Chapter Text
283 AC, Kingswood—The Camp of the Reach Army
The Command Tent of Lord Mace Tyrell
The great pavilion of House Tyrell stood at the heart of the Reach encampment like a fielded castle, golden roses fluttering from its banners, the green of the Reach vibrant under the summer sun. Inside, however, the air was heavy. War maps blanketed the central table, wine cups sat forgotten, and a dozen highborn men surrounded their liege, eyes tense and voices low.
The tent smelled of old parchment, rich wine, and the sweat of too many armored men packed into close quarters. Outside, the men were taking advantage of the rare rest day ever since their march from Storm’s End had begun. But, inside the air was filled with tension which could be cut with a sword.
The source of tension was the news that the rider from Fellwood had bought.
King’s Landing has fallen. The Red Keep is lost.
The city rioted, the Rebels arrived to find the gates open. The King’s fate is unknown.
That grim news had come from Fellwood, which the army had marched past barely four days ago and this news had had arrived to them only a day earlier. After Paxter had received word of this at Dragonstone, he’d immediately decided to send word to them as well. Paxter, not knowing their exact position in the Kingswood, had sent the message to Fellwood—a castle held by their forces since their invasion of the Stormlands had began—hoping its garrison could dispatch riders to inform them of the situation at King’s Landing.
And Randyll rather appreciated Paxter’s quick thinking. It was better to be informed beforehand that the city had fallen to the rebels—and that they would now need to force a crossing across the Blackwater.
But Mace had immediately stopped the march for today, calling a council to plan anew now that their hope of reaching the capital before the rebels had failed. The meeting had begun an hour ago. The first agreement had been unanimous: to fight in the name of Prince Viserys—now King Viserys, the Third of His Name.
Since then, however, they had reached no other accord.
“We need to march to King’s Landing,” Baelor said slamming his hands on the table. “The longer the capital remains in the hands of those traitors, the more the support for the rightful Rulers will dwindle all around the Realm.”
“To march to Blackwater now would be a folly Ser Baelor,” Lord Oakheart snapped, his tone sharp. The man stood here in his capacity as consort to Lady Arwyn.”
“Aye, Lord Oakheart is right, Ser Baelor. The Rebels have no doubt forded the river by now and made common cause with Lord Lannister,” said Lord Arthur Ambrose gently. “To march to Blackwater now would only lead to us being bled dry by them—and we’ll be of no use to King Viserys dead.”
A murmur of agreement followed the tent at Lord Ambrose’s words. Seeing that he was beginning to sway the mood of the nobles, Ambrose continued.
“Nay, the march to Blackwater is not the way forward for us if we mean to win the war. We have complete control of the Seas—the Royal Fleet and the Redwyne Fleet ensure that none shall touch King Viserys at Dragonstone, and we—we can march back to the Reach. Prince Rhaegar, Gods bless his soul, made the mistake of marching straight into the heart of the traitors’ lands—and was slain by treachery at the hands of that heathen. Let us not march into the same trap. Let those traitors, led by that northern heathen, come to us—into the heart of our own realm—and we shall cut them down. Let them see the consequences of marching into the Green Realm.”
Ambrose finished with his voice cracking, his final words fading into the heavy air of the tent. He had managed to ignite some murmurs of agreement, yet many still looked unconvinced.
And rightly so, Randyll thought grimly. It’s a foolish strategy.
But before he could speak, Mathis beat him to it.
“My Lord Ambrose,” Mathis began, his tone measured but firm, “that would be like hitting our own leg with a axe. You are right with our complete domination of the Seas, it leaves King Viserys untouchable at Dragonstone. But if we decide to follow your strategy, and retreat to the Reach it’ll be a folly for us in the long term. While in the short term, yes, it would keep our soldiers from being bled—but in the long term, it would doom us.”
He paused to let his words sink in before continuing, his voice gaining strength.
“If we march back home and busy ourselves preparing defences, it’ll give the Usurper time—time to strengthen his hold on the lands he’s captured from the Crown and to rebuild his depleted forces. By the Seven, perhaps he’ll even manage to muster a host larger than ours before the year’s end.” Mathis paused for a moment to take a breath.
The tent was utterly quite, all eyes on Mathis. He took a breath and pressed on.
“Right now the Rebel forces are divided, and scattered across the Realm. Only fourteen thousand are with Tully and Baratheon at Blackwater. Lord Lannister has barely twelve thousand, that’s barely touching into the strength of the Westerlands. Stark and Arryn are still licking their wounds at the Trident, with around thirteen thousand men, and they can each draw another ten thousand from their own lands. The North will no doubt send more now that one of their own wears a crown. And together that huge host would outnumber us. When they march into the Reach even our home advantage would be useless against their sheer numbers. Worse still, these rebels have fought more battles than our men—they are blooded, hardened. We’d be outnumbered and outmatched. That,” Mathis finished, meeting Ambrose’s eyes squarely, “is a risk I am not willing to take.”
The silence that followed was thick as pitch. Even Lord Ambrose looked swayed, his earlier conviction faltering. And Randyll noted with satisfaction that the one man whose opinion mattered most—Lord Mace Tyrell—seemed deeply impressed.
“Lord Mathis speaks true,” Baelor Hightower said, nodding solemnly. “The longer the capital remains in the traitors’ hands, the more time the heathen will get to strengthen his grip on the Realm. And remember, they have the High Septon in their grasp as well. The Usurper could force his Holiness to anoint him King, perhaps even compel the Faith to sanctify his false rule.”
Baelor’s eyes darkened as he continued, his voice rising. “If that happens, what next? He could seize the Starry Sept itself, replace the Most Devout with his own lickspittles, or—Seven forbid—force the High Septon to denounce House Targaryen as heretics. And should the Northmen press their wild ways upon the Faith—tree worship, blood sacrifice—then the smallfolk will believe the gods themselves have turned against us!”
Mace Tyrell finally spoke before Baelor Hightower could go on which Randyll was thankful for because it was nonsense—utter nonsense he was spewing. House Arryn was one of the most pious in the realm, and Jon Arryn was Stark’s father in all but blood and name. He would never permit Stark to harm the High Septon.
”It’s decided my Lords,” Mace paused dramatically as all eyes turned to him.”The Reach will march to Blackwater to end the war. We’ll pick apart Rebel forces one by one. First, we’ll put the heads of Tully, Baratheon, and Lannister on pikes, and restore order to King’s Landing.”
He straightened, his florid face lit by the lamplight, his tone swelling with triumph.
“And then,” he said, “we march for the heads of the self-proclaimed Usurper and Arryn.”
A cheer went up around the tent—voices raised in agreement, gauntlets pounding on table and the Lords of the Reach roared their approval.
It took time for the cheer to die down, but now it was time to decide the strategy for the coming battle.
“Lord Ambrose was right on one thing. A direct assault across Blackwater would bleed us dry,” Mathis Rowan said eyes fixed at the map sprawled across the table.
“Aye, Lord Rowan,” Baelor Hightower said, leaning forward. “But what choice do we have? There is no other route for us to retake King’s Landing. And you yourself said we need to confront the Rebel Host while they are still separated.”
“Aye,” Mathis nodded at Baelor. “I did say that—and I still believe our best chances at defeating Rebels are to strike when they are still separated. But, the host we’ll face at Blackwater will number around twenty six thousand. They’ve had days to prepare their defences along the river, and to ford it. So, throwing our men straight at their defences would be sheer stupidity and might cost us half our strength before the real fight even begins.”
“So, what do you recommend Lord Rowan,” Mace Tyrell asked, narrowing his eyes at Mathis. “If not marching directly to Blackwater.”
All eyes turned to Rowan, eagerly awaiting his response.
“I did not suggest not marching to Blackwater, my Lord,” Mathis said firmly. “We must send our forces to Blackwater there’s no doubt about that. But, just how many is the question My Lord.”
Mace frowned at Mathis in confusion. “Speak clearly, Lord Rowan. What is it you suggest we do?”
“As Lord Ambrose rightly said, we have complete control of the Seas,” Mathis began. “We must simply take advantage of it.”
Mathis paused after that looking down at the table where the maps were sprawled out on the war table. He leaned over the table, tapping a finger on the parchment where the Wendwater River snaked toward the sea.
“There,” Mathis declared. “That’s our chance to take King’s Landing without bleeding ourselves dry. We hold the lands around Wendwater, and have complete control of the Seas. Between the Royal Fleet and the Redwyne fleet, we command more ships than any foe could dream of.
“We can march the majority of our force—say, forty thousand men—directly toward the Blackwater. But the remaining ten thousand, with our complete command over the Seas, with the aid of both the Redwyne and Royal fleets, can be ferried north of King’s Landing—perhaps landed near Rosby. And when we attack from the South that host can attack from the North and the Rebels would have only prepared for a assault from the South, but when one from North comes as well they’d end up crushed between us.
A ripple of murmurs followed through the tent. The plan had merit—sound, clever, costly only in time. But before anyone could voice their agreement in it’s favor, Randyll decided to interrupt:
“No,” he said flatly, his tone hard. “This would take too much time—time which we don’t have.”
All heads turned toward him. Randyll stepped closer to the table, his eyes hard.
“Baratheon and Tully force-marched from the Trident, and Lannister from the Westerlands, because they knew taking King’s Landing swiftly was essential. That’s why we’ve been force-marching from Storm’s End—to reach the capital before Stark and Arryn have the chance to force-march from the Trident.
“If we split our host now, if we waste time ferrying men around by ship, we give the rebels exactly what they need—time to ford the river, to prepare more defences. They’ll see our ships, make no mistake of that. And when they do, they’ll dig in deeper—or worse, retreat behind the city walls, forcing us to put them under Siege.”
He paused, taking a breath before continuing.
“And I for one don’t think we’d have a easy time besieging a city whose gates were opened for the rebels. They’ll have a sympathetic populace for their cause which would not want a Targaryen restoration in fear of retribution for their riots. A city whose people will remember the fact, that they were the one’s to open the gates for the traitors, and they’ll remember what King Aerys did to Duskendale when it’s people rebelled. So, I think they’d take their chances of King Viserys being merciful than his father, their self-preservation won’t allow it. The smallfolk will aid the traitors from within while we bleed ourselves dry outside.
“So, we’d end up besieging a city which will help our enemies from within, and all the while, reinforcements will come. Stark and Arryn will march south with fresh reinforcements, and fall upon our rear, and we’ll find ourselves trapped—squeezed between the rebels inside the walls and the reinforcements behind us.”
Silence fell across the tent like a shroud. Even Mace Tyrell looked uneasy now, his earlier confidence dimmed by the blunt pragmatism of Randyll’s words.
After a long moment, Mathis Rowan finally spoke, his tone quieter.
“Then what strategy do you suggest, Lord Tarly?”
Randyll straightened up, finally this was the moment. He had the attention of all who mattered and a plan which would hopefully win them the Battle at Blackwater and hopefully the War itself.
“You’re all worried about how many losses at Blackwater we’d take while crossing,”Randyll began, his gaze sliding towards Lord Ambrose, and Lord Oakheart. “But there’s a way to win this battle without bleeding ourselves dry. It all comes down to the strategy we use.”
All eyes were on him as he leaned over the table where the map was sprawled across. He pointed with a slow, precise finger to the choked tangle of river that marked the approach to King’s Landing.
“My Lord,” Randyll addressed Mace directly this time, and Mace’s gaze fastened on him “The most losses we’d suffer while crossing the river would be at our right flank—where the river narrows before the Mud Gate and the Walls od the city. This is where Rebels will place their left flank, and it would have the fewest men of all their flanks. But they would be supported by the Archers on the Wall. Any host that tries to force that crossing in strength will be butchered under fire and by pikes. That is why I suggest sending the least men on that flank, because sending more would be sucide.”
A murmur ran through the tent—tentative, curious.
“Send only eight thousand men to that flank,” Randyll continued, voice clipped and spare. “They will not attempt a full crossing of the River like our other flanks; they will screen and prod. They will probe the defences, keep up a steady pressure on the rebel left that they cannot spare men to reinforce their centre or other flanks.They must make enough noise—enough bruising—to look like a threat, but not enough to be slaughtered. Hold their line; feign threat; force the enemy to immobile caution. Let them probe, not commit. Let them keep pressure, feign intent, but not cross in earnest. Do not give them a true crossing to meet.”
Mace’s face, which had been taut with impatience, softened with a faint nod. “Very well,” he said. “Lord Ambrose will lead this flank, with Lord Oakheart as his second.”
Ambrose straightened and inclined his head, enthusiasm and relief warring on his features. “I shall be honoured, my lord,” he said, voice bright.
Oakheart offered a small bow. “As you command, My Lord.”
Randyll watched them take the assignment with a small, unreadable expression. Of course they are grateful, he thought inwardly with amusement. They both had been the loudest voices against risking a battle at the Blackwater—now they would be sent to the one place Randyll had said not to commit fully. A man could almost taste the irony.
He let the look pass, then folded his hands upon the map and raised his voice a half-step, not yet finished.
“Let Ambrose and Oakheart keep the rebels’ left occupied,” Randyll said. “Give them archers and light horse for mobility, and their orders are as clear as Valayrian steel: probe, feint, withdraw. No crossing, no entrenchment. Their job is theatre and attrition—enough to hold the enemy’s eye without letting them fight on terms of our choosing.”
Ambrose’s gaze sharpened, ambition flaring behind his eyes. “I’ll see to it, Lord Tarly. I’ll make them fear our right.”
“You will do as ordered,” Randyll returned, cool as a blade. “And you will not gamble for glory. You will be the bone that they growl at, not the spear that runs them through.”
Mathis and Baelor exchanged a quick look—approval, though both men kept their faces schooled.
Randyll leaned in a fraction more, voice low but firm. “While Ambrose keeps their left honest, we’ll arrange our centre and left to do the real work.”
The tent hummed with renewed purpose. Mace’s hand rose to call for quite.
Mace cleared his throat. “Good Lord Randyll, whenever you are ready, present your plan for the centre and the left.”
Randyll lifted his chin once, then turned his gaze back to the map. “I am ready,” he said.
A hush fell as he bent over the parchment again and began to trace a line, and he stopped at the Northern part of Blackwater where figurines for the Rebel Centre were kept.
“This,” he said voice full of conviction, tapping his finger exactly at the point just north of Blackwater. “is where the Rebels will keep their strongest forces. Most of their infantry will be placed here, with whatever Archers they can spare from the Walls. They’ll be prepared for the hardest assault here.”
Everyone tensed at that, and looked at Randyll who looked unbothered.
“I’ll suggest we send eighteen thousand men to our centre,” Randyll said his tone hard. “And most of them should be infantry, because the Rebels will keep most of their infantry here. If we put our cavalry in the centre they’ll be useless because first they’ll have to cross the River under a hail of fire from Archers, and they’ll not be able to defend both themselves and their mounts with their shields. They will take grievous losses before they reach the far bank. And if they get across the river after taking huge losses they’d be met by the Shield Wall of Rebel infantry, which they won’t be able to stand against. Our best chances are to pur our finest infantry in our centre.”
“Lord Tarly speaks true, goodbrother,” Baelor Hightower declared looking directly at Mace.“While crossing the river our infantry can maintain shield-wall to protect themselves from arrow volleys and can reach the northern bank with far fewer losses than cavalry would suffer.”
“Aye,” Mathis voiced his agreement as well.
With three of his principal lords in agreement, Mace’s decision was made.
“Then it’s decided—” Mace began, puffing up as if about to claim the honour of leading the main blow. “It’s only fitting that I lead—”
Randyll cut him off smoothly. “My lord, I would like to personally command the centre,” he said, calm and absolute. He had no wish to see Mace squander the fight for glory when the fate of House Targaryen—no, the realm—was on their shoulders. “You would be far more useful commanding the reserves and overseeing the Battle.”
Mace’s pride soured at the thought of being kept from the glory, but Baelor delivered the final persuasive stroke.
“Lord Tarly speaks true, goodbrother. Command is easier from the rear, where you can watch the whole field and send aid where needed.”
Mace straightened, his florid face settling into a pleased expression. “Aye. You are both right. If I am to command the battle I cannot be in the thick of it.” He puffed out his chest. “I will take charge of the reserves. You, Lord Tarly, will command the centre, with Baelor as your second.”
Randyll inclined his head once in agreement but didn’t say anything.
Baelor nodded, voice warm with just enough ambition to be sincere. “I will be honoured.”
A brief silence settled once more as the lords digested the decision. Randyll did not waste the moment. His hand slid westward across the map, tracing the Reach’s left flank along the riverbend.
“Our left,” he said evenly, “will consist of nine thousand men. They’ll take position along the southern stretches of the Blackwater opposite the Rebel’s right. Their purpose will not be to force the crossing immediately—but to keep the Rebel’s right occupied, to make them believe the attack is evenly spread across the river.”
Mathis frowned. “So… they are to feint?”
Randyll shook his head. “At first. But when the moment comes, they’ll become far more than that. They’ll strike hard—once the rest of the plan is in motion.”
The cryptic note in his voice drew the attention of everyone in the tent. Even Baelor turned slightly toward him, brow raised, though Randyll did not elaborate yet.
“I’d recommend Lord Beesbury, to lead this flank, My Lord.” Randyll said looking directly at Mace who inclined his head in agreement.
“Lord Beesbury,” Randyll continued briskly, “you’ll take command of this flank. Keep your men close to the bank, your archers in front. You’ll need to maintain the illusion that your force intends to cross. Hold their gaze—and when I give the signal, you’ll know when to advance.”
Old Lord Ben Beesbury inclined his head slowly.
Mathis narrowed his eyes, understanding dawning but not yet complete.
Mace leaned over the table, curiosity mixing with impatience. “And what of the rest of our strength, Lord Tarly? You’ve accounted for near thirty-five thousand men. Where will the rest be placed?”
Randyll’s eyes never left the map as he listened to Mace’s question. He let the silence settle—long enough to sharpen every ear in the tent—then tilted his chin and began, slow and precise.
“You asked where the rest will be placed, my lord. Here is how we finish it.” He tapped the map along the riverbend where the Reach left crouched at a lesser-watched ford to the west.
“Lord Rowan will take four thousand heavy horse and move them unseen up the river. The Reach’s best: riders who know how to stay in formation under shock. They will not go across where the rebels expect us. We’ll send them on a wide march to the west, following tracks the enemy will consider impassable for a host.” He paused to take a breath.
Mathis’s had dawning understanding on it as Randyll continued.
“Their task is simple in purpose but difficult in execution: find a place where the enemy believes no force can cross—a shallow ford or a neglected causeway—where scouts are thin or absent. There are such crossings as you move further west up the River, where marsh gives way to hard silt. Mathis will send his light troops ahead by night to examine the banks, to lift stakes, to burn away any brush that might betray the crossing. When he gives the word, the heavy horse will cross in column, fast as wolves, and strike the enemy’s right flank from the west, where they least expect it.”
He paused, letting that idea settle into every lord’s ear.
“But how do we prevent Rebel scouts from noticing Lord Rowan riding up the River?” Baelor asked the question. “Surely, they’ll have watchers placed around the River to prevent any outflanking.”
“We’ll send Lord Rowan and his men from here itself,”. Randyll answered. “They’ll ride west under the concealment of the Kingswood. They’ll keep to the cover until the last moment, when they’ve reached the ground where they mean to attempt the crossing. Meanwhile the rest of our host of forty-six thousand men follow King’s road straight to King’s Landing. Where no doubt the Rebels as they see our approach will pull back all the forces they can to their defences and leave gaps in their scouting. That movement will give Mathis a chance to find a crossing and use it.”
Heads turned to Mathis every man felt the cold logic of the gambit. Randyll did not pause.
“Lord Rowan, as soon as you find a crossing you must ride hard and crash into the Rebel’s right flank,” Randyll said, voice as cold as ice. “All the while, nine thousand on the left will have the Rebel right occupied with feints and small probes, while our eighteen thousand in the centre would have started in their crossing. Your charge is a single stroke: crash at the rebel right from the flank and rear while the Reach-left presses forward. The timing must be absolute.”
Randyll’s index finger jabbed at the figurine representing the rebel right. “When the four thousand smash into their flank, cohesion breaks. Pike-lines will turn, archers will panic, and the rebel right will be fighting on two fronts. That moment is necessary for our victory, our Left will also fully engage the Rebel Right from the front, and with them already being attacked from the west it will crumble and start getting pushed back which would slowly allow our forces to cross the ford in numbers. If the Rebel Centre has not already crumbled under pressure from our centre, men who have crossed on the Left flank can be diverted to attack the Rebel Centre which would also end up under assault from the west, rear and front which would make it crumble. All the while our Right Flank wouldn’t let the Rebel’s left flank move to assist them. If we destroy most of their field army outside the city, they won’t have the strength to defend the walls — and King’s Landing will be ours without a costly siege.”
He turned then to the question of reserves — the safety lines that would make the gamble survivable.
“Behind our left,” Randyll begun. “One thousand men will be held in close reserve —light-armed but solid spearmen—directly behind Lord Beesbury’s line. Their job is clear and limited: if the the rebel right presses hard, they fill the gaps; should Beesbury loose too many in the fighting, these thousand will press forward to keep the Rebel Right committed and blunt any counterblow.”
“And the rest?” Mace asked.
“Ten thousand men under your command, my lord, will be kept in reserve directly behind the centre,” Randyll replied, eyes on Mace. “They will be the hammer if the centre needs it—to push through once the Rebel centre has been broken, or to seal any gap that opens. They are our insurance against mistake and the force that will turn victory into slaughter if the timing holds.”
Mathis nodded slowly, the plan settling into him. Baelor’s brow tightened in concentration; Old Beesbury inclined his head, all business. Even Mace’s impatience smoothed into a face of approval.
Randyll folded his hands on the table and let the map rest between them all.
Mace cleared his throat, the timbre of command returning to his voice. “Good. We resume our march tomorrow. Lord Rowan—you’ll depart at first light on the morrow.”
283 AC, Storm's End—Stormlands
The Dungeons
The iron gate creaked shut behind Rhaelle and her grandson as they entered the cell, the sound echoing through the damp corridor. The guard did not lock it — merely pulled it closed to give them privacy, standing just beyond, close enough to rush in should Rhaelle or Stannis require aid.
Although, Rhaelle doubted that would be necessary. Trystan would not dare do anything to harm them—not while his son remained in their custody.
It was not a pleasant sight. Her old childhood friend—once proud and gallant—now looked every bit his fifty-four years. He rose from the cot he was lying down on as the gate swung open, weariness etched into his face, his clothes rumpled and his eyes tired. Yet, when his gaze fell upon them, he straightened and bowed his head with the ghost of old courtesy.
“Prin—Lady Rhaelle. Ser Stannis.” He caught himself at the last instant, the slip of her former title hanging in the air between them.
She wasn’t a Princess anymore, not after Aerys had stripped her off the title, and disowned her from the House Targaryen nearly a year ago in response to her calling the banners of Stormlands in defiance of Aerys before Robert had returned from the Vale. It had been a decree made by the Master of Laws Symond Staunton, and sent over all of the Realm.
“Lord Trystan,” Rhaelle returned softly, her voice composed but edged with something like sorrow.
She couldn’t help it—the twist of sorrow in her gut. Her closest friend, imprisoned in the dungeons of her own castle. She had never imagined their reunion would be like this. Before Aerys had murdered Lord Rickard Stark and his heir, she had even planned to travel to Starpike for a long-overdue visit to have a reunion with her old friend after years of only exchanging letters. But then the war had started, and Trystan had declared for the Royalists and marched against her grandson.
“To what, do I owe the pleasure of your presence,” Trystan asked, breaking the silence that had fallen after their greeting.
Rhaelle drew in a slow breath, ready to respond—but her throat tightened as she met his eyes. Those same sharp, familiar eyes that had once shone with wit and warmth now looked hollow, dulled by captivity and defeat. For a long, heavy moment, neither spoke. They only looked at each other—two old friends, separated by loyalty and war.
It was Stannis who finally broke the silence that had fallen between her and Trystan.
“You’ve been speaking to my great-uncle of a great many things, it seems, my lord.” He said, his gaze hard as he looked at Trystan.
Trystan’s gaze tore away from Rhaelle’s and settled on Stannis. Both men studied each other in wary silence—the young knight appraising the fallen Lord who’d been defeated by him, and the older man measuring the boy who’d held against his forces for nearly a year.
“Aye,” Trystan said at last, inclining his head to Stannis. “Ser Harbert offered to let me see my son, and promised to have him treated by your own Maester instead of other healers. And promised no further harm to him. In return, I gave him all the information I had—about our positions across the Stormlands and the Reach. So, if you both are here for more information I have nothing more to give.”
Stannis inclined his head slightly, before he spoke.
“We’re not here for more information Lord Peake rather we’re here to make you a offer.” He finished evenly.
Trystan’s eyes narrowed at Stannis, suspicion flashing across his face.
“If it involves breaking faith with our rightful rulers—the Targaryens—and to instead accept that Northern Heathen as my King, then my answer is already no,” Trystan said coldly his voice, though strained carried stubborn conviction.
Stannis scoffed. “You’ve already broken faith with your liege lords, Lord Peake. You gave us all the information, everything—where our men are imprisoned in the Reach, how many guard them. Tell me, is that what you call loyalty?”
Trystan’s jaw tightened in anger, his eyes flashing, but he bit back whatever response he had on his tongue.
“You call Eddard Stark a Northern Heathen,” Stannis continued, his voice cold amd cutting. “Yet at least he doesn’t burn people alive as your rightful King Aerys Targeryen does. And I find it surprising that you of all call the Targeryns the Rightful Rulers. Wasn’t it your House which supported the Blackfyres in three of their four Rebellions?Wasn’t it your own Grandsire and father’s Uprising which killed King Maekar—the same rebellion that made you a hostage for neigh thirteen years.”
Trystan bristled, his lips curling into a thin line. Rhaelle knew Stannis had struck a nerve—she’d always known the easiest way to get a reaction out of her old friend was to mention his family’s past. She knew why Stannis had done it But this was more than strategy. He’d dragged her old friend’s deepest wound into the open.
She remembered how sensative that topic had always been for Trystan. His grandsire’s uprising had cost him his father, and he’d been torn from his mother’s arms when he’d just been a toddler and not old enough to even remember her face. Though her own father had treated the boy more as a ward than a hostage, the court had not been kind. They had whispered and sneered, reminding him at every turn why he lived among them.
And all his life, her old friend had spent trying to restore his House’s reputation among his neighbours, which had been damaged due to the Peakes rebelling four times in less than a century—and even killing a King.
“Those were the actions of my forbears, not mine.” Trystan snapped back, his composure finally breaking. “I’ve been nothing but loyal to House Targaryen. Everyone knows that. I fought for King Aegon, against the Blackfyres as a squire at Battle of Wendwater Bridge. I fought for King Jaehaerys in the War of the Stepstones. And I’ve fought for the Targaryens in this Rebellion as well.”
“And yet,” Rhaelle interjected gently, her voice cutting through the charged silence like a calm breeze before a storm. “Your House hasn’t received the respect it deserves in the Reach. Despite you nothing but loyal—your multitude of services to the Iron Throne—there are still many in the Reach who look down upon House Peake with disdain… including the Tyrells themselves.”
Trystan didn’t bite back. He only looked at her — not angry, but hurt. The hurt in his eyes made her stomach twist with guilt. He had told her of that pain once, long ago, in his letters — the quiet humiliation of serving lords who would never truly forgive his bloodline. He had trusted her with that information, and now she was using it against him.
Her stomach clenched with guilt. For a heartbeat, she wanted to look away. But she forced herself to meet his gaze. He’s marched into my homelands, she reminded herself fiercely. He’d marched beneath the banners of the man who’d unjustly demanded Robert’s head. He’d been part of the army that had tried to starve out my grandsons in their own castle. Compared to that betrayal, her words were a small cruelty.
“And now despite whatever circumstances you’ve been under,” Rhaelle continued her voice steel now. “None in Reach would appreciate the information you gave to my Goodbrother.” Rhaelle continued her voice steel now. “Especially, when my grandson marches to Summerhall, and than into the heartlands of the Reach itself to free our men. And have no doubt he’ll take those castles and free our men which would lead to our men spilling in the heart of the Reach…” she let the words hang deliberately, “the lords of the Reach will not forget who helped make it possible.”
The last sentence was a bluff—both Rhaelle and Stannis knew it but Trystan didn’t. Stannis could take Summerhall and free the men there, but Starpike, Ashford and Longtable were another story entirely. They were the reason Stannis and Rhaelle were here to talk to Trystan at all.
“So what have you come here for?,” Trystan asked, voice dripping with mockery. “To tell me your grandson will be invading my homeland? You might win at Summerhall and free your men their, but you’ll not go unopposed at Starpike or Ashford. Those castles are not half-ruins like Summerhall—their fortifications are fully intact. You’ll not have free rein in the Reach.”
“Of Ashford, you’re right,” Stannis said flatly. “They’ll resist us. But Starpike…” he paused, letting the word hang heavy in the air. “I doubt it. Why would they resist when both their lord and his heir are in my custody?”
Trystan’s head snapped toward him, fury flashing in his eyes. “So that’s your plan, than?” he hissed. “To drag me and Titus to Starpike in chains and blackmail my men into surrendering? To threaten them with their lord’s life while you free your own?”
His words ended in a bitter snarl.
“No,” Stannis said simply. The calm certainty in his tone made Trystan falter.
“I could do that,” Stannis continued, unflinching. “I have every right to. But I’d rather not resort to that. I’d rather you ride beside me into the Reach—as an ally, rather than in chains. And tell your men to surrender, it’ll save me the time I’d have to spend threatening them into submission. And it’ll spare you from the humiliation of being dragged in front of your men in chains.”
Stannis let that hang for a moment before adding, almost casually, “And it’ll save your son from being dragged in chains with a broken leg. Instead he’d be left here as a honoured guest getting the best treatment from the Maesters.”
Trystan froze. Panic flickered in his eyes at the mention of his son—brief but unmistakable. Rhaelle caught it instantly, and she knew Stannis had seen it too. We have him, she thought for a heartbeat, hope rising in her chest.
But then Trystan schooled his expression—his expression hardening. And he met Stannis’s gaze again, his eyes were cold—guarded, resolute.
“As your lady grandmother herself said, Ser,” Trystan began, voice low and bitter, “none of the Reachlords will forget if I ride beside you and help free your men—men you will no doubt send to raise hell through the heart of the Reach. They’ll never forget it. They’ll never forgive House Peake for it. We are already looked down upon there. But If I agree to do this—ride beside you as you invade the Reach, it will doom my house. It will make every House in the Reach despise House Peake. It will end any possible future for House Peake in the Reach.”
He drew breath, each word heavy with the weight of a man who had spent his life trying to unmake a family’s sins. “I cannot risk House Peake’s future—not for the sake of me and my son.”
A short pause followed this declaration as Stannis and Rhaelle exchanged a look this was it the moment they’d been waiting for.
Stannis had anticipated exactly this, why Peake would refuse the offer and her, Stannis, Harbert and Lord Selwyn had come up with a solution for it.
“You yourself said that your House is still looked down with suspicion and disdain in the Reach, Lord Trystan,” Rhaelle began cautiously. “And we anticipated you’d be reluctant to take any action which would turn already bad situation worse. But the truth is—the situation is already irrevocable, Trystan.”
Trystan’s gaze had turned to her, and he looked at her quizically.
“You yourself admitted it,” she pressed looking him directly in the eye. “Despite your loyalty for the past decades your House is still looked down upon. Despite your services of the past five decades. And frankly that’s not going to change especially now that you gave up all the military positions in the Reach, regardless of your reasons the Lords of the Reach will never forgive you for it for giving up information that led to the invasion of the Reach, and it doesn’t matter now if you are taken to Starpike in chains or go as a ally you’ll be called turncloak for giving up information. The shame will not be erased by time.”
She let the accusation sit a moment, then softened into the bargain. “So, I’ll offer you a way out now. If you agree to ride beside my grandson and tell your men to surrender at Starpike. I—Rhaelle Targaryen Baratheon, Lady Dowager of Storm’s End— will secure sanctuary for House Peake in the Stormlands. I will bring your case before my grandson Robert when he returns; he was raised with King Eddard so we’ll take word to him as well and both will take note of your actions. I’ll ensure you are awarded with new lands in either the Crownlands and Stormlands to settle on away from the Reach where your reputation would still be tainted.”
Her voice hardened. “Or you can resist and refuse to accept are generous offer and my grandson will drag you to Starpike in chains. And he’ll take Ashford and Longtable one by one. And once the War is over and we’ve won which let me assure you we will because we’ve already received news that my grandson and Lord Tully have taken King’s Landing and Lord Tywin has joined them.”
The last part was untrue. They had no sure news that Robert and Lord Tully had taken King’s Landing. They hadn’t recieved any news about the events North of Blackwater. But the lie was a necessary one; sometimes a lie in war was the sharper weapon. Rhaelle did not flinch as she used it. It was needed to convince Trystan.
“Your countrymen have no chance of getting north of the Blackwater,” Rhaelle continued with firmness. “So after we’ve won the War, you will have only two choices: you can go back to the Reach with everyone having the knowledge that you were the one who gave up information which made the invasion of the Reach possible or you can accept our offer and survive—with your house preserved in new lands.”
Trystan fell silent then, his face folded into thought. The dungeon’s cold and the weight of their words pressed upon him. He considered his son, his line, the scorn that had dogged his House for generations. He weighed honor against survival, pride against pragmatism
At last, he looked up and made to speak. The room held its breath.
“Aye, you both are right,” Trystan said, his voice quiet, almost hollow. “My House has no future left in the Reach now.”
The man looked like it was eating his soul as he said those words finally.
Rhaelle’s heart twisted with pity, for her old friend. It had to be agony for him to admit what had been the truth for neigh a century now. For nearly a century, House Peake had lived under suspicion.Their ancestors’ folly—backing the Blackfyres in rebellion after rebellion—had doomed their name. It had been a well known fact that House Peake had only supported the Blackfyres in all their Rebellions, in exchange for promises of the Lord Paramountcy of the Reach. A fact which hadn’t gone unnoticed by their Liege Lords, and they’d earned only ruin for their ambitions. The Tyrells had never forgotten and had worked to steadily chip away the Peakes of influence in the Reach, and to isolate them in the Reach. Which had been one of the reasons for the Peake Uprising as well as the punishments the Crown had levied upon House Peake with each Rebellion of the Blackfyres they participated in.
Although Trystan had tried his best, House Peake still hadn’t recovered.
“But,” Trystan continued after a long moment, snapping her out of her thoughts. “Starpike and it’s lands have been the home of Peakes from the days of the First Men. I can’t abandon those lands for some new start in the Stormlands or Crownlands my House’s whole history lies there.”
Rhaelle and Stannis exchanged wary glances—they couldn’t see where he was going with this.
“My Lady, Ser Stannis,” Trystan said, steadying himself. “I have another proposal for you. I will ride beside you, Ser Stannis.” He looked at Stannis here directly.
“I’ll ride by your side to Starpike, and order my men to open the gates for you and your men. The imprisoned Stormlanders will be freed. In return, you’ll offer both my son bread and salt for Guest Right, so that I know no harm will come to him while I am riding with your grandson and his forces—and that your maester will see to his care.”Trystan looked directly at her.
Rhaelle gave a nod at that after a few moments of consideration. There was some risk of him reneging on his promises if they couldn’t harm his son after they’d given the boy guest rights but she doubted Trystan would renege on his words now.
Seeing her nod, Trystan turned his gaze to Stannis. “While we are passing through my lands in the Reach, you’ll hold your men back from plunder and looting. You can do as you please in the rest of Reach, but not in my lands.” Trystan finished firmly as he looked at Stannis.
Stannis for his part seemed to consider it for barely a moment before giving a curt nod.
Trystan closed his eyes, and took a deep breath after this and murmured a prayer.
“My third and final demand is the most important. I refuse to abandon my ancestral lands and castle, but I admit House Peake has no future in the Reach. So if you agree to what I ask, I will have garrison I have at Starpike marching with your men to take Ashford and Longtable, and wherever else you require afterwards.”
That made Stannis’s interest visibly perk up —a rare sight, given how seldom her grandson allowed his emotions to show. Rhaelle knew well that he had been worried: even if they managed to free their men at Starpike without bloodshed, they’d still have trouble at Ashford due to the fact they’d have to garrison behind at Starpike. But if the garrison at Starpike agreed to join them instead, that would change everything, they’d have additional men when they marched to take Ashford, amd Longtable and wouldn’t have to leave behind a garrison—it would be a considerable advantage.
Rhaelle, however still felt wary. Trystan Peake was too shrewd to offer so much for nothing.
Trystan took another deep breath before speaking;
“You’ll annex the lands of House Peake into the Stormlands. Instead of Highgarden Starpike will be sworn to Storm’s End. And its lands, its revenues, and its swords will belong to the Stormlands.”
The room fell utterly silent.
A/N:-
Sheesh, the strategy for Blackwater took a lot of time to perfect. Thanks to Sammy_9674 for listening to me rant multiple strategies before I came up with this and he helped me out a lot with those strategies.
Also, I only recently learnt that Lord Celtigar was given a name in cannon so I will apologise for using the Bartimus Celtigar one and I’ll be using Adrian Celtigar now.
Also, before I came up with this plan for Paxter sending news to Fellwood because they could get it to the Reach host I had seen a wrong map which showed Fellwood right in middle of King’s wood inroute to King’s Landing but after seeing more accurate maps I’d like to apolagise for that one.
PS: Please do leave comments if u can. I absolutely love to hear your guys’s opinons and views that also gets my brain running with ideas for chapters and all 😁😁😁😁.