In the summer of 283 AC, the air along the Green Fork was so thick with tension it could be wrung out like a wet cloth.
Rhaegar Targaryen's forty thousand royalists had pitched a sprawling camp on the south bank, the three-headed dragon banner snapping in the morning wind.
Across the river, the clamor of the coalition camp rolled like muffled thunder. The Direwolf, the Crowned Stag, the Trout, the Falcon, the Sun and Spear, and the Golden Kraken flew side by side—a force assembled to overthrow the Dragon's rule.
Rhaegar, clad in black armor, stood alone before his lines. Gazing at the muddy waters, he spoke softly to Ser Barristan Selmy beside him. "Barristan, after today, win or lose, an era comes to an end." The old knight nodded silently, gripping his sword hilt tight.
On the north bank, Robert Baratheon slammed his warhammer against his shield, letting out a deafening roar. "Today, we dye this river red with Targaryen blood!" Eddard Stark calmly inspected the edge of "Ice." Euron Greyjoy's eyes were flat and unreadable; though this battlefield was not the sea, he believed the rule remained the same: I am invincible.
The waters of the Trident were scalded by the scorching noon sun. When the coalition horns tore through the sky, the entire riverbank instantly turned into a boiling cauldron.
Robert Baratheon took the lead. The heavy cavalry of the Stormlands followed him like a golden iron current, plunging straight toward the widest ford of the river.
The royal army was waiting.
Dense phalanxes of spears advanced steadily like a moving forest of steel, radiating a suffocating pressure. Arrows rose from the royal archers on the far bank, turning into a dark cloud of death that fell with a high-pitched whistle into the charging cavalry, instantly creating a scene of chaos and tumbling horses.
The two armies crashed together like two surging iron floods. The charging cavalry collided violently at the front lines. In an instant, horses flipped, bones shattered, and the clang of metal mixed with the wails of the dying to form a cacophony of hell.
The infantry flood followed closely, filling the gaps. Shield pressed against shield, spears stabbed through the cracks, and blades hacked madly at close range. The entire riverbank instantly turned into a bloody vortex swallowing lives.
At the two ends of this chaotic battlefield, two commander's banners stood immovable.
On the coalition side, Lord Jon Arryn, clad in the blue-enameled armor of the Vale, sat calmly beneath the Moon and Falcon banner. His deep, sharp eyes swept over the noisy battlefield like an experienced eagle, missing no subtle change. He was waiting—waiting for the royal formation to crack under the strain of prolonged combat, revealing the flaw that would decide victory or defeat.
On the royal side, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen wore black steel armor, the ruby three-headed dragon on his chest striking even in the dim light. He stood by the black dragon banner, a lingering melancholy on his handsome face, but his eyes were unusually firm. He, too, was scrutinizing the battle, looking for the perfect moment to lead the Kingsguard in a fatal strike straight at the rebel heart.
Though the two commanders had not yet clashed directly, they were already engaged in a silent but equally dangerous contest of will and patience amidst the noise of war.
But Robert Baratheon, the furious stag, was unstoppable. His massive hammer, "Robert's Fury," sliced through the air with a terrifying hum. Every swing was accompanied by the horrific sounds of shattering shields, denting armor, and snapping bones. It was as if he whipped up a storm of flesh and blood wherever he went.
A knight of House Fossoway, loyal to the Crown, bravely spurred his horse and leveled his lance to intercept him.
Robert didn't even dodge. He met the lance tip with a brute-force horizontal sweep! The warhammer, carrying the weight of a mountain, smashed into the side of the knight and his horse. With a tooth-aching crunch, the knight's chest and the horse's ribs collapsed instantly. Man and beast were twisted and deformed by the blow, collapsing into the river like crushed berries, blood quickly dyeing the surrounding shallows red.
The noon sun steamed the shallows of the Trident. As the coalition's general assault poured forth like a broken dam, the warriors of the various houses displayed their distinct fighting styles, weaving a bloody and magnificent tapestry on the battlefield.
Lord Eddard Stark was at the front. The shield wall formed by the Northern infantry moved like a steel castle on the riverbank—steady steps, tight formation. The warriors of House Umber raised great axes high, roaring the ancient battle cry, "The North Remembers!" Like giant bears on the snow, every fall of their axe blades easily split the fragile armor of the royal cavalry, cutting down horse and rider alike.
On the right flank, Lord Jon Arryn's Vale knights launched a classic flank charge. Their banners fluttered in the rising dust as knights held their lances and leaned into the sprint, their movements uniform, carrying a well-trained, cold precision. Lances struck like vipers, using the momentum of the horses to knock enemy after enemy from their saddles.
Prince Oberyn Martell moved through the melee like a ghost. His spear was like a snake's tongue—every thrust swift, tricky, and fatal. He didn't seek brute force but targeted the gaps and vitals of armor. Enemies often collapsed before they even realized they were wounded.
Most striking of all were the five hundred Ironborn cavalry led by Euron Greyjoy. Euron himself held two curved blades burning with eerie fire, looking like a sea demon stepping out of the abyss. His dual blades didn't just tear flesh; they brought the terror of burning. This unit of "Berserkers" cut into the royal lines like a hot knife through butter, tearing a bloody gap and leaving only flames and severed limbs in their wake.
The coalition forces coordinated tacitly, combining steady advances with wild assaults, beginning to firmly grasp the initiative of the battlefield.
Once Robert Baratheon was deep in the fray, witnessing blood and slaughter, the berserker blood of a warrior boiled over. He fought as if possessed by the Warrior himself. "Robert's Fury" swung wilder and wilder, every blow carrying earth-shattering power. Enemies fell like grass around him. However, driven by his rage, he was unaware that he had pushed too far forward, sinking deep into the belly of the enemy formation and becoming cut off from his main force.
In the distance, Lord Jon Arryn frowned tight. He saw the danger Robert was in—if the enemy reacted and encircled him with heavy troops, even someone as brave as Robert would be in mortal danger. He was about to order a nearby commander to rescue the red-eyed stag.
But someone was faster.
A small squad of cavalry, like a sharp dagger, led personally by Euron Greyjoy, cut through the chaotic enemy lines with astonishing speed and precision. They raised a storm of blood and quickly reached Robert's side.
Euron brought his horse close to Robert, his voice piercing through the noise of the battlefield, carrying unquestionable calm:
"Robert! You are the commander of the army, not a suicide trooper! Right now, you should be in the heavy cavalry formation, waiting for the moment of decision, not wasting your strength here! Go back!"
This shout was like a bucket of ice water, restoring a shred of clarity to Robert's bloodshot eyes. He looked around and instantly understood his situation. Taking a deep breath to suppress his surging battle lust, he nodded heavily at Euron. "Got it!" With that, he turned his horse, swung his hammer, and fought his way back toward his own lines under the cover of Euron's squad.
Prince Rhaegar also spotted Robert's conspicuous banner and berserk figure in the chaos. As a commander, he instantly made the correct tactical response—he could not let slip this god-given opportunity of the enemy commander being isolated. He immediately ordered Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard beside him:
"Darry! Take our cavalry, cut off Robert Baratheon, and bring me his head!"
Ser Jonothor Darry obeyed, quickly gathering several hundred elite cavalry. Like an arrow from a bow, they lunged straight toward Robert's retreat, intending to encircle and kill him.
However, just as this elite force was about to bite into Robert's rear, a figure suddenly barred their path like a ghost. Euron Greyjoy, alone on his horse, reined in steadily. His abyssal eyes swept over the charging royal cavalry, and a familiar, unsettling smile curled his lips.
Ser Jonothor Darry and the royal cavalry froze involuntarily. They recognized the man before them—Euron Greyjoy, the man who had defeated all comers to win the melee at the Tourney at Harrenhal! His martial skill was far beyond that of an ordinary knight.
In a tone that sounded like casual chatter, Euron spoke to the leading Jonothor Darry:
"Road's closed, Ser. If you want to chase Robert, you have to ask the blades in my hands first."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a cold confidence, as if he were facing a pack of stray dogs rather than hundreds of iron-clad riders. This composure, born of absolute strength, actually caused the momentum of the pursuit to stutter.
The battle between Euron Greyjoy and Ser Jonothor Darry was not the long, elegant duel of knightly tales, but a brief, brutal, and foregone execution.
Upholding knightly honor, Ser Jonothor Darry spurred his horse and leveled his sword for a standard charge. His swordsmanship was exquisite, his pace steady; he was a trustworthy member of the Kingsguard. However, he was facing Euron.
Euron didn't even charge to meet him. He watched quietly as Darry approached, only lightly steering his horse aside at the last moment to dodge the determined thrust. As the horses crossed, the flaming longsword in Euron's hand darted out like a viper—not at the heavy breastplate, but precisely slashing the tendon of Darry's horse's front leg.
The horse screamed and collapsed, throwing Jonothor Darry heavily. Darry reacted fast, rolling and standing firm with his sword, but he had lost the initiative. Euron had already dismounted, dual blades in hand, advancing step by step.
Darry raised his sword to block, but Euron's attacks were a storm of violence, angles tricky and force immense. The fire brought pain and blinded his vision. In just a few exchanges, Darry's sword was locked tight by one blade, while the other, like a hot knife through butter, pierced the gap in his pauldron, sinking deep.
Jonothor Darry grunted and fell to his knees. Euron looked down at him, eyes devoid of victory's joy, holding only cold emptiness. He pulled out the blade, and Darry's body went limp in the mud, blood rapidly staining the earth beneath him.
The loyal Kingsguard fell one step away from his target, his prince's order unfulfilled. Euron, acting as if he had finished a trivial task, remounted and looked coldly at the royal cavalry, who were enraged by their leader's death.
Euron stood like a rock in the center of the chaotic battlefield, surrounded by surging royal cavalry. Swords slashed and stabbed from every angle; arrows and throwing axes whistled through the air. In this lethal vortex, an ordinary warrior would have been chopped to meat paste long ago.
But now, Euron's inhuman combat power was displayed to the fullest. He didn't even bother to dodge most attacks. Just as a longsword was about to chop into his shoulder pauldron and a stray arrow aimed for his heart—
In that split second, Euron's muscles tightened in an impossible way, his body enveloped by an invisible field of steel.
"Tekkai!" (Iron Body)
With a low shout, the longsword struck his shoulder with a loud clang of metal on metal, bouncing off and leaving only a white scratch! The lethal arrow hit his back, the head crumpling before falling uselessly to the ground. Ordinary steel could not breach this bizarre defense.
He was like an invulnerable monster, slaughtering freely within the enemy formation. Enemy attacks fell like rain but only sparked futilely against him, fueling their terror. Euron's dual blades harvested lives without mercy; every step left a bloody path.
This defiance of common logic turned the besieging cavalry's bravery into utter terror. They were no longer facing a mortal man.
As both sides threw more reserves into the fray, the shallows of the Trident turned into a massive meat grinder.
Shouts, clashing steel, and dying wails were deafening. Blood dyed the river red, and corpses piled up; every step forward meant stepping on broken limbs.
Just as this hellish scene reached its peak, the gloomy sky finally gave way. Rain began to fall. At first, it was sporadic drops, hissing as they hit hot armor, mixing with the metallic scent of blood.
Soon, the rain turned into a torrential downpour. A curtain of water shrouded the battlefield, blurring vision, washing blood from blades, and diluting the blood on the ground into pink streams that flowed into the surging Trident.
The rain didn't extinguish the fires of war; it made the fighting muddier and harder. The ground became slick; soldiers spent more energy with every swing, and those who fell often never rose again.
The cold rain soaked through surcoats, stealing body heat and compounding exhaustion.
This storm was like a baptism of fate, washing away sin while witnessing glory and death. On this field shrouded in blood and rain, the final outcome deciding Westeros's future was being forged step by step.
---
While the main slaughter at the Trident was stuck in a brutal stalemate, the Ironborn "Berserker" unit launched a risky but decisive raid that would turn the tide.
Instead of hitting the royal lines head-on, they moved like true krakens, using the dense reed beds along the riverbank as cover to sneak downstream silently, aiming straight for the royal army's relatively weak logistical camp on the left flank.
This carefully planned raid instantly became the turning point of the battle.
While the royal supply troops were busy moving arrows, a terrifying war cry erupted from the reeds! The Ironborn screamed their ancient words, "What is dead may never die!" and surged like demons from hell into the unprepared camp. They didn't use orthodox tactics; instead, wielding fishing nets, barbed hooks, and heavy axes, they launched a chaotic but terrifyingly effective attack.
Caring nothing for their own casualties, they crushed the baggage train with suicidal ferocity. They quickly set fire to the mountains of grain and supply wagons. The soaring flames and thick smoke were clearly visible even from the main battlefield. The camp fell into chaos, with shouts and explosions rising everywhere.
The main royal army, hearing the commotion and seeing the smoke rising from their rear, wavered. The news of the supply line being cut spread like a plague. The scales of victory began to tip toward the coalition.
When the soaring fire and chaotic shouts from the left flank reached the front lines, Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard faced an agonizing choice. The loyal knight knew the importance of logistics and had to pull an elite unit from the already strained central defense to rush back and save the camp.
This redeployment, though necessary, was like opening a fatal breach in a solid dam. The strength of the royal center was instantly weakened, revealing a brief but fatal flaw.
Robert Baratheon, watching from high ground, seized this fleeting opportunity with beast-like intuition. His eyes blazed, and letting out a roar that shook the battlefield, he personally led the elite reserve he had been holding back. Like a final, heavy hammer, he launched a decisive general assault at the newly appeared gap.
Robert took the lead. The massive warhammer "Robert's Fury" seemed weightless in his hands, becoming a whirlwind of destruction. He smashed into the enemy ranks. Every swing held pent-up rage and majestic power. Where he went, shields shattered, armor cracked, and men and horses died. No one could stop his edge. The royal line began to crumble and retreat under this thunderous assault.
As the chaos created by the Ironborn on the flank spread to the main battle, two figures collided in the melee—Euron Greyjoy and Ser Barristan Selmy met on the corpse-strewn riverbank.
Euron flicked the blood from his dual blades, looking at the battle-hardened old knight. Flames of old and new grudges burned in his eyes as he shouted:
"Ser Barristan! I lost to you at the tourney last year. Today, on a real battlefield, how about we settle who is superior?"
Ser Barristan's white cloak was stained with blood and mud, but his sword hand was steady, his gaze sharp. He responded calmly, his voice carrying a warrior's dignity: "Past or present, victory will belong to justice and loyalty."
Euron shook his head. "I acknowledge your loyalty, but I reject your so-called justice!"
Rain beat coldly against black steel and white armor. Blood pooled in the mud beneath their feet. Time seemed to freeze as Euron and Barristan locked eyes.
Euron had shed the shell of a noble seeking tourney glory. The sea, the war, and the mysteries granted by the One Piece system had tempered him into something else entirely. His martial arts were no longer bound by form; his speed left afterimages in the rain, his strength split shields. His fighting style merged savage Ironborn brutality with the fire and thunder of the Soru Soru no Mi. The heat from his blades turned raindrops into white mist. In his burning pupils, there was no knightly honor, only the cold excitement of a predator.
Ser Barristan Selmy was a legend, but he was at the end of his rope. To stabilize the collapsing line, he had led from the front, taking over a dozen wounds—a deep gash on his shoulder, an arrow in his thigh slowing him down, ribs that shot pain with every swing. Rain mixed with blood dripped from his white beard, but he stood like an unyielding rock, defending his prince's banner.
The fight erupted with a thunderclap!
Barristan attacked first, his sword a ribbon of light stabbing at Euron's throat—simple, precise, efficient. Euron didn't dodge. His left curved blade swept up strangely; the flame-wrapped steel met the sword with a piercing shriek, parrying it. His right blade darted like a viper for Barristan's exposed flank.
The old knight was experienced. He sidestepped while his sword tip dotted toward Euron's wrist. They fought fast, sparks flashing in the rain. Barristan's technique was exquisite, parrying Euron's lethal blades with minimal movement.
But the gap in stamina and the heavy wounds were an unbridgeable chasm. Barristan's breathing grew heavy. Just as he parried a heavy chop from Euron, his old strength spent and new strength not yet gathered—
Euron seized the opening!
His left blade pressed down on Barristan's sword, while his right blade shadowed it, using the crossguard to hook the sword's hilt. His arms exploded with terrifying power, twisting violently!
CLANG! With a crisp sound, Barristan Selmy's sword flew from his hand, spinning to stick into the mud nearby.
The old knight staggered back. Before he could steady himself, Euron was there like a ghost—Soru! He smashed the heavy spine of his blade into the side of Barristan's helm!
THUD!
Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a living legend, saw the light of the world fade. His magnificent body swayed, then collapsed helplessly into the cold mud, losing consciousness.
His fall was silent, yet more heart-stopping than any drum. The white banner symbolizing the last glory and barrier of the Targaryen dynasty seemed to droop in the wind and rain at that moment.
---
At twilight, the clouds hung low, and the Trident was dyed blood-red by the setting sun (and the slaughter).
Amidst the chaos, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen spotted the fluttering Crowned Stag banner. He knew the final moment had come. Leading the last of his Kingsguard, he resolutely waded into the ford, intercepting the furious, war-god-like Robert Baratheon on a sandbar in the middle of the river.
Rain mixed with blood flowed freely on the sandbar.
When Robert and Rhaegar locked eyes through the melee, the surrounding noise seemed to vanish. Between them remained only the cruel stage of flowing water and piled corpses, and a resolve to kill that would not end until death.
Rhaegar's three-headed dragon on his black armor looked like it was weeping blood. His face was still handsome but shrouded in fatalistic resolve. He gripped his rune-etched longsword, moving with the elegance of a dance of death. His blade sliced the rain curtains, creating arcs of silver light. Facing Robert's berserk charge, he didn't block head-on but sidestepped, his sword slicing out at a brilliant angle—
CLANG!
A piercing sound! Robert's heavy oak shield shattered. The bronze antlers symbolizing his house were sheared off, falling into the mud!
Robert let out a maddened roar. Enraged by the destruction of his weapon and the insult to his house, he used his brute strength to tank the sword's remaining momentum with the broken shield. Instead of retreating, he used the momentum to slam his body into Rhaegar like a runaway steel chariot!
Armor collided with a dull thud. At such close range, Rhaegar's longsword was useless. But in Robert's right hand, the massive warhammer "Robert's Fury"—filled with the hatred, jealousy, and pain of countless days—swung up from below in a thunderous arc, smashing solidly into the center of the breastplate carved with the Targaryen sigil!
CRUNCH—!!!
A terrible sound of metal snapping, ribs shattering, and the breastplate collapsing echoed like a death knell over the river!
Rhaegar's exquisite Valyrian steel breastplate caved in and cracked. The rubies encrusted upon it, symbolizing the Targaryen blood, burst outward like tears of blood. They traced hundreds of sad, brief crimson trails under the gloomy sky before scattering into the rushing, muddy water, twinkling once before being swallowed by the endless current.
Rhaegar's body flew backward like a puppet with cut strings, splashing heavily into the cold river.
He struggled to his knees, sword lost. He looked up at the grey sky, his final whisper swallowed by the eternal sound of the water.
Robert ripped off his damaged helm. Rain and enemy blood dripped from his beard. He didn't cheer for victory. He just panted heavily, looking down at Rhaegar's pale, lifeless face on the sandbar.
After a long time, he threw his head back and let out a roar that was half-laugh, half-cry, filled with endless emptiness and release.
Robert panted like a bear after a hunt, stepping closer to Rhaegar. His hand gripped the haft of his hammer until his knuckles were white. He raised the hammer high, shadowing Rhaegar's face. He wanted only one thing: to smash the head of this silver prince who had taken all his hope like a ripe pumpkin!
"Robert! Stop!"
An urgent shout pierced Robert's rage-filled ears. Eddard Stark spurred his horse through the shallows, threw himself off, and grabbed Robert's arm.
"Wait! We can't kill him yet!" Ned's voice was hoarse with anxiety. "Lyanna! We need to know where Lyanna is! He promised!"
The name "Lyanna" struck Robert's chaotic mind like lightning. His body shook, and the destruction impulse was forcibly checked. He stared at Ned with bloodshot eyes, then at the dying Rhaegar. Finally, he let out a low growl of unwillingness and lowered the hammer.
Ned immediately crouched, lifting Rhaegar's upper body from the water. Rhaegar's chest was completely collapsed; life was flowing away fast. His famous indigo eyes were losing focus but tried hard to fix on Ned's face.
Ned leaned down, putting his ear to Rhaegar's moving lips. "Where is Lyanna? Tell me!"
Rhaegar's lips trembled, his breath weak as a thread. Using the last strength of his life, honoring the promise in his letter, he spit out three blurry but unmistakable words:
"Tower... of... Joy..."
He paused, adding a final request in a whisper carried by breath alone:
"Protect... her..."
With that, Rhaegar Targaryen's head fell to the side, the light in his eyes extinguished forever.
Eddard Stark froze, holding the cooling body, the puzzle of those three words echoing in his ears—"Tower of Joy," and the heavy charge entrusted to him.