Barrold POV
After the Targaryen Loyalist army I was part was defeated at the Trident we were holed up inside the King's Landing waiting for reinforcement from the remaining Loyalist forces of the Reach.
But that night when Tywin Lannister came with his men as a reinforcement we opened the gates to be butched by the Lannister forces.
I was barely able to escape the sack and return to my family only to find their dead bodies.
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"You Lannister Boy today this place will be your grave." I shouted angrily at him.
"CHARGEE!" I roared with all my might.
My men where start cutting down by the men come with the Lannister brat.
Steel rang and men screamed around me as our lines crashed together, but all I saw was the boy in crimson and gold.
I shoved past one of my own men as he faltered, shoulder-charging him aside so I could close the distance.
A Lannister brute with a spear—huge as an ox—thrust at me, and I twisted my body, feeling the spearhead scrape along my breastplate instead of punching through my ribs.
I brought my sword down hard, knocking the shaft aside, and slipped past him before he could recover.
Another red-cloaked dog tried to bar my way, only to have his skull split by my comrade's mace. The path to the boy was open.
He did not charge. He did not shout. He simply shifted his footing, sword raised in a textbook guard, eyes fixed on me as if memorizing my every movement. Gods, he even had the audacity to smirk.
"So," he said, voice clear even over the din, "the dragon finally shows itself instead of hiding behind rats."
I bared my teeth and raised my shield. "You think yourself clever, boy? You Lannisters only know how to stab men in the back and burn cities with women and children inside."
I lunged, swinging my sword in a brutal horizontal cut meant to take his head from his shoulders. He stepped back with infuriating ease, my blade whistling inches from his face.
Our swords met a heartbeat later as I followed with a downward strike, his parry sending a shock up my arm.
"You were at King's Landing, then," he said, steel locked against mine. "One of the fools who opened the gates."
I drove my weight into the bind, pushing him back a step. "We opened them for allies," I spat. "For men sworn to the King. Instead, your father's butchers painted the streets red. My king slain, my comrades butchered, my family murdered in their beds. Remember that, whelp, when you beg for mercy."
His expression flickered—just for an instant. Not guilt. Calculation.
"You picked the wrong lion to blame," he replied coldly. "But if you need a face to curse in your last moments, I suppose mine will do."
He twisted his wrist, slipping out of the bind and slashing low at my leg. I dropped my shield to catch the blow, the impact jarring my elbow.
Pain flared, but I pressed forward, smashing my shield toward his face. He slipped to the side, the edge of my shield grazing his cheek instead of breaking his nose.
Behind me, I heard one of my men scream as that giant with the spear impaled him. Another cry, cut short by the heavy thunk of an axe—no doubt that scarred mercenary at the Lannister's flank.
Our line was faltering, but I didn't dare look back. If we broke here, years of hiding, scheming, enduring would die with us in this cursed hole.
"All this," I growled, circling him, "for a boy too green to know which end of the sword killed my king."
He chuckled. Chuckled. "I know exactly which end killed your king," he said. "And it wasn't mine. Yet here you are, risking everything to die for a dead dragon and a madman's memory."
I struck again, this time with a feint high before reversing into a thrust aimed at his gut. He parried the first blow, but I saw his eyes narrow as he recognized the trick a heartbeat too late.
He twisted, my sword scraping along his mail instead of punching deep. I felt resistance, heard the hiss of his breath as the point bit flesh, shallow but real.
"Got you," I snarled.
He answered with steel. His riposte came fast, faster than I'd expected from someone his age. Our blades clashed, sparks spitting green in the wildfire glow.
He stepped inside my guard, shoulder slamming into my chest. I staggered back, boots skidding on the damp stone.
"You got close," he corrected, eyes hard now, all trace of amusement gone. "But close only counts with wildfire."
At that cursed word, my gaze flicked—just for an instant—to the racks of clay jars behind him. Each one salvation and damnation both. Enough fire to burn a fleet, to level a castle, to make the usurper and his Lannister lapdogs bleed as King's Landing once bled.
He saw where I looked. Of course he did.
"So that's it," he said quietly. "You'd drown half the Westerlands in green fire just to scratch my father's pride."
I raised my shield again, settling into guard. My breath came hard now, but my grip was steady.
"Your father drowned King's Landing in red," I answered. "All I want is balance."
He tilted his head, studying me as if I were some curious beast. "Balance," he repeated. "You call it that. Robert calls it rebellion. The smallfolk call it war. I call it stupidity—you had one chance to vanish, and instead you came back to the lion's den for revenge."
We circled each other in the flickering green light, the screams of men and the crash of steel echoing around us.
Somewhere to my left, someone shouted "Fall back!", and another voice bellowed "For the Lion!" The battle was turning, but I could not, would not, turn with it.
"This den was a dragon's once," I said. "And it will be again. You and your House will burn, boy. Whether by my hand today, or another's tomorrow."
"Maybe," he allowed. "But you're not leaving this chamber to see it."
Then he came at me, fast and precise, like a man who'd spent his whole life with a sword in his hand instead of a quill.
I met him with everything I had left, every lesson from the yard at Summerhall, every brutal skirmish of the Rebellion, every ghost of Trident and King's Landing screaming for justice in my ears.
If I was to die in this forgotten tomb, I swore by the Seven I would carve my hatred into this Lannister whelp's flesh before I fell.
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