The Last Battle was fought on the dark heaths of Wyrmhaven, the armies washing down the steep hills on either side like a rushing wave of sword and shield. The air was rent with bloodcurdling calls to arms, and as the two great kings met, the earth shook with their roars.
The battle raged on for seven days and seven nights, ceaseless as an ocean's onslaught against the sand. In the day, blood flew freely, turning the ground marshy and treacherous, a deep, evil crimson which sucked men into bloody quagmires. In the nights, the skies were torn asunder with dragon fire that flashed as bright as lightning, that charred fellow dragon and Rider alike.
The crossfire ended on the seventh night, but there was no victor remained.
No army remained.
Only an endless plain of corpse, sword stained with rusty blood, shield dented and wrenched apart. The last dragon, a golden beast named Otir, roared the deathsong, before it too crashed to the ground, wings spread, breathing the last of its fire. It shuddered, and quieted, and it lived no more.
The dawn of the eighth day crept behind Otir's waste, the darkness of the night receding under the grey light of the day. In the far western reaches of the battlefield, where the bodies lay thickest and the light did not yet reach, a mound of soldiers moved, quaking like rocks stacked too high. There was shuddering sound of armor hitting ground, and a hand emerged, dark and bloody and clawed.
With a great heave, he arose. The man, the last man alive, shoved away his load, enemy and comrade alike, rising past the dead to face the morning sun.
They were all dead.
All but one.
Sean Bean, the last man alive, smiled, light glancing off his helm, raising his sword to the heavens, as he whispered, “Not this time, bitch.”