Character: Everard Storm
House: House Vitarrion
Kingdom: Stormlands

Battle of the Trident, 281 AL

“This is it men. The mad king’s little bitch of kid is all that stands between us and King’s Landing. He’s really mad if he thinks that’s going to stop the Storm born! Forward brothers, charge!”

So this was it, true battle. It was as if two giants made out of men and horses were interlocked in a death filled spiral. His brothers in arms roared, their words overtaken by the carnal desire to kill. Everard could hardly breathe; his excitement squeezed his lungs dry. Alongside his comrades he charged. The Targaryen battle line closed the distance quickly. Just like his kinsmen, the enemies howled; their faces contorted into battle cries and foul curses. With a sound like rolling thunder, the armies collapsed upon each other. He savored every kill. There was no victory that could compare to watching your enemies’ life drain from their eyes and their blood spill upon the ever-thirsty earth.

The pike pierced his shield as if it were made of wood. Raging steel ripped through the air, yearning a taste of Everard’s flesh. He could not but stare, dumbfounded, as his death approached. Shock gripped him as the notion of a bloody end seemed inconceivable. Born of the storms raging wind and blistering hail, He felt every inch of steel as it carved its way across his face. Half of his world had faded to black and the other was being engulfed in a crimson tide. Everard collapsed to the ground, his mind aghast as death loomed over him. The world began to slip away from him.

Everard stared into the growing pool of his own blood. His end approached, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. An image appeared in the crimson reflection; it was the face of his mother. She was whispering something to him, but the words were muted by the sounds of battle. Tears mixed with his blood and gave the pool a silvery sheen. He would be with his mother soon in the afterlife. Everard vomited up a glob of blood and death leaned in closer. Everard closed his eyes and leaned into the pool. Suddenly his mother had a voice.

“You must be strong my son. I love you with all my heart, but I cannot remain in this world. Please, life a full life. For both of us.”

He tried to hold her face still in the crimson mirror, yet she faded regardless. Just like the day she died, Everard’s mother slipped away between his fingers. Despair filled Everard’s heart to occupy the space left by his lost blood. He had not been strong enough to save her. He was not strong enough to save himself. His fate seemed inevitable.

Then another voice cracked into being.

“You dumb fucker. Get the damn hint!”

It was the abrasive voice of Sir Stourbon, the knight responsible for breaking him free of poverty, and another cherished soul that had died in his arms.

“If you fall here, you will shame your house. If you die here, your mother’s sacrifice will mean nothing. Now get up.”

His words burned Everard into action. He was right, nothing would stop him. Not even death. Everard stood up again, fighting through the agony of death’s cold embrace. The reaper balked at defiance.

I will not allow myself to fall and make her passing meaningless. If I am to die on this battlefield, then so will they…

Defiant and filled with a raging maelstrom of hate, Everard stormed into the Targaryen lines. Holding Duty's End, his massive greatsword, aloft, Everard waded into the ranks. Lacking mercy or remorse, Everard cleaved through man and horse alike. His path of death was marked with mangled corpses and the river ran red in his wake.

Then he found him. The same young lad that had broken his shield and laid him low. His eyes went wide with fear. The boy made to stand against him but the Blood Knight had come forth. With a sweep of his blade the boy's arms disappeared in a cloud of blood and broken bone. Screaming in agony, he fell to his knees. His eyes filled with fear as he was hefted into the air by his neck. Slowly and brutally, Everard rent open his chest and spilled his entrails into the grass.

Preparing to sow his fatal craft once more, Everard moved forward. Something had changed however. The Targaryens were fleeing the battlefield but Everard could not hear the commands of his brothers. Slowly, his frenzy melted away. As the backs of the fleeing troops grew smaller, so did his blood lust. They ran for their lives. They ran for their hopes. They ran for their future. Everard paused and pondered his situation. Fury gave way to clarity. Life was fragile and no amount of spite was going to make it stronger. With his focus split, Everard's frenzy waned. His body finally yielded to its wounds and collapsed. As darkness flooded his vision, Everard pondered his lesson. This lesson of life and death written in blood.