The Riverlands, 289 AC, Jaime Lannister's POV
The Riverlands stretched before Jaime Lannister like a sodden tapestry, its fields churned to mud by the tramp of ten thousand boots. He rode at the head of the host, his golden armor dulled by dust, his white cloak heavy with the damp of the Green Fork. Beside him, Lord Mace Tyrell prattled about his son Loras's prowess, his green-and-gold banners snapping in the breeze. The lion of Lannister and the rose of Highgarden flew side by side, a formidable sight—knights, spearmen, and sellswords marching to secure Riverrun for King Robert. Jaime's thoughts, though, were elsewhere, tangled in memories of Rhaegar's silver hair and the whispers of a Targaryen boy with a dragon.
"Riverrun's close," Jaime said, his voice sharp, cutting through Mace's bluster. "Hoster Tully will either bend the knee or see his castle burn. But this dragon…" He trailed off, his green eyes scanning the horizon. The tales from Winterfell—a boy named Jaehaerys Targaryen, Ned Stark's bastard turned dragonlord—gnawed at him. Was this boy truly Rhaegar's son? The thought stirred a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or curiosity—beneath his cynicism.
Mace waved a plump hand. "Scorpions will handle the beast. Our task is the Tullys. If they've thrown in with Stark, we'll crush them."
Jaime's lips twitched into a half-smile, but his hand rested on his sword. Before he could reply, a scout galloped back, his face pale. "My lord! A host—Northerners, under Stark banners! They're blocking the road, half a league ahead!"
Jaime's heart quickened, the thrill of battle waking his senses. "Ned Stark," he muttered. "He's split from the boy's main force. Bold." He turned to Mace. "Form the lines. We hit them hard and fast."
The host deployed with practiced speed, Lannister spearmen forming ranks, Tyrell knights readying lances. Jaime donned his helm, its lion crest gleaming, and drew his sword, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. Ahead, the Northern host emerged from the mist—five thousand strong, their banners bearing the direwolf, giant, and sunburst. At their head rode Ned Stark, his grey eyes like flint, his greatsword Ice glinting in the weak sunlight.
"Jaime Lannister," Ned called, his voice carrying over the field. "Turn back. The North stands for Jaehaerys Targaryen, true king. You march to your doom."
Jaime laughed, the sound cold. "True king? Your bastard nephew, Ned? Robert will have his head, and yours for treason." He raised his sword. "For the king!"
The battle crashed like a storm. Lannister spears met Northern axes, Tyrell knights charged into Karstark shields, and the air filled with screams and steel. Jaime carved through the fray, his blade a blur, cutting down men with brutal precision. He sought Ned, their eyes locking across the chaos. Ned fought like a wolf, Ice cleaving armor and bone, but Jaime was faster, his sword dancing as he closed the distance.
They met in the heart of the battle, steel clashing with a ring that drowned out the din. Ned's strikes were heavy, deliberate, but Jaime parried with ease, his grin sharp. "You hid him all these years," Jaime taunted, ducking a swing. "Rhaegar's son. Did you think you could keep him from me?"
Ned's face was stone, but his eyes burned. "He's Lyanna's son, too. You'll not touch him." He lunged, Ice flashing, but Jaime sidestepped, his blade slicing Ned's side. Blood bloomed on Ned's surcoat, and he staggered, his guard faltering.
Jaime raised his sword for the killing blow, his heart pounding with triumph. "Goodbye, Lord Stark." But before he could strike, a roar shattered the sky, primal and earth-shaking. The ground trembled as the Cannibal landed, its black scales gleaming, its green eyes blazing with malice. Behind it, the main Northern host surged forward—ten thousand men led by a figure in a hooded cloak, silver hair glinting beneath. Jaehaerys Targaryen.
Jon charged through the fray, his longsword drawn, Ghost at his side like a white shadow. The Northerners rallied, their cries of "Jaehaerys!" drowning out the Lannister horns. Jaime's host faltered, caught between Ned's force and Jon's, their lines crumbling under the dragon's shadow. The Cannibal's tail lashed, crushing a dozen men, its jaws snapping as it loosed a gout of flame that turned a Tyrell banner to ash.
Jaime spun, his blade meeting Jon's in a clash of steel. The boy's ruby eyes burned through the mist, his movements swift and sure. Jaime struck, but Jon parried, his sword a blur, forcing Jaime back step by step. "Kingslayer," Jon said, his voice low but fierce, "you'll not have my uncle."
Jaime grinned, though his arms ached from Jon's blows. "Dragon Wolf, is it? Let's see if you fight like Rhaegar." He lunged, his sword arcing, but Jon sidestepped, his blade grazing Jaime's shoulder. The Kingsguard staggered, the pain sharp, but he held his ground, his eyes locked on Jon's.
The Cannibal roared again, its wings blotting out the sun, and Ghost's snarl echoed from the flank. The Northerners pressed forward, trapping Jaime's host against the river. Mace Tyrell's shouts of retreat were lost in the chaos, his knights breaking under the weight of dragonfire and direwolf. Ned, clutching his side, rose with Robb's help, his eyes fixed on Jon with pride and pain.
Jaime lowered his sword, his breath heavy, his grin fading. Jon stood before him, sword raised, the Cannibal looming behind, Ghost at his side. The Kingslayer faced the Dragon Wolf, and the air crackled with the promise of a duel that could end a war—or start one.