The Son of Ice and Fire (Jon Snow SI)

Lord Raynard Rollingford walked through the camp where he, along with Lords Cressy, Gaunt, and Landward, had amassed their armies. The sounds of the camp surrounded him—the clangs of blacksmiths' hammers striking iron, the murmur of levies preparing their armor, and the grunts of knights training young farmers, now conscripts.

Raynard himself had been preparing for this moment for a long time, ever since the usurper bastard prince had killed his dear brother Cedric. His heart hardened at the thought of his brother; vengeance was close.

The shocking part was how few of the Crownlander lords remained loyal to Aegon. They had thought most of the Crownlands, except the traitorous Duskendale circle, would rise with them against the usurper. Instead, only they were here—four lords leading just over two thousand men.

They were outnumbered, but yesterday, new hope had arrived when Lords Meadows and Footly from the Reach had come with five thousand more. Seven thousand men could do much, especially when they knew the terrain as well as they did.

Raynard pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside, where Lords Cressy, Gaunt, Landward, Meadows, and Footly waited. The tent was dimly lit by flickering lanterns, with a large map of the region spread across a wooden table in the center.

"Ah, Lord Rollingford, you've arrived," Lord Footly said, straightening up.

"Am I late?" Raynard asked, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men.

"No, my lord. We were just waiting for you," Lord Gaunt said, giving him a curt nod.

Lord Meadows leaned over the map, his finger tracing a path that marked the southwestern Crownlands. "I believe the usurper will send an army this way. He would want to secure the roads into the Reach," he said.

Footly leaned in as well, adding, "Yes, the bastard knows the importance of these lands. If we hold them, King Aegon can bring his entire army to the capital. Then it's over for the bastard."

The lords murmured in agreement. Raynard nodded grimly. It was clear to him that they held a crucial piece of the puzzle.

Raynard leaned over the table, eyes sharp as he scanned the map before him. "If we join up with Lords Buckler, Trant, and Errol from the Stormlands, we can take the southern Crownlands and secure our king's route to King's Landing," he said, his finger tracing the path they would take to dominate the region.

Lord Gaunt nodded in agreement, though a hint of concern crossed his face. "But can they march north? Aren't they busy with the lands of the traitorous Stormlander lords? They could be too occupied with their campaigns to move quickly."

Footly spoke up confidently. "We will send word to the king. He will coordinate with them—they will see the importance of crushing the usurper's forces swiftly."

Raynard studied the map again. It had been a month since the war had begun. So far, it had been mostly preparations—raising armies, gathering supplies, drawing plans. But now, now they would have the first of many battles in this conflict, and perhaps their first chance at true victory.

Lord Landward spoke up, breaking the tense silence. "Have we received word on when King Aegon himself will march north?"

Lord Meadows answered, leaning forward. "As soon as the Dornish and Reachmen armies have fully gathered. They're almost ready."

Raynard frowned, his impatience evident. "He should march quickly. The usurper's forces may have the North and the Vale behind them, but those lands are far from the heart of the kingdom. The king could easily defeat any army that bastard can raise now. He could command Lord Tywin to strike from the west, and then it would all be over. The bastard will be crushed."

Lord Footly shifted uncomfortably. "I have received strange news... something happening in the west."

Lord Gaunt's curiosity was piqued. "What news? Speak plainly."

Footly hesitated for a moment. "Casterly Rock has gone silent, my lords. No word has come in or out for several weeks."

Raynard's brow furrowed. "Strange, indeed."

"What of the dragon?" Gaunt asked.

Meadows grinned. "I was there when the king himself confirmed it belonged to him."

"Then why has he not struck the usurper down?" Landward asked. "He could win the war with his dragon alone."

"The usurper holds the capital," Raynard said. "I am sure His Grace will bring the might of that beast soon enough."

There was a murmur of agreement. Raynard felt the tension in the room fade away, emboldened by the fact that King Aegon held command over a dragon.

Yet Raynard wondered why many still supported the usurper. Did they not know of the dragon? They all saw it during the tourney.

'Perhaps the usurper tricked them into believing the dragon was his,' Raynard thought. 'Yes, that must be it. Bastards had a way of deceiving men; it was their nature,' he thought.

Raynard was jolted out of his thoughts as he heard the tent flap rustle. He saw a scout rush inside, his face flushed, his eyes wide, urgency clear in his posture. "My lord, my lords," the scout stammered, breathing heavily.

"Speak, man," Raynard ordered, his voice steady.

The scout swallowed, struggling to catch his breath. "My lords, we've sighted the usurper himself," he managed to say. "He leads an army toward us."

A wave of surprise swept over the gathered lords. For a moment, they were silent, each processing the unexpected news.

"The usurper himself?" Lord Gaunt sneered, his lip curling in disdain.

"How many men?" Lord Cressy asked.

The scout hesitated before answering, clearly bewildered. "Two thousand men, my lords. That's all he brings."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a roar of laughter erupted through the tent. Lords Gaunt, Meadows, Cressy, Footly, Landward, and Raynard himself all exchanged triumphant glances, seeing this as a gift handed to them by the gods—an inevitable victory.

"A fool's errand," Raynard scoffed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and the burning fervor of vengeance. "The usurper has come to his doom."

Lord Footly chuckled, shaking his head. "It seems the bastard does not know of Lord Meadows's and my presence here. He is finished."

Lord Gaunt clenched his fist and brought it down on the table with a dull thud. "We'll end the bastard king here, and the realm will remember us all as heroes."

"Indeed," Meadows nodded, his eyes narrow, a sly grin on his face. He leaned over the map, tapping on the place they had marked for their stand.

Raynard's expression hardened, and he looked around the tent, the fire of resolve in his gaze. "Prepare the men, my lords. We end the rebellion here. The usurper dies today."

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Raynard watched as Lord Gaunt, Lord Footly, and Lord Meadows rode toward him. He could see the excitement and glee in his fellow lords' eyes as they advanced toward the usurper's position. A great opportunity lay before them: to capture or kill the false king Maekar Targaryen, win the war in a single stroke, and secure the throne for the true King Aegon.

Victory seemed inevitable—so close they could taste it.

Their army moved carefully along the narrow forest trail, the clinking of armor mixing with the crunch of leaves beneath their boots. Scouts fanned out ahead and to the flanks, regularly returning to keep the main force informed of the usurper's movements. Each time, the news was the same—Maekar was retreating, drawing back, step by step, as if fleeing in disarray.

Perhaps Maekar had realized his mistake. Perhaps he now knew that he faced forces far greater than his own and that he was about to suffer the consequences.

"The usurper is retreating," Lord Meadows announced, unable to hide his triumphant grin. He laughed, pointing ahead with his sword. "He knows he's beaten—he's already running."

Lord Gaunt, astride his destrier, nodded with a confident gleam in his eye. "We press forward and end this," he said, raising his voice so the troops around them could hear. "The usurper dies today."

Lord Footly, more cautious, spoke up, his brow furrowed. "It's too perfect," he said. "It looks like he's baiting us in."

Raynard turned to Footly, raising an eyebrow. "Baiting us? You think there's a larger force nearby?" He scanned the forest around them, his eyes searching the dense canopy and undergrowth. The scouts had given no such indication. He looked to Meadows for confirmation.

Meadows shook his head, a dismissive smile on his face. "No, there is no other army nearby. We've had scouts out for miles around—this is all he has. He knows he's beaten, and now he runs like the coward he is."

Footly still looked unconvinced, his gaze lingering on the shadows that moved between the trees. "If we march blindly, we might walk right into his trap. We should be cautious."

But Raynard could feel the impatience growing. The men were restless, the promise of victory intoxicating. He gave a nod to Meadows, urging the march onward. "We keep moving, but we stay alert," he ordered, his tone attempting to balance confidence with prudence. He turned to Footly, his voice softening. "Send more scouts ahead."

As they advanced deeper into the woods, Maekar's forces sent skirmishers to harass them—hit-and-run attacks that darted out from the cover of trees to strike their vanguard, then disappeared again into the woods. They were a nuisance more than a real threat, but they were frustrating, slowing their pace and forcing the men to remain in tight formation.

The usurper was scared—he could feel it. But he couldn't deny the disquiet that settled in his stomach at Footly's earlier warning.

Lord Meadows cursed as another small group of skirmishers lashed out at their forward units, killing several of their men before retreating. "Cowards," he spat, his face red with anger. "They're trying to delay the inevitable."

"They can't delay forever," Raynard said, urging his horse forward. He lifted his sword and called to the men behind him, "March on! We will end the usurper today!"

The men cheered, their spirits high, confidence radiating through the ranks as they pushed through the dense woods. Soon the trees began to thin out, and the scouts returned with word of a clearing up ahead.

"The usurper is waiting there," one scout reported. "In the clearing beyond. He's set his line along the far side."

Raynard nodded, exchanging a glance with Footly. They pushed forward, but when they reached the forest's edge, he ordered a halt. The clearing stretched before them, a broad expanse of grass flanked by low, rolling hills. Sunlight streamed into the open space, making it feel strangely exposed. On the far side, Maekar Targaryen sat astride his black warhorse, his dark armor seeming to drink in the light. Behind him, his forces were arrayed in a thin line—mostly cavalry.

Lord Gaunt drew his sword, his voice booming as he called out to the troops, "Today, we rid the realm of this pretender! Today, we win this war for the true king, Aegon!"

The men roared in response, their confidence undimmed. Raynard allowed himself a smile, but the thrill was tempered by the caution that tugged at him. He scanned the hills which he knew were called the Ember hills on either side of the clearing. Something felt off. He turned to Footly, who met his gaze with a grim nod. "We should send riders to check those hills," Footly said quietly. "If he has archers hidden there, we could be walking into a slaughter."

He gestured to a group of scouts. "Check the hills," he ordered. "We won't engage until we know what's waiting for us."

Raynard watched as the scouts rode off, the tension thick in the air. The promise of a quick and glorious victory was still there—so close they could taste it—but caution had crept in, tempering their excitement with the harsh reality of war.

The other lords left his side, riding to lead their armies. They had a plan of attack they had decided on, and if executed perfectly, the 2,000 men before them would all die; they would leave no survivors.

Raynard kept his eyes fixed on the usurper, Maekar Targaryen, who waited stoically across the clearing. 'He dies today', Raynard thought with a growing smile, his heart thudding in anticipation of the victory that seemed inevitable.

'For Cedric'

With banners raised and the order given, their armies began to advance. The air filled with the rhythmic thunder of hooves and the pounding of thousands of boots on the ground. The banners of Rollingford, Meadows, Gaunt, Cressy, Landward, and Footly whipped and fluttered in the wind as the troops surged forward. Trumpets blared, the sound echoing across the clearing, and Raynard held his sword tightly in hand as he rode forward on his horse, leading his men.

His eyes remained on Maekar, expecting him to counter their advance at any moment, but... nothing. The usurper made no move—no commands, no defensive line forming, no archers nocking arrows.

He could see the usurper's men were within range for their archers. A volley would surely break the usurper's ranks, leave them scrambling.

'That will show them', Raynard thought, spurring his horse onward.

Then, suddenly, he heard it. A roar—a deafening, bone-shaking roar that seemed to come from the heavens themselves. The sound was familiar. He remembered it from the tourney nearly a month and a half ago.

'King Aegon', he thought, his heart swelling with excitement.

Was his king here, arriving on his dragon?

Raynard's face lit up with triumph. Yes! The king had come to end this battle—to burn the usurper to ash! He let out a laugh, loud and elated, and turned to his men.

"King Aegon is here!" he bellowed. "The king is here with his dragon!"

A cheer went up from the men, a raucous cry of victory. They shouted and raised their swords, their steps quickening as if they were marching into glory itself.

Raynard looked up, expecting to see his king astride the magnificent beast, soaring down to rain fire upon their enemy. But what he saw drained the blood from his face.

The dragon was descending—its massive wings outstretched, blotting out the sun. But there was no rider on its back. The beast's scales were dark as night, its eyes glowing with an unnatural green light. The cheers of the men faltered, confusion rippling through their ranks as they stared, bewildered, at the enormous creature approaching from the skies.

Raynard felt his heart lurch in his chest as realization set in. His eyes widened in horror.

'No, no, no', he thought, his mind racing, his stomach twisting in fear. 'Why is it coming toward us?'

The dragon unleashed its flames with a roar that seemed to split the sky. A torrent of fire cascaded down from above, engulfing Lord Meadows's ranks in a blinding, searing blaze. The flames consumed everything in their path—men, horses, banners—all swallowed by a wave of fire that burned hotter than anything Raynard had ever seen.

He could only watch, frozen in his saddle, as Lord Meadows himself was engulfed in the flames. His screams were lost in the roar of the inferno, his form swallowed by the raging fire in mere moments. Men who had been cheering seconds before now screamed in terror, scattering in all directions, trying to escape the dragon's fury.

"Retreat!" someone shouted—a desperate, terrified cry lost amidst the chaos.

Raynard's horse reared, terrified, and he struggled to keep his seat, his mind reeling in disbelief. It was chaos—complete, utter chaos. His once-disciplined army was now nothing more than a panicked, disorganized mass, men running in every direction, tripping over each other, abandoning weapons, armor—anything that might slow them down.

The dragon wheeled in the sky and descended again, its maw opening wide. Another stream of fire shot forth, this time targeting Lord Footly's men. Raynard could see the soldiers below, their faces twisted in horror as they tried to flee. He watched as they were engulfed in flame, the fire roaring through their lines, reducing men and horses to ash.

Raynard screamed in terror, watching the horrifying events unfolding in front of him, but the sound was drowned out by the deafening roar of the dragon and the screams of men being burned alive. He was frozen, unable to move, his mind a whirl of fear and disbelief. His horse, eyes wide with panic, reared again, and Raynard nearly fell, clutching desperately to the reins.

This was a slaughter.

He was jolted out of his stupor by the sudden clamor of hooves. The sound of galloping grew louder, and he turned to see the usurper leading his cavalry in a charge straight toward them. They were coming, fast and furious, their lances lowered, their steeds thundering across the clearing.

"No!" Raynard shouted, a sense of panic gripping his chest. This couldn't be happening. They were supposed to have crushed the bastard—not this.

"Retreat!" he bellowed, finally finding his voice. But it was no use. There was no one to hear him. The battlefield had descended into chaos—his soldiers either running for their lives or lying dead, consumed by dragonfire. All around him was confusion.

Raynard's heart hammered in his chest as he spurred his horse around, driving his heels into its flanks. He needed to escape, needed to survive—he could regroup later, get word to King Aegon, find a way to fight back. He had to live.

Ahead, he caught sight of Lord Gaunt riding hard into the woods, but before Gaunt could disappear beneath the cover of the trees, he was struck down—a figure in the white armor of the Kingsguard cutting him from his horse.

Raynard's throat tightened as he looked back over his shoulder. His eyes widened in terror as he saw the usurper himself—a dark shadow of fury on horseback—charging after him, a massive warhammer clutched in his hands, his eyes fixed on Raynard like a predator on its prey.

"Ride faster!" Raynard screamed at his horse, fear turning his voice shrill. "Faster, damn you!" He whipped the reins, his legs kicking frantically as if he could will the horse to fly. Trees blurred past him, the woods coming up fast, but it wasn't enough.

He felt the earth shift beneath his horse's hooves, the creature struggling to keep its footing on the uneven ground. He heard the sound of the horse slipping, its frantic whinny as it lost its balance. The world spun around him, and then suddenly, everything was pain.

He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his entire body. Pain exploded through his ribs and shoulder, his head slamming against the dirt. He tried to breathe, tried to move, but everything hurt too much—his body unresponsive.

His vision began to blur, darkness seeping in from the edges, but just before it overtook him, he saw it—the shadow of the dragon passing overhead, its wings casting a vast, dark silhouette against the sky. He heard its roar again, an earth-shattering, monstrous sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath him. It was the last thing he heard—the last thing he felt—as fear gripped him one final time before everything went black.

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Read up to chapter 99 here :

p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)