised his hand and gave the next order:
"CAPTURE THE HIGHBORN!"
"LET THE REST FLEE!"
The Northern soldiers understood.
This was not a massacre—it was a lesson.
They did not need to slaughter thousands.
They only needed to crush the Lannister command.
The highborn knights and lords were the ones who mattered.
If they were captured, the war would be as good as won.
So the Northern cavalry rode through the fleeing ranks, knocking Lannister lords from their horses, subduing them one by one.
Daeron himself dismounted and strode toward a familiar golden-armored figure—
Ser Kevan Lannister.
The man raised his sword weakly, his face filled with disbelief.
"A dragon…" he whispered.
Daeron knocked his sword aside with a single strike, sending the blade clattering to the ground.
"You are my prisoner now, Ser Kevan," Daeron said.
Kevan fell to his knees.
From the hilltop, Tywin Lannister turned his horse and fled south—
His army burning behind him.
The battle was over before it had truly begun.
The Lannisters had thirty thousand men.
Only five thousand escaped south with Tywin.
The rest?
Captured. Disarmed. Broken. Scattered.
And as smoke filled the battlefield, the Northern soldiers raised their weapons and howled like wolves.
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
"DAERON TARGARYEN!"
"FIRE AND BLOOD!"
Daeron watched the burning field before him, his grey eyes calm and focused.
The war was far from over.
But this battle?
It had been his.
And Lyrax roared to the heavens, sealing his first true victory in fire and blood.