Robert Baratheon Vs Rhaegar Novels & Stories

"I will not be controlled. Not by the prophecies. Not by the Goddess. Not by you." Ash's hand extended, his fingers running over her cheek. "You are a fool. You will lose. You will lose this war. You will lose everything." "I will not lose," Rhea said, her voice in a soft whisper. "I have my army. I have my brother. I have my pack," she answered, standing erect. "I have my choice. And I chose this. I chose to fight.". A bellow echoed across the battlefield. "Theon is down. He has been taken."

And in the middle, on a stone bridge that spanned the torrent, stood Leigh’s father. Lord Valerius was a tall, lean man like a hardened sapling. He wore no armor, only a worn leather jerkin over a grey tunic. His hair was more silver than black, tied back. He held no weapon. He stood alone on the bridge, facing Gryffen’s army, a solitary figure of calm authority.

"I trusted in his wisdom and your wiles, and what did they avail me, smuggler? The storm lords sent you packing. I went to them a beggar and they laughed at me. Well, there will be no more begging, and no more laughing either. The Iron Throne is mine by rights, but how am I to take it? There are four kings in the realm, and three of them have more men and more gold than I do. I have ships . . . and I have her. The red woman. Half my knights are afraid even to say her name, did you know? If she can do nothing else, a sorceress who can inspire such dread in grown men is not to be despised. A frightened man is a beaten man. And perhaps she can do more. I mean to find out. "When I was a lad I fo

He looked at her face. "You memorized the bloodline hierarchy for tonight," he said. She stopped two feet from him. "How do you know that?" "Because you're not nervous." He held her gaze. "Which means you prepared until the nerves had nowhere to stand." Nora said nothing for a moment, because that was accurate in a way she didn't particularly want to confirm out loud. "The Harlow bloodline," she said instead. "Third rank. They have a treaty dispute with Vael that's been unresolved for sixty years. Do I acknowledge it or not if it comes up?"

"I believe he is not dead. Alpha Noah is not that weak. He will not go down that easily." "Thankfully, then..." The chairman said. "Raise your head, Rhaegar." He ordered, and Rhaegar slowly raised his head, and at that same time, the curtains were raised, exposing the bright light from outside and blinding him. "Do not close your eyes." The order was precise and Rhaegar, who had just gotten used to the darkness, was finding it hard to keep his eyes open as staring at the sudden brightness felt like staring directly at the sun.

Saeris gripped the railing of their loft, stunned. “Y-your Majesty!” Hareth wailed, face mottled with disbelief and fear, like he had only just realized his king was in court. “You can’t—I’m a noble! A veteran lord—!” But Vaelen stood over him now, blade already lowered, red dripping from its tip. “You think your medals matter? Your name? That stories of your old victories excuse what you’ve done?” The blade angled lazily now, already handed back to the guard without anyone noticing. And when Vaelen spoke again, the very air seemed to still. “It’s not your bloodline that matters now. Not your gods. Not your past achievement. Not the crown my father bestowed on you.” A pause. “It’s m

Hope burned to ash. And I weep. Not quietly. Not softly. Completely. Everything I held, everything I built my world on — has collapsed. And yet… I raise my head. – Rhaell — I croak. My voice is like that of some stranger. — Are you still alive? – Yes, my lord, — he whispers. – They are about to take the throne from me. My children too. My kingdom. Everything. I spring to my feet. – Then bring on the war. Let it be one this world has never seen.

Another came swinging a machete; she met him with a bullet in the chest and a knife in the gut. The men hesitated. Some cursed her name La Reina de Sangre the Blood Queen. The title spread as fast This wasn’t survival anymore. This was war. Across the chaos, she saw Raffaele. Standing tall atop the catwalk, his grin sharp as a wolf’s. He raised a hand, directing his soldiers like an orchestra of death. And then her gaze snapped left. El Cuervo himself strode through the haze, his raven tattoos catching the flicker of gunfire, a machete in one hand, pistol in the other. His men followed like shadows, cutting down Romano soldiers with ruthless precision.