Rhaegar Targaryen's collapsed body was like a felled white weirwood tree. Yet, the end of his life did not immediately bring a full stop to the bloody battle. Chaos still reigned, the slaughter continued, and many royal soldiers were still fighting desperately for their prince.
Euron Greyjoy captured that decisive shift on the sandbar almost instantly. He immediately leaped onto a higher mound of earth, took a deep breath, and projected his voice to its absolute limit. Like a horn heralding a tsunami, it cut through the din of the battlefield, delivering an earth-shattering proclamation:
"RHAEGAR TARGARYEN IS DEAD!!"
"YIELD AND LIVE!"
This shout was like the first stone thrown into a still lake. Immediately after, coalition soldiers nearby who saw or heard the news reacted. Driven by the ecstasy of victory, they joined in the shouting. The sound grew like a rolling snowball, spreading from a single point to the whole, finally converging into a massive wave of sound that swept the entire battlefield:
"RHAEGAR IS DEAD! YIELD AND LIVE!"
"RHAEGAR IS DEAD! YIELD AND LIVE!!"
This declaration was like an invisible plague, instantly shattering the last spiritual pillar of the royal army. Seeing the ecstatic expressions on the rebels' faces and hearing the tsunami-like chant, fear and despair replaced the will to fight.
In a split second, the tide of battle turned completely. Without the core they fought for, the royal resistance crumbled. Some soldiers immediately threw down their weapons and knelt to beg for mercy; more simply lost all courage, turning to flee madly toward King's Landing, seeking only to escape this hell that had swallowed their hope and their prince.
The coalition morale soared. They began to accept surrenders in an orderly fashion and pursued the routed deserters.
The Battle of the Trident, carried by this wave of sound declaring victory, had finally settled into dust.
A barely breathing Ser Barristan Selmy was supported by two soldiers and brought before Robert Baratheon, who had just secured the decisive victory.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was pale as paper, his breath weak. His magnificent white armor was shattered and soaked in blood. Only his eyes, though dim, still held a final shred of dignity.
A group of nobles, led by Lord Roose Bolton, immediately gathered around. The voice of the Lord of the Dreadfort was as cold as the flayed man legends of his house: "Your Grace, Barristan Selmy is the Mad King's most loyal dog. His hands are stained with the blood of the righteous army. This man must not remain. He should be executed immediately to make an example for others!"
Many generals around him echoed the sentiment, the air thick with vengeful killing intent.
But Robert waved his hand, silencing the clamor. His massive frame stood before Barristan, looking down at the opponent who had once given him so much trouble in the tourney lists.
Beneath Robert's berserk exterior lay a pure appreciation for true valor. He saw the courage in Barristan, who had fought to the death despite heavy wounds, and he remembered that House Selmy had historically been loyal bannermen of the Stormlands.
"Enough!" Robert's voice was hoarse but carried unquestionable authority. "Killing a warrior who cannot resist is not the glory of a victor, but the act of a coward! He is a legend, and I want him to keep living!"
Ignoring the stunned and dissatisfied looks of Roose Bolton and others, he turned to his attendants and issued a command: "Take him away! Have my own maester use the best medicines. Do everything to save Ser Barristan. I want him alive."
This decision surprised many, but it clearly signaled the capacity for magnanimity and respect for tradition hidden beneath the rugged exterior of the man who would be King.
The coalition's victory at the Trident was cast in uncountable blood and lives.
As the fever of victory faded, the heavy task of counting casualties cast a gloom over the camp like a dark cloud. It was a pyrrhic victory, joy soaked in sorrow.
The coalition casualties were shocking. About a third of the warriors had fallen forever on that blood-dyed riverbank, never to return to the snowy plains of the North, the fields of the Riverlands, or the hills of the Vale. Countless families would be broken.
Even more heartbreaking was the fall of many talented, brave nobles. Their names were etched into the rolls of the dead:
The North lost loyal champions. Both sons of Mors "Crowfood" Umber—the future hope of his house—died in battle at the Trident, leaving the old lord to bear the ultimate grief of a father burying his sons.
The Riverlands were not spared. The Lord of Grandview fell not far from his home, never again to return to his castle overlooking the lands.
From the Stormlands, Lord Grandison, a bannerman of Robert, drained his last drop of blood for the new king's banner.
The list went on. Behind every name was the collapse of a family's pillar, a wound in a domain that would take a long time to heal.
Robert Baratheon remained silent for a long time upon hearing these grim tidings. He stroked the dents in his warhammer, feeling for the first time just how much loyalty and hot blood had been poured to forge that cold Iron Throne.
The crown of victory was far heavier and thornier than imagined.
The news of Prince Rhaegar's death at the Trident spread like a cold plague, reaching King's Landing rapidly and finally shattering the last barrier of sanity in the Red Keep.
King Aerys II fell into a vortex of total madness upon hearing the news. He screamed hysterically in the Throne Room, his voice shrill enough to pierce eardrums.
He cursed the dead Rhaegar, calling him an "incompetent wretch." He damned the fallen Kingsguard Ser Jonothor Darry and the captured Ser Barristan Selmy, accusing them of "betraying the white cloak." He berated the routed soldiers as "cowards who should be burned." Even the shivering courtiers around him became "useless fools and potential traitors" in his eyes.
In this chaotic madness, a cold decision was handed down: Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys were to be sent immediately to Dragonstone. On the surface, it was to protect the royal bloodline, but in reality, it was filled with an unspeakable, paranoid finality.
At this time, Queen Rhaella was heavily pregnant. This child came from a night of absolute darkness—on the day Aerys II burned Lord Rickard Stark alive with wildfire and strangled his heir Brandon, the Mad King, in a state of extreme cruelty and arousal, had once again vented his rage and lust upon his queen, beating and raping her.
Shortly after, Queen Rhaella discovered she was with child.
This life, conceived in extreme violence and pain, boarded the ship to Dragonstone with her like a secret in the shadows, sailing toward an unknown fate.
King's Landing, the capital about to fall, was stepping closer to its final destruction amidst the Mad King's dance.