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283 AC, The Trident—Riverlands  

The Trident ran red that day.  

It was said the river had never flowed so fast or so dark, thick with mud and blood, clogged with the bodies of men and horses. Thunder rolled in the sky though no storm brewed. But no one looked up. All eyes were on the riverbank, where two men sat their mounts, staring each other down.  

Because on the shallows of the river, beneath grey skies and swirling currents, two men sat their mounts and stared one another down. And in that moment, the war paused.  

Ned could feel the weight of Ice in his hands, the Valayrian steel bloody with the deaths it had already claimed. He didn’t remember cutting his way through the chaos—he barely recalled the soldiers who had tried to stop him. All he remembered was seeing him.

Rhaegar Targaryen.      

Silver-haired and resplendent in black armor, the rubies on his chestplate catching what little light broke through the clouds. His great cloak shimmered like a pool of night behind him. His sword, forged for royalty, dripped blood. He was not some madman frothing at the mouth like his father. No, Rhaegar looked calm. Composed. As if he truly believed he had done no wrong.  

And that only made it worse.  

Ned’s jaw clenched. He could still hear Brandon’s strangled breath, could still smell the fire that consumed his father despite not being there. Those screams despite the fact he never heard them in reality still haunted his dreams every night. Could still see Lyanna’s smile, fading into memory. She was somewhere far away, in a tower or dungeon, because of this man. His sister. His family. All gone because of these two madmen.  

Rhaegar moved first. Not a charge—he walked his horse forward and raised his voice over the battlefield.  

“Lord Stark,” he called. “This needn’t end this way.”  

It took all of Ned’s strength not to kill him right then.  

“You murdered my father,” Ned growled, his voice barely carrying above the roar of the river. “And my brother.”  

“I gave no such order—”    

“You took my sister!” Ned roared, and now he did charge, kicking his horse into a full gallop, Ice raised high.  

Rhaegar met him, sword flashing. The blades met with a crack like thunder.    

Steel rang against steel again and again, louder than the screams around them, louder than the clash of armies. The men around them stopped fighting, enthralled by the duel. The Rebellion’s heart beat between those two swords.  

Rhaegar was fast. Faster than Ned expected. Every swing of his blade was clean, graceful, almost beautiful. He fought like a man trained by masters, a warrior-prince shaped by the most skilled Knights in the Realm. And Ned—Ned fought like a man with nothing left to lose.    

They fought in the shallows, boots slipping in the mud, horses rearing, water sloshing around them. Blood spilled — not just from their blades but from their bodies. Ned felt a cut open along his ribs. Another sliced near his collarbone. His arms burned from the force of every parried blow.  

Still, he pressed forward.  

“Stark!” Rhaegar gasped as their blades locked. “Please—listen to me!”  

“I’ve heard enough,” Ned snarled.  

“She wanted to come with me.”  

That gave Ned pause. Just a breath, a blink.  

“She—” Rhaegar panted. “Lyanna is not my prisoner, Stark. She came of her own will. There is more to this than—than—”  

Rhaegar’s sword struck hard, slicing a deep line across Ned’s side. Ice fell from his grasp. He staggered back, nearly collapsing.  

“Yield,” Rhaegar said, panting, his sword point inches from Ned’s throat. “Please. I don't want to kill you.”  

But Ned wasn’t hearing him.  

His mind wasn’t on the battlefield anymore.  

It was in Riverrun. A distant memory—Lady Catelyn’s hand on his cheek, her belly gently rounding beneath her dress. Their child. Their future. The family he wanted to build. The life his child deserved. All of it would die here if he surrendered. Because, Nay these monsters already killed his father, and brother—he had no delusions that his family, his unborn child wouldn't be killed by these madmen of a family.  

The prince said something more—about songs, or dragons, or destiny—but Ned didn’t hear it. He surged forward with a snarl, grabbing Ice from the mud and swinging upward in one desperate arc.  

Rhaegar blocked it, but barely. The blow drove him back.  

Ned attacked again. And again.  

His strength was draining. Blood seeped from him, but rage kept him moving. Memories drove his blade. Lyanna laughing in the snow. Brandon riding with a grin. His father’s calm voice. Winterfell.  

He struck high, then low, then feinted — and Rhaegar fell for it.  

Ned twisted, roared, and drove Ice through the gap beneath Rhaegar’s arm, straight into his chest.  

The ruby-studded armor cracked.  

Rhaegar gasped. He staggered, eyes wide, sword falling from his hand.  

And then, with one last surge of fury, Ned ripped Ice free and brought it down upon Rhaegar’s helm.  

The metal shattered. The blade split the prince’s skull.  

The Valayrian steel cracked through Rhaegar’s skull, cleaving from brow to crown.  

Blood and brains spilled into the river. The rubies burst free, scattering across the shallows like shattered glass. The prince fell from his horse with a final splash, and the river took him.  

His blood mingled with the river. His rubies scattered in the shallows like a king’s tears.  

It was done.  

Silence.  

The battlefield froze. Stark bannermen stared in disbelief. Royalists dropped their swords and fled. The rebellion had no more enemies.  

The war, in that moment, ended.  

Ned stood shaking in the water, barely upright, Ice still in his hand, Rhaegar’s blood on his face. He looked down at the fallen prince—this man who had spoken of songs, who had taken his sister, who had died talking of prophecy—and felt nothing.  

Not triumph.   

Not peace.  

Just... tiredness.  

And as his Northern bannermen rushed toward him, cheering, crying, calling him King, Ned Stark looked at the blood on his hands and thought only of Lyanna.  

And how nothing—not even a crown—would matter until she was safe. 

The cheers still rang. Even a hour after the Battle had ended.

Somewhere not far from the river’s edge, men were shouting his name like it was a prayer, a banner, a song.

“Stark! King Stark!”

“Winter has come for the dragon!”

“The North remembers!”

“Long live the King!”

"The Wolf King!"

And all Eddard Stark could feel was cold.

He sat hunched in a chair outside the command tent, his side freshly stitched and bandaged, his sword cleaned but leaning against the mud-splattered canvas. His breath came shallow. Every movement sent bolts of pain through his ribs. But that wasn’t what truly ached.

It was the weight in his chest.

He didn't remember who begun it was his bannermen, his own Northern Bannermen. Aye, they were the one's who'd begun the cheers of King Eddard right after he'd killed Rhaegar. Then the cheer had spread among the common soldiers, and he despairs over it still.

It was never supposed to be this way.

They’d made the pact—all four of them. He, Robert, Hoster, and Jon. After defeating Connington. After the weddings, between Ned and Catelyn, and between Jon and Lysa. The agreement had been plain and private: Rhaegar and Aerys must die, and Robert must be king. They would fight together, bleed together, and when the dragon was dead, Robert would take the crown, and the rest would return home to rebuild.

It had been the only plausible way than Robert was the only one with a blood claim —despite how distant—to that dammed Throne of the Targaryens.

And they'd decided to keep it quiet, and not make it common knowledge until they had given the Royalists another brutal defeat. And that perhaps would've made the situation right now avoidable. If just they'd, proclaimed Robert King publicly before now. It would've been fine.

But, they hadn't on the notion of wanting a great victory over the Royalists before they could.

But then—

He had killed Rhaegar.

Not Robert.

Ned didn’t even remember how. It had been a blur of rage, grief, and steel. When Ice split Rhaegar’s skull and his rubies spilled into the river like shattered glass, the Northern host had cried out at once:

“King in the North! King in the North!”

Joined, by the chants of "King Eddard".From the Lord's and common soldiers of the Vale, Riverlands, and Stormlands, alike. 

And that would’ve been a disaster if it ended there. But it hadn’t.

Hoster had joined in.

Not immediately. No, the Lord of Riverrun had paused, weighing. Always weighing. But when his bannermen and commonfolk alike began to chant—and saw that Robert’s own stormlords and men were also chanting—Hoster stepped forward and declared, “Let it be known: my good-son Eddard Stark is king by right of conquest and valor.”

And that had sealed Ned's fate.

And suddenly, the cry was everywhere. “King Ned! King Eddard! Long live the Wolf King!”

No vote. No ceremony. Just a tide of war-drum hearts and tired swords, and now it was done.

There was no taking it back.

Although, to be fair to Lord Hoster the chance to take it back had been lost long before he'd arrived when the common soldiers had began chanting, and more specifically when the Lord's from outside the North had begun chanting. 

All, this could have been avoided ofcourse. If they simply had declared their intent to crown Robert before this Battle back at Riverrun when they'd decided it.

But, now it could not be taken back. Now, Ned was King and it was further being set in stone right before him in this very tent.

Inside the tent, where the lords had gathered after the Battle. The great and the proud. Hoster Tully, his good-father, seated near the head of the council. Jon Arryn, quiet and pale. Robert Baratheon, broad-shouldered and bloody, kneeling.

Kneeling.

Before him.

Before Eddard Stark.

And all Ned could do was clench his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from screaming.

It was never supposed to be this way.

He was Ned Stark, second born of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell. He'd never meant to be Lord of Winterfell much less King of Westeros.

Robert had said nothing at first. Just looked at him—blood on his brow, relief in his eyes—and then nodded.

And knelt.

Swore the oath. “I, Robert of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands do swear fealty to King Eddard of House Stark, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm..."

Jon followed.

So did the rest.

And all the while, Ned sat on the head of the table, watching the sun fade giving way to a orange sky, and thought of Winterfell.

Of Benjen.

His baby brother—so full of fire, barely past his first tour of the Wall, still awkward in his armor. The boy who was third-born, never meant to rule. Now, he would have to be Lord of Winterfell. He would inherit the Warden’s cloak. Because Ned—Ned would be chained to a throne, trapped behind stone walls and courtiers and plots in the South.

He'd be all alone in Winterfell. The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and the lone Stark in Winterfell. He'd face, all the burdens of ruling the North alone. He's even less trained than me in heirship and ruling that was all Ned could think off. His baby brother all alone with no one to help him learn and having to prove himself to Northern Lords.

And Catelyn.

Gods, his wife who was never meant to be his.......

He’d left her at Riverrun with his child in her womb. His firstborn. He should be riding back to her, should be preparing Winterfell for the babe’s birth, should be building a world for them in the North.

Instead... this.

A crown on his head.

A throne that would never feel like home.

A burden that would weigh down every child he ever had. 

Weigh down their children and grandchildren as well. 

Aye, he had put a unforgivable burden on himself and his line.

He bowed his head. The wind picked up, cold and sharp, cutting across the Trident like it had a blade of its own.

Ned whispered aloud—to no one, to the gods, to the dead.

"This crown should’ve been yours, Robert. Not mine. I never wanted it."

He clenched his eyes shut and thought of the direwolves under the snow. The crypts. The weirwood. The gods of the North.

And of Benjen, alone now in Winterfell.

A lone wolf. And a boy who would have to become Lord far too soon.

He shook those thoughts off. Nay, he couldn't let himself fall in self pity their was still a War to be won. A Mad King to be killed, a capital and throne to be secured and more important than it all Lyanna needed to be found. 

Ned closed his eyes.

But try as he might, he couldn’t keep his voice from rising again in his mind.

"She wanted to come with me."

"Lyanna is not my prisoner."

"There is more to this than—"

Lies. Lies. They had to be lies.

Rhaegar had been desperate. Wounded. Bleeding. Cornered. He had known he would not walk away from that river alive. He had tried to trick him, like all Targaryens did when their blood turned hot and their backs were against the wall. It was a ploy — that’s all it had been. An attempt to make Ned doubt. To make him falter.

And yet…

The words kept echoing.

No. No. No.

Ned shook his head, hard, as though that alone could drive the memory away. He would not believe it. He could not.

Lyanna would never go with him.

Not willingly.

Not after what they’d done to their family.

Not after what that damned House had taken from the Starks.

Rhaegar was just like his father — just better dressed. Polished. Smiling. Cold. Madness ran in their veins like blood. And some just hid it behind charisma and charm.

Ned stared at the ground, the mud still wet with blood, the heels of his boots still red with it. It had been no elopement. It had been abduction. Which than led to Murder. And than War.

And Lyanna… Lyanna needed to be found.

Alive.

Or gods forbid — avenged.

His jaw tightened. He wouldn’t waste time chasing ghosts or riddles. He had a realm to secure, a throne to take before others seized it in the chaos. And he was too wounded, too weak, too far gone to lead the charge himself.

But Robert could.

And Hoster would ride with him, if only to keep him from burning King’s Landing to ash.

He sat up straighter, teeth gritted through the pain, and called through the tent’s flaps, “Ser Robar!”

The knight entered quickly, pausing to bow. “Your Grace?”

Ned flinched at the title. But he nodded, slowly. “Send word to Lord Hoster and Lord Robert. I want them in my tent within the hour. And ready to march.”

Robar nodded once, and turned to go.

“And Ser Robar?” Ned called after him.

The knight turned. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Tell the maester I want letters drawn. To the lords of the Reach and the Westerlands. To Dorne. The war is not done.”

Robar bowed again and departed, his footsteps swallowed by the wind.

Ned leaned back against the chair, groaning as his wound flared. He would stay here. Tend to the wounded. Hold the army together. Be… a king, if he must.

But Robert—he would ride to the capital.

He would bring fire and fury to Aerys’s doorstep.

And Ned would pray that somewhere beyond all the ruin, Lyanna still waited.

That night, around the same battered war table where Robert had bent the knee just hours earlier, Ned gave his first command as king.

“Take your banners,” he said, voice firm despite the rasp. “And take the city. Secure the Red Keep. Bring me Aerys Targaryen alive, if you can. The royal family, too.”

Robert snorted. “You expect me to bring the Mad King back in chains?”

“I expect you to act with restraint,” Ned said, eyes narrowing. “You swore your oath, Robert. As your King, I’m ordering you. Take King’s Landing. Do not sack it. Do not burn it.”

“And if he resists?”

“Then you do what must be done.” Ned’s voice dropped. “But don’t make me regret this.”

Robert hesitated. Then nodded once, slowly. “As you command… Your Grace.”

Ned sighed. Hoster looked between them both with a calculating gaze and nodded in agreement. "I'll ride with him. I’ll make sure cooler heads prevail.”

Jon Arryn remained silent, his face as pale as the banners overhead.

283 AC—The Riverlands 

The Morning After the Trident

The sun had barely begun its climb when the horns blew.

Fourteen thousand men moved with steel and purpose, banners flying proud and high. The direwolf. The trout. The crowned stag. And at the head of it all, two riders led the column — one heavy and broad-shouldered, clad in battered plate and a crimson cloak, his great warhammer slung across his back. The other older, dignified in Tully colors, his grey hair stirring in the soft breeze.

Robert Baratheon and Hoster Tully rode for King’s Landing.

The morning was too bright, too golden for Robert’s mood. He squinted up at the sky, then spat into the dirt and muttered something about the gods having a piss-poor sense of humor. Because how could the sun shine so smugly over a world where so much had gone wrong?

He looked back once, just once, to the Trident.

The river still ran red.

And Rhaegar’s rubies still gleamed on the shore, bright and mocking. Scattered like pieces of prophecy and madness.

Robert scowled. “Bloody fool,” he thought. "bloody, silver-haired, harp-playing, kidnapping, crypt-licking fool.”

Rhaegar Targaryen. That wretched name still soured his tongue.

He had to take her, Robert thought darkly, gripping his reins so tight his knuckles went white. Had to steal her. Could’ve had anyone in the damm Realm, but no — he had to take my Lyanna.

Hoster cast him a sidelong glance but said nothing. The River Lord was no fool. He knew when Robert was winding up, like a storm building behind the trees.

She never wanted him, Robert thought ofcourse. She’d never want a Targaryen freak, prattling about songs and stars and prophecies. She’s a Stark — proud and sharp and Northern. She’s not like other Ladies she's mine.

His chest heaved. Sweat clung to his brow despite the morning chill. The warhammer on his back felt heavier than ever. He could feel the old wounds from Summerhall and Ashford flaring again, aching reminders of battles hard-fought and never quite won.

But soon. Soon.

“I’ll find her,” Robert muttered to no one in particular. I’ll bring her home he promised to himself. I’ll marry her, like I promised. No crown. No pomp. Just a ring and a kiss and the Stormlands at her feet. She’ll love it there. Soft breezes, clean air, strong wine.

He smiled then, for just a moment. A real smile. The thought of her in Storm's End, laughing, riding on her horse through the fields, her hair blowing in the wind…

They’d visit Ned, of course. Maybe once or twice a year. Gods knew the poor bastard would be chained to that damned throne now. Counting coppers. Holding court. Wrangling squabbling lords. But he’d be good at it.

Too good, Robert thought with a snort. He was glad that Ned took the Kingship instead of him Robert didn't want to be King at all. And, now the man who was becoming King was a man Robert would follow to the Hells if he asked. And Robert wouldn't have to take anymore responsibility than Stormlands now.

Ned had always been the responsible one. The careful one. Always thinking. Always weighing honor against need. And  he loved him for that. More than any brother of his own blood.

Aye, he’d serve the Realm better than Robert ever could. And if anyone raised a stink about bloodlines or dragonseed, Robert would plant his hammer in their teeth. That would shut them up quick enough.

There was another worry, too — one he hadn’t spoken of yet, even to Jon or Ned.

Storm’s End.

His home. His brothers.

Stannis had been holding the keep for months now, under siege by that fat sack of wind, Mace Tyrell, and the Reach. They were running low on food, likely on men too. If the siege broke before he reached them…

No. No, he couldn’t let himself think like that.

Stannis would hold. That stubborn bastard would hold the gate if it meant chewing on boot leather for dinner. Renly too, gods help him, though the boy was likely curled under a blanket somewhere with a book and a scowl.

“I’m coming, boys,” he murmured aloud. “Just hold a little longer.”

He'd tear apart Highgarden if a single hair on his brother's head was harmed. He'd salt Highgarden and the fields around it kill every man, with the name Tyrell if anything happened to either of his brothers.

But first… King’s Landing.

His gaze turned forward again, toward the road ahead. King’s Landing.

The thought of it filled him with unease.

Not fear — Robert Baratheon feared no man — but unease. The city was still under Aerys’s rule, still full of lion-men and gold cloaks and secrets. And though the crown prince was dead, the Mad King still sat his iron throne. And that snake Tywin Lannister was said to be marching to that city and Robert and Hoster planned to force march and reach the city first.

Robert knew they'd have to break the gates as soon as possible and take the city before Tywin Lannister could reinforce it. And Robert planned to drag the bastard out of Ned's throne by his beard.

But Ned had been clear. “Take him alive,” he’d said, grim-faced and bloodied in that damned tent. “Take them all alive.”

Robert still didn’t understand that part. He could see the logic in sparing Elia Martell, perhaps. Or the children. The Dornish would riot if they were slaughtered, and they needed peace — not another warfront. And he could even understand sparing Rhaella and her brat Viserys could be sent to the Watch.

But Aerys?

Why take him alive?

“Maybe Ned wants to hang him,” Robert said aloud, then chuckled. “Aye. A public execution. Drag the mad bastard through the streets, then take his head clean off. That’d be justice.”

Still… it rubbed him wrong. Letting that monster breathe a moment longer.

Robert looked at the men behind him — hardened and hungry from weeks of war. Some were good lads. Some were animals just waiting for their leash to snap. And if the gates of King’s Landing opened and there was no discipline?

It would be a sack.

Fire. Rape. Butchery. Innocents screaming.

Just like… like what had happened at Gulltown.

Ned had made him swear. “No sack.”

That had been the one command he’d made twice — once to Robert, once to Hoster. And Robert had seen it in his eyes. Not just an order. A plea.

He would honor that.

“Any man who raises a torch or draws a blade on a woman or child — I’ll break their bones myself,” Robert growled to no one, but the wind seemed to listen. “This isn’t revenge. It’s justice. And I won’t see Ned’s reign begin in fire.”

He spurred his horse faster, mud flying from his boots, his jaw set.

Let the Dragons hide in their keep.

Let the Mad King scream and rant in his castle.

Robert Baratheon was coming.

And though the crown had passed him by, his war was not done.

A/N:-

This fic was a idea that came from a reedit post talking about what if Ned killed Rhaegar and was injured and thus Robert went to King's Landing and than Tower of Joy. And this fic will be centred around the Rebellion which I plan on extending a little due to some stuff and in this au and I have the next few chapters already written and will upload and all asap but I hope you guys enjoy this.

PS:I very much like when my readers  comment their views on my chapter and I always take it in stride and Constructive Criticism is welcome.

Btw, if any of you have a suggestion about which tags to add please do give them to me.

Chapter Text

283 AC, Storm's End — 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 siege of Storm’s End continued—men hammering at their daily labors of digging, fortifying, watching. But inside, war itself was changing.

News had come. And with it, questions.

“…It’s confirmed,” said Ser Baelor Hightower, heir to Oldtown and son of Lord Leyton. He stood tall and somber, his voice measured. “Prince Rhaegar is dead. Slain in single combat on the Trident. The Royal host shattered. Eddard Stark was proclaimed King and commands what remains of the rebel armies, and they are marching south to take King's Landing.” 

A long pause followed. No one spoke. The death of Rhaegar Targaryen was no small matter—it was a star falling from the sky, a cornerstone of the realm crumbling beneath them. For some, it was a tragedy. For others, an opportunity.

Lord Trystan Peake—thick-necked, florid-faced, and unshakably proud—frowned into his goblet. “And what of the royal family? King Aerys? Prince Viserys? Queen Rhaella? Princess Elia and her children?”

Ser Baelor unfolded a second parchment. “A raven from King’s Landing arrived before the Stark letter. King Aerys commands all loyal subjects to march for the capital immediately. He expects our swords.”

“And the Stark letter?” asked Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, seated with his fingers steepled. His voice was careful. “We received it only hours later.”

Baelor nodded. “It bears Eddard Stark’s personal seal. He commands us to end the siege of Storm’s End, return to the Reach, and offer no resistance while his forces enter the capital. He claims Rhaegar’s death grants him right of conquest.”

The tent erupted in a dozen overlapping voices. "The gall!" spat one lord. "A usurper!" cried another. "It’s treason if we yield!"

Lord Randyll Tarly stood silent through it all, arms crossed, his green cloak brushing the ground. When he spoke, the others fell quiet. “The boy may follow be young and a fool, but he’s not wrong. He did win. And with the Royal Host entirely lost, we must act before the crown is taken from it's rightful bearers entirely.”

Lord Matthos Rowan nodded in firm agreement. “Our duty is to the Iron Throne. To yield now would be to declare our Reachmen cravens and oathbreakers.”

“Aye,” came Baelor Hightower, his voice full of conviction. “Our oaths were sworn to House Targaryen, and to King Aerys the Rightful King, and those can't be cast aside because a boy who follows False God's, and killed the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, presumes to reach above his station, and claim the South. And reinstate the Barbarian ways, of the First Men like the Right of First Night, and blood sacrifices not just in his own Frozen Wasteland, but in the heart of the South itself..”

Many of the Reachlords straightened at Ser Baelor’s words. His voice, though calm, rang with the fervor of conviction, and it carried well in the close, sweltering air of the command tent. Even those who had been hesitant moments ago were now nodding.

Lord Garlan Ashford murmured something approving to his cousin, his golden spurs jangling softly. Lord Matthis Rowan gave an audible “Well said,” while Lord Trystan Peake was already half out of his seat, hand curled into a fist.

Even Mace Tyrell, normally eager to speak first and think second, seemed taken by the moment. His usually ruddy face had settled into something more solemn as he offered Baelor his Goodbrother nod of approval.

Baelor’s tone grew stronger. “This Stark who would claim kingship with a Valyrian blade and a wildling’s customs,” he said, his eyes sweeping across the assembled Reachlords, “would see the Seven Kingdoms broken under his ancient barbarian ways. He does not kneel to the Faith. He does not kneel to the Crown. He kneels only to war.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent.

Baelor took a step forward, his hand resting lightly on the map. “Would you see this war end with wolves howling in the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast? With the Queen slain? With royal children put to the sword and the Red Keep given over to traitors and savages? That is what follows conquest. That is the blood price of rebellion. Our children and their's would be forced to slave away to that Barbarian and his .”

Lord Mathis Rowan thumped a mailed fist on the table. “Then let the Reach march! For the King!”

“Aye!” came from Lord Garlan Ashford.

“Aerys is still the King,” growled Trystan Peake. “And we are not oathbreakers.”

Baelor Hightower inclined his head, as though bowing to their sense of duty. But in the corner, Lord Randyll Tarly did not speak. His sharp green eyes watched Baelor with cool appraisal, arms still crossed over his chest. Unimpressed. Unmoved.

Baelor noticed.

He turned slightly, his words now aimed not at the willing, but the wary. “What would the alternative be? To stand down at the demand of a man who has no crown, no coronation, and no blood right? A Stark ruling from the Iron Throne would be as absurd as a Manderly ruling the Reach.”

That drew chuckles from some, nods from others. The loudest chuckle came from Mace Tyrell.

But then Paxter Redwyne raised a hand.

The laughter died quickly.

“My lords,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, “all this talk of honor, oaths, and barbarian gods is fine. And Ser Baelor, your words are stirring indeed. But allow me to remind you that this is no longer a matter of sentiment. It is one of strategy.”

The Lords turned toward the Lord of the Arbor, whose brow furrowed as he leaned forward.

“Lord Hoster Tully and Robert Baratheon are force-marching south from the Trident,” Paxter said. “Fourteen thousand men, and they are days ahead of Stark and Arryn—Eddard wounded, Jon Arryn held back to tend him.”

He let that hang in the air.

“That is not the danger.”

Some eyebrows rose.

“The danger is Tywin Lannister.”

That name silenced the tent more effectively than any shout.

Paxter steepled his fingers. “He marches with eleven thousand from the west. His raven makes no allegiance clear. We do not know where he will stand—whether he rides for Aerys, or to join the rebels. And if it is the latter, then we may soon face twenty-five thousand seasoned men, veterans of the Trident and men of Casterly Rock…outside the gates of King’s Landing itself.”

“We outnumber them!” Mace Tyrell thumped his goblet down with more force than grace, sloshing Arbor gold over his maps. “Even if Rebels and  Lannisters join forces—and that is no small if—they would not have more than twenty-five thousand. We’ve fifty-five thousand swords outside this cursed castle! Even if the hosts of Arryn and Stark come to join them, and even than we remain the realm’s largest host!”

Lord Paxter Redwyne frowned deeply, shaking his head. “You speak of numerical superiority, but what of prudence? Tywin Lannister marches with eleven thousand men. If he means to support the Rebels, we may find ourselves trapped between the lion’s claws and the rebel spear. No man here trusts Tywin, not even those who fought with him in the war of Stepstones.”

Mace scoffed. “Tywin Lannister is a coward. He’s waited until the blood’s been spilled and the victors are clear. He'll rush to crown whoever sits the throne next. But if he dares raise arms against the Reach, we shall remind him why we are the breadbasket and the bulwark of Westeros.”

“But they would meet us at our weakest, exhausted from the march North, with atleast a part of our host left here to continue the siege,” Paxter countered. “Our lines would be long and exposed. They could trap us between their armies and the city walls.”

Baelor Hightower’s face darkened. “You suggest we cower? That we let traitors take the capital without challenge?”

“I suggest we not blunder into a battle we are not prepared to win,” Paxter replied, sharper now. “There is no valor in being crushed between hammer and anvil while King Aerys waits safely behind the walls, doing gods know what.”

Lord Randyll Tarly finally uncrossed his arms. “Lord Paxter speaks wisely. Tywin Lannister does nothing without purpose. If he meant to save Aerys, he would have ridden sooner. That he rides now—after Rhaegar’s death—tells us all we need to know.”

Mace Tyrell’s face flushed. “We do not yield to cowardice. We are the Reach. We will crush any force that defies the Throne.”

Randyll’s voice was like cold iron. “Then do it smartly. Leaving Stannis Baratheon alive at our backs would be foolish. He is stubborn, vengeful, and dangerous.”

“That is true,” Baelor agreed. “He has withstood this siege beyond all expectations. His men feed on rats and leather, and still he will not yield. If we march all our strength away, he may sally forth—or worse, attack us from the back, while we are stuck fighting his brother, and possibly the Lannisters.”

Tarly turned to the war map, pointing with a gloved finger. “We leave five thousand men to maintain the siege of Storm’s End. Lord Alester Florent and Lord Trystan Peake will remain in command. Paxter leaves twenty ships to continue the blockade here. The remaining forty sail east, to join the Royal fleet under Lord Velaryon and prepare for a counteroffensive should the rebels take the city or attempt to blockade it and support our supply lines.”

Mace Tyrell bristled. “Dividing our strength weakens us. Every sword counts.”

“It’s not a matter of strength, but strategy,” Tarly snapped. "If you leave, Storm's End unattended I assure you Stannis Baratheon will come fuck us in the Rear."

Mace looked ready to argue, but Baelor placed a steadying hand on his arm.

“Fifty thousand will still march with you to King’s Landing, Mace,” he said gently. “We remain the largest host in the realm. That will not change.”

Mace exhaled, slowly. “Very well. Five thousand stay. But none more we are going to need as many swords we can get to crush this Rebellion.”

“Five thousand remain. Twenty ships. If need arises, we have five thousand more men already in the northern Stormlands occupying different castles. If necessary, they’ll reinforce Lord Florent. The rest—with us, to King’s Landing,” Randyll concluded. “We must move quickly.”

At last, Lord Mace Tyrell leaned back in his camp chair, jaw tight but no longer arguing. “So be it,” he muttered. “Let the record show that the Reach did not falter. That we marched in strength to defend our king, and if need be, to put down this usurper and his traitor wolves.”

Ser Baelor Hightower looked over the gathered lords, many of whom were already nodding in agreement or motioning to scribes and captains waiting at the edges of the tent. He took a breath, and though his words were calm, they lacked all joy.

“Then we are agreed,” he said. “We march for the capital. To defend our King Aerys, to uphold the rights of his children and grandchildren, and to drive the wolves back into their frozen wilds. To defend the throne of the dragon.”

There were murmurs of assent. The scribes stepped forward with fresh parchment. Messengers were summoned. Horns would soon sound across the Reach camp. Within a day or two, five thousand would prepare to stay behind, while fifty thousand others broke camp and readied for the long march north.

None of them—not Mace, not Baelor, not even Randyll—knew how close they now stood to the final days of the Targaryen dynasty.

And in the high tower of the Red Keep, behind closed doors, King Aerys II Targaryen waited, flames dancing in his eyes, and wildfire gathering beneath his feet.

A/N:-

The next chapter will be out today as well in a few hours atmost. Tell me how you liked this and please leave your comments those are what actually encourage me a lot so it'll be appreciated if you leave comments and next chapter or in the one after that I'll try to put on a map of what's currently going on and in my eyes when the Reach Armies invaded they atleast had to occupy a part of the Stormlands and I decided on the Northern one and their will be counteroffensives launched from the Southern part now that a big part of the Tyrell army is gone. So, what you say who reaches King's Landing first, Tywin, Robert-Hoster or the Reach Army?

Chapter Text

283 AC — Pyke, The Iron Islands

The Sea Tower, Castle Pyke

The ravens circled above Pyke, wheeling over the craggy towers and crashing waves as if drunk on salt and sky. Below, the Sea heaved against the cliffs with a fury that matched the mood inside the Sea Tower, where storm and steel brewed in equal measure.

Lord Balon Greyjoy stood alone at the carved kraken table, his eyes fixed on the crumpled parchment in his gloved hand. The words of his spies had come, their words echoing with news that should have shaken any man loyal to the Iron Throne.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen lies dead on the Trident. The Warden of the North—Eddard Stark—slew Rhaegar in single combat. Victory belongs to the rebels. The Crown is his by Right of Conquest.

Balon scoffed and crushed the letter in his fist.

"The Crown? Taken by some frozen-blooded Greenlander who now expects us to go Bend the knee to him?”

Behind him, the tall doors of the Sea Tower groaned open. In stepped his brothers.

Victarion was first—massive, armored even within their own halls, his face impassive but grim. Behind him, Euron strolled in as if into a feast hall, not a war council, his blue eyes gleaming—dark with mischief.

“Rhaegar’s dead, then?” Euron asked, already grinning. “Father, would have agreed to make a move now. Throw in our lot with the Rebels now."

Balon said nothing of Quellon. Their father had passed just a week ago, wasting away in a bed instead of dying at sea like a true kraken. He had refused to join the rebellion. Refused to raise sail, even when the realm burned. They could have taken advantage of plundered throughout the coast. Aye, we could have reaved, made the Western Coast tremble at the name of Ironborn again.

Balon would not make the same mistake.

He turned to face them.

“Do you hear it?” he said, voice low and cold. “The silence?”

Victarion frowned. “What silence?”

“The silence of Westeros forgetting what it means to fear us,” Balon growled. “Once, they trembled at the sound of our sails. The western shores were ours. The seas were ours. And now?” He cast the letter onto the kraken table. “Now they send ravens. Demands. Declarations. This Stark—this snow-born pup with a crown of conquest—thinks the Ironborn will bow to him?”

He looked to each brother in turn.

“I say no. I say the seas do not kneel. I say the kraken rises once more.”

Victarion’s jaw tightened. “And what would you have us do, brother?”

“I will do what our father would not,” Balon declared, his voice rising with the wind outside. “I will raise the black sails. I will gather the captains. I will take the Seastone Chair not as a lord, but as a King.”

There was a long moment of silence. A gust of salt-laced wind whipped through the open slits in the stone, rattling the iron sconces.

Euron smirked.

“A king,” he echoed. “That has a taste to it.”

Balon narrowed his eyes. “You mock me?”

“Oh no, dear brother,” Euron said smoothly, stepping forward, boots echoing on the damp stone. “I mock the fools who’ll soon learn what a king truly looks like. You’ll need fire and blood, not just salt and iron, if you mean to hold the Isles and raid the mainland.”

Victarion grunted. “Let them come. We’ll take the western coasts. The Reach, the Westerlands—”

“No,” Euron interrupted, wagging a finger. “Not yet. The West will be alert. But the North—ah, now there’s a prize.”

Balon raised a brow. “The North?”

Euron leaned over the kraken table, tracing the map with an elegant fingertip. “Moat Cailin.”

Victarion scowled. “A ruin.”

“A ruin that commands the Neck,” Euron said with relish. “With the Stark claiming kingship, you can be certain the Northerners will send more men south to reinforce him. They’ll march through the Neck like sheep. If we take Moat Cailin, we cut off those reinforcements.”

Balon considered this, his fingers curling over the hilt of his dagger.

“And more,” Euron said, voice silky now. “Word is, Stark was wounded in his duel with Rhaegar. He and Arryn remain at the Trident while Baratheon marches south with Tully to take the Capital. That leaves the Trident exposed.”

“You want to strike the Riverlands?” Victarion asked, incredulous.

“I want Seagard,” Euron said, eyes gleaming. “Lord Jason Mallister is likely riding with Hoster Tully. If so, his seat is lightly defended. A swift strike by sea could take it before the gulls even scream.”

Balon stroked his beard.

“And draw out Stark…or Arryn.”

Euron’s smirk widened. “Exactly. One of them may come to aid it. Capture either, and we have leverage. A hostage. A king, perhaps or his father in all but blood, and name.”

“Stark has four Kingdoms behind him,” Victarion warned. “We may start a long war with the Greenlanders.”

“We’re already in one,” Balon said coldly. “Whether the realm knows it or not.”

He stepped back from the table and looked out through the narrow stone slit toward the open sea, where longships bobbed in the mist, sails furled but ready.

“The kraken has slumbered too long,” Balon said. “The Rebels are distracted, the realm is leaderless, and our enemies are scattered from Dorne to the Neck. The seas call for blood. The Drowned God has opened the way.”

He turned, his voice hard as iron. “Send word to the captains. We raid within the fortnight. I want sails raised and axes sharpened. We’ll take Moat Cailin. Then we strike at Seagard.”

“And if Stark marches?” asked Victarion.

“Then we drag him screaming beneath the waves,” Balon snarled.

Euron chuckled softly. “A king indeed.”

As the wind howled outside and the sea boiled against the rocks below, the three brothers stood in the torchlight, the air thick with salt and ambition.

Balon Greyjoy was no longer just Lord of the Iron Islands.

He had crowned himself in silence and shadows.

And the mainland would soon remember what it meant to fear the Ironborn.

283 AC—Stonehelm, Stormlands 

Lord Selwyn Tarth, felt giddy for the first time since this dammed Rebellion had begun. Since, he'd had to abandon Tarth and take his family, and flee to the mainland Stormlands after Redwyne Fleet had entered the Shipbreaker bay. He'd had to do it because he had no intentions to break faith with Lord Robert, who'd gone North to join up with other Rebels.

But, if he'd resisted on Tarth his people would have been put to sword thus he'd gathered nine hundred spears, and his family and fled here. And when the Reach Army had invaded and with the majority of the Stormlander Lords with Robert in the Riverlands, or stuck in Storm's End with Stannis. It had fallen to him to lead the defence of Southern Stormlands, and the terrain had helped him in repelling the Reach Army's attacks, and gathered a formidable army of seventeen hundred spears, and some five hundred horse. 

But, even than he'd despaired over not being able to help his brethren in Storm's End. But, what could be have done Mace Tyrell had more than fifty-five thousand men outside the gates of Storm's End. And, Selwyn had only been able to carry out minor raids and attacks on it.

But, now the Gods had given him a chance to end this dammed Siege. Mace Tyrell, had broken camp and was marching to King's Landing to save Mad Aerys, where no doubt the forces of the Rebels would crush him, and his fucking Greenboys from the Reach. And as of now there were only five thousand still besieging Storm's End, and that if he planned right Selwyn could actually crush and rescue Lord Stannis from that Siege.

Lord Selwyn Tarth stood up and hunched over his rough-drawn war map. The southern Stormlands were carved in charcoal lines, peppered with tokens representing troops—his spears, his horsemen, the besiegers outside Storm’s End.

He stared hard at the token representing House Florent, then flicked it with two fingers so it tumbled off the parchment.

“Aye,” he thought himself fiercely, “especially if Lord Stannis rallies from within.”

The thought of it stirred something deep in his chest—a grim joy, hard-earned and long-delayed.

“If we time it right… we’ll crush them. Between the hammer and the bloody anvil.”

He could see it now—his own men charging from the south, striking at the rear of the Reach camp, their lines disrupted. And then Stannis Baratheon, that relentless, iron-willed bastard, sallying forth from the gates of Storm’s End with whatever strength he still possessed. Malnourished men or not, they’d fight like demons for their freedom.

Five thousand Reachmen wasn’t a small number. But they were stretched thin, more used to siegecraft than field battle, and their best commanders—Randyll Tarly, Baelor Hightower—had marched with the main host north.

Florent and Peake, thought Selwyn bitterly. A puffed-up traitor and a peacock too proud for his own good. Not war-hardened.

“We can break them,” he said aloud this time. “By the Mother’s mercy, we can break them.”

Still, as the breeze from the sea coast swept into the tent again, it brought with it not only salt but a sliver of doubt.

His gaze drifted north—past the drawn lines, past the siege markers—up toward King’s Landing. If Mace Tyrell had taken the majority of the Reach host—fifty thousand men—to the capital, then it meant the main rebel army would be outnumbered.

Even with Robert and Hoster Tully’s fourteen thousand… even if Tywin Lannister stayed neutral or late…

Selwyn frowned.

"If they fail at King’s Landing… the whole realm turns to ash."

But he shook the thought away. That was not his concern now.

“No,” he growled to himself. “First, we lift the siege. Then Lord Stannis can decide what to do next.”

A cough behind him. Selwyn turned to see Ser Erwin Caron, his second in command, a lean man with silvering hair and a knotted jaw.

“The scouts returned, my lord,” Erwin said. “The Florents have pulled most of their men tighter around the northern approach. They’re not expecting a southern strike.”

“And the ships?”

“Redwyne left twenty around Shipbreaker Bay. Most stay in the deeper water, to blockade the port. But the smaller ones stick near the coast. They’d see a full march by the shore—but it doesn't matter we already planning to move through the cover of the hills we take the inland path. Slow, but hidden.”

Selwyn nodded. “Good. Let’s take that path. We’ll strike from the southeast—on their flank, where they won’t expect.”

He pointed to a valley on the map, just outside the range of Storm’s End’s trebuchets. “They’ll think we’re just another raid. Until the main push comes.”

“And Lord Stannis?” Erwin asked.

Selwyn looked toward the miniature carved tower he’d placed atop the Storm’s End marker.

“He’ll know,” Selwyn said quietly. “He’s waited long enough in that damned castle. He’ll see the dust from our march, or hear the cries once we charge their rear. If there’s any strength left in the garrison, he’ll bring it.”

“And if not?”

Selwyn Tarth’s eyes hardened like blue ice.

“Then we bleed alone. But better we bleed for our own than bow to Reachmen who kneel to a mad king.”

He stepped away from the table, the wind whipping his cloak. “Send the orders. We march before nightfall. Let the Florents drink their Arbor wine and pat their backs. In four days, we wake them with fire.”

Erwin saluted, then vanished from the tent with a purpose in his step.

Selwyn lingered a moment more.

For the first time in many moons, his heart thudded with more than dread. It thudded with hope.

The siege could be broken.

Storm’s End could rise again.

And perhaps, if the gods were kind, the realm would finally begin to break free of the chains Mad Aerys had forged in wildfire and blood.

A/N:- 

So, in this au Quellon Greyjoy just died right before the Battle of the Trident and now Balon's in charge and in this au he has even less braincells than in cannon and with the War to prolong he'll be trying to get his independence earlier and good plan to seize Moat Callin but what he didn't take into account is that Ned would have left a garrison there however small because he had that common sense even in cannon before he thought War was going to begin with Lannisters he has told Catelyn to get Manderly and Grover to put archers there but it didn't happen because Cat decided to arrest Tyrion before returning North.

And, as for Selwyn this is something I came up with I doubt Paxter Redwyne with his Fleet would have left Tarth or Greenstone unoccupied so I decided to have Selwyn abandon Tarth before It could be occupied so that he wouldn't have to break with the Baratheons but could avoid unnecessary bloodshed on his Island. Please leave comments those are what actually encourage me and get my brain running for the next chapter 🙏🙏🙏.

Chapter Text

284 AC, Antlers—Crownlands 

Lord Hoster Tully frowned, as he looked at the castle of Antlers. They'd entered Crownlands just a hours ago, they'd been forced marching from the Trident, for all these past nine days. It was necessary, after all they needed to get to King's Landing fast, Gods forbid Tywin Lannister get their before them.

But, until now they'd faced no resistance from the Riverlands. Even, the Drarrys and Mootons who'd supported Aerys, had surrendered the moment Hoster, and Robert had come with their fourteen thousand men they'd dipped their banners first at Drarry, and than Maideenpool. Hoster had taken both Lords hostage ofcourse, they needed to pay for siding with Aerys. 

But, that could be left for later he'd punish his traitorus Bannermen, later. Take away a few lands, and some wealth and make Lord Desmond Drarry, and Lord Lyman Mooton take the Black. But, right now they'd serve their purposes as hostages so that their sons didn't dare press a dagger to Hoster's back while he was, on his way to secure King's Landing.

But, now this was Crownlands the heartlands of Targaryen loyalists. The only region of Westeros who'd been under direct control of the Targaryens since the conquest. Aye, there'd be resistance with every step if they were to reach King's Landing.

Already, he'd recieved word of the Houses of Cracklaw Point gathering another host to resist their host, and attack them from the back. He'd sent Walder Frey to face them, the man had arrived purposefully late to the Trident, and even now was marching his seventeen-hundred spearman, and five hundred horse at a very slow pace, behind their host. 

And Hoster had enough of him not fully committing to their cause. So, he'd sent him to Cracklaw Point just a day ago to prove his loyalty to the Rebel cause. Hopefully, it'd make him, and his forces bleed a little. And, any Crownlander remnants would surrender after their victory, at both Cracklaw Point and King's Landing.

The Lord's of Cracklaw Point from what he'd heard had barely been able to gather sixteen-hundred men. So, Frey should be able to defeat him due to numerical superiority alone. Unless ofcourse, he's to lose to his sheer incompetence, but whatever Hoster might call Walder Frey, incompetent is not one of them.

Lord Hoster Tully squinted up at the battlements of Antlers, a strong but modest castle nestled among the sparse woods of the Crownlands. His warhorse shifted under him, but Hoster barely noticed. His gaze lingered on the gates, which only a moment ago had been shut fast against him.

Now, they opened.

A white banner flapped in the wind—parley.

Well, that hadn’t been hard, he thought, allowing himself a grim smile.

Hoster had half a mind to bypass the place entirely. Their host had no time for politicking, not when Tywin Lannister could already be bearing down upon King’s Landing with his host. But Robert and Brynden had been right—leaving a hostile castle at their back this close to the capital would’ve been foolish, especially one with a Targaryen-loyal lord.

So, he’d sent terms.

And now, Lord Buckwell rode out to meet him under the white banner, dressed in fine mail, his green cloak of House Buckwell billowing behind him. He was a lean man with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes—pragmatism carved into his face like it had been born there.

Hoster urged his horse a step forward, his guards falling in beside him. Robert Baratheon was somewhere behind, shouting something about about preparing the horses, and Brynden was already moving to flank the rear. No fool, Brynden—he always watched the angles others didn’t.

Lord Buckwell reined in a few yards away, raising one gloved hand in peace. The parley was silent, but for the breeze.

“Lord Hoster,” Buckwell greeted, voice steady.

“Lord Buckwell.”

The Crownlands lord looked behind Hoster’s shoulder, toward the banners of Tully, Baratheon, and the others whipping in the wind. “I expected to face a siege.”

“You expected wrong,” Hoster said bluntly. “We’ve no time for sieges. The city awaits.”

Buckwell nodded slowly. Then, with a glance back at his open gates, he spoke in the tone of a man who’d spent long days wrestling with his conscience.

“I’ll bend the knee, Lord Hoster. But in return, I ask something.”

Hoster’s brow arched. “Aye?”

“My younger brother, Ser Bennard, is Captain of the Iron Gate in King’s Landing. He commands a few hundred city watch loyal to him. He’ll open the gate for your forces. Quietly. Discreetly.”

That caught Hoster’s attention. “You mean to help us take the city from within?”

“I do,” Buckwell said without flinching. “The writing is on the wall. Prince Rhaegar is dead. Aerys is madder than ever, and my brother has no desire to burn with the rest of the court.”

Hoster studied him.

“And what do you ask in return?” he asked, though he already knew.

“That neither I, nor my brother, suffer any consequences from the new King.”

Hoster was silent for a moment, weighing the offer. It was a dangerous game. Treason was treason—Aerys would not hesitate to burn Buckwell’s brother alive if he suspected even a flicker of betrayal.

And if this reached Aerys too soon…

“We’ll not make your submission public,” Hoster said finally, his voice iron. “Not until King’s Landing is ours. If word reaches your dragon king, he’ll have your brother’s head spiked before we ever reach the gates.”

Buckwell inclined his head. “Agreed.”

Hoster’s eyes narrowed. “But if you lie to me—if this is some ruse, some Targaryen trap—”

“I’ll die for it,” Buckwell interrupted firmly. “But it’s not. I swore my oath to House Targaryen, aye. But I swore another to the realm, and I see where its future lies.”

Hoster considered that. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Very well. You have your terms.”

Without another word, Lord Buckwell dismounted, the dust of the Crownlands clinging to his cloak as he dropped to one knee. He drew his sword and held it horizontally in front of him, eyes cast downward.

“I, Jon Buckwell, Lord of Antlers, do swear fealty to King Eddard of House Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

The words rang strangely in the open air.

Stark. Not Targaryen.

Wolves, not dragons.

Hoster looked down at the kneeling man, and for the first time since leaving the Trident, he allowed himself to breathe. The realm was beginning to turn—one house, one gate, one sword at a time.

“Rise, Lord Buckwell,” he said.

And as the man did, dust coating his knees and steel still in hand, Hoster Tully of Riverrun looked southward, toward the road that would take them to King’s Landing.

They were close now.

And the end, one way or another, was near.

283 AC — Dragonpit, King’s Landin g

Lord Qarlton Chelsted, was a craven he'd admit that, he'd been a lickspittle to King Aerys but there's limits to even what he'd support the King in. And, planning to blow up the city to ash if the Rebels could take it was not something he'd allow on his watch. 

The city housed half a million smallfolk. Aerys, would take them all down with him just because his forces, had been defeated and the Rebels were coming.

Ofcourse, the King had sent Prince Viserys and Queen Rhaella away to Dragonstone. So, that his own family would be safe, while countless others in King's Landing suffered due to his obsession with wildfire.

Lord Qarlton Chelsted had never known true terror—not even when he had stood alone in the Hall of the Iron Throne, kneeling before the Mad King, trembling as he renounced the office of Hand of the King.

But now, as he crouched among the cracked stones and shattered walls beneath the ruined dome of the Dragonpit, he finally understood what fear truly was.

Not for himself, no. His fear was for the city.

Half a million souls, crammed into King’s Landing, and Aerys had been willing to burn them all. To cleanse the city in green fire. He’d called it “a baptism in flame.” As if the fire would crown him god and king forever.

Qarlton knew better. He had watched the pyromancers feed the flames like Septons tending a Sept—Rossart, foremost among them, whispering to the King of divine rebirth and wildfire purity. And Aerys, long lost to madness, had listened. Listened and planned.

Qarlton had tried to reason with him. Pleaded. Warned. And when he realized there was no reasoning left, he had done something no one in that court of cowards and flatterers dared do.

He had resigned.

But that hadn’t been enough.

When Aerys gave him the choice of the flames or silence, Qarlton did not go quietly. He fled, yes. But before he fled, he lit a different fire.

And now the city burned—not with wildfire, but with anger.

It had begun with criers he'd sent, all across the Hill of Rhaenys, Flea Bottom, the Street of Flour, and even outside the gates of the Alchemists’ Guildhall.

“The King means to burn us all!”

“Wildfire beneath your homes! Beneath your beds!”

“Save your children! Save your wives! The King would see us all dead!”

“Lord Qarlton Chelsted resigned his post in protest—he would not serve a butcher!”

The names had spread faster than flame: Rossart, Belis, Garigus—mad pyromancers, whispered the crowd. Burners. Alchemists of death.

The Guildhall was the first to fall. Dozens of the smallfolk had stormed it with hammers and clubs. By the time the City Watch arrived, the place was aflame. Most of the pyromancers inside had burned with their precious formulas and glass vials.

A few had escaped to the Red Keep, but they brought chaos with them. The Gold Cloaks no longer obeyed their captains. Many had cast off their cloaks and joined the mobs. A few even chanted:

“King Eddard! King Eddard! King of the Realm!”

That had stunned Qarlton most of all.

The name wasn’t little Aegon. Or even Viserys.

Eddard Stark.

The man who had slain Rhaegar Targaryen. The man who now marched south under banners of  rebellion. The man—by right of conquest—might soon wear a crown.

The, smallfolk in the city it seemed has had enough of the Targaryens. They'd decided on a new King, and for the first time in 283 years it hadn't been a Dragon, it'd be a Wolf.

And Qarlton Chelsted, the coward, the lickspittle, the former Hand would be the one to open the gates for him.

And if the Seven, willed it he'd get a greatful new King for securing him the City. And be allowed to go back to his lands at worst, or he might even be asked to stay, and serve the new King as well.

The Dragonpit loomed high above the city, on the Hill of Rhaenys, its dome long since shattered, its dragons long since dust. But it offered what Qarlton needed now:

A vantage point

A hiding place

And above all, a symbol.

The people had once watched dragons fly from this place.

Now they came here to rally against the last vestiges of dragon rule.

By the light of torches and burning streets, dozens—soon hundreds—of smallfolk had begun gathering in the broken amphitheater beneath the ruined ribs of the great dome. Qarlton sat behind what remained of a pillar, half-lost in shadow, his cloak torn and dusty, but his eyes sharp and watching.

He was no knight. No warrior. But he had acted when no one else would.

He had been a craven, a lickspittle and a sychopant allthroughout his days in the Court of Aerys. And, now he realised him, Symond, Lucerys, Owen and who knows Countless others had enabled the King's paranoia let it get here, where he'd steamed of burning the whole city when Rebels were coming to punish him for his crimes.

The Red Keep still held. Its guards were hardened, loyal, better trained. They had repelled every assault thus far by the smallfolk. The people said Aerys hadn’t slept in three days, ordering the pyromancers to “light the stores,” screaming about traitors and treason.

But without the city… what was a king?

Without food, without water, without trust—he was a madman in a gilded cage.

Qarlton turned toward the bearded man beside him—Ser Bennard Buckwell the former Captain of the Iron Gate, who had taken up leadership among the commonfolk, along with a dozen former guardsmen, Gold Cloaks and tradesmen.

“We hold the outer districts,” the man reported. “Flea Bottom, Cobbler’s Square, the Iron Gate even the Old Gate. The Gold Cloaks at the Dragon Gate fled last night. We’re still pushing toward the Lion Gate and the Gate of the God's, and we can't attempt anything on the King's Gate and the Mud Gate right now.”

Qarlton nodded slowly. “And the men holding those?”

“Some loyal. Some… waiting to see who wins.”

They would not wait long.

Within a week, the rebels would be visible from the city’s hills. Banners of House Stark, Baratheon, Tully, and Arryn would march up the Kingsroad like a tide of justice.

And when they came, Qarlton would be ready.

He rose, slowly, bones aching but purpose clear. The firelight lit his worn face as he stepped before the crowd gathering beneath the arch of broken stone.

Hundreds had gathered. Smallfolk, Gold Cloaks stripped of livery, bakers and fishmongers, smiths and washerwomen—all driven from their homes by chaos, fire, or purpose. They filled the ruins like embers waiting for a flame.

Qarlton Chelsted, former Hand of the King, wrapped in a soot-stained cloak and the dignity of desperation, raised both hands.

Silence fell like a hammer.

The city was burning. The Alchemists’ Guildhall had gone up just hours ago—attacked by a mob enraged by the wildfire plots, its pyromancers torn from their beds. A few had escaped to the Red Keep, but most had been slaughtered. The Gold Cloaks had fractured—some siding with the rioters, others clinging to the Mad King’s cause and guarding the gates. The city was leaderless, save for the one man who had dared defy the throne and survived.

Qarlton took a breath. His voice rang out over the ancient bones of the pit, sharp as any bell.

“People of King’s Landing!” he called.

They turned, hushed, listening.

“I was a coward. I served a mad king. I watched him burn men for his pleasure. And I kept silent.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. They had all heard it.

“But not this time. He would see us all burn! All of you—your children, your wives, your mothers—turned to ash so that his madness might survive a single day longer!”

Now, the murmurs turned to shouts. Angry ones.

“He sent his queen and son to Dragonstone, but not you. Not your babes. Not your homes. His own blood is too precious to burn, but yours? Yours is kindling!”

Shouts of rage surged from the crowd.

“He dares call himself your king,” Qarlton shouted, voice rising with unusual fury and righteousness. “But I say this—no man who burns his people is fit to wear a crown. No man who slaughters his city to preserve his throne deserves it!”

“But we will not let him. You—we—will take this city back. And when the true King arrives, I will open the gates, and I will ask his mercy—for me, and for this city.”

He paused.

“There rides a better man, even now. A man who bled on the Trident to free this realm from madness. A man who has not taken your homes, but risked his own to see justice done. A man who did not hide in a castle behind wildfire and screams.”

There were shouts of agreement, and already chants of the King from the North had begun.

“Eddard Stark, First of His Name, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms! He rides to bring peace, not fire! Oaths, not screams! A true king—not born from fire and madness, but from honor and steel!”

The crowd erupted. Some cheered, others wept. Many shouted “King Eddard!” not for the first time in the capital. Somewhere in the crowd, a baker began ringing a broken bell. It became a rhythm. A call.

Qarlton raised both hands again. “The city is not yet won. The Red Keep stands, guarded by blades still loyal to the Madman. There are still Gates that are still watched by those who would rather see this city drown in blood by a Madman than yield it to a King who'd bring peace and harmony to this city. But I say we take the city for ourselves—not for a king, but for the realm. For the future of children.” 

A roar answered him.

“We take the gates by sunrise!” he called. “We rip the keys from their corpses and throw open the gates! And when King Stark arrives, he will find a city ready to kneel, not a ruin to mourn!”

He stepped down, and the crowd surged forward—not as a mob, but as an army of cobblers and beggars, armoring themselves with stolen spears and looted blades. Chelsted’s lieutenants—former Gold Cloaks, tradesmen, and even maids-turned-messengers—hurried to him

From atop the bones of old dragons, a new kind of fire had been lit in King’s Landing—not green, not royal, not wild—but the fire of rebellion from below. The true storm was not the one approaching the city on horseback. It was already inside the walls, in the hearts of those who are forgotten by the high Lords in their Game of Thrones.

And Qarlton Chelsted, once a craven, once a lickspittle, had been the one who'd lit it.

A/N:-

I'll not lie I am not exactly with the second part of this chapter in King's Landing I should have had a better build-up on it but if you guys also find it bad I'll work on redoing it. So, Please leave ur opinions. And real Battles start next chapter onwards. 😊😊

Chapter Text

283 AC—The Red Keep, The Throne Room

The stench of smoke and fear hung in the air like a pall.

Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingsguard white cloak hanging stiff with dust, stood beneath the towering Iron Throne, hands clasped behind his back. His armor gleamed beneath the high windows of the Throne Room, but he felt like a statue more than a man—immobile, expressionless, and slowly eroding beneath the weight of it all.

On the black iron steps of the Throne itself sat King Aerys the Second, hair wild, beard flecked with spittle, his fingers twitching against the cold steel of the throne’s armrests. Around him, the court was all but empty. The courtiers had fled making use of the chaos during the riots. Only two members of the Small Council remained: Grand Maester Pycelle, hunched and trembling at the base of the dais, and Varys, pale and poised in his slippers, as calm as a cat on a windowsill.

And of course, Rossart stood beside the King. No longer in pyromancer’s robes.

Now he wore the chain of office.

The new Hand of the King.

Jaime thought he might laugh, if the world weren’t crumbling.

“…The city is full of traitors,” Aerys was saying, voice rising and falling like a drunkard's mutter. “Snakes and rats and worse. They chant the name of the Wolf, they burn the Guildhall, they dare defy me. Me! I am the Dragon. I am the blood of Valayria! I will not be dragged from my throne by northern curs and barefoot smallfolk.”

He spat. Literally. Saliva flew down the stairs.

Jaime didn’t flinch.

“Qarlton…” Aerys whispered. “Qarlton, the coward. I should have burned him the day he dared to argue against me. Weak men… always betray you in the end. Did you know, Pycelle? Did you?”

Pycelle opened his mouth, beard trembling. “Your Grace, I—”

Aerys screeched. “Don’t lie to me, you tottering goat! You knew! You always knew!”

Rossart leaned in, whispering something, his face flush with sweat and fear. The Alchemists' once-grand robes now looked like dirty curtains draped over a man far out of his depth.

Jaime resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He hadn’t expected Lord Qarlton Chelsted of all people to be the one to defy Aerys. Not the craven, oily man who had stood by through burning after burning. But someone had to snap eventually. And if the stories from the street were true, Qarlton’s criers had ignited the city—not with wildfire, but with something more dangerous.

Fury of the Smallfolk. The, city's dwellers who had family in here, who had their homes here and had spent their whole life here. When they'd heard of Aerys's plans they'd erupted in such a great fury that had reduced the Targaryens to hiding in the Red Keep.

Now, the Alchemists' Guildhall was destroyed, most of their pyromancers dead or hiding inside the Red Keep. The caches of wildfire, buried under the sept, the slums, and the Dragonpit, lay untouched. With the riots raging and the Gold Cloaks in disarray, there was no way to light them.

Jaime silently thanked the gods for Chelsted's moment of courage.

If it hadn't been for that they'd all be a pile of ash right now. But, alas the man whom Jamie had thought a craven had shown more courage than the bravest knights of the Realm so many of which who'd served the King for more than a decade.

He'd certainly been braver than, any of Jamie's Kingsguard brothers more than Ser Gerald, Ser Barristen, Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, Ser Lewyn or Ser Jonothor none of them had had the strength the to stand up to the King, or intervene when he'd been raping Queen Rhaella.

The Realm's finest knights who'd sworn oaths to protect every innocent, woman and child had refused to protect a woman who was constantly being raped by her husband, and they'd simply stood outside.

We are sworn to protect her as well, Jamie had said standing outside the King's chambers. We are, but not from him Ser Jonothor had replied.

When, the King had burned Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon. Gerold had pulled him aside, You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him he'd said. 

And God's, didn't every part of Jamie regret it at every turn. To, serve this Madman who called himself King. He'd regretted those oaths every day, since he'd first sworn them at Harenhal all because of his sister Cersie oh how much he despised her for convincing him to do it, a fool he'd been. 

He was thankful that, Aerys had sent Queen Rhaella, and Prince Viserys away. Because, after hearing of the Rebel victory and of the death of Rhaegar Aerys had raped her again, and Jamie had to stand outside hearing her screams sworn to protect her from everyone else but the only man hurting her. 

Aye, he was glad he'd not have to hear her screams while standing guard outside unable to do anything.

Rossart took a trembling step forward. His new chain of office clinked like ill-fitted armor, a poor replacement for a crown. His voice quavered with desperation, not devotion.

“We must act, Your Grace,” he insisted, trying to sound authoritative. “We must crush this rebellion, restore order to the city. We have men still. A few pyromancers. Loyalists among the City watch. If we strike swiftly—”

Aerys didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, he stared up at the vast windows of the throne room, the red of the late afternoon sun spilling like blood across the floor. His lips curled.

“They chant for him,” he murmured. “The Wolf. That usurping son of a snow-sired whore. They would see me dragged from my throne. Me. I am the Dragon. I gave them bread. I gave them pageants and games—burned traitors for them!”

He turned to them all, arms outstretched like a Septon in a flame-drenched sermon.

“Let them come! I would rather burn this Keep, brick by brick, ash by ash, than see a Northerner sit upon my throne! There’s enough wildfire beneath this very hill to roast every Stark, Baratheon, Tully, and treasonous pig in the Seven Kingdoms!”

He grinned suddenly, breath rattling.

“I’ll leave them nothing. No city. No spoils. Only ash. Let, that Northern be a King of ashes, the traitors all of them will burn.”

Jaime felt his stomach twist. For a moment, there was a silence in the hall—not a heavy one, but brittle. The kind that comes before glass shatters. 

While, Aerys couldn't do good on his promise to burn the city because there was no way the pyromancers could access the caches beneath the city—the Red Keep was another matter it was still completely under Aerys's control.

Rossart bowed his head, either in agreement or submission. Pycelle looked pale as milk, wringing his hands. Jaime simply kept still.

And then—Varys stepped forward.

Smooth, soft-footed, and serene.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice as quiet as a breath, “let us not make such choices… yet.”

Aerys’s head jerked toward him like a crow spotting movement. “You would question me too?”

Varys bowed, deeper than any man had that day. “Never, Your Grace. I merely bring news. News that may ease your burdens.”

He let the silence stretch before speaking again.

“The Reachlords, under Lord Mace Tyrell, have entered the Kingswood. They march now beneath your banners, flying the dragon of House Targaryen. Fifty thousand strong. They shall cross the Blackwater in ten days, perhaps fewer. And when they arrive…” He straightened slowly, eyes never leaving the King’s. “They shall bring order to this city—in your name. Bring, down all traitors who challenge the rightful King.”

Aerys blinked.

Then blinked again.

The fury in his expression faltered, flickered, then twisted into something else—glee.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes! The Reachlords they are loyal to me not the Rebels, they'll crush the Rebels and traitors. Aye, they will crush them all. Stark. Arryn. Baratheon. Tully.” He smiled then, all yellow teeth and cracked lips. “They will choke on Reach steel.”

Rossart frowned but said nothing. Even he knew not to interrupt when the King was smiling.

“But,” Varys continued smoothly, “we must… endure. Your Grace must hold the Red Keep. If you destroy it now, there will be no bastion for your loyal Lords to return to. No throne for your victory. No city to rule.”

“And the flames, Your Grace,” Varys said softly, “shall burn your enemies when the time is right. Until then, let us preserve what is yours. Let us ready the gates. Feed your loyal guards. Wait for the tide to turn.”

The King licked his cracked lips. “Ten days.”

“Ten days,” Varys echoed, bowing again. “And your crown shall be secure.”

Aerys sank back into the Iron Throne, breathing heavily. His rage seemed to bleed away for now, dulled by the promise of reinforcements. He muttered something under his breath—perhaps about fire, or blood, or both—and waved them off with a flick of his fingers.

Rossart looked ready to object, but remained silent. Pycelle exhaled in visible relief.

Jaime watched it all in silence, every inch of him still as marble.

Varys, he realized, was not just playing for time. He was stalling the wildfire. Keeping the King from giving the final order. Playing the long game in the hope that someone—anyone—arrived before Aerys lost his grip completely.

And Jaime?

He didn’t know yet what he’d do.

But ten days was all they had.

And gods help them all… if the Reach didn't arrive first.

A/N:- I just wanted to show a inside pov in the Red Keep. Ik I promised battles from this chapter but I needed to do a inside the Red Keep pov sorry this is short but I wanted to do it. Also, next chapter I promise battles will begin. 

PS:I very much like when my readers comment their views on my chapter and I always love it and love to respond so if u are able to leave even a little comment please do it motivates and encourages me a lot.

Chapter Text

283 AC —Cracklaw Point, Crownlands

The Camp of House Frey

The lands of Cracklaw Point were damp, tangled things—trees that wept black water, mists that hung low like clinging ghosts, and paths that vanished beneath your feet. It was a land that reeked of moss, brine, and stubborn pride.

Lord Walder Frey, seventy and five summers old and as sour as spoiled milk, sat atop his brown horse, wrapped in his fur cloak despite the humidity. The damp didn’t agree with his bones. Nor did the task at hand.

“Crackclaws,” he spat, “are about as pleasant as pissing on a hornet’s nest.”

Around him, his retinue of Frey sons and grandsons milled about—many looking bored, others ill at ease. This wasn’t a fight on open fields. It was guerrilla country.

“I should have been in King’s Landing,” Lord Walder grumbled to no one in particular. “Marching behind the main host, and taking King's Landing and dethroning the Dragons. Instead, Tully sends me to the arse-end of the Crownlands to chase...these half-wild men.”

His eldest son, Stevron Frey, had the good sense not to remind his father why they'd been given the task. They were slow at the Trident. Too late for glory, too fresh for loyalty. Now came penance, dressed as command.

A raven had flown in at dawn—another scout skirmish. Lord Dornel Brune, one of the Crackclaw leaders, had struck at the Frey vanguard two nights prior and vanished back into the trees. Casualties: sixteen dead. Thirty wounded. Brune took not a scratch.

“The lands, and mountains are his castle,” muttered Ser Perwyn Frey, one of the better swords among them. “He won’t face us head-on.”

Lord Walder waved a hand dismissively. “Then we draw him out. Burn a few villages. String up a few cousins. These Crackclaws value kin more than gold.”

He wasn’t wrong.

On the mountains overlooking the Frey Camp, the Lords of Cracklaw Point—Brune, Cave, Pryor, Boggs, and Crabb—had gathered what they could. Old armor, patched spears, and hardened, mud-smeared men who knew every twisting path of this gods-cursed land. They had no illusions of glory—only defiance.

Atop a moss-laden rise overlooking the Frey encampment, Lord Clarence Crabb, sword across his lap, crouched beside Dornel Brune. They watched the Freys below through the mists.

“That’s no army. That’s a traveling caravan of squabbling chickens,” Crabb muttered.

Brune gave a grim smile. “Even a caravan can crush you if it has numbers enough.”

“We’ll not win by standing in their way,” Crabb said, tugging his cloak tighter. “But if we keep them confused, bleeding, and afraid of the fog... maybe that’ll be enough to eventually make them make a mistake.”

“And, we'll use that mistake to destroy them” Donnel granted.

Crabb nodded. “Aye, if we get a victory even if the Rebels take the dammed capital, we'll have defeated a Rebel host and could seek peace on equal terms. Or, if the Reach finally stirs and defeats the Rebels at the city we'd have proven our loyalty to House Targaryen once again.”

Back in the Frey camp, Walder was calling the banners to move. He’d had enough of this slow, indecisive war.

“We march at dusk,” he said. “They won’t expect a full force to cross the bogline at night. We’ll press straight for Dyre Den. Burn their seat. That’ll make ‘em come running.”

“But the terrain—” Stevron began.

“We’ll wade through if we must. I’ll not have Tully or that northern pup Eddard Stark saying the Freys couldn’t handle a few barefoot half-wild Cracklaws.”

Orders rang out. Tents were struck. Torches lit. Horses struggled in the mud, and men cursed every step forward. Into the swamps they went, clinking and rustling, their banners muffled by the mist.

And above, from every ridge and gnarled tree, Cracklaw eyes watched.

The air was thick with fog and the stench of rot. Every step squelched. Behind them, the last rays of light were smothered beneath the moss-laced ridges of the hills.

Stevron Frey rode near the front of the column, a grim line of 1,700 Frey spearmen slogging behind him, their shields clanking softly in the dusk. Torches hissed with moisture. Somewhere to the rear, the horsemen rode slower still, lagging under Lord Walder’s command.

Stevron glanced left at Ser Perwyn Frey, who squinted up the sheer ridges.

“The land’s full of steep hills, honeycombed caverns, sinkholes, and gods-damned bogs,” Stevron muttered. “We shouldn’t be marching at dark. The horses are already falling behind—terrain like this isn’t made for cavalry in daylight, let alone night.”

He frowned. “And if we don’t see the sinkholes... half our army will vanish into the mud before we even reach Dyre Den.”

Perwyn looked thoughtful but tense. “Should I ride back? Speak to Father?”

“Aye,” Stevron said. “Tell him we need to halt. Wait for daylight. The Crackclaws know this land. We—”

The sentence died in his throat.

The night screamed.

A whistling cut through the air, like a great sigh—and then the first arrow struck a Frey bannerman behind them. A heartbeat later, a storm of shafts fell from the ridges, black-feathered and hungry.

"SHIELD WALL!" Stevron roared, his voice cracking like a whip. “To me! Shields! NOW!”

Perwyn turned his horse, eyes wide, but a jagged boulder the size of a boar tumbled from the ridge and smashed the path behind them—blocking their retreat with stone and scree.

“Gods,” he breathed. He turned back just in time to see Stevron dismount, grabbing his cloak and dragging him from his horse.

“You ride now, you die in the saddle,” Stevron barked. “Get behind the shields.”

More arrows rained down—dozens, maybe hundreds—falling in shrieking arcs through the fog. They came from both sides of the valley. From the ridges. From the trees. From the damned rocks.

Screams followed. Frey men dropped like stalks of wheat in a storm. Some slipped into bog pits that sucked them down. Others tried to run but were shot down as they scrambled.

In the chaos, Stevron's shield line began to form—a ragged wall of overlapping shields, hunched and bracing against the deluge of missiles. Spears angled forward. Helmets tilted low. They were vulnerable—tired, confused, disoriented—but Stevron was shouting orders with the precision of a seasoned veteran.

Perwyn joined him, dragging the torchbearers forward.

“We’re pinned!” Perwyn growled. “They’ve blocked the back. We can’t ride out!”

“I know that,” Stevron snapped. “Then we break forward—cut through the ambush and take the slope above before they rain the rest of the godsdamned mountain on us!”

“Where are the horse?”

Stevron glanced behind, grim. “Still half a league behind, in the lower marsh. If they try to ride through this valley, they’ll get caught in the bog or blocked by rubble.”

They could hear horns blowing now—low, droning calls from the ridgelines. Cracklaw signals.

And then the enemy appeared.

Shapes moved through the mist on the far slopes—dark, hunched silhouettes, some wearing wolf-pelts, some bone-trophies, some painted with swamp-mud. A line of spearmen from House Boggs, shrieking their war cries, began to descend from the trees above—sliding, leaping, howling.

“UP THE RIDGE!” Stevron bellowed. “Form ranks, spears high! Advance! DO NOT BREAK!”

What followed was not a battle—it was a nightmare made of mud and iron and madness.

The first sign of trouble came with the sudden halt ahead.

Lord Walder Frey, wrapped in his damp cloak, squinted through the foggy twilight. The infantry ahead—1,700 strong under Stevron—had stopped. No horns, no signals. Just stillness. Then shouting.

He turned to his great-grandson, Walder Frey, called Black Walder, the most brutal of the brood. “What’s this now? Why have they stopped?”

Black Walder pulled his horse alongside the old lord’s and frowned into the gloom. “I don’t like this,” he said. “They’re boxed in. Look at the hills. Look at the trees. They’re moving.”

Lord Walder turned just in time to see it.

A blossom of fire from the ridges—no, torchlight, lighting the valley’s edge.

Then the first arrows flew.

They came in a whistling wave, loosed from both flanks—no more warning than a hiss through the reeds—and suddenly the world was shrieking horses and screaming men. Saddles were emptied. A rider two rows ahead of Walder pitched backward with an arrow through his throat, blood spraying like mist.

“AMBUSH!” Black Walder roared, drawing steel. “SHIELDS UP! FORM LINES!”

But there was no time. More shafts rained down, and already they could hear footfalls from the east—the soft slap of leather-clad boots on wet ground, dozens, no—hundreds of them.

From the treeline, through the mist, came House Crabb.

Their banners were black and brown, bearing the sigil of the Brine Crabb—misshapen and scuttling, like the men that bore them. Lord Clarence Crabb led the charge himself, in boiled leather and iron scales, with a bone-hilted sword and the scream of a born killer. His men surged forward—not on horse, but on foot, leaping over roots and sliding through bogs, charging the Frey cavalry with nets, spears, and wicked hooks.

“They’re on foot! All of them!” Black Walder snarled.

Lord Walder opened his mouth to order a charge, but a second ambush came from the west, from the bogline itself.

A shrieking wall of mud-slick spearmen from House Boggs and House Cave surged from the opposite flank, howling like beasts. Something in the marsh began to thrash—horses shrieking, rearing in panic. Cracklaw men had hidden sharpened stakes beneath shallow water, and the bogs were seeded with noise traps—bones in clay jars, wooden chimes, reeds blown like horns.

The horses panicked.

All discipline was lost in seconds.

They reared, bucked, screamed. Riders were thrown. In the mud and chaos, Cracklaw skirmishers leapt out from sinkholes, stabbing into the bellies of fallen mounts or hauling Frey men off their saddles and cutting their throats before they could scream.

“WALDER!” Lord Walder barked, turning to Black Walder, his voice hoarse. “Form a wedge! Cut through! Ride forward!”

“I'll lead seventy! For the gods’ sake, hold the rest together!”

But there was no forward.

The path ahead was a trap.

Black Walder and his seventy men kicked their horses forward, hoping to ride through and flank the Cracklaws—but the marsh exploded around them.

Spiked pits, covered with rushes, gave way under hooves. Horses tumbled screaming into the muck, legs shattered on iron stakes. Others were snared in tripwire traps, their riders thrown, only to be hacked apart by waiting spearmen.

Of the seventy that charged, no more than ten survived the first volley. Those that tried to turn back were caught in mire deeper than a man’s chest, where they were swarmed.

Black Walder himself went down screaming, his leg impaled by a spear, dragged from his horse as Cracklaw men shouted his name and beat him with clubs, their vengeance deliberate.

Lord Walder tried to turn his own mount to flee—but the horse reared violently as an arrow slammed into its chest.

The animal gave a horrible shriek and toppled backwards.

Walder’s scream was swallowed by mud as the full weight of the horse crashed down on his left leg with a sickening crunch.

The old man saw nothing but sky and felt nothing but pain.

He was trapped beneath the horse, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle, his sword lost somewhere in the mud. Men ran around him. Died around him. He saw Lothar—his son—dragged off his horse and stabbed five times before hitting the ground.

And all the while, the Cracklaws screamed their fury to the sky.

“FOR THE DRAGON!”

“FOR THE POINT!”

“DEATH TO THE USURPERS!”

Smoke was rising now—someone had set fire to the Frey supply carts. The cries of wounded horses, the shrieks of dying men, and the clang of iron echoed through the vale.

Walder Frey lay beneath the corpse of his horse, eyes wide and unbelieving. His leg was ruined. His sons were dead or dying. His grandsons were scattered or surrounded.

He had bought a host to Cracklaw Point.

The Cracklaws would send back corpses.

The shield wall held.

For a time.

Stevron Frey’s voice was hoarse from shouting orders, his sword-arm numbed from the weight of his shield. The ring of iron on iron, the shriek of arrows, the groans of the dying—all of it mixed into one great dirge of death echoing through the narrow valley.

The Cracklaw arrows still fell, hissing out of the fog like curses. Stones rolled down the ridges. Loose boulders were heaved from above, smashing men like rotten fruit beneath their weight. Bodies were trampled underfoot, broken and forgotten as the Frey shield line tried to move forward, step by agonizing step, into a wall of chaos.

“Keep the line! Shields high!” Stevron barked. His voice cracked, but still he pushed forward.

Beside him, Ser Perwyn Frey stumbled over the corpse of a bannerman, caught himself, and reset his spear. Blood spattered his brow. His shield was cracked, arrows embedded like teeth.

“The slope’s too steep!” he shouted, his face pale beneath his helm. “We’ll never reach the top!”

“We have to break through!” Stevron snarled. “We stand still, we die.”

The men moved up again, but the mud sucked at their boots, and the smoke stung their eyes. It was nearly full night now, and the fog was glowing red from firelight somewhere behind them. Men were screaming, burning—horses perhaps—Perwyn couldn’t tell. The noise was inhuman.

“Seven save us,” a Frey sworn sword whispered. Then his head burst like a melon beneath a boulder hurled from the ridge.

Then the horns began again.

From behind.

Long, deep, drawn-out. The sound of Cracklaw reinforcements. Then came the war cries.

They were surrounded.

Arrows came now from all around, and spears jabbed from out of the mist.

Cracklaw warriors surged through the rear ranks like wraiths, screaming their ancient names—Boggs, Pryor, Cave—and striking down Frey men who barely knew where to look.

The shield wall had held.

But now it bled.

Every step forward became a dance with death. Men slipped on the carcasses of their fellows, shields torn from their hands by hammer blows, spears snapping like twigs under the weight of falling bodies. There was no clear enemy ahead—only the dark ridges above, and death from above.

A sharp whistle—then another hail of arrows. The Frey line screamed as black-feathered shafts thudded into backs, necks, and thighs. One man twisted, eyes wide with shock as an arrow pierced his groin. Another dropped his shield to claw at the bolt lodged in his eye, before falling into the muck with a grunt.

“Close ranks!” Stevron roared, voice ragged. “Tighter! Tighter, gods damn you!”

But even as he gave the order, he knew it was failing. The line was no longer a line, but a fractured column, men trampling corpses, stumbling over the wounded, shields clattering off trees, off armor, off each other. Some shouted prayers to the Seven. Others sobbed, hacking at shadows in the mist.

Perwyn was beside him, panting. His helm had cracked from a glancing blow, and blood streaked his jaw. “Stevron—” he gasped, wide-eyed. “We’re walking on our own dead. There’s too many—” He broke off as a spear thrust out from the shadows and caught the man next to him clean through the throat.

The Frey man collapsed. Perwyn stepped backward—his boot slipped on intestines—and he barely caught himself before crashing into the mud.

Men were drowning in that bog, some dragged down by the weight of their armor, others falling into sinkholes hidden by broken branches and corpses. One young spearman screamed for his mother as he sank into a puddle of black muck that closed over his face. Another tried to crawl free, but his leg was pinned beneath a fallen horse and he was trampled by his comrades.

“Gods be good,” Perwyn choked. “This isn’t a battle. It’s a butcher’s pit.”

Stevron’s reply was drowned by a fresh thunder of stone and war cries. The Cracklaws had flanked them again—shadowy figures leaping down from ridges, flinging rocks, jabbing spears from behind tangled brush. Some wielded axes and clubs carved from weirwood and old bone, screaming their bloodlines like war-chants.

“Crabb! Brune! Cave!”

A Frey knight charged them with a cry—only to be swallowed by three figures in fur and leather. His dying shriek was short and wet.

“We need to retreat!” someone screamed from behind.

“There’s nowhere to go!” another howled. “They’re behind us!”

Stevron grabbed Perwyn by the shoulder and dragged him to a cluster of spearmen still holding some semblance of formation. Arrows thudded into shields. Another boulder rolled through their ranks, smashing two men like dolls. The ground stank of blood, piss, and fear.

“Hold here!” Stevron shouted. “Form a ring! Keep your shields together!”

A dozen men obeyed—just a dozen, out of hundreds. The rest were scattered, already fleeing into the woods, or screaming as Cracklaw axes opened their guts. Horses neighed madly in the distance, riderless, some aflame. The night was alive with terror.

Perwyn looked at him, panting. “Stevron… this is lost.”

Stevron looked out at the red mist, the shadows closing in, the dead and dying piled around them like offerings to the Stranger.

And he knew his brother was right.

But still—still he raised his shield, blood dripping from his fingers.

“We die warriors,” he said. “On our feet.”

And with a cry of defiance, they braced for the next charge.

Perwyn Frey turned just in time to see one of his brothers dragged down by a wild-looking warrior with a wolf-pelt cloak. He tried to help—lunged forward—then a blade caught his shoulder, biting through maile. He screamed but kept moving, kept fighting.

Then the mist parted, and there stood Donnel Brune.

He wore no helm, his short brown hair soaked in sweat and blood. His boiled leather armor was patched but thick, and his left arm bore a crude round shield blackened by smoke. In his right hand: a curved sword, glinting with fresh blood.

Their eyes met.

Perwyn barely had time to shout. Brune closed the distance like a hunting cat.

The first blow rang off Perwyn’s upraised shield, the impact jarring his teeth.

He stabbed with his spear—Brune turned it aside with his shield, stepped in, and slammed an elbow into Perwyn’s jaw.

Perwyn staggered. Brune’s second strike came in low, sweeping beneath the shield, cutting deep into Perwyn’s thigh.

Perwyn went down screaming, falling into the mud.

“Frey,” Brune said, as if the word itself were an insult.

Perwyn raised his spear, crawling backward, but Brune was already there. With a single, clean motion, he drove his sword through Perwyn’s throat, pinning him to the earth.

The young knight twitched once, then stilled, blood steaming in the cold air.

Stevron saw it happen. Too far to stop it. Too slow to avenge it.

But he’d seen enough.

The Frey line was gone. Men were breaking. Some trying to flee. Some stumbling into sinkholes. Others slashing wildly at shadows.

There was no order. No command. Only death.

Stevron gritted his teeth, blood pouring from a gash over his brow. His own shield was split, sword slick with gore. He saw Donnel Brune hacking through three Frey swordsmen nearby, roaring like a bull.

The Cracklaws were taking no prisoners.

This was not a battle.

It was a massacre.

The ring of Frey spearmen that Stevron had rallied moments ago was down to five men. Their shields were shattered, their bodies trembling, and their will breaking beneath the hammer-blows of Cracklaw persistence. From every slope, the enemy came—mud-slicked, feral, tireless.

And then came the horn again.

Not distant this time.

Near.

From the far side of the slope came a man in a black surcoat streaked with dirt and blood, helm crested with a bronze boar’s tusk. Donnel Brune.

He waded through the chaos like a wraith of the woods—silent, calm, and utterly focused. Around him, Cracklaw warriors surged, axes and cudgels rising and falling, while Brune walked without haste toward the last Frey knot.

“That’s him,” Stevron thought darkly. “That’s the one… Perwyn’s killer.”

He could still see it—his brother slipping in the mud, eyes wide, hands flailing as Brune’s spear split his ribs like firewood. He'd watched it happen from only feet away, helpless, fighting off a half-dozen foes of his own.

Now Perwyn lay somewhere behind him, face in the dirt. And Donnel Brune walked calmly forward, bloodied spear in hand.

Stevron’s rage boiled up through the exhaustion. Through the broken shield, through the battered helm, through the fear clawing at his spine.

He lifted his sword. “With me!” he cried, though only two spearmen remained. One tried to rise, but was cut down instantly. The other fled.

Alone, Stevron charged.

He crashed into the slope, mud sucking at his boots, sword high, teeth bared in a snarl. “For Perwyn!” he roared. “You bastard woods-scum—I’ll have your head!”

Donnel Brune didn’t speak. He didn’t even raise his shield until the last second. The blade rang off the iron rim as Stevron slammed into him, hammering with every ounce of fury he had left. Brune stepped back once. Twice.

On the third blow, he parried hard—knocking Stevron’s sword wide—then struck.

A fist to the gut. A knee to the thigh. A slash across the cheek. Then the spearpoint, darting low.

Stevron felt a bloom of cold inside his belly.

He looked down, confused.

Brune’s spear had gone in under his mail, low on the side—between the plates, just under the liver. The pain came next, an icy, gnawing thing. He tried to raise his sword again, but his fingers were numb.

Brune stepped in, caught Stevron beneath the arm, and drove the spear up—through the ribs, through the lung.

Stevron gasped.

The world tilted.

His knees hit the ground with a splash. His sword slipped from his grip. He stared up into Donnel Brune’s eyes, blinking blood away.

“Damn you,” Stevron wheezed. “You’ll… die for this.”

Brune gave him a long, unreadable look. Then said, “So will you.”

He twisted the spear once—and Stevron Frey died.

The battle was over. Or perhaps it had never been a battle—only a massacre drawn out across hours of screaming and slashing in the fog.

Crows circled above the ravaged valley, drawn by the stench of blood and carrion. The ground was black with churned mud and bodies—armored men in Frey blue-and-grey, their faces half-buried in the muck or frozen mid-scream. The last flames licked at shattered wagons. Broken shields lay like driftwood on a ruined shore.

Among it all, beneath the sagging bulk of a dead horse, Lord Walder Frey, seventy-five and splattered with blood and filth, whimpered like a dying hound.

His left leg was crushed—twisted beneath his destrier when it fell, pierced through by a Cracklaw arrow. Blood seeped beneath him. His fur cloak had been trampled, his helm lost. His face was pale, lips blue, and his rheumy eyes darted wildly as shadowed figures emerged from the mist.

Cracklaw men, dozens of them, mud-streaked and silent.

And at their head walked Lord Clarence Crabb, tall, broad, and bare-headed, his greying beard darkened with gore, his long two-handed blade resting across one shoulder. His eyes were hard and calm as cold stone.

He stopped a few paces from Walder’s broken body.

The old Lord of the Crossing looked up, teeth chattering, trying to summon whatever pride or poison remained in him.

“You—You dare…” Walder spat. “I am Lord Frey of the Twins. A bannerman of the Tullys. You strike me and your lands will—”

“You are a traitor,” Clarence Crabb interrupted, voice deep and even. “A coward who watched Prince Rhaegar die without lifting his sword. A false lord who marched under the banner of rebellion, then tried to spill the blood of loyal men in the name of a northern usurper.”

He stepped forward, lifting the greatsword from his shoulder with both hands. His men said nothing. The only sound was the wind through the ravaged trees and the slow drip of blood from shattered armor.

He raised his sword.

“In the name of King Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Protector of the Realm. I, Clarence Crabb, Lord of Clawspire, do sentence you, Walder Frey, to die.....”

Walder’s eyes went wide.

“…for the crime of abandoning the rightful prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, on the banks of the Trident.”

The blade came down in a clean, brutal arc.

It struck through flesh and bone and mud, and Walder Frey’s head rolled from his shoulders, mouth open in a final, unfinished curse.

Clarence Crabb stood over the corpse, blood dripping from his sword.

“Let the Rebels remember,” he said quietly, “Cracklaws do not forget their oaths.”

A/N:- I'll say it this was not my best battle 😭 😞 😭 😞 😭 😭 😭. I write good battles and all usually but those are pitched ones I don't know how to write ambushes and all. Deluded_Peacemonger  I have read both your fics From Beyond the Wall and Burned them all I want your advice on how to improve.

Also, in general I'd like all of you guys advice on how to improve on battle scenes and all because I'll be working very hard on the next battle which will be breaking the Siege of Storm's End so I need all advice before it so please give it. Also, please leave comments because those are what actually encourages me and prevents burnouts and all.

Chapter Text

283 AC — The Banks of the Trident, Riverlands 

The war tent was large but spare. It bore no sigils, only plain canvas and rough-hewn tables and adorned with no frippery save for the grey Direwolf on white—the unchanged banners of House Stark. Although, they were sure to be changed soon enough with Eddard Stark taking the Throne. Outside, the waters of the Trident flowed red still from the blood that had spilled their during the battle.

It had been a fortnight since the Battle, and thirteen days since Hoster Tully, and Robert Baratheon had marched to take King's Landing. The past fortnight had been spent tending to their wounded, and now more or less they had a force of thirteen thousand again ready to march.

It was quiet inside, though nearly forty lords sat in attendance. There was no need for drums or heralds or trumpets. They were men at war, not courtiers.

Eddard Stark, seated at the high chair, pale from the wounds he’d taken felling Prince Rhaegar, sat beside Jon Arryn, his father in all but blood. The two men shared a somber weight: one had won a crown; the other had laid the stones for him to take it.

Now came the aftermath.

Ned’s voice was steady, if hoarse. “We hold this council for the lords, for you all to advise us on the matters of governance. Lord Hoster, and Lord Robert march to take King's Landing, and to end the war. Thus, it falls to us, here, to set the realm in order from the ashes of this war.”

A murmur of agreement.

Jon Arryn rose, grey and tall, his eyes flinty with old purpose. “Let us begin with the matter of treachery.”

There was no need to name the house.

“House Grafton of Gulltown,” Jon continued, “declared for Aerys the Mad, when I summoned my banners. They shut the gates of Gulltown to their rightful Liege Lord. They forced blood to be spilled upon Vale soil, and only the bravery of the Shetts—and them leading the commons of to riots—opened the city for us. But, nonetheless blood of Valemen was spilled due to the treachery of Graftons.”

He let the words settle.

“I will not leave such betrayal unanswered.”

He turned to Eddard, formally.

“My King, I submit that House Grafton be attainted, their titles stripped, and their holdings reassigned.”

A hush fell. Even in rebellion, stripping an ancient house of its lands was no small matter.

Ned gave a slow nod. “Grafton raised sword against the rightful liege lord of the Vale. Their treachery cost the Vale her sons, steel, and peace. It shall be answered. I give my assent to Lord Arryn, and he shall punish his bannermen as he sees fit.”

Jon inclined his head, in deference to the King.

He then turned his gaze to the man kneeling below—Ser Uther Shett, bruised and battered, but proud.

“Your House stood with us, Ser Uther. Your kin threw open the gates. You bore sword at Gulltown and again at the Trident. For loyalty in the storm and courage in the fire, I name you—Lord of Gulltown, rightful keeper of its harbor and tower, and all lands formerly held by House Grafton.”

Steel rang as swords were drawn and banged on the floor in approval. Shett bowed low.

“May your rule be just,” Jon said, and Shett swore bowed, and walked back to stand among the other Lords of the Vale.

Then came the harder matter.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. “There is one other prisoner, my lords. Taken wounded but alive on the banks of the Trident.”

He stepped aside as the guards pulled forward a shackled man in bloodstained white.

Ser Barristan Selmy.

Even in chains, he stood proud.

Gasps and mutters rippled. The Bold himself. Barristan the Bold, was considered the finest knights in Westeros, and had a legendary reputation all over the Realm, because everyone had witnessed him killing Maelys "the Monstrous", in the Stepstones.

Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort stepped forward, his voice cool and polite.

“The man fought for House Targaryen. For the Mad King, and his mad son. He was no conscript, no frightened boy. He knew his duty—and his choice. Slit, his throat Your Grace, it will be a clean death. More than what he granted to many of our own men.”

Ned’s jaw tensed. Jon said nothing yet.

Then the new Lord Lyonel Corbary wheezed forward in protest. “But he is no common knight, Lord Bolton. Ser Barristan is chivalry made flesh. And the people—when they learn the Wolf King had him slain—they will not forget.”

“A sword like his,” added Lord Wyman Manderly, “could serve us well. If he bends the knee.”

Ned sat quietly for a long moment. The murmurs settled. The weight of the room shifted to him again.

His grey eyes lingered on Ser Barristan, bound in bloodied white, his head held high despite the bruises at his jaw and the rusting links at his wrists. Then Ned spoke:

“Ser Barristan,” he said, his voice low and firm, “by all accounts, you are a man of great honour.”

He glanced briefly at the gathered lords, as if to gauge their measure.

“My father, Lord Rickard Stark, fought beside you in the Stepstones. He spoke of you more than once during my childhood. Said there was no finer blade in the Seven Kingdoms. That your name stood for honour, even when the court did not.”

A few brows furrowed at that—mentioning the Mad King's court still drew discomfort.

“I have no interest in seeing such a man slain, not for pride, nor vengeance. And I do not doubt you fought for your sworn prince, and King as your oaths demanded. That too is honour. But the realm cannot afford to kill all its best men simply because they stood on the other side of the field.”

“A king who puts down every sword that once crossed him will have none left to raise in the end,” he said. “I will not kill an honorable man for doing his duty, no matter how bitter it was to face him in battle.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening.

“So I offer you a choice, Ser Barristan. As a king asking for your loyalty. Will you bend the knee? Will you swear fealty—and serve me as Lord Commander of my Kingsguard?”

The silence that followed was profound.

All eyes turned to Ser Barristan Selmy. His face, though marked with pain and exhaustion, remained proud and unreadable. He looked at Eddard Stark for a long moment.

And then, slowly, he dropped to one knee. The chains clinked as he bowed his head.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice rasped from injury and weariness but unmistakably clear, “I had served the crown—not the man who sat upon it. And when madness ruled, I stayed my hand because I had sworn it. But now that crown is yours, taken with right of conquest in battle. If you will have me, I shall serve you. With all the strength left in my body, till the end of my days.”

Ned stood. And with a nod, he gestured for the guards.

“Remove his chains.”

A clatter of links struck the floor as the shackles were unfastened. Ser Barristan rose—free, proud once more—and went to one knee again before Ned, this time without chains.

Jon Arryn watched quietly, and even Roose Bolton inclined his head—whether in approval or calculation, none could say.

“Then rise, Lord Commander Barristan Selmy,” Ned said, voice firm as iron. “Your service begins anew.”

The matter of Ser Barristan was settled, and the tension that had hung like a sword above them seemed, if not lifted, at least sheathed for now. Murmurs of agreement passed among the gathered lords, and many nodded with the quiet solemnity.

Then, Ned turned his gaze to Jon, who offered a silent, firm nod of assent.

The King began to speak.

“There is yet another matter that cannot be delayed,” Ned said, his voice steady, there was a quiet authority in his voice. “The Targaryen fleet still sails under the Dragon banner. Lord Velaryon commands it and they hold Blackwater Bay and the Gullet. If the war is to be finished swiftly, we must strike by both land, and by sea. By land, Lords Tully, and Baratheon are already preparing to take King's Landing. And, thus it falls to us to prepare to strike by the Sea.”

He looked to the short, portly lord seated near the front.

“Lord Wyman Manderly,” Ned said, “I command you to return to White Harbor at once.”

Wyman Manderly’s eyes widened slightly at the suddenness of the request, but he gave a deep bow, his jowls quivering with the movement.

Ned continued, his tone brooking no doubt.

“You shall have the full assistance of Gulltown. The ships of the Vale and the North must be joined. Begin building a fleet immediately, and hire every sellsail company willing to take coin. Lysene, Myrish, Tyroshi—so long as they are competent. I will see to the coin once the war is done, any expenses you take shall be covered by me. We will need this fleet to end this war.”

Lord Wyman nodded resolutely. “The, shipwrights at White Harbor will answer, Your Grace. They shall build until the seas themselves beg mercy.”

A few chuckles rippled from the Lords, but the intent was plain—and respected.

Then Jon Arryn stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back, his voice ringing clear.

“My Lords, know this too—when war called, I had little time to gather all the Vale’s might. I came with only nine-thousand men, only a portion of our strength. But that dosen't mean that our strength back home has been idle.”

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.

“In my absence, I had left Lord Yohn Royce and Lord Horton Redfort to raise another host. Which, they have done, and raised another sixteen thousand men. I have already sent word—Lord Royce marches now with another eight thousand to join our strength here at the Trident. They will be with us within a fortnight.”

Gasps and pleased murmurs rippled through the tent. The addition of fresh, well-armed, and rested troops was a welcome surprise.

“When they arrive,” Jon added, “we will be twenty one thousand strong again—and, march to join Lords Robert, and Hoster with their fourteen-thousand men at King's Landing.”

"I don’t think there will be much use for those reinforcements now," boomed the Greatjon Umber, rising from his seat like a mountain. His voice carried through the tent like a warhorn, and more than a few Lords turned to him with raised brows.

He grinned, a wolfish flash of teeth beneath his wild beard.

"Robert and Lord Tully will have no trouble taking King’s Landing. I imagine after seeing our host marching for their gates, most of those greenboys would abandon the gates, and run to their sister-fucking King."

A burst of laughter rippled through the war tent—deep, genuine, and welcome after so much blood and grim business. Even dour Roose Bolton allowed the ghost of a smirk. Lord Wyman Manderly chuckled so hard his chins quivered like pudding in a storm.

The Greatjon wasn’t finished.

"And, if not Robert will simply smash their gates with that bloody hammer of his."

More laughter erupted, echoing against canvas and stone. Ned couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips.

The laughter faded slowly, the lingering tension eased, if only for a heartbeat.

But then the King—Eddard Stark, no longer just the Lord of Winterfell—raised a hand for silence, and the mirth died down like embers under rainfall.

“There will be blood yet,” Ned said, quiet but firm. “There, are still many who fly the Dragon banners who'll need to be bought to heel.”

His words cooled the air. They were not spoken harshly, but they reminded every man present that the war, though nearly won, was not yet over.

Ned looked out over the assembled lords, his gaze sweeping from Umber to Bolton, Manderly to Corbray. “When King’s Landing falls, I have already ordered Lord Tully, and Lord Baratheon to ensure their is no sack. I will not see the city burned or sacked in vengeance. There will be no Red Keep filled with corpses. No children butchered. No women dishonored. The war must end, yes—but with justice, or else we'd be no better than the Targaryens.”

There were no cheers this time, only solemn nods, some reluctant, others in agreement.

Ned said nothing for a moment, as though those words weighed heavier for him than any blade.

Then he turned to Ser Martyn Cassel, who stood beside the Stark banner.

“Ride north,” Ned ordered. “Carry word to Winterfell. To, my brother Benjen tell him he's Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North now. I also had told Ser Rodrik, to raise another host while we fought in the South. Take command of that host, and join Lord Medger at Moat Callin. I fear we'll have need for reinforcements, soon enough. But, until I send word those forces are not to leave the North at all.”

Martyn gave a respectful nod. “As you command, Your Grace."

Ned, turned back to the gathered lords one last time.

“The Iron Throne waits in the capital. The council is dismissed for now. We will meet again when Lord Robert and Lord Hoster send word of the city. Until then—see to your men. Ready them to march. This war is nearly over. Let’s see it done right.”

The lords rose in unison—steel scraping stone, banners catching in the breeze from the tent flaps.

The war had been long.

But the peace, if won rightly, could last longer still.

283 AC—Sunspear, Dorne

Solar of Prince Doran Martell, Old Palace 

Prince Doran Martell was not a man prone to outbursts. He was, by nature and necessity, a patient and deliberate soul—cautious where his brother Oberyn was rash, calculating where others leapt. But today, anyone who looked upon him could see it plainly:

He was panicking.

And truthfully, none could blame him.

Dorne had been dragged into a war it had never wanted. The offense done to his sister Elia—spurned by that fool Rhaegar who had instead kidnapped a fourteen year old child —had been grave enough. But worse had followed. King Aerys, in his madness and desperation, had turned Elia and her children into hostages. Rhaenys and baby Aegon—barely more than infants—had been used as leverage to force House Martell’s hand.

So Doran had yielded, to the blackmailing from Aerys for the sake of his family. He had sent ten thousand Dornish spears marching north beneath the burning sun, not out of loyalty to the Iron Throne, but out of fear for his blood.

And they had died for it.

Crushed at the Trident. Slaughtered alongside the royalist host. Word was only just beginning to filter south, and the numbers were hazy, but by all accounts, the Dornish host had been shattered. How many had survived? Dozens? Hundreds? He did not know. But the silence from the army's commanders was a grim omen in itself.

And now, worse news still.

There had been riots in King’s Landing—city-wide revolt, it seemed, led by Qarlton Chelsted, the former Hand of the King. Why Chelsted had turned on Aerys, Doran could not say, nor did he care. The reasons mattered little. What mattered was that the city had turned. Aerys had lost control.

The Targaryens had been driven into the Red Keep, forced to hide behind its ancient walls like cornered animals. Elia. Rhaenys. Aegon. All trapped with the Mad King in his den of lunacy.

And the rebel host was coming.

Doran had no illusions that the Red Keep would hold. Not against an army flushed with victory, led by men with fire in their bellies and vengeance in their hearts.

He clenched his fists atop the carved arms of his chair.

There was, perhaps, one hope of salvation.

The Reach.

How bitterly amusing, that a Dornishman—a Martell, no less—should look to the knights of the Reach for salvation. But what other choice remained? The vast army under Lord Mace Tyrell was the only host large enough and near enough to contest the rebel advance. If the Tyrells marched east swiftly enough, if they reached the capital before the gates fell…

Maybe. Just maybe.

His sister. Her children. They might still be saved.

And yet, even as he dared to hope, Doran’s gut twisted with dread.

Aerys was still King. And madness was still King with him.

A knock came at the solar door. Sharp. Measured.

Doran exhaled and wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “Enter,” he called, voice rough.

The door opened. Prince Oberyn Martell stepped in.

For once, the Red Viper of Dorne wore no smirk, no swagger. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes grim and hard. He looked like a man freshly returned from a funeral—and in some ways, he was. Doran, had sent him to get a measure of their troops exactly how many they could send out without leaving Dorne vulnerable.

“You’re late,” Doran said, trying for calm.

“I’m here,” Oberyn replied shortly. “And we need to talk.”

Doran gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit, brother.”

Oberyn did so without complaint, which was telling in itself.

“Well?” Doran asked.

“We can spare no more than three thousand men,” Oberyn said flatly. “Three thousand to march beyond our borders. That’s after we leave three thousand at the Prince’s Pass and the Boneway each, and another five thousand spread throughout the Kingdom for garrison duty. Any fewer, and we’ll be inviting attack.”

Doran closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s barely a drop in the sea.”

“I know.” Oberyn leaned forward, eyes intent. “Which is why I have another plan.”

Doran looked up sharply. “Go on.”

“There’s a company in Essos. You know them. You trained with them. As did I, briefly.”

Doran’s brows drew together. “The Spears of the Sun.”

Oberyn nodded.

The, ancient sellsword company of Dornish. There, wasn't a child above five who didn't know about that company. Everyone, knew the younger brother of Princess Meria Martell had led a bunch of second and third sons to Essos a decade before the Targaryens had landed in Westeros. They'd, tried to help Dorne during the First War with the Targaryens but had arrived too late when Dorne had already secured peace with the Dragons.

After, Dorne had bent the knee to Dareon the Second their numbers had swelled again as many disgruntled Dornish about having to bend the knee to Targaryens had left to join them, in self imposed exile .Despite pleas, they had refused to assist in the Blackfyre rebellions earning a degree of enmity from the Targaryens, and they hadn't been liked by the Blackfyres, or the Golden Company either due to their own dislike of Dornish.

Many, Martells had served in the company to get millitary experience in Essos. Doran himself hadn't ever been able to do that, but Oberyn had during his exile, and had made good connections with them.

“They number around five thousand thousand,” Oberyn continued. “Hard veterans. Dornish blood, fighting for gold and glory across the Free Cities. Two-fifths are spearmen, the rest archers and cavalry. Most of them fight with poison—and all of them fight with fury. They've recently crushed a Lysene host in the Stepstones while fighting for Tyrosh, they're free of their contract now that Tyrosh and Lys made peace. They're free now. And close.”

Doran’s eyes sharpened. “You want to hire them.”

“No,” Oberyn said. “I want to bring them to fight for their homeland.”

Doran raised an eyebrow. “You think they’ll come? After nearly three-hundred years, you know what they said when we have asked them for aid in the Blackfyre Rebellions again, and again. That, they'll only fight for a free Dorne, which dosen't bow to any outsider.”

“I’ve kept in touch with some of them. There’s still pride for Dorne in them. And rage. The first one's left seeking adventure in Essos. The second wave left Dorne because they refused to bend the knee to the dragon. Tell them that a Martell’s children may die in that Red Keep. That a child with Martell blood might sit the Iron Throne—or at the very least must be saved before the wolves and falcons rip them apart, and spill their blood. They’ll come. They'll come because the name Martell, and all it's blood members mean something to them. Their current Lord Captain, Qoren Martell is a close friend of mine, and a very very distant cousin of our's, and he cares for Dorne, and for the House of Nymeros Martell.”

Doran sat in silence for a long moment, weighing the costs.

“They're respected,” Oberyn pressed. “They refused to get involved in the Blackfyre Rebellions despite both sides begging. That earned them enemies, yes, but it also gave them something else: a reputation for independence. They don't fight for dynasties. They fight for their own. For us.”

Doran gave a slow nod. “If they agree, and we send our own three thousand, that gives us eight thousand spears.”

“And not just raw levies,” Oberyn added. “Veterans. Fighters who know how to win.”

“Very well,” he said at last. “We send letters. As many as it takes. Speak of Elia. Of the children. Of Dorne’s honor. We offer gold if we must. And if they wish it, a place here—lands, titles. Redemption.”

Oberyn smirked faintly for the first time that day. “They won’t come for gold. They’ll come for blood and legacy.”

Doran looked back at him.

“Then let’s give them both.”

First of all I'd like to thank my friend Cyphx_Anyang618 for allowing me to use the Spears of Sun idea. Here's a link to the profile.

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyphx_Anyang618

And if any of u wanna check out details of the Spears of the Sun mercenary company here's the link to Cyphx's story ideas and Oneshots it's chapter 17.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66185164/chapters/172 384231

A/N:-

Sheesh, Sorry for the late chapter I had to help my elder sister shift 😔 😔 😔. Also, Shetts here's a interesting story about Shetts they King of the True Men was an ancient, title held by House Shett the former rulers of Gulltown which supposedly went back ten thousand years to the Dawn Age. And they were original founders of Gulltown and during the coming of the Andals Shetts had been in a lots of years of war with Royces. Under Osgood's rule, the Shetts were pushed back inside their town walls. Osgood turned to Andalos for help in recovering the lands lost to King Yorwyck VI Royce. He gave his daughter in marriage to the Andal knight Ser Gerold Grafton, took Grafton's eldest daughter as his own bride, and married a younger daughter of Grafton to his own son and heir. All these marriages were performed by septons Shett even converted to the Faith and swore to build a great sept in Gulltown should the Seven grant him victory. But while Shett won the Battle but he died in it and it was rumoured his son in law murdered him and he than usurped the Throne from Osgrood's son who was reduced to a landed knight in town.

And, I decided in this au Shetts helped the Rebels in Storming of Gulltown so Jon Arryn decided to reward them and while this might make other Royalists fear losing their lands and all I made Ned show clemency to Barristen Selmy to show that he'll be willing to make peace and forgive as well if they bent the knee.

PS:- Also, please leave comments because those are what actually encourages me and prevents burnouts and all. Even if you are able to leave a little comment it's very much appreciated😊😊.

Chapter Text

283 AC—Outside the Walls of King’s Landing

The Dragon Gate of King's Landing loomed ahead, broad and black under the night, the gold of the hinges dulled by soot and the stink of smoke that hung thick on the wind. The walls were as tall as ever. The city had not burned.

Yet.

Robert Baratheon sat tall in the saddle, his warhammer resting across the horn of his saddle, his black hair plastered to his brow with sweat. His armor was scuffed from the long march, his cloak stained with dust. Yet the fire in his chest—the fury that had driven him from Gulltown to Summerhall, to the Trident, and now here—still burned bright, as it would until he got Lyanna.

They had reached the gates of the capital, which were open as they'd been assured.

The gates were wide open, but while Robert would have been overjoyed once to march into the city to take Aerys, he wasn't right now.

Not after the madness we heard at Stokeworth.

He still remembered the way the messenger had ridden into camp: half-starved, wide-eyed, bearing the seal of the former Hand, Qarlton Chelsted. The missive had been stained with sweat and penned in haste, the words etched in desperation: The King meant to burn the city. Wildfire beneath the sept, the dragonpit, the docks. If the rebels near the gates, he had planned to burn it all.

Chelsted, that cowardly, quivering weed of a man, had apparently found a spine after all—just in time to save the city. Robert wanted to raise a cup in his name.

A man who by all accounts was— a well known craven, and lickspittle of Aerys had actually led a revolt against his Master, and saved the capital from becoming ash.

They'd recieved word of everything, camped back at Stokeworth telling them what exactly Aerys had been planning to do. And, that the city had risen in revolt against the Mad King, led by his former Hand. 

He’d made the city itself rebel. 

Made Mad Aerys, hide in the Red Keep like the craven he was. 

Robert couldn’t help but grin at the irony of it all.

Within a fortnight and a day after the Battle of the Trident, they had reached the gates of King's Landing to root out the last of the Dragons—and they were being welcomed in. 

Beside him rode Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, eyes squinting against the haze rising from the city. He looked more relieved than any man had a right to.

"We won’t need to storm it," Hoster had said back at camp, practically grinning like a groom. “The people chant Eddard's name. Chelsted’s criers did their work. We’ll be welcomed as saviors, not conquerors.”

Robert hadn’t been so sure. 

Saviors? He was no damn savior. He was a hammer in a world of bones. But even he had no stomach for marching through wildfire and ash. He’d found a ally in the Blackfish, for that matter. 

They'd both had reservations against marching in the Capital, after they'd recieved the news—well, neither of them could be blamed for not wanting to march into a city, which was filled with Wildfire caches underneath it.

“I’d sooner charge the Trident again than ride into a city with wildfire under my horse’s arse.” Robert had said to Hoster.

“I don’t trust it. Chelsted’s warning gives us hope—but it also means Aerys has lost control. That’s more dangerous than any army.” Brynden had said.

Still, Hoster had made a fair point. The Red Keep still stood, but the Alchemists’ Guildhall had burned, their pyromancers dead or hiding within the fortress itself. Whatever caches Aerys had prepared couldn’t be lit without his mad sychopants.

Still... it only takes one spark.

Robert quickly shook that thought away, he'd agreed to the plan now. It wouldn't do any good to second guess, or even let this fear linger, and distract him during the fighting. That fear would be a distraction—distractions, got you killed in battles and Robert had no intention of dying after surviving this far.

They passed under the gate, and entered the city finally. And it wasn’t banners or horns that welcomed them—it was chants.

Chants from the smallfolk.

They were ragged voices, hoarse from hunger and smoke, rising from behind the battlements and open gates. Hundreds of them, thousands maybe. Lighting torches and shouting through the night as their ragged silhouettes lined the walls and roofs. No cries for mercy, no defiance. Just one name over and over.

“Stark! Stark! King Stark!”

Ned's name.

That alone might have brightened Robert’s mood once, but not tonight. He was too tired. But frankly, he was glad. Let the smallfolk scream for the Wolf. It would make Ned’s claim stronger—and it would only serve to help them 

And this night assault it had also been Chelsted’s plan, to which Hoster had agreed.

“Gods be good,” Robert muttered under his breath as he looked upon the black silhouette of the Red Keep in the distance, its towers rising above the city like a jagged crown. We’re actually going to take this place in the dark. On foot.

He turned in the saddle, saw Lord Hoster Tully riding a few paces behind, his eyes gleaming with open relief. The Lord of the Riverlands looked twenty years younger with hope swelling in his chest.

“No siege, no blood in the gutters,” Hoster had said hours ago, voice near-elated. “We’ll enter as liberators, with the people at our side. The city will be ours by dawn. And then… then we hold it.”

He was already speaking of governance. Of garrisoning.

“We’ll need to secure the granaries, the gates, the docks,” Hoster had declared.

He was eager, even more so now that they'd heard Tywin Lannister’s host had entered the Crownlands, and Mace Tyrell’s Reachmen were marching through the Kingswood, and of that Robert had assured the River Lord that they wouldn't reach anytime soon.

"We must secure the city," Hoster had said, eyes flashing, "before either of those lions or roses show up to claim it as their prize. If we hold the gates and the Red Keep by dawn, the people will see us as the true protectors of King’s Landing. Even Tywin won’t dare oppose us than."

And Robert hadn't been able to deny the logic.

Robert had agreed, with a grunt and a nod. The bastard was right. Tywin was no man to trust. Not even in peace, especially not in war. And Mace Tyrell? The man probably couldn’t spell “honor” if it was stitched on his banner, but he had fifty thousand men and too much pride to stand idle.

No. King's Landing had to be sealed, garrisoned, and loyal—before those bastards arrived.

And so it had been decided. A night assault, swift and silent, just as Qarlton Chelsted had urged in his message which they had received at Stokeworth. 

And this reasoning, was what had actually convinced Robert, and Brynden both to agree to take the city, despite their warirness of the wildfire caches.

“Come under cover of darkness,” the letter had said, “and take the Red Keep before Aerys can panic and burn it. The Guildhall is ash. Most pyromancers are dead or trapped. But the Keep is still dangerous.”

Dangerous, yes—but vulnerable too.

Their host had split into three.

Robert and Hoster, along with six thousand men, would march on the Red Keep itself—through the Dragon Gate, into Rhaneys's Hill and up through the twisting streets to the fortress. They’d strike like a spear in the dark, quick and brutal.

The Blackfish would take the Mud Gate, bringing another thousand to secure the docks, the riverside, and the warehouses. A critical step to prevent any landing—be it the Royal reinforcements, or the Reachmen.

The King’s Gate, Chelsted had warned, still held a few loyalists—stragglers of Aerys’s guards, Pyromancer-sympathizers, and Gold Cloaks too afraid to pick a side. But they were cut off, poorly supplied, and likely to surrender once the Red Keep fell.

Robert had agreed to the plan. Because this was the only way that would allow them to secure King's Landing, and prepare for a possible battle with Tyrells, and Lannisters in such a short time.

Robert took a deep breath and leaned forward in his saddle.

“No trumpets,” he commanded. “No shouts. No torches. Let’s give them a ghost war.”

Hoster gave a nod. 

Robert narrowed his eyes toward the Red Keep, a dark mass in the distance.

The last lair of the dragon.

Robert lifted his warhammer and turned to the Red Keep. Its towers rose like jagged teeth in the dark, silent and watchful. The moonlight glinted off the ramparts. Somewhere in there, Aerys waited, caged in his fortress, surrounded by fear and flame. The last dragon.

Time to bring him down.

He kicked his horse into motion. The warhorns sounded again. Steel clinked, torches flared, and the army moved.

“Ride.”

The Red Keep loomed above them now, its red stone walls painted black beneath the night sky. They had ascended Rhaenys’s Hill in silence, boots muffled in the dust and soot of the city’s chaos. The smallfolk had cleared the streets for them, dragging aside barrels, wagons, even corpses—silent, watching from alleyways and rooftops as the rebel host passed like a shadowed tide.

They had watched them march to Aegon's hill in silence.

Midway, they had been joined.

Qarlton Chelsted himself emerged from a side alley, flanked by two dozen of his ragged, torch-bearing loyalists—civilians in patched armor, many with butcher’s knives or farm tools in hand. His eyes were sunken, his beard unevenly shorn, but there was fire in his gaze.

“We’ve cleared the western alleys and secured the Gate of the Gods,” Chelsted said without preamble. “The remaining Pyromancers are trapped in the Red Keep. They’ll not be lighting anything tonight.”

Hoster had regarded him coolly—grateful, but not trusting. “You’ve done your duty, Lord Chelsted. Now do another. Take your men down to the Mud Gate. Ser Brynden needs all the support he can get.”

Chelsted had hesitated for only a moment, then bowed low. “As you command.”

Robert understood well enough why Lord Hoster had sent Chelsted and his ragged militia of smallfolk and sellswords away. It wasn’t merely a matter of mistrusting Chelsted—though Hoster certainly did—but a deeper, more practical concern. The men under Chelsted's banner were angry, undisciplined, and hungry for coin. They could be counted on to fight, perhaps, but not to hold back once the gates of the Red Keep fell. Hoster knew they would loot without hesitation—torch the halls, despoil the chambers, ransack the vaults—no matter what orders were given.

And that, Hoster could not allow.

The Red Keep had to be preserved, not ruined in a moment of chaos. If the Reachmen chose to make their stand and the war dragged into siege, they might well need the Keep’s fortifications . More than that, the royal treasury—whatever was left of it—would be desperately needed. Hoster was already thinking beyond the present, beyond Ned's coronation. The War still wasn't done. Armies would need paying. Lords would expect rewards. Roads, fleets, and grain would need gold, and gold could not be conjured from ashes.

The coin would be vital—for the war effort, and for Ned’s reign after it.

The climb had been slow, but steady on Aegon's hill. No volleys of arrows. No boiling oil from above. The city watched in silence as Robert and Hoster’s six thousand advanced in tight ranks beneath the shroud of darkness.

The heavy iron-and-oak gates of the Red Keep groaned on their ancient hinges, opening like the jaws of some sleeping beast slowly stirred awake.

The clang of the inner bar being drawn aside echoed across the stone yard. Then came the creak of timber, the clatter of chain, the sigh of release. The torchlight from within spilled out onto the courtyard, illuminating the stone steps like blood spilling down a stairwell.

And then—

Screams.

“Treachery! The gate! The gate is open!”

But it was too late for steel.

The men manning the gatehouse—worn, ragged, frightened—were already throwing down their spears and shields. Some even knelt, hands raised. Others just ran—bolting into the interior halls of the Red Keep like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

One soldier dropped his sword with a loud clang and cried, “We want no part of it! We’re done fighting!”

Robert shoved forward through the first line, hammer gripped like death, and stormed up the broad steps toward the now-opened gatehouse arch. His armor was still caked with blood from the yard below, but there was a strange stillness now. For a moment, no resistance.

Just the frightened eyes of men too tired, too scared to fight for a lost cause.

Robert did not stop.

He shoved past the surrendering guards, his eyes burning. “Open your hands and get out of my godsdamned way.”

They did.

Hoster and the men flooded in behind him, like water through a breached dam. Steel sang. Orders were shouted. The hallways began to fill with the sounds of controlled chaos.

But still—not a single organized defense.

No stand.

No resistance from the remaining Targaryen loyalists.

They had broken.

Or they had retreated—deeper into Maegor’s Holdfast. Into the throne room.

Aerys’s last den.

Robert stalked through the inner courtyards of the Red Keep, past cracked fountains, gardens choked with ash, and stained stone. The keep was eerily quiet—aside from the screams of those few foolish enough to raise weapons, quickly dispatched by the vanguard behind him.

And then the real slaughter began.

The corridors of the outer yard were narrow—but there were guards. Dozens of them. Gold Cloaks and remnants of the Dragon’s guardsmen, scrambling to form lines, calling out in panic.

They never stood a chance.

Robert charged like a boar through tall grass.

His hammer swung in a blur—a rib cage caved in, the man thrown against the wall like a sack of barley.

The next thrust a spear. Robert batted it aside, grabbed the haft, and ripped it from the soldier’s hands before crushing his helm like a melon.

Men tried to run.

Robert hunted them like a lion after his prey.

A man-at-arms tried to lunge—Robert caught him with a two-handed strike that shattered steel and skull both.

A squire, barely grown, stood quivering in armor. Robert shoved him aside with the flat of his hammer, spared him.

More poured from the towers—but now Hoster’s men were at his heels. The Riverlords and Stormlanders surged through the doors.

Steel rang on steel.

Cries of “For the Riverlands!” “For the Stormlands!” “King Stark!”

Robert barely noticed. He was drunk on battle. Hammer, blood, smoke, screams—this was where he thrived.

He swung again. A breastplate cracked.

Again. A kneecap shattered.

Again. A skull ruptured and blood sprayed his cheek.

He roared, tore off his dented helm, and flung it away.

He wanted them to see his face.

Let the Dragon’s men know it was Robert Baratheon who tore their king’s gates down.

He turned, covered in blood not his own, breathing hard. All around him, the Red Keep was screaming.

The upper yard was taken. Hoster was barking orders to fortify the gatehouse, and those who surrendered.

But Robert simply stalked forwards towards the Throne Room.

“We go to the Throne Room!” Robert bellowed. “Now!”

Aerys’s last den. Where he'd find the Mad fool, and he quickened his pace as he ran for the doors, and he was being followed by his men.

And there they were again—

cries, this time not of treachery, but of surrender.

Men in Targaryen crimson cloaks stood in the stairwells, some with blades trembling in their hands, others already on their knees. Most of them dropped their weapons when they saw Robert Baratheon, bloodstained and furious, stomping up the steps like a wroth god.

“Where’s your king?” Robert growled.

One man, barely more than a boy, pointed wordlessly toward the great bronze doors that led into the Throne Room.

Robert nodded.

Then lifted his hammer in both hands.

And then came the boom.

He brought the flat of his warhammer down upon the double doors with a force that made them shudder in their hinges. The sound echoed through the Red Keep like a death knell.

Again.

BOOM.

And this time, the latch cracked.

Again.

BOOM.

The doors burst inward, iron bands snapping. The Hall of the Iron Throne lay before him, and it was still.

He took a step forward, and the mad whispers of fire echoed down from the black walls.

For a moment, silence held the Hall of the Iron Throne like a breath caught in the throat of the world.

Then the shrill voice shattered it.

“Lannister! Lannister! Defend me!”

The words echoed from the far end of the hall like the mad shriek of a wounded bird. “Defend your king! Your king!”

Robert stepped through the broken doorway, his hammer dripping red, his cloak torn at the hem, and his men—sixteen of them, Riverlords and Stormlanders—followed behind, blades drawn and wary.

The chamber itself was dark, lit only by guttering torches. The Iron Throne loomed above it all like a crown of blades. And at its base…

Aerys Targaryen stood, his once-majestic robes torn and piss-stained, his hair a silvered bird’s nest, his long yellowed nails clutching at the arms of the twisted throne.

And—

From the corner, a figure moved—a small, panicked man in green robes, hands clutching a chain of linked golden hands.

The Hand of the King.

A pyromancer.

Robert’s eyes narrowed.

The man tried to run. But Robert was faster.

With a bellow, Robert closed the distance, swung his hammer once with both hands, and crushed the pyromancer’s back like a dry branch. The man screamed once and fell, the golden chain clattering from limp fingers.

Robert kicked the body aside and turned—just in time to see a young knight in white cloak rush one of his men, sword flashing.

Jaime Lannister.

His blade moved like light, cutting down one of Robert’s Riverlanders with a single stroke. The boy moved with speed and grace that betrayed his youth. Another man stepped forward to stop him—and Jaime turned, blade sliding under his guard, opening his belly.

Robert strode forward, furious. “HALT!”

Jaime turned, eyes wild, sword raised, shining in the torchlight.

“I said HALT, boy!” Robert roared again, already stepping forward.

But Jaime lunged.

Steel hissed.

Robert sidestepped, took the blow on his shoulder plate, and swung his hammer low, catching Jaime’s hip and sending him sprawling.

But the boy rolled—quick as a snake—and came back up swinging. Robert parried with the haft of his hammer, then smashed downward, knocking Jaime’s sword wide. The young lion kept coming.

Robert didn’t give him the chance.

He feinted, then drove his shoulder into Jaime’s chest, grabbing him by the gorget and hurling him back with brute strength. Jaime hit a pillar headfirst with a sickening crack and slumped to the floor, unmoving.

“Stupid little lion,” Robert muttered, panting, towering over the fallen boy. “Should have stayed in the West.”

He turned back to the Throne.

And there—dragged from his seat by two of Robert’s men—was Aerys.

The Mad King.

The man was sobbing, clawing at the air with filthy fingers, his face a mask of fear and filth and madness. He tried to rake Robert’s leg with his nails, hissing something incoherent.

Robert didn’t hesitate.

He punched him.

Once—a meaty thud against paper-thin flesh.

Aerys gasped.

Robert punched again. And again. His fist found bone.

And then the rage took him.

Suddenly, he was in Storm's End again during that night standing, and watching.

He saw the ship. His parents’ ship. Splintering in black water as Essosi sails drifted behind. The letters. The storm. The silence that followed. All because this madman sent them to find a bride for his silver-haired bastard.

Another punch. His knuckles split.

Aerys's face was a ruin already.
But Robert wasn’t done.

He grabbed the Mad King by the collar of his scorched and piss-soaked robes and hauled him up to his knees like a sack of flour. Aerys whimpered—pathetic, snot and blood running down his pale, cracked lips. His mouth moved without words. His teeth—those that hadn’t been shattered—chattered together in fear.

This bastard had murdered his parents.

Robert's fist crashed into Aerys’s face.

A sickening crack of cartilage and bone.

He saw Rickard Stark, burning in his armor. He saw Brandon strangling, himself trying to save his father.

Another punch. Teeth broke free.

He burned Lord Rickard, alive while his son was forced to watch.

Another blow. This time to the ear. Aerys’s head snapped sideways, blood flying in an arc.

“You made Brandon STRANGLE HIMSELF! HIS OWN SON!”

Punch. Punch. The sounds were thick and wet now.

He saw Elbert—bright, bold Elbert, his friend—vanished into the dungeons of this palace and never seen again.

“You locked Elbert in a cell like a dog! He was my friend! You killed him!”

He drove his knee into the King’s gut, lifting the man slightly off the floor. Aerys choked—vomited blood and bile down the front of his robes.

Another punch.

Robert dropped him for a moment. Let him sag to the marble like a sack of meat. But then he was on him again, straddling him, roaring.

He saw Ned’s face, at the moment he learnt the fate of his father, and brother. The grief, the loss. What this madman had tried to do to his brother. He saw Ned again at that night in the Eyrie weeping in the shoulder of Jon.

“You wanted to take Ned's head! YOU SENT WORD TO HAVE HIM EXECUTED!”

He drove his fist down—right into Aerys’s mouth. The sound was hideous. Something inside cracked. Aerys made a high-pitched moan, no longer forming words.

Another punch. Another. Another.

Blood. Bone. Screaming.

“YOU THINK I FORGOT?!”

Robert was shaking now, soaked in blood and sweat and grief, each punch driven by the weight of a thousand ghosts.

He grabbed Aerys by the silver hair and slammed his head once, twice, three times into the cold floor of the Throne Room.

“YOU TOOK EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING.”

Aerys didn’t fight back. Couldn’t.

His face was a ruin of blood and swelling, his right eye a swollen plum, the left one half-closed and leaking tears. His lips were ripped open, nose bent sideways, his breath rattling.

And still Robert didn’t stop.

He hit him again. And again. And again.

Until Aerys was just a broken, wheezing pile of skin and blood, twitching like a dying rat beneath the weight of a god’s fury.

Until—

“Robert!”

A hand grabbed his shoulder. That old, wrinkled hand on his shoulder.

“Robert! Enough!”

Robert snarled, whipped around, ready to strike—and stared into the face of his grandsire, Eldon Estermont. The old man’s eyes were wide with something between horror and desperation.

“How dare you—” Robert began.

Yes, how dare he his grandsire should be glad Robert's killing the man who killed his daughter—his mother.

“Robert… Robert… stop…” came the voice. Desperate. Soft. His grandsire. Eldon Estermont.

Robert’s chest heaved, his fists trembling and slick with gore. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to end him. To finish it, once and for all.

But—

“King Eddard.”

That stopped him.

The name. The title.

The words slipped into Robert’s ears like cold water.

“King Eddard wanted him alive.”

And the rage… faltered.

Not gone. But held back, like a tide meeting stone.

Robert’s fists trembled.

Robert looked down.

Aerys’s face was barely recognizable now. A bloodied mask of ruin and madness. His hand twitched. His breathing was faint.

Still alive.

Just.

Robert stood, blood dripping from his knuckles, and looked around.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

He was panting like a beast. His fists were raw. And still, somewhere deep inside him, the fury raged.

But above it all, over the pounding in his ears, he heard it again.

King Eddard.

And slowly, Robert turned his eyes toward the Iron Throne.

Robert looked up at it.

The Iron Throne.

Ned's Throne.

Then he looked back at his grandsire and rasped, “Where’s Hoster?”

Eldon Estermont bowed his head slightly. “Gone to secure Princess Elia and her children.”

Robert’s jaw clenched.

The war was not over yet.

But the worst of the Dragon was done.

He turned, wiping blood from his face, and allowed himself a brief smirk as he looked down at Aerys's broken face.

Maegor’s Holdfast

283 AC

The last door of the inner chambers loomed ahead, sealed shut with a heavy iron bar. The passage behind was littered with broken furniture, smoldering torches, and streaks of soot—a barricade hastily cleared by his men.

Hoster Tully stepped over the debris, the hem of his cloak damp with blood from halls he would rather not remember. His sword was still drawn, but his hand ached from holding it too long. His face was slick with sweat, despite the cool stone around them.

Behind him, Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister followed in lockstep, their visors raised, eyes wary. The men of the Trident had secured the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast with swift precision, taking only a few skirmishes to silence what remained of Aerys’s loyal defenders.

But now… they stood before the last threshold.

“Break it,” Hoster ordered, voice quiet but firm.

Two soldiers advanced with axes. With three brutal strikes, the heavy bar splintered and fell away.

The door creaked open—

And there she was.

Princess Elia Martell, a silver of a woman in a bloodstained silk gown, on her knees before them.

She held a babe swaddled in dragon black and red, barely more than a year old. Her hands were trembling as she tried to shield him with her thin frame. Her hair clung to her cheeks in wet strands. Her mouth opened—but only pleading came out.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please. They are only children—please!”

Hoster’s breath caught in his throat. Jason immediately raised a hand, halting the men behind them. His voice was gentle, but firm.

“All of you—out. Clear the hall. Now.”

One by one, armored boots retreated from the chamber. Hoster remained. So did Jason. So did Blackwood. No one else.

Elia clutched her babe tighter, her voice rising in panic. “Please, my Lords, please. Mercy. Not for me—but for them. My son is only—”

“My lady, we have no intention of harming you or your children,” said Tytos Blackwood, stepping forward, his sword already sheathed. His deep voice was soothing. “This I swear, by the old gods of my house and the First Men. You have my word.”

She looked at him, wide-eyed. Her chest heaved. Still, she trembled.

But Hoster…

Hoster’s eyes had fallen on the babe in her arms.

Aegon. Son of Rhaegar. Grandson of Aerys.

A boy not yet old enough to walk.

And all he could see was—

A threat.

A future war. A future claimant. A pretender to the throne his daughter’s child would hold.

It would be better—

No.

Hoster shuddered. No, he told himself again. He would not go down that path. He would not be a child-killer. Let Tywin Lannister carry that title proudly, and flaunt it with his Rains of Castamere. Not Hoster Tully.

He took a slow breath, lowered his blade.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “I am Hoster Tully, of Riverrun. Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. I give you my oath—upon the Seven—that no harm shall come to you, nor to your children, so long as you remain in our custody.”

He dropped to one knee.

“You have my word.”

Elia blinked at him. Her body began to shake harder—not in fear now, but from relief.

"My Lady," Jason asked softly. "We need you to tell us where your daughter is, if she's outside I'll immediately depart to bring her to you. I am afraid Maegor's Holdfast isn't a secure place for anyone right now."

Elia's voice broke as she said, “My daughter… she's under the bed.”

Hoster winced. Gods... A little girl. He hadn't even thought—hadn't let himself think of her.

Without waiting for instruction, Tytos Blackwood gently stepped forward and sheathed his sword with a deliberate motion. He crouched beside the bed, lowering himself to one knee, and placed both hands on the cold stone floor so she could see them.

His voice was soft, fatherly. “Sweetling… it’s all right. You can come out now. No one here will harm you.”

A faint sniffle answered him.

“She’s scared,” Elia murmured. “She saw the flames… she heard the men dying in the halls.”

“She’s only a child,” Hoster said quietly. His throat was tight. His own Edmure was barely seven. What if this were him?

A faint whimper answered him.

“She’s only three,” Elia murmured. “Please…”

“Shhh,” Tytos said gently. “I have daughters, too. I know what frightens them. Come now, sweet girl. Come to your mother.”

Hoster watched in silence.

Tytos spoke again, barely above a whisper. “My lady, perhaps you could call her.”

Elia leaned slightly, brushing her daughter’s curls with trembling fingers. “Darling. It’s all right. Come to me, sweetling. These men… they won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Silence.

Then—a shuffle.

A small, thin hand appeared from under the bedframe. Then a tangle of dark curls. The girl was tiny, trembling in a shift that hung too large on her shoulders. She crawled forward on hands and knees before darting into her mother’s lap and curling into her like a kitten, face buried in her skirts.

Elia wrapped her arms around her daughter and began to hum—a lullaby, soft and cracked from tears.

Tytos didn’t move, his hand still open and gentle before him, until Elia looked up and gave a small nod.

Only then did he stand.

Hoster stared at the child. Three years old. Eyes swollen with fear. Still shaking.

She had no idea how close death had crept to her.

And Hoster felt sick.

He looked away.

He couldn't believe he had considered murdering them all just a few moments ago.

“Shhh, darling,” Elia whispered, stroking her hair, voice cracking. “It’s all right now. They’re kind men. We’re safe.”

Safe.

Hoster swallowed hard.

Was she?

She should be, he told himself. He would see to it.

“Lord Blackwood,” Hoster said quietly. “From this moment, you and your men are responsible for the safety and care of Princess Elia and her children. Guard them as if they were your own kin.”

Blackwood rose, nodded deeply. “Aye, my lord.”

Hoster turned to Elia.

“Princess, for your safety and the safety of your children, I must ask you to remain within these chambers until we can transfer you to more secure lodgings. Do you understand?”

Her eyes met his. Sharp. Tired. Knowing.

She understood what he wasn’t saying.

It was confinement.

But she nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

Hoster bowed.

Then turned and walked out of the chamber, Jason at his side. The air outside felt colder somehow.

The moment the doors closed behind him, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held.

He had almost done it.

Almost.

Jason said nothing, just glanced sidelong at him as they descended the steps together.

“We’ll need to find better chambers for them,” Hoster said at last, voice hoarse. “Guarded ones. With locks and stone doors. Discreetly.”

Jason nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

But Hoster’s mind was elsewhere—on the child.

The baby boy with silver hair and violet eyes.

Aegon.

Hoster could still feel the weight of the dagger he hadn’t drawn.

And he prayed he would never feel it again.

And most of all he prayed he wouldn't have to regret this decesion, and that neither would his grandchildren have to suffer due to him showing mercy.

A/N:-

I don't know weather to be happy with this chapter or not that depends on you guys's reviews. I hope I projected the battle alright and all that next chapter will come after Monday.

Deluded_Peacemonger I tried to follow your advice on the main character pov during battle.

PS:- Also, please leave comments because those are what actually encourages me and prevents burnouts and all. Even if you are able to leave a little comment it's very much appreciated😊😊.

Chapter Text

283 AC—The Tower of the Hand, King’s Landing 

The heat of early afternoon filtered through the high windows, catching in the dust that floated in the air like ash. The room was tense, heavy with the stink of old smoke and the weight of what lay ahead. Hoster Tully stood with both hands gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles pale. His jaw was tight as he glared at Robert Baratheon, who stood arms crossed, looming like a dark mountain by the hearth.

It had been a day since the Rebel Host had taken the Red Keep. The halls still stank of blood and flesh, the stench of blood flesh clinging to the very air. And now Tywin Lannister had come. Twelve thousand men in polished mail and crimson cloaks at his back—pristine, unbloodied, late. 

Only six men were present in the chamber: Hoster himself, his brother Ser Brynden, Lord Eldon Estermont, Lord Jason Mallister, Lord Tytos Blackwood, and Robert. None of them spoke for a long moment. They had been arguing for the better part of an hour, and it had gone nowhere—until now.

Hoster slammed a hand down on the oaken surface.

“Damn you, Robert.”

Robert raised an eyebrow, unmoved. “He tried to cut down my men. Defending Aerys. What was I supposed to do, Hoster? Pat his blond head and tell him he fought bravely for a lunatic?”

“That blond head,” Hoster growled, “is Tywin Lannister’s eldest son. And Tywin’s at our gates. Twelve thousand men. Eight thousand horse, and four thousand infantry. All camped outside the city walls. You might as well have punched a hornet’s nest.”

Robert’s jaw clenched. 

“He had his sword out. And already cut down two of my men like a mad dog. And than was upon me, I tried to disarm him but he was too stubborn to go down. I did what needed doing, to ensure he couldn't cut down more of my men, or me.”

Hoster stared at him a long moment, then sighed. He could not fault Robert entirely. Jaime Lannister had drawn steel in defence of Aerys. Had cut men down. And Robert had been defending himself. That was truth.

But that truth made little difference now.

His voice, when it came next, was quiet. Heavy.

“The boy hasn’t stirred since yesterday.”

Everyone in the room stilled.

Hoster continued, eyes shifting from one man to the next. “The maesters are confident he will live. But the head wound was severe. He may sustain lasting effects. Exactly what… they aren’t sure yet.”

He paused. Then spoke the part none of them wanted to hear.

“They believe he may never lift a sword again. He may not even stand for long. His balance is ruined. Something in the spine, or the skull. They can't say yet.”

Robert muttered a curse under his breath and turned away, raking a hand through his hair.

Brynden said nothing. His arms were folded across his chest, his mouth a grim line.

Jason Mallister spoke next. “And worse yet we need Lord Tywin's men desperately.” He glanced at Robert. “With the word from Crackclaw Point. The Frey host is gone. Slaughtered. The Crackclaws left nothing. And, now we have no immediate reinforcements near.”

“And the Tyrells are marching through the Kingswood.” Hoster said darkly. “They'll reach the southern banks of the Blackwater by week's end. We’ve bought ourselves a victory in the Red Keep, but we’re still one battle from losing it all.”

Tytos Blackwood frowned, arms tucked behind his back. “If we don’t hold that river, we will come under siege, and with their numbers they might just decide to storm the city."

No one disagreed. It hung unspoken in the room like a noose.

“We cannot stand alone if the Reach besieges us,” Hoster continued, pacing now, one hand behind his back. “Not with Ned and Jon still days away. We need Tywin’s swords if we are to deny the Tyrells the crossing. If they cross—”

“They could undo the whole Rebellion,” Jason finished. “Take the city and crown their own king. Or worse, restore Aerys.”

Hoster turned to face them all. “Which is why no word of Jaime Lannister’s condition leaves this room. Not until the Tyrell army is turned back. Not a whisper. Not to your stewards, not to your sons. Is that understood?”

Eldon nodded quickly. “He’s a prideful man, Tywin. We cannot risk him learning that his son lies broken—and even less who broke him.” His eyes flicked nervously to Robert. “If he finds out…”

Eldon trailed off, his eyes still on his grandson. His expression tight with dread.

“If Tywin finds out we were responsible for his son's condition,” Brynden finally spoke, voice quiet but grave. “He might see his son as a lost cause, as already dead—and turn on us. Join the Reachmen. March on the city to take revenge for his son. Turn his whole host on us in vengeance.”

“No,” Hoster said at once. “He wouldn’t risk it. For all his ruthlessness, Tywin values his blood. He’ll stay his hand… so long as Jaime lives. As long as we hold his son—breathing—he will not strike. But he might do the next worst thing.”

“Withdraw,” Tytos muttered.

Hoster nodded. “Aye, withdraw. Sit and wait. Let us bleed against the Tyrells. He may not lift sword against us outright, not while his son is in our hands. But he may well choose to bleed us in silence. Withdraw. Wait for the Tyrells to crush us, and then sweep in to take the spoils.”

There was a pause after his words as the grim situation set in to everyone in the room. Hoster spoke again

“Which is why it is imperative none of this leaves this room. Not a word of the boy’s condition. Not to squires, not to stewards, not to your most trusted guards. Until the Tyrells are turned back and the city is safe—Jaime Lannister is recovering from burns sustained in the throne room fire. That’s the tale.”

Jason looked uneasy. “What if… what if he demands to see Jaime? During the parley? What then?”

A silence fell again, heavier than the last.

Before Hoster could speak, Tytos answered for him.

“You cannot allow the Lannisters entry into the city, my lord. Not yet. Tywin was the King’s Hand for years. He surely left eyes and ears within the Keep. Servants. Guards. Informants. If he sets foot inside these walls, he’ll learn Jaime’s condition before sunset.”

Robert gave a short, barking laugh. “Then that’s easy. Tell him the city is unsafe. That we’re still clearing the wildfire caches from underneath it, and that the people are uneasy and we can't add to the tension by inviting more people in.”

“Not even a lie,” Brynden added with a dry smirk. “We are clearing them. Slowly. Too slowly.”

Hoster glanced at Robert, then back at the others. “That will suffice, yes. It gives us time. If he wants to help secure the city and defeat the Tyrells, we welcome it. I'll tell him we need him to garrison the banks to prevent a crossing. We tell him the city isn’t secure it's a uneasy situation with the people. That the people are uneasy, and the presence of another army will only heighten the tensions. That until we face down the Tyrell threat, the gates stay shut. 

“Good,” Eldon murmured. “But… Jason’s question still stands.”

Hoster fell silent. His eyes fixed on the polished grain of the table as if hoping an answer might be carved into it.

Hoster didn’t answer right away. The silence grew brittle. Then, he turned back to the others, shoulders square.

“If he demands to see Jaime… I will say the boy is being treated in the Maesters’ tower for grave burns. That he was caught in a wildfire trap while defending the throne room. That his injuries are serious. But stable. That it would be too dangerous to move him, or to let anyone in.”

“And if he presses harder?” Jason asked. “If he demands proof?”

“I’ll give him a sealed letter. ‘Written’ by Jaime, by a faithful Maester’s hand, dictated under pain. Telling his father he’s safe. Healing.”

Brynden gave a soft snort. “Risky.”

Before Hoster could answer Brynden’s doubt, a calm voice interjected from the doorway.

“Not at all, my lord.”

Six heads turned sharply.

Qarlton Chelsted stood at the archway, his frame thin, his torch-scarred cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders. He looked as though he had not slept in a day—cheeks hollow, beard patchy, a thin sheen of sweat upon his brow. Yet there was no tremble in his voice. No hint of hesitation.

Robert's face darkened immediately. “Who let you in?”

Qarlton bowed slightly—more inclination than gesture, but still deliberate. “I was summoned by Lord Hoster to ride with him to meet Lord Tywin. I was early. Heard voices. And I stayed.”

Robert muttered, “Eavesdropping,” under his breath, and the word hung like a curse in the air.

Jason Mallister scowled and stepped forward. “You dare listen in on a meeting of this nature?”

Tytos’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at the man as well.

But Qarlton didn’t flinch. He met their gazes evenly, his hands folded before him like a supplicant priest. “Perhaps I should. I wouldn’t argue it. But I listened… and I may have a solution.”

They were silent, watching him.

“Grand Maester Pycelle,” Qarlton said, each word steady, “is Lord Tywin’s creature. Everyone on the Small Council knew it. Even Aerys, in his madness, suspected it. He trusted Pycelle less than he trusted his own son—and he was right not to.”

Hoster’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

Qarlton gave a slow nod. “I am. Tywin Lannister will trust Pycelle’s word more than he’ll trust any letter, seal, or tale we conjure. If Pycelle tells him Jaime is injured, healing, and unable to receive visitors—he will believe it.”

Robert crossed his arms again, jaw flexing. “And why should we trust you? You were Aerys’s man. You, may have led the riots against him but it was to save your own skin, I can say it. Now you speak as if you’ve grown a spine.”

Jason’s mouth was thin with contempt. “You were a lickspittle. A craven. Everyone knew it.”

And to all their surprise, Qarlton nodded.

“Aye,” he said quietly. “I was.”

His voice trembled then—but not with fear. With something else. Shame. The raw kind, unvarnished by pride or excuses.

“My cowardice and… sycophancy—” he stumbled over the word, but forced it through clenched teeth “—helped bring ruin to this realm. I told that madman what he wanted to hear. Again and again. I stood by while he roasted men alive, while he whispered of treason from his own son, while he screamed for the heads of anyone he thought disloyal. I helped make him what he became.”

His eyes, red-rimmed, flicked to each of them in turn.

“I stood beside Symond Staunton. Beside Lucerys Velaryon. Owen Merryweather. We all did it. We smiled and nodded while Elbert Arryn vanished into black cells. While Brandon Stark strangled on the end of a chain. We let it happen. Because we were cravens. Because it was easier.”

His voice cracked—not with weakness, but with the jagged, bleeding edge of old guilt. “We enabled a man who nearly murdered half a million innocents.”

No one interrupted. Even Robert was still now, watching with unreadable eyes.

Qarlton went on, voice thick with pain. “I am not asking for forgiveness. I do not deserve it. I will never deserve it. Not from you. Not from the realm. But I mean to earn a sliver of redemption, however small. And if I can keep this war from becoming worse—if I can stop a Lannister army from turning this city into another battlefield—then I’ll do it.”

He stepped forward a single pace, and for the first time since entering, the man’s voice grew stronger. Steel beneath the shame. “I have no future with the Targaryens. Not after I lead the riots against them in the city itself. That bridge is ash. And Lord Tywin would as soon hang me as hear me speak, because of me and other Lords of the Small Council pitting King Aerys against him. My only chance lies with you, my lords. With the realm you mean to build.”

Hoster Tully hadn’t moved since the first words fell from Qarlton’s lips. His weathered face remained stern, but behind the eyes—there was calculation now. And something else. The flicker of reluctant respect.

From all the tales he’d heard, Qarlton Chelsted had been a frightened puppet, a man who nodded at power and vanished in its shadow. But now, here he stood, not groveling, not hiding—but laying his sins bare for judgment. Not a plea. Not a bribe. A reckoning.

Robert shifted beside the hearth, muttering, “Seven hells…”

Jason Mallister’s frown had eased, his gaze thoughtful now.

Tytos Blackwood remained still, his arms still tucked behind his back, but his eyes had narrowed—not in contempt, but in reappraisal.

Brynden, ever the quiet one, simply watched. The tip of his finger tapped against the pommel of his sword once. Twice. Then stopped.

Finally, Hoster Tully stepped away from the table.

He approached Qarlton slowly, each step echoing in the tower chamber.

“Well, Lord Chelsted,” he said, his voice low. “For a man accused of cowardice, you speak with surprising courage.”

Qarlton bowed his head slightly, silent.

Hoster studied him another heartbeat, then said, “We have Pycelle confined in the Maidenvault with all the other courtiers. You'll go to him. Carefully. Discreetly. He will draft a letter for Tywin. You’ll deliver it to me.”

Qarlton blinked. “You want me to do it?"

“I do,” Hoster said. “Because you want redemption, prove yourself useful this is the first step to save the city from further bloodshed. You helped create this fire, Qarlton. Now help put it out.”

The older man swallowed thickly. “I will, my lord.”

“And afterward,” Hoster said quietly, “we’ll decide if your redemption has begun.”

Qarlton bowed. “That is more than I deserve.”

And for the first time, no one disagreed.

283 AC — Outside the Gate of the Gods, King’s Landing

The afternoon was overcast. The sun was veiled behind low clouds that hung like old cobwebs over the hills, and the air smelled faintly of soot and blood — the scent of a city recently taken.

Outside the Gate of the Gods, two camps had risen like opposing armies.

To the east: King's Landing behind it's walls the Rebel Host, now the host of the crown. Banners of the Direwolf, Trout, Falcon, and Stag flew together on pikes, claiming the capital not for rebellion — but for rule.

To the west: the red and gold of House Lannister, its host of twelve thousand men camped in perfect, ruthless order. Polished armor. Shining spears. Rows of crimson tents that gleamed like a field of blood.

Between them, a pavilion had been raised. Small. Private. Guarded by men of both sides.

And there sat Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, the Lion of Lannister — resplendent in golden armor, his cloak crimson and long, his face unreadable as ever. He sat like a man carved from old marble: still, cold, and waiting.

Tywin Lannister had cursed the moment he arrived to see the banners of the four rebel Houses—the Direwolf, the Trout, the Falcon, and the Stag—flying high above King’s Landing. Their victory didn’t trouble him. No, he rather welcomed it. The Dragons had grown weak, and under them, there was no room for House Lannister to rise.

The moment news of the Battle of the Trident reached him—Eddard Stark had slain Rhaegar and been proclaimed King—Tywin had acted. He had taken twelve thousand men and ridden hard for the capital, determined to reach King’s Landing before the rebels. His plan had been simple: take the city, retrieve Jaime, present the heads of Aerys and the remaining Targaryens to Stark, and secure the gratitude of a new king indebted to House Lannister.

But he had arrived a day too late.

Hoster Tully and Robert Baratheon had beaten him to it. They had taken the city, seized the throne, and—worst of all—taken Jaime hostage. Now they held both the capital and leverage over him.

Although, from what he'd heard the city had broken into riots so all credit couldn't be given to Tully, and Baratheon. But, he'd give them the credit of their fifteen day force march from the Trident.

And no doubt, they believed he had come to defend Aerys, to turn the tide for the dragons. That assumption needed to be corrected—swiftly and clearly—at the parley Hoster had agreed to, hold with him just outside the Gates of the God's.

He did not rise when Hoster Tully entered.

The Lord of Riverrun was cloaked in Tully blue, his sword at his hip, his face weary with command. He did not sit either.

Instead, the older man remained standing and said flatly, “You came a day late, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin inclined his head with all the graciousness of a vulture bowing to a dying hart. “So I’ve heard. My congratulations on your swift victory.”

Hoster said nothing.

“I presume,” Tywin continued, “King Eddard has named you Hand of the King.”

Hoster’s mouth twitched—not quite a smirk. “Nay. His Grace remains at the Trident, recovering from wounds. Until he comes to the capital, I speak with his voice.”

“How noble,” Tywin said smoothly. “I pray for His Grace’s health, of course. I heard his wounds were… grave.”

“Not grave,” Hoster replied evenly. “Rhaegar Targaryen wasn’t able to do much harm to our King. Not before his skull was split in two.”

The silence between them turned sharp.

Tywin’s golden brow didn’t even twitch. “Ah.”

They stood there for a time — men old enough to remember the end of Aegon the fifth's reign, men who had outlived two kings already and were now setting the bones for a third. Tywin finally gestured toward the bench beside him.

“Let us speak plainly, Lord Hoster.”

“Let us.”

Tywin waited, then gave a small shrug. “You assume, of course, that I marched to defend Aerys.”

Hoster said nothing.

“I did not,” Tywin continued. “Aerys and I have not spoken in two years, since before the Tourney at Harenhal, when I resigned as his Hand, and than his missive for me to march against you— a request I refused. I have no love for dragons. I only have my son within your walls.”

Now Hoster did smile. Slightly.

“And a keen sense of timing, it seems.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, the only crack in his veneer. “Had I arrived a day earlier, we would not be having this conversation.”

“No,” Hoster agreed. “You’d be at the city gates, presenting the heads of a slaughtered royal family to a grateful new king.”

Tywin leaned forward. “Would that have displeased you?”

“It would have inconvenienced us. Severely, Dorne wouldn't have come to the table then.”

“Yet it did not happen,” Tywin said with a shrug. “So — here we are. You have the city. You have the throne. You have my son.”

“And you came with twelve thousand swords wondering if you could still get something out of the ashes,” Hoster replied bluntly. “So I’ll make it simple for you.”

That piqued Tywin’s interest. “Go on.”

“You cannot enter the city — not yet. The people are uneasy. The wildfire caches underneath the city are still being cleared. The presence of another army inside it's walls wouldn't help the situation.”

Hoster had just finished speaking when Tywin's eyes narrowed, sharply, like a falcon spotting movement in tall grass.

“What do you mean, Lord Hoster?”

His voice wasn’t raised, but the air around it sharpened all the same. It was the kind of question asked by a man who suspected the ground beneath him had shifted without warning.

Hoster Tully’s lips curled—slowly, deliberately—as he leaned one hand upon the edge of the table. His back was straight, his voice cool.

“You haven’t heard.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change immediately, but a flicker passed behind his eyes—uncertainty, rare and well-disguised. He waited, silent and still as stone.

Hoster let the moment linger.

Then he said, plainly, “Aerys planned to burn the city.”

A beat passed. Two. The wind stirred again, flapping the edges of the Stag and Trout banners near the pavilion.

Tywin blinked once, the barest motion. “Burn… the city?” he echoed, as if the words were foreign.

Hoster inclined his head slightly, letting the weight of the words settle.

“Wildfire,” he said. “Caches hidden beneath the city — all areas hardly anything was left uncovered, the Sept of Baelor, the guild halls, even the Red Keep itself. Thousands of clay pots. Aerys planned to ignite them the moment we breached the walls.”

Tywin looked… stunned. The great lion’s mask had slipped. His face wasn’t just unreadable now — it was confused, disbelieving. His fingers tightened over the edge of the bench as he processed the implications.

“Wildfire,” he said again, the word falling like a curse from his mouth. He looked away toward the city walls, as if trying to see beneath the bricks and into the madness that had nearly consumed it.

Hoster took his seat finally, slowly, his eyes never leaving Tywin. “He would have burned a half a million souls. Men, women, children. All to spite us. To leave nothing but ash for the realm to inherit.”

Tywin leaned back, just slightly. He was quiet for several long moments. His gloved hands folded tightly in front of him, knuckles taut, and when he finally spoke, his voice had changed.

“So the riots,” he murmured after a moment, “the ones that opened the gates—those were sparked not by hunger or chaos... but by fear. Fear that the king would burn them all?”

Hoster didn’t rush the answer. He let the silence drag, just a bit longer. Then:

“Aye. Fear — and fury. Qarlton Chelsted. Aerys's former Hand. He discovered the order. Tried to reason with Aerys. When Aerys refused, Chelsted broke with him. Sent criers to every quarter of the city, calling for revolt. The Smallfolk rioted. Once the criers gave the word, the bells rang and they took to the streets with pitchforks and stones. Some Gold Cloaks joined them. Some tried to hold the line. There was blood, of course… but the fire never came.  

Tywin stared.

Tywin’s face had changed again. The disbelief had faded into something colder — more dangerous. Calculation. But for all his composure, there was something else in his voice when he spoke again — a thread of bitter, personal contempt.

“So. Qarlton Chelsted has a spine after all.”

The way he said it — with venom, with disbelief twisted into disdain — left little doubt as to what Tywin thought of the man.

Hoster wasn’t surprised.

The truth of it was well known. The realm knew the names of the Lords on the Small Council who had stood by Aerys through his worst: Lucerys Velaryon, Symond Staunton, Owen Merryweather, and Qarlton Chelsted. Men who had not only stood idle but had whispered into the king’s ears, fed his paranoia like swill into a sow, and watched as he turned his fury first against Tywin Lannister — his then Hand — and then against Rhaegar, his own son.

Tywin had never spoken of it publicly, but Hoster could read the man well enough. He could imagine the fury that had built in that prideful man's heart as Aerys turned from the Warden of the West, encouraged by mere bootlickers.

The wind had picked up, thin and chill, threading through the pavilion like a whisper of ghosts. Tywin Lannister did not seem to feel it. His eyes had fixed once more on the walls of King’s Landing — with calculation. His expression was carefully drawn back into the granite mask he was famed for, though Hoster could still see the muscle working along his jaw.

After a long silence, the Lord of Casterly Rock inclined his head slightly.

“Very well,” Tywin said. “My army will remain outside the city. Until the caches are cleared.”

He did not say “in the interests of keeping peace,” or “as a gesture of trust.” That would have implied something more than grudging necessity. And yet, it was as close to a concession as the Lion of Lannister was ever likely to give.

Hoster gave a single nod in return. No thanks. No false courtesy. The moment didn’t call for it.

But Tywin’s next words made him tense.

“What of my son?”

His voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a drawn dagger.

Hoster felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. His stomach tightened—slightly, almost imperceptibly—but years of rule and war kept it from his face.

He, Jason, Tytos, Robert, Brynden and Eldon had anticipated this. Had prepared for it.

Still, the lie sat like a stone on his tongue.

“Your son… was in the Throne Room,” Hoster said slowly, keeping his voice even. “In the throne room, when Aerys gave the order to burn it. He was caught near the blast. Some of the wildfire caches were ignited, not many, thank the gods. But enough to cause a little damage, and your son was hurled headfirst into a pillar.”

He saw it then — the flicker of something primal behind Tywin’s green. Worry, rage, something darker.

“He was injured?” Tywin asked, and the strain beneath the coldness of his voice betrayed more than he likely intended.

“Aye,” Hoster said, carefully. “But he lives. He's in the care of our Maesters.”

Tywin’s jaw locked. A pulse beat beneath the gold-trimmed collar of his gorget.

“And the King?” Tywin asked, the word laced with scorn, as though it tasted of filth in his mouth. “Aerys?”

Hoster’s gaze did not waver. “Alive. Confined to the Maidenvault. He hasn’t stirred. Unconscious since the moment the fire burst.”

Tywin gave a soft, derisive huff. Not quite a laugh. “You should kill him.”

His voice was low, clinical, as if discussing the culling of livestock. “Better to put a mad dog down cleanly than risk it biting again.”

Hoster met that cold stare with his own. His voice was like iron wrapped in velvet.

“Well, I am not you, Lord Tywin. And Aerys Targaryen belongs to King Eddard, and House Stark. After all it was his family which was wronged the most by the Targaryens during this war.”

Tywin’s mouth twitched—just faintly, in something halfway between contempt and amusement. But he didn’t press the point.

Instead, he returned to the one that mattered more to him than dragons or kings.

“My son,” Tywin said again, and there was no mistaking the steel now. “I ask that you return my heir to me.”

Hoster didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t afford to.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Tywin didn't speak— but his eyes flashed, dangerous and sharp.

“He remains a sworn Kingsguard to Aerys,” Hoster continued calmly. “Until His Grace returns to the capital, King Eddard will make the final decision regarding his fate.”

They both knew what that meant. They were seasoned men, blooded lords who had long since learned how to read meaning beneath diplomacy.

Jaime Lannister was a hostage.

A hostage with golden hair and a white cloak — held not just for leverage, but for loyalty. His fate hung in the balance, a piece on the board not quite sacrificed, but not safe either.

Tywin didn’t answer at first. His lips had drawn into a line so tight it could have been cut from stone.

Hoster pressed on before silence could harden too far.

“Furthermore,” he said, “he is in no condition to be moved. The Maesters say he’s stable, but he hasn’t woken. They call it a catatonic state. Likely from the heat, the smoke, and the blast of the wildfire.”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened on the hilt of the lion-headed cane he carried, a gesture that had more to do with command than need. His silence now was different — tight, bitter, holding back words sharp enough to cut flesh.

Hoster softened his tone — just slightly.

“He is receiving the best care. That much, Lord Tywin, I can assure you of. He will live. That much the Maesters have promised.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched. Not in gratitude. In fury barely leashed.

He did not thank Hoster for the reassurance. He did not even nod.

Instead, after a long, tense breath, he looked toward the city once more. The golden lion of Lannister, left outside the walls of the capital that held both his heir and his ambition.

And he said nothing at all.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The wind stirred between them. Outside the pavilion, the banners of the Lannister lion and the Rebel trout flapped in uneasy accord. Beneath them, thousands of men waited. And behind the walls of King’s Landing, half a million people held their breath.

Finally, Tywin spoke again.

“Tell me, Lord Hoster,” he said, voice low, “what is it you want from House Lannister?”

Hoster smiled at last. It did not reach his eyes.

“You still have a path back into the King’s favor. You will stand with us, at the Blackwater when the Reach Host comes you'll help us deny them a crossing.”

Tywin’s face was stone. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you remain outside the capital,” Hoster said evenly. “You’ll wait there until the King arrives. Without favor, because the King will remember you didn't help his allies in their time of need. Without access. Without your son.”

Tywin’s silence was colder than ice.

“And if I agree?” he asked at last.

Hoster folded his arms. “Then the War will end — thanks to you. And the King… will listen when you ask something in return.”

“Which brings us to my terms,” Tywin said. “Jaime. He will be released from the Kingsguard. I want my son returned to Casterly Rock — reinstated as my heir.”

“I cannot promise that,” Hoster said at once. “Only the King can dismiss a Kingsguard knight.”

Tywin’s voice was calm, but ironclad. “Then speak to him. Press the case. I know what Eddard Stark is — a man of duty, not sentiment. And he owes no loyalty to the Kingsguard. The Targaryen dynasty is broken. The white cloaks should be, too.”

Hoster considered him a moment. Then gave a nod. “I will speak for you. No promises — but I will press the case.”

Silence again.

Finally, Tywin stood. “Then we have an accord.”

Hoster did not extend his hand. “Good. Let’s end this war.”

The two great lords nodded once and parted without fanfare.

No toast. No wine. No smiles.

But each rode away with exactly what they needed — and plans that were only just beginning.

A/N:- I personally think I could have done Tywin and Hoster's interaction a lot better but this is what I was able to come up with. Hope you guys like it, and I plan to have Storm's End Battle next chapter, and keep in mind Hoster hopes that seeing the Lannister-Rebel host at the other side of Blackwater will deter the Reach from further war but you guys will find out next chapter why that won't happen exactly.

Also, I was absolutely amazed and loved the feedback in the comment section of the last chapter hope u like this one enough to give it here as well. 💙😁😁😁😁.

Chapter Text

283 AC—Dragonstone

The hall was deathly quiet, the only sounds the whistling sea winds battering against the black-stoned fortress and the faint rustle of Queen Rhaella’s silks as she shifted in her seat. Paxter Redwyne stood tense as a drawn bow beside her, his jaw clenched, fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist around the crumpled letter he’d now read three times.

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.

No signature. No formal ending. Only chaos, scribbled down in haste and passed into trembling hands.

Paxter’s eyes darted to the others in the chamber. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the white-bearded Master of Ships, stood to the right of the Queen, his chest puffed up as if bluster alone could shield them from the truth. Beside the Queen, Ser Willem Darry knelt, steadying her as she tried to sit—seven hells, she was pregnant and barely holding herself upright.

The silence had lasted nearly twenty minutes, since they had read the message. No one dared speak.

He had cursed low under his breath when he'd first read the message, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

He thought back to how he had come here—how determined and full of reassurance he’d been. Sixty ships of his fleet had sailed from Storm’s End, but he had taken ten of the fastest, abandoning the rest to his uncle Desmond’s command, ordering them to follow. Speed had been all that mattered—he had to reach Dragonstone to inform the Queen that Reach was marching to defend their Lieges. Before despair drowned hope.

He had arrived prepared to swear that the Reach still stood with the Targaryens, that the banners were rising, that help was coming for the crown and city both.

And now…

Now it was all ash and ruin. The Red Keep—gone. The King's fate unknown, perhaps dead. The capital—in the hands of rebels, no matter how they’d taken it.

He looked again at the Queen, expecting tears, expecting hysteria. But Rhaella sat frozen, her hands resting lightly on her belly, her face slack with shock.

No tears. No screams. Just that terrible, hollow silence.

Lord Lucerys finally broke it.

“Do not fear, Your Grace,” he said, loud and sure, too loud for this room of grief. “The Reach is marching already. Lord Tyrell commands more than fifty thousand swords. We will retake the city within a moon’s turn.”

He turned to Paxter as if expecting him to echo the words.

Paxter swallowed hard. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said, voice softer but steady. “My goodbrother, is loyal to House Targaryen. As are the Lords of the Reach. They will retake the city.”

Rhaella blinked slowly, as if barely hearing.

Paxter hated himself for what he had to say next, to say this in front of the pregnant Queen was cruel. But someone had to speak the truth. Even if it was cruel.

“Who do we fight for?” he asked at last.

All eyes turned to him.

He looked directly at the Queen. “King Aerys is likely dead.”

He had expected grief. Anguish. Fury.

He got none of it. He'd expected her to be devastated with the loss of her husband, and brother but he saw no grief, he even saw something akin to relief. 

And Paxter would be wrong to fault her for it. He'd heard all about the King imprisoning her in the Maidenvault for more than a decade the neigh few times he'd visited King Aerys's court. It had been barely a dozen times he'd visited court, far less than his father because he'd been wary of King Aerys.

Ser Willem though had flinched as if struck and muttered quickly, “Then we fight for Prince Aegon. We free him. Place him on the throne.”

Paxter winced. “The prince is most likely a prisoner,” he said, forcing the words out. “Or…worse.”

That landed like a blow. The Queen’s eyes flared. Her hands tightened on her belly. The mention of her grandson—a babe barely past his first year—being taken or killed…

Paxter looked away. He hated himself for saying it. Especially in front of the Queen who'd just heard of fall of her House's Seat. He had to say it.

“The lords will not rally for an infant whose fate is unknown,” he said softly, choosing the words with care. “I will not say he is dead, but none can confirm he lives. And none can fight for a crown carried by a corpse.”

Rhaella’s shoulders slumped slightly. Not a breakdown—just defeat, tired and heavy.

“We need a figure,” Paxter continued. “Someone to rally behind. The men need to see their king. Someone who can be seen. Someone who is not in the hands of the Rebels.”

Lucerys took the opening. “Prince Viserys,” he said immediately. “His Grace King Aerys named him Prince of Dragonstone, named him heir after hearing of the Usurper’s victory at the Trident. The boy is here. Safe. He can be seen.”

Ser Willem rounded on them, fierce and indignant. “You’ll make enemies of Dorne,” he snapped. “You’ll bypass Prince Aegon, Elia’s son—Dorne will never forget such betrayal. Disinheriting, their blood despite him having the strongest claim through Prince Rhaegar.”

Paxter didn’t flinch. “Prince Aegon’s fate is unknown, Ser Willem,” he said, voice sharpening. “Even if he lives, even if the Princess and little Rhaenys are alive too, they are hostages. Declaring him king would make him a target of the Usurper's ire. The Usurper would kill him the moment we declare for him. He’ll murder the boy to end the claim once and for all."

Willem looked horrified. Rhaella shut her eyes.

“They’ll understand,” Paxter said, softer now. “The Dornish will understand. They love their own, aye, but they are not fools. We cannot crown a babe still at his mother’s breast while he sits in the enemy’s hands. We cannot raise banners for a child who might be dead even now. We can’t afford to.”

He turned to the Queen.

“Your Grace,” he said, kneeling, eyes full of cold, terrible truth, “if there was a way for us to crush the rebels first and declare afterward, I would suggest it. But we have no time. No unity. The Lords need a king to follow, not a promise of a child behind enemy walls. Only Prince Viserys remains. Only he can wear the crown now.”

Rhaella was silent. Her hands rested on her belly. The unborn child stirred, as if sensing the weight of it all.

It was Lord Lucerys who spoke, voice gentler this time. “The boy is young, aye, but he is a Targaryen. He is here. And he can be crowned without the fear of him being assassinated.”

Paxter bowed his head. “It must be Viserys.”

Rhaella said nothing.

But she did not protest.

And that, Paxter Redwyne knew, was all the answer they were going to get.

Paxter Redwyne straightened slowly from his kneel, turning now to face Lucerys Velaryon with a grim, measured resolve.

“We need to speak of the Cracklaw men,” he said.

Lucerys blinked, caught off-guard.

“They need to be rallied to our side more firmly,” Paxter continued. “They are the only Loyalist host north of the Blackwater that hasn’t been destroyed—and they’ve already bloodied the rebels, and they’ve won a victory. A true one.”

A silence fell again, this time thick with unspoken understanding.

Everyone in the room knew what he was referring to.

The Slaughter of the Mists.

That was what it was being called now, and rightly so. The Frey host, near three thousand strong, swallowed up by the bogs and blades of Cracklaw Point, never to return south. Paxter had felt a rare satisfaction when Ser Willem told him of it two days prior. The first true Loyalist victory since the Trident—and a bloody one. A absolute one.

Lucerys raised a brow, but said nothing. 

Ser Willem nodded slowly, affirming the report. The Queen didn’t smile, but her brow softened ever so slightly. Even she, it seemed, had drawn strength from that Cracklaw miracle.

Paxter pressed on. “We need them. The Crackclaws. They must march, and not just hold their bogs. Their numbers are small, but they have the strength of spirit. We need them to move on Rook’s Rest. Take support there. We need to secure loyalty of House Staunton there.”

Willem interjected gently, “Lord Symond sent most of his strength to the Trident with Prince Rhaegar. And there aren't any who have returned from their. The castle’s garrison will be meager. There aren’t many men left in Rook’s Rest who can march.”

Paxter didn’t even blink.

 “That’s not the point,” he said coolly. “We don’t need an army out of Rook’s Rest—we need declarations. We need Lord Symond to reaffirm his loyalty, publicly and loudly. Rook’s Rest is a banner to wave. But the real prize, Your Grace… is Duskendale.”

That name brought confusion to both Queen Rhaella and Lord Lucerys. Lucerys’s eyes lifted, Rhaelle's face turned puzzled, 

But Ser Willem’s face changed immediately, he blinked and tilted his chin in dawning comprehension.

“Aye,” Willem said. “Duskendale. Lord Rykker wasn’t able to muster all the Duskendale levies for the Trident. Many of the smallfolk resisted conscription—refused to go. The levy was incomplete.”

Paxter nodded once. “Exactly. The levy was incomplete. And now, with the Rebels in King's Landing blindly preparing to face the Reach Army and prevent a crossing. We might raise those men ourselves. From the Crownlands. From behind the Rebels’ back. Press a dagger to their spine and force them to look over their shoulders.”

No one mentioned why the Smallfolk of Duskendale had resisted raising their swords for King Aerys. 

Willem turned to Rhaella.

“Your Grace,” he said, “Lord Rykker might still be able to salvage a host now. If we move swiftly, we can raise a Crownlander host in the name of Viserys. Loyalists born and bred to the soil that owes most to the Dragons. It would mean the Rebels would have to send forces to combat that.”

“And divert their forces from the Blackwater,” Paxter added, nodding. “Less forces they have their, the less resistance my Reach brethren would face in the crossing. The faster they'll be able to retake the city."

Lucerys furrowed his brow, then smiled faintly. "These would be our men, Your Grace. From the Crownlands itself, striking behind the enemy lines."

Willem turned to Rhaella. “We can send Lord Cletilgar to the Crackclaws, Your Grace. He's familiar with the marshes, knows their tongues, knows the ways of the bogs. They’ll speak with him, if anyone. He can treat with the Crannogmen and guide them toward Rook’s Rest.”

Rhaella gave the faintest of nods.

Lucerys cleared his throat. “And Duskendale?” he asked. “Who will be sent?”

“I’ll go,” Paxter said at once.

The words hung for a moment. Lucerys blinked, as though only half understanding what was said. But Ser Willem and Queen Rhaella exchanged a glance—quiet, deep, full of unspoken meaning.

Paxter noticed. Lucerys did not.

“Lord Paxter,” Ser Willem said carefully, “that would be… unwise.”

Paxter frowned. “Unwise?”

Willem stepped forward, tone sharp but formal. “My lord… that would be a folly. You are our liaison to the Reach. You brought sixty ships. You speak with Lord Mace’s voice. We need you here, at Dragonstone, to coordinate with your fellow Reach lords when they arrive.”

Paxter frowned faintly, opening his mouth—

But it was Queen Rhaella who spoke next, for the first time nearly in an hour.

“Lord Lucerys will go,” she said, her voice soft but firm, low but carrying across the chamber. “He is Master of Ships. And an old acquaintance of Lord Rykker’s. He will be received at Duskendale with far more amiably than any other. He has sailed those waters a hundred times, and again he is an old acquaintance of Lord Rykker’s. He may persuade him where another may not. And if men are to be raised, the Master of Ships may yet sail them into the city when the time is right.”

Paxter didn’t like it. But he could not deny the logic of it.

He'd wanted to coordinate with the levies from Duskendale, and the Cracklaws to draw away Rebel forces from the Blackwater and King's Landing to ensure that his fellow Reachmen wouldn't have to bleed to much, but alas the logic was sound.

Lucerys puffed up visibly, pride making him draw to his full height. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly. “I will take my swiftest galley and leave at first light on the morrow. I will return with good news, I swear it.”

Paxter said nothing for a moment, then gave a small nod of assent.

Paxter bowed his head with acceptance, masking the tension in his jaw. “Very well. Then I will send word to Lord Mace, and to Lord Tarly. The Reach must be told of the fall of King’s Landing. Let him know what we intend."

He paused, then added, "And Lord Tarly… will know how best to direct our coordinated efforts to retake the city—a coordinated assault on the city.”

There was a moment of silence again—but this time it was full of action, of purpose. Not despair.

Ser Willem stepped back and bowed.

“I will see to Lord Cletilgar’s preparations,” he said.

Paxter turned once more to Queen Rhaella, stepping forward and dropping to one knee. “We will not falter, Your Grace. The Arbor stands with you. The Reach marches for the dragon. And the traitors will be bought to heel I swear this to you.”

Queen Rhaella inclined her head ever so slightly. She was pale and weary, but her eyes were no longer empty.

Lucerys, more slowly, bowed his head. “By sail and sword, Your Grace.”

Queen Rhaella looked down upon them. Her hands, resting on her belly, clenched slightly—but her voice was calm.

“Then let it be done,” she said. “Viserys will be crowned. The Dragon banner shall fly on King's Landing again soon. Fire and Blood shall answer treason.”

And with that, the lords of the court stood and bowed once more before departing, the Queen’s silks whispering behind them in the gathering storm.

The storm was far from over—it had started with the execution of Rickard and Brandon Stark, and if the Rebels thought it would end with their conquest of King's Landing. They'd soon find out just how wrong they were.

283 AC—King’s Landing, Red Keep

Three days after the city fell to the rebels

The dungeons beneath the Red Keep were damp with rot and silence.

Torchlight guttered along the narrow corridor, shadows lurching along the mossy walls as Lord Robert Baratheon strode down with bootfalls that echoed like hammers. Behind him, two guards marched in step, grim-faced and silent. The air smelled of piss, mildew, and old death.

Robert hated this place. He hated the Red Keep. Every stone reminded him of a schemer’s lair, of liars and secrets and steel too thinly hidden behind courtesies.

And now he was about to speak to the biggest liar and schemer of them all.

The guards halted before an iron door. The elder of them produced a heavy key, inserted it, and pulled the gate open with a creak that sounded like a scream.

Inside the cell sat a bald, plump man in a torn lavender robe, barefoot and pale, his once-silken hands folded delicately in his lap. His eyes glittered like black beads in the gloom.

Varys.

The Spider.

The whisper merchant.

He had been captured the night the city fell, trying to flee the Red Keep with a satchel of letters and coins. Lord Hoster had personally ordered him locked in the dungeons — until the King arrived, until judgment could be passed.

But Robert had other ideas.

“Leave us,” Robert barked to the guards.

“My lord—” one of them began.

“I said leave us.”

The guards hesitated, then bowed and stepped back, sealing the door behind them.

Varys looked up slowly, blinking. His lips curled in something between a smile and a wince.

“Well,” he murmured. “If it isn’t Lord Baratheon. A surprise to see you walking these halls. I had half expected a noose or a knife by now.”

Robert crossed the cell in two strides, grabbed Varys by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.

Varys let out a breathy oof but didn’t resist.

“I don’t have patience for your games,” Robert growled, his eyes wild with fire. “Where is she?”

Varys blinked, disarmed not by the aggression — but by the desperation in Robert’s voice.

“Where is who, my lord?”

“Don’t play with me!” Robert shouted. “Lyanna. Where did that silver-haired bastard take her?”

Varys studied him for a moment. “You believe I know?”

“I know you know!” Robert’s hand tightened. “You knew everything that happened in this dammed court. Aerys' shits, Rhaegar’s secrets, who fucked who and when. You knew. So don’t tell me you didn’t know where that silver haired bastard took her!”

Varys exhaled slowly. “I might know something. But I wonder… what would be my reward for such dangerous knowledge?”

Robert pulled back and shoved him down to the bench with a snarl.

“You’re already breathing. That’s more than you deserve.”

“True,” Varys admitted, smoothing his robe. “But I am not a knight. I do not care for honor. I care for survival.”

Robert turned away, paced the narrow cell like a caged bear, then turned back with a growl. “If you tell me where Lyanna is… I’ll speak to Ned. I’ll get him to pardon you. You’ll be free.”

Varys tilted his head. “And if I do not?”

“I’ll feed you to the fucking dogs.”

“Fair.”

They stood in silence, the torchlight flickering.

Then Varys sighed. “Very well. I will tell you what I know, Robert Baratheon. And know this: I do it not because of your threats, or your mercy, but because I, too, wish to survive the reign of your new King.”

Robert folded his arms, breathing hard.

“Rhaegar kept her far from court,” Varys said quietly. “Even I didn't know. Only a few knew. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Arthur Dayne. And I only found out after King Aerys sent out Lord Commander Hightower to look for Rhaegar, after your victory at Stoney Sept, I sent my little birds to trail after Ser Gerald. And you know where Rhaegar reemerged my Lord.”

“Dorne,” Robert spat the word like poison.

“Aye,” Varys said. “He took her south. Beyond the mountains. To a tower, hidden in the red hills near the Prince’s Pass. It’s called the Tower of Joy.”

Robert stared.

“She was there?” he whispered.

“She may still be.”

Robert turned on his heel. “Then I’m going there.”

Varys stood slowly, smoothing the wrinkles in his ragged robe.

“Take caution,” he said softly. “The Kingsguard were sworn to her. To him. They may yet hold the tower.”

Robert opened the cell door and barked for the guards. As they reentered, he glanced back at the Spider one last time.

“You’ll get your pardon. If what you told me is true.”

Varys offered a graceful nod. “I live to serve the realm.”

Robert snorted. “You live to serve yourself.”

And with that, the door slammed shut.

Robert Baratheon stormed out of the dungeons, already barking orders to ready a host. Lyanna was in Dorne. Alive, perhaps. Or worse.

He would find her.

And gods help anyone who stood in his way.

A/N:-

Okay Guys I am Sorry for this one 😞😞😞 I promised the breaking of the siege of Storm's End in this one but I simply wasn't able to write it to satisfactory levels so we got this part only and not the inclusion of Battle at Storm's End as well which I am dissapointed on because it needs to happen before I can kick the other things in place as well.

Btw if you have any recommendations for the Battle please do give those I already have the plan laid out just how I want to go the only problem I can't decide exactly who's perspective or pov to write it from. And if I don't figure out soon and have to delete one-two more chapters in planning I'll give it out. Btw don't worry it's not a writer's block or anything happening I have even written a two chapters after the Battle that will happen just this Battle of Storm's End Chapter needs to happen before I can release it.

Chapter Text

283 AC—Stormlands 

Selwyn Tarth gripped the reins of his horse tightly. They had marched from Stonehelm nearly a fortnight ago, but had been unable to move faster—any quicker pace would have revealed their position. As much as it had grated on him—and on Erwin—they’d been forced to march under the cover of darkness, winding slowly through the inland hills, keeping to deer trails and forgotten roads.

Now, at last, they had arrived near Storm’s End.

Young Gulian Swann had wanted to march immediately on the besiegers' camp, eager to drive them from the gates and earn glory in a clash of steel. But cooler minds—like his and Erwin’s—had calmed the boy down.

Selwyn liked the lad, he truly did. The heir to Stonehelm was brave, loyal, and fierce. But the fact remained: the Reachmen still had more men. Five thousand strong, against his seventeen hundred spears and five hundred horse. They couldn’t afford to charge blindly.

As much as Selwyn wanted to lift the siege and rescue his brethren in Storm’s End, haste would only get them killed.

So they had waited—for the past day—gathering every scrap of information they could. And the gods, it seemed, were smiling. The Reachmen had been lax with their patrols in this area—too few scouts, too little caution. Selwyn had learned the reason soon enough.

Apparently, after Mace Tyrell had marched north with the bulk of his host, the garrison within Storm’s End had begun to stir. The siege had lasted long, and hope had seemed thin—but now it returned. Young Stannis and Ser Harbert had reportedly launched a daring night raid, setting fire to the besiegers’ catapults and burning down their grain stores.

The Reach camp had been thrown into disarray. Scrambling for food, struggling with morale, their commanders had turned to the surrounding villages—demanding tribute, raiding for supplies, and alienating the smallfolk. And that... that had given Selwyn Tarth his golden opportunity.

He had sent his men out disguised as commoners, slipping into the villages to gather news. From them, he learned of a perfect target.

Titus Peake—heir to old Lord Trystan Peake—was camped nearby with some two hundred horse, awaiting grain and tribute from the frightened villagers. A boy barely past twenty, arrogant and reckless. A Peake in name and pride, but not yet in experience.

Young Gulian had once again offered himself eagerly. “Let me go,” he had said, fire in his eyes. “Let me take him, and bring the Peake heir in chains.”

But Selwyn had refused. The boy was too young, too untested. This wasn’t a melee in the yard or some battlefield song. This was war.

Instead, he had given the task to Erwin Caron—trusted, steady, and hard-eyed. He would take three hundred horse and two hundred spearmen. Enough to overwhelm the Peake party, but not enough to draw the full attention of the besieging army.

And if the gods were still kind… it would be the first cut that bled the siege to death.

283 AC – Near Crowsford Ford, Southeast of Storm’s End

The fog clung low to the marshy ground, curling like smoke around the hooves of the Stormlander cavalry. Ser Erwin Caron rode at the head, helm beneath one arm, his grey hair damp with sweat and mist. He raised one gloved hand, and the column halted without a sound—five hundred strong, hidden in folds of earth and trees just a mile from the Peake encampment.

A scout rode up from the west, dirt and dew on his cheeks.

“They’ve broken camp, ser,” he whispered. “The boy's taking his riders across the ford. Seems they want to get closer to Green Hollow. Likely pressing the villagers for food.”

The boy was a fool. The farther he strayed from Storm’s End—where the main Reach host was still encamped—the slimmer his chances of reinforcement. Erwin silently thanked the gods for the heir’s idiocy. The Peake lad was all but walking into their trap.

Erwin had expected to send raiders to draw the boy out, maybe harry the supply wagons and bait him toward the ford. But Titus Peake’s own restlessness had saved him the trouble. And better yet, in his haste to procure supplies for the camp, the boy had decided to march in the evening—just as the sun dipped low on the horizon, when the mists thickened and shadows stretched long.

Erwin grunted. “Just as we hoped. Are they spread out?”

“Aye. Columns of five, maybe ten across. The vanguard is halfway across the ford now. Rear's lagging.”

“Good.”

He donned his helm, the old black steel with the sunburst of Caron faded on the brow. Then, turning to Ser Davos Morrigen beside him, he said, “Take the left—hit their middle once they cross. We strike together. Spears and horse both. No mercy. Break them quick.”

“And Peake?”

Erwin’s voice was iron. “Take him alive if you can—but not at the expense of our own men. Enough Stormlander blood has already been spilt by these cravens.”

Titus Peake grunted as his destrier let out a low, displeased snort. The horse’s hooves splashed through the shallow water, and Titus tightened his grip on the reins. Summer—his oldest and dearest companion—was not pleased.

The great courser was annoyed, that much was clear, ears twitching back with every step. He hated water, especially when it touched his legs. He always had.

Titus reached down, brushing a hand against the horse’s slick, damp neck. “Easy, boy,” he murmured. “We’ll be past it soon.”

Summer huffed again but kept moving, head bowed slightly as if sulking. He’d had the horse since his tenth nameday, gifted to him by Lord Ashford during his squireship. Through tournaments, hunts, tourneys, and this war, Summer had been his constant—his truest companion through fourteen of his twenty-four years. There were men Titus trusted less than this horse.

And Summer, proud beast that he was, had never liked getting wet.

Titus gave him another soft pat, a flicker of fondness in his eyes, before lifting his gaze forward. No time to get lost in memories. He had work to do.

Stannis Baratheon—the seven damn his soul—had turned everything to chaos with his cowardly night raid. Tents, catapults, siege towers—all burned. Much of their grain stores lost to fire. The raid had been a blow, but the blame lay not with the boy lord of Storm’s End—no, it lay with the Florents. Drunk, lazy, useless. They’d been too deep in their cups to man the watchtowers, and now the entire siege effort was paying the price.

In the aftermath, his father and Lord Alester had dispatched foraging parties in every direction. They needed food. They needed wood. They needed engineers. Without siege engines, this was no siege—just a blockade. And with Lord Mace marching north with the bulk of their strength, they couldn’t afford to simply throw men at the walls.

Titus had been given command of the largest foraging force—four hundred horse in all. His orders: gather supplies and skilled men from the villages farther south. His father hadn’t liked the idea of relying on Stormlanders to help build engines meant to tear down their own liege’s walls. But they had no choice. Lord Mace had taken all the seasoned engineers with him.

Titus scowled. Tyrell was a fool—he’d left them with little food, no carpenters, and worse, no plan. It’ll fall to us to win this siege in truth. Titus worried for the Reachmen who marched North under Tyrell. The man was incompetent, and worse thought himself a great warrior. Still, as long as Lord Randyll was with Tyrell, he had faith they’d see it through. Titus had fought beside him at Ashford, when they’d ambushed Robert Baratheon. Randyll Tarly was a hard man—but one made for war.

Aye, he'd ensure the Rebels would be routed long before they could breach the walls of King's Landing.

Titus intended to do his part, too.

He had already collected supplies from several villages, though it hadn’t come easily. The smallfolk were stubborn. He’d needed to flog a few stone-throwers before the rest cowed properly. If his father hadn’t explicitly ordered him to avoid bloodshed—for fear of provoking more hostility—Titus would’ve put an entire village to the torch to make an example of them. That would’ve broken the rest into giving their supplies without more resistance. But he'd obeyed — albeit grudgingly so.

Still, the work wasn’t done. The villages they’d stripped of grain had no skilled men—just untrained boys and old crofters. No good for building siege towers.

So, Titus had made a decision.

He’d sent two hundred riders back to camp with the supplies, and pressed further south himself, hoping to find a village with proper carpenters or masons. Somewhere with men who could rebuild what Stannis had burned.

He leaned forward slightly and ran his hand once more down Summer’s neck. “We’ll find them soon,” he said softly. “And then we can ride back to the camp. You'll get your rest there.”

Summer whickered low, his ears flicking at the sound of his master’s voice.

Titus smiled.

He never saw the black shapes in the mist behind him.

The mist was thicker now, coiling like pale serpents between the trees and over the low water. Titus was just opening his mouth to speak—to call out to his captains—when a sharp whistling filled the air.

Then came the arrows.

They shrieked down from the hills to the west, hissing like vipers. One man toppled from his saddle with a gurgling cry. Another, struck in the throat, clutched at the shaft jutting from his windpipe before collapsing into the ford. Horses screamed, rearing and trampling as the chaos spread like fire through dry wheat.

Titus's eyes widened in disbelief. “Shields!” he shouted, but the word barely escaped his mouth before the ground shook.

From the treeline to the right came the thunder of hooves—heavy hooves, not fleeing riders or panicked villagers, but trained cavalry, bearing down fast. He turned to the left and heard the same. Another wave. The sound multiplied, echoing off the hills like drums of doom.

“No…” he muttered, heart pounding in his throat. “No, gods, no—”

It was a ambush. A carefully laid, brutally timed ambush. He’d ridden them into it himself—with his evening march.

“Form ranks!” he bellowed, yanking hard on Summer’s reins as his men wheeled, struggling to obey in the choking fog. “Pull back—regroup on me! We—”

The words died on his lips as the rear exploded into chaos. A wall of shields and spears emerged from the mists behind them like phantoms of death—Stormlander infantry, silent and grim, pressing forward with murderous intent.

They were surrounded.

Titus spurred Summer toward the center, trying to take control of the crumbling formation. His men were shouting, screaming, cut down by sabers and pikes, falling into the water or crushed under hooves. Riders tried to break out—some charging blindly into the fog, only to slam into a fresh Stormlander line.

He saw Ser Darron—his father’s Captain of the Guards—slashed across the face and yanked from his saddle by a hook-blade. Ser Olyver took a lance through the ribs and fell screaming. One of his bannermen tried to rally a wedge of riders—but they were flanked and torn apart before they could even level their lances.

It was a massacre.

Titus turned, trying to rally the last of his men to retreat toward the stream, toward anywhere—anywhere—that wasn’t the killing field around them. “Break left!” he cried. “We’ll make a path, go—”

He felt it before he heard it—a jolt, a lurch, then Summer’s strangled, pained whinny.”

Then impact.

The spear hit just behind the foreleg—thrown from somewhere in the mist. Summer buckled with a shriek that cut through the din of battle, his legs folding beneath him. Titus tried to jump free, but it was too late. Horse and rider toppled together, and the world flipped sideways as the ford swallowed him.

He hit the water hard. Something cracked.

And then came the pain—a hot, white fire roaring up from his right leg, which was pinned beneath Summer’s massive, dying weight.

Titus screamed.

Not the scream of a warrior, not of defiance—but of agony, grief, and the helplessness of a man watching his world fall apart. He thrashed, hands gripping at the mud, trying to move, to crawl, to do anything—but Summer wasn’t moving.

The great horse let out one last, horrible noise—half a gasp, half a groan—and then stilled.

“No. No—no!” Titus clawed at the earth, dragging himself closer to the dying beast’s head. His leg throbbed, mangled and broken beneath the weight, but he didn’t care. He reached for Summer’s mane, burying his bloodied fingers in it.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Summer—please, don’t go. You stupid, stubborn horse—you can’t—you can’t—”

He was sobbing now, unaware of the men around him. The sounds of battle were fading, replaced by the wet squelch of boots and the murmurs of Stormlander soldiers closing in.

“Over here!” a voice called. “This one’s still breathing!”

“He’s the Peake boy—grab him!”

Rough hands seized his arms, dragging him away from the carcass of his horse.

Titus screamed.

“No! Let me go! Let me—Summer! Let me stay with him!” His cries turned to incoherent howls as he kicked and thrashed, raw pain tearing through his ruined leg.

Two soldiers held him down as a third yanked off his helm. His face was a mess of tears, blood, and mud. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He looked back toward the motionless figure of Summer in the stream, the mist curling gently around the beast’s flank like a shroud.

Titus sobbed—loud, ugly, choking sobs that had nothing noble in them.

“Please… please, gods, no…”

A soldier knelt beside him. “It’s done. You’re lucky to be alive.”

But Titus wasn’t listening.

He wasn’t lucky. He was broken. Not just his leg—his heart. His closest companion was dying. And he couldn't even find it himself to care about anything else.

They dragged him from the ford, screaming and crying and begging like a child. And all the while, the fog closed in behind them, and Summer’s body lay still beneath the mists—alone.

283 AC—Storm's End, Stormlands 

Selwyn Tarth gripped the reins of his horse tightly, the leather damp with morning dew. As his mount trotted forward through the rolling mist, he could feel it — the moment he had dreamt of for over a year was finally upon them. Today, they would break the siege. Today, they would free Storm’s End and their brethren within.

The sun had only just begun to rise, pale cracks of light bleeding through the horizon. The air was crisp, silent but for the soft thudding of hooves and the creak of leather and steel.

After Erwin’s crushing victory over Titus Peake — gods-damn, wasn’t that something? Only seventeen of the two hundred Reachmen had survived — many had urged Selwyn to press their advantage and strike the besieging camp in the dead of night. But he had refused, and though they had grumbled, they had obeyed him in the end.

If someone had told him two years ago that the proud Marcher Lords and Rainwood houses would ride at his command — following a lord from an island which many Stormlanders still considered outsiders— Selwyn might have laughed in their face. But he had earned that loyalty, hard-won over two brutal years, and by the Seven, he was proud of it.

He hadn’t wanted a night attack. Not out of caution, but calculation. He’d wanted Erwin’s exhausted men — the very ones who had shattered Peake’s host — to have a few hours of well-earned rest. More than that, he expected the Reachmen to be most alert during the night, dreading another surprise raid like Ser Stannis’s. They would have patrolled and watched through the dark hours, nerves tight and eyes strained.

No, Selwyn had chosen the crack of dawn for a reason.

At this hour, the Reachmen would be at their most vulnerable — either exhausted from a sleepless night or just beginning to relax after one. The sun’s first light would work to their advantage, too. The garrison within Storm’s End would be rousing by now, and with the faint light, their archers could finally see well enough to loose arrows from the walls, or hurl stones at the enemy below. And if Selwyn's plan held, the defenders would sally out the gates as soon as they saw the Reachmen's backs turned.

If all went as he hoped, the enemy would be crushed between hammer and anvil — the fury of the Stormlands descending from without, and the vengeance of Storm’s End rising from within.

Selwyn drew his horse to a halt atop the low ridge overlooking the Reachmen’s sprawling siege lines. Smoke from last night’s campfires still curled lazily into the morning air. The camp was quiet — too quiet for a force prepared for war. No horns. No banners. No scouts visible.

He scanned their perimeter again. No new watchtowers. No riders posted for warning. Just a few scattered sentries, half-asleep or picking their teeth by the fire.

Good.

They weren’t expecting a relief force. Not anymore. After Stannis’s daring raid and the fire that had gutted their siege engines and watchtowers on the castle-facing side, the Reachmen had clearly redirected their attention inward — toward the garrison. They believed the threat came only from behind those walls now. And, whatever Watchtowers they had placed in other directions had clearly been redirected to face the castle.

Fools.

Selwyn allowed himself a grim smile.

“They’ll regret that for the rest of their lives,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

He turned his horse sharply and faced the lines behind him — nearly two thousand Stormlanders standing in tight, eager ranks. All waiting.

Selwyn raised his sword high into the newborn light. The steel caught the sun’s first rays and gleamed.

“STORMLANDERS!” he roared, voice cutting through the fog like thunder. “WITH ME!”

He drove his heels into his mount’s flanks. The horse surged forward, and the line followed — a crashing wave of hooves and steel and war cries breaking across the quiet hills.

The charge had begun.

The fields outside Storm's End had exploded into violence with the coming of dawn.

A clarion of hooves thundered across the fields as the Stormlander vanguard descended like a tide upon the Reach camp. The first wave—five hundred Stormlanders, all mounted and armoured—smashed into the half-woken camp with the force of a storm. Only some two hundred Reachmen, groggy and hastily assembled, had rallied and managed to form a line to mount a desperate defense, for their brethren in the camp.

They were slaughtered.

Steel rang against steel, but it was a one-sided song. Most of the Reachmen had no time to don breastplates or raise shields. They were cut down in bedclothes, half-blind with sleep, weapons forgotten in tents that now served as their graves. Swords split unprotected skulls. Spears impaled men still staggering from their tents. One Stormlander knight had ridden down three foes in a single charge, his destrier soaked to the knee in blood and mud.

Selwyn watched from the rear, high on a hillock, reins tightly wound in his gauntlets. From there, he saw it all—his men crashing through the loosely formed lines, fires breaking out among the rows of canvas tents, and chaos erupting like a storm over a placid sea. The entire Reach camp had become a writhing, flaming hell.

Torches were tossed with precision into tents, many of which had been constructed with dry sailcloth and brush from the woods. They caught instantly. The flames roared, and the air filled with thick, acrid smoke. Men screamed as fire crawled over their bodies, clutching at their faces as if to tear the pain away. Others fled only to be gutted by waiting blades. Mercy had no place here. Orders were clear—burn every tent, kill every bastard too slow to grab steel.

Selwyn’s stomach turned at the carnage, but he did not look away.

He would have ridden with them—gods, he had wanted to—but Erwin had insisted he stay back. The old Caron had argued that the commander must watch the whole field, must think like a hawk, not a hound. Grudgingly, Selwyn had agreed. And now he saw the wisdom in it. The battlefield unfolded before him like a war map made real.

He could see the Reachmen scrambling at the stables, desperate to mount their horses. But the animals, panicked by the fire and the roar of blood, bucked and screamed and trampled their own masters. One charger, eyes wide with fear, had kicked its way free of the pen and crushed three men beneath its hooves before fleeing into the trees. Another group tried to organize a counter-charge, only for the fire to catch on the stable roof. It collapsed with a scream of timber, burying both men and mounts in flaming ruin.

A column of smoke rose high into the sky, black as the gods' wrath.

Selwyn squinted at the horizon. Still no movement from Storm’s End.

He clenched his jaw. That silence chilled him more than the screams. Had the garrison not seen them? Had the Reach already taken the castle?

But then—crash!

The sound came like thunder from the cliffs. A boulder the size of a small cart flew over the walls of Storm’s End and slammed into the front ranks of the Reach camp, crushing a cookfire, three tents, and the half-dozen men who had gathered there for warmth.

Selwyn exhaled sharply, and then laughed. A loud, mad, manic laugh that cut through the din of war around him.

The Storm had started.

More boulders came, and then arrows—dozens of them. Some flaming, others not. The archers on the high walls had better vision now that the sun had begun to rise. And they used it with deadly precision. Arrows rained down on the Reachmen, catching them between Selwyn’s charge and the castle’s fury.

Men were pierced through neck and belly, some still fumbling with their chainmail. Screams echoed between the cliffs. One Reachman had tried to rally a group of men near the central firepit, only for a flaming arrow to strike the oil pot beside him. He exploded in fire, a living torch, flailing as he crashed into his comrades, spreading the flames like a plague.

Selwyn pointed his sword forward, directing a second wave of cavalry into the fray. “Drive them to the walls!” he shouted. “Let the castle do the rest!”

The plan had worked.

The Reachmen had not fortified the back of their camp, not expecting an attack from inland. They had never imagined they’d be struck from the inland, they'd fortified the front of their camp facing Storm's End. They were caught in a vise, crushed between hammer and anvil—burning tents behind them, stone walls and death ahead.

And soon, Selwyn knew, the garrison would sally out.

They’d open the main gates and spill into the camp like a reaping tide, joining the slaughter. Then it would all be over.

He stared across the field, breathing hard.

Soon. Just a little longer.

And the siege of Storm’s End would be broken.

The gates of Storm’s End were opening.

Alestor Florent cursed under his breath, white-knuckled fists clenched tight around the reins of his destrier as the groaning of the ancient portcullis echoed across the cliffs. He could hardly believe it.

The damned gates were opening.

And through them, like wolves from a cave, the garrison poured forth—armored men on half-starved horses, cheeks hollow from siege rations, their tabards threadbare and blades dulled by salt and rust. They were a pitiful sight, truly—gaunt and desperate, a garrison that should have broken months ago.

But they charged like arrows loosed from a Weirwood bow.

Gods damn these Stormlanders.

Gods damn Trytan Peake.

This was his fault. All of it. Alestor had been left in command of the siege when the lords of the Reach marched north to break the Rebels. It had seemed simple then. Let his fellow Reachmen tear the Rebels to pieces while he took the castle that had been said to have withstood the Storm God himself. He’d kept the walls surrounded, eyes fixed on that fortress of granite and sea.

And for the inland rear? He had trusted Trystan Peake—trusted him—to hold it.

There had been no signs of a relief force for months. No scouts returned with warnings. No outriders reported enemy movement. Just the wind, and the sea, and the cold-faced defiance of Storm’s End.

So he’d given Trytan Peake command of the rear of the camp and focused all his attention on breaking the stubborn walls of Storm’s End.

Until dawn broke with fire.

The rear of the camp had exploded in chaos.

The screams came first—howls of horses and men, screams of panic and steel on flesh. And then the smoke, rising like a funeral pyre beyond the ridgelines.

And now the rear had collapsed.

The flames rising in the distance told the tale plainly enough. The Stormlanders had showed up with a host from nowhere, and fallen upon their backs like a storm at sea. Peake was likely dead. Good riddance. The old fool hadn’t even managed to die fast enough to give Alestor a warning.

The slaughter was unimaginable.

The Stormlanders rode them down like dogs. They had barely any warning. Squires were cut down before they could even hand out swords. Cookfires were overturned in panic, tents collapsed under the hooves of destriers, and men—naked, confused, unarmed—were run through as they fled.

The moment Alestor had heard of the attack he'd begun rallying his men to go save the Peakes.

He had shouted for men to form ranks, to gather at the center, to countercharge. It might have worked—he might have rallied enough to push back and reform the lines.

And then the fucking castle began to fire.

Flaming arrows screamed down from Storm’s End, the work of Stannis Baratheon, cold-eyed and ruthless on the ramparts. Boulders followed—giant slabs hurled by makeshift catapults cobbled together over the long months. They struck with bone-shattering crashes—flattening entire pockets of camp, tearing men in half. Tents burst into flames from the arrows. Supply carts burned. Barrels of oil meant for siege ladders went up in violent bloom, catching dozens of Reach soldiers in fiery death.

Alestor's voice had caught in his throat as one of the boulders slammed into a knot of mounted knights just a few feet ahead—splinters of horseflesh and man-bone showering across the muddy earth.

Stannis had timed it perfectly.

He had ensured that Alestor wouldn't be able to rally any men in the front of the camp to rescue the rear under attack.

Alestor turned back toward the gate, just as the thunder of armored steps grew louder.

And there they were. Charging out beneath the sigil of the crowned stag, gaunt and furious, screaming vengeance for every miserable month spent starving in that accursed fortress. The rising sun caught on their blades, and  while some might see their doom in the glare.

Alestor saw an opportunity in the chaos.

These men—this skeletal garrison charging down from Storm’s End—they weren’t soldiers anymore, not truly. They were hungry shadows of knights, maddened by starvation and desperation. A strong enough blow at the head could still scatter them. If he could kill or capture Stannis Baratheon here—this boy commander with no real experience, no great renown—then the rest would crumble. The garrison would flee back behind the walls. And the Stormlander force attacking from the rear, seeing their young lord taken, would surely break ranks.

All he needed was the boy.

He turned to his bannermen, screaming for them to hold firm. “With me! For the Reach! For Brightwater!”

A wedge of men, battered and bloodied, formed around him.

Then he saw the man riding at the head of the garrison. The crowned stag emblazoned in gold across his black armour. The antlered helm glinting beneath the rising sun. And in his gauntleted hands, a two-handed axe, dark with age and pitted from use.

Not the boy.

Not Stannis Baratheon.

But a Baratheon, all the same.

Alestor’s breath hitched.

Gods, not him. Anyone but him.

Harbert Baratheon.

He knew him even with the helm. The broad shoulders, the way he leaned slightly forward in the saddle, the unmistakable grip on the axe. Harbert had always ridden like a storm waiting to break.

Alestor’s stomach clenched with memory. They had sparred in these same fields, years ago, as boys under Lord Lyonel’s roof. Harbert had bloodied his nose on more than one morning. And laughed after, always laughing.

He'd been Alestor's only friend, when Alestor had squired for  his Lord Father Lyonel Baratheon. 

His oldest friend—who'd been the second son of the Lord of Storm's End, when they met—and was now the Great Uncle, and Castellan of the current Lord, and Alestor had known him all throughout that time. His oldest friend. His brother-in-arms from his youth. When they had drank from the same cups, bled from the same training blades, laughed in the same halls.

And now Harbert was coming for him with a killing look in his eye.

All around him, the his men were dying. Arrows from the ramparts rained down. Fires surged across tents and siege engines. Stormlanders charging from the rear. And now, here at the front, the gates had opened and the anvil was swinging upward to meet the hammer.

Why couldn’t it have been anyone else? Alestor thought. Why did it have to be him?

The world was dying in fire and steel.

And then Harbert was upon him.

They crashed together on the field, the tide of battle folding around them.

The duel began in silence.

Their horses slammed shoulder to shoulder. Alestor lashed out first, a high cut meant to unhorse. Harbert parried it with the haft of his axe, then drove his elbow into Alestor’s throat. Alestor reeled, coughing, nearly thrown from his saddle. He wheeled his horse, boots digging in, and slashed low at Harbert’s leg—but again, the axe was there, quicker than a man that old had any right to be.

They dismounted in unspoken accord. Harbert tossed aside the reins and stepped down onto the muddy, blood-slick ground.

“Go back,” Alestor said, breath heaving. “You don’t have to do this.”

Harbert didn’t answer. He only raised his axe.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

Then Harbert raised his axe in salute — a warrior’s mark of respect. “You should have stayed in Brightwater, Alestor,” he said, voice low and rasping beneath the helm.

Their blades met in a crash of steel and sparks.

Around them, the Reachmen were dying. Alestor saw one of his bannermen speared through the gut, crumpling with a wet gurgle. Another knight tried to rally a defense near a burning cart, only to be struck down by a Stormlander blade from behind. Tents burned, horses screamed, and still the garrison came, pouring from the gates like the tide returned.

And they clashed again.

Steel struck steel with the scream of war. Harbert fought like a storm — every blow with his axe was thunder, every movement forged by decades of battle. Alestor was quicker, lighter on his feet, but Harbert’s strength was overwhelming. Each strike rattled his bones, numbed his arm.

He ducked one blow, slashed Harbert’s thigh, only for a mailed fist to crash into his ribs and send him sprawling. He rolled, came up gasping, blood in his mouth.

Their blades rang again, and again, and again.

Around them, the battle howled. But for Alestor, the world had narrowed to this—Harbert’s burning eyes behind the antlered helm, the rhythm of his steps, the weight of each coming blow. He sidestepped, managed to score a shallow cut on Harbert’s side — but not deep enough. Never deep enough.

Alestor was younger, faster, but Harbert fought like a man with everything to lose. The axe came at him in wide, arcing sweeps, forcing Alestor to retreat step by step, boots slipping in mud gone red. He parried a blow aimed at his neck, twisted, and managed to land a cut across Harbert’s shoulder—deep enough to bite, not deep enough to slow him.

“Yield!” Alestor gasped. “Yield, damn you! We don’t have to—”

Then Harbert’s axe came down like judgment, and Alestor raised his blade to block—

Too slow.

The axe bit into his shoulder, tearing through steel and flesh. Alestor screamed and fell to his knees. His sword clattered beside him.

Harbert stood over him, breath heavy, blood leaking down his leg and arm. He looked down at his old friend in silence.

Alestor staggered, unarmed, staring death in the face.

But Harbert did not strike.

He stared at him, that solemn, sad face behind the antlers. And in that moment, Alestor remembered nights spent on the ramparts of Storm’s End, the two of them whispering about whores, or swords, or who’d be the better knight.

“Should’ve stayed in the Reach, Alestor,” Harbert said. 

Then he buried the axe in his side.

Alestor collapsed, breath leaving him in a wet gasp. The pain didn’t register, not at first. Just the warmth—his blood pouring out, fast and final.

He lay in the mud, eyes blinking up at a sky gone gray.

The sounds of battle receded. All he could hear now was the wind off the cliffs. The crashing sea below.

Alestor blinked, vision going red, then black, then red again. He tried to move, but he couldn't. He felt the warmth of his blood pouring down his side. 

His last thoughts weren’t of his men dying, or of his failure, or the Reach.

They were of home.

Of Melessa and of Rhea, of Alekyne with his sword in the yard. Of quiet evenings by the fire. Of his wife Melera's gentle smile.

He'd never get to meet his grandchild, his Melessa had given her son the name of his father, and he'd never get to see the boy Samwell.

Were they safe? Gods, let them be safe. Let them never know what this felt like. Let them never see what he had seen today.

Let Melessa be safe in Hornhill. Let Rhea be happy in the Hightower. Let Alekyne rule well in Brightwater. 

Thank the gods, they were safe.

Melera, he thought. My Melera.

He saw her face—his love—lit by candlelight in Brightwater Keep. Safe. Far from this place.

The world dimmed. His hand twitched toward the wound, but there was no stopping it now. The cold was already in his chest. Already stealing his breath.

I failed you, he thought. I am Sorry my love I couldn't come back. I couldn't fullfill my vow.

His lips trembled with a silent prayer.

And then Lord Alestor Florent of Brightwater, died on the blood-soaked earth before the gates of Storm’s End, beneath the eyes of the gods and by the hand of his oldest friend.

A/N:- Okay, Crowsford Ford not my brightest moment but you'll need to deal with it. And, I think I messed up big time in this chapter 😔 😔 😔, first I took nearly 15 days to write this one because I deleted a lot of drafts and all because I simply didn't like them. But, a lot of them were far better than this so Yikes 😬 😬 😬.

Also, next few chapter I'll show the Ironborn theatre of War starting in multiple places. I plan to have the next chapters out quickly as well because I have them written out, and a few tweaks here and their are needed that's the only thing. 

Chapter Text

283 AC—Storm’s End, Stormlands 

Lord's Solar

Rhaelle Targaryen Baratheon, Lady Dowager of Storm’s End, sat beside her middle grandson, Stannis Baratheon, the acting Lord of the castle. Across from them was the man who had shattered the accursed siege that had strangled Storm’s End for near a year—Lord Selwyn Tarth.

Gratitude welled in Rhaelle’s heart as she studied him. It had been three days since the Reach camp had been broken, three days since hunger’s iron grip had finally loosened from Storm’s End’s halls. For this deliverance, she would see Selwyn rewarded—aye, richly—once the war was won. Robert would not deny her counsel in this; not when the facts stood so plain.

The Lord of Evenfall had kept faith with the stag even when it cost him and his family their own isle. Aye, Selwyn Tarth had proven his loyalty beyond doubt. He had led the resistance in the southern Stormlands, striking at the Reachmen when the Baratheons themselves were either bottled within these walls or campaigning far afield in other parts of the Realm.

To leave such loyalty unrewarded now would breed discontent among the Stormlords. They knew who had held their keeps for them, it had been his efforts that had prevented many of their keeps from falling to the Reachmen. More than that, he was the one who had broken the siege upon the very seat of House Baratheon.

No, Selwyn Tarth had proved himself thrice over. It would be folly indeed if Robert failed to heap honors upon him once the war was won.

Which, from what Selwyn had told them, the war should be ending soon.

Rhaegar was dead. Her foolish grand-nephew was slain at the Trident—by Ned Stark, no less. That struck her as fitting. After all that Rhaegar and his mad sire had done to the Starks, it was only just that a Stark had brought him low.

The news had first come from the wreck of the Reachmen’s camp, and from the tongues of captured knights and squires. They had also recovered a letter—signed by Stark himself—urging Lord Tyrell and his vassals to march home. In return for peace, Stark promised that no reckoning would be sought for the Reachmen’s depredations in the Stormlands. More startling still, the letter bore Stark’s claim of kingship—styled as King Eddard, by right of conquest, for slaying Rhaegar.

That, Rhaelle found curious.

When Robert had returned from the Vale at the war’s outset, fresh from the Battle at Gulltown, he had told her that Jon Arryn spoke of Robert’s own claim to the throne—through her. And Robert, in that blunt way of his, had told her the rebels meant to crown him king once the war was over—or atleast Jon Arryn meant to, but it was to be discussed with other Rebel Leaders as well before it could be announced because their ascent would be needed, and Robert was sure Ned would agree and so would Hoster Tully. At first she had been startled at the thought of House Targaryen’s overthrow. Yet she had not risen to defend her family’s claim, nor begged Robert to spare the line.

Robert had seemed almost disappointed by that.

He should not have been. She owed House Targaryen little enough by then. Her ties to them had been cut long ago.

She had been only ten when her elder siblings’ follies condemned her to leave her home. Cast from court, she had been sent to Storm’s End as cupbearer to Lord Lyonel and Lady Celyse. They had raised her as one of their own, treating her with kindness where her own blood had cast her aside. By sixteen she and Ormund were wed—love, not politics, had bound them, though politics had sent her here in the first place. From the age of ten she had been a Baratheon in truth, and she had ceased to think of herself as a Targaryen.

Her elder brother Jaehaerys had only hardened that resolve when he sent Ormund to die on the Stepstones, in a vain war of his own making. Shaera had spoken of duty when Ormund’s corpse was returned to her. Rhaelle had turned her back on them both. From that day, she swore never to name them as siblings again.

Sixteen years later, her mad nephew Aerys had robbed her of more—her beloved son Steffon and his wife Cassana—lost to the sea on that fool’s command, when he sent them chasing a Valyrian bride for Rhaegar. From that day, she had cast off all thought of her bloodline. Targaryen blood had brought her nothing but grief. She was a Baratheon, only and wholly.

Perhaps Robert had wished she would protest—had wanted her to beg him not to take the throne while deposing her birth House. He had little love for ruling, after all. Even when he inherited Storm’s End, he had left the governance of his lands to her,  Harbert, and Cressen. Robert had fled back to the Vale, claiming he wished for more years of learning, but she had known better. He wanted a few more years free of the yoke of duty.

Yes—he had looked disappointed when she did not try to dissuade him. But he should not have been. Her Targaryen blood had cost her all she had ever loved. She would not lift a finger to preserve it.

Rhaelle’s mind wandered again. She had asked herself a hundred times already why the raven had named Stark king instead of her Robert. The answer was not easily swallowed. Perhaps it was because Eddard Stark had struck the killing blow to Rhaegar at the Trident. Perhaps because Robert had never truly cared for crowns, only for his warhammer and his vengeance, and if Stark had struck the killing blow upon Rhaegar at the Trident, then perhaps Robert, bleeding from wounds and weary of crowns, had acquiesced to his friend. It seemed almost too simple a thing, and yet so like her Robert’s nature.

Robert had never hungered for crowns—women, wine, and war, aye, but never governance. 

Yet the thought sat uneasily with her. She could still see the boy she had sent to the Vale, stubborn and fierce, heir to Storm’s End. That boy was not made to kneel for anyone. Why Eddard Stark, and not her Robert, upon the Iron Throne? The question gnawed at her with every passing hour.

Her stomach clenched as she remembered the tidings their Reach prisoners had babbled under questioning. It had been Robert, with Lord Tully beside him, who marched with fourteen thousand to take King’s Landing, while Stark and Arryn lingered at the Trident, Stark too badly wounded to move. And the Reachmen had moved to block him—fifty thousand swords in Tyrell service, sweeping north to bar her grandson from the gates of the city.

The thought chilled her more than any memory of the long siege. Fifty thousand. The number rang like a death bell in her thoughts. Fourteen thousand men against fifty. Unless Robert and Hoster Tully had already thrown themselves behind the walls, the Tyrells could cut them down in the open. It would be slaughter.

But there was still Tywin Lannister, and his twelve thousand golden lions, moving toward the city from the west. Would he be savior or butcher? The Lion only bared his teeth for advantage.

That, more than aught else, was why they had gathered in Storm’s End to speak, and to plan.

Stannis, as ever, had been the first to demand action. The moment the siege broke and Selwyn told him of the realm’s peril, her Stannis had insisted they march at once, harrying the Tyrell host from behind had wanted to ride after the Reach host at once, to tear at their flanks like a mastiff worrying a boar. It had taken all of them—Selwyn, Harbert, Cressen, even herself—to argue him down. The garrison was yet frail, men and walls both, after moons of half-starvation. The stores were still thin despite the first carts of food that had rolled through its gates. To drag such a host in pursuit of fifty thousand Reachmen was folly. They needed food, rest, and time, not another desperate march.

“What of the host you brought to break the siege?” Stannis asked, inclining his head toward Selwyn. “I know my garrison cannot march. But your men were not starved for a year. They can still fight, I presume.”

Selwyn, to his credit, did not blink before answering.

“My lord, I brought seventeen hundred spears and five hundred horse. Of those, perhaps twelve hundred spearmen and three hundred and fifty riders remain fit. The rest lie dead or wounded. And even the living are spent. They need rest, food, and time. As for the riders, those still hale Erwin took when he rode to hunt down the stragglers after the battle. Until he returns, we cannot muster them in strength and when he returns they'll still need a few days to be at full strength before they can march.”

“Robert will not have a few days,” Stannis snapped, sharper than steel. His voice, usually so controlled, cut through the chamber like a drawn sword. “If Mace Tyrell reaches King’s Landing before my brother and Lord Hoster, they will be crushed. Stark and Arryn linger at the Trident with wounded men. They cannot aid him. We are the only hope Robert has—and the Reach already has a fortnight’s march on us.”

By the end he was half-risen, his fists braced upon the table, his thin frame trembling with the force of his words. Rhaelle felt a hot surge of pride pierce through her worry. Her Stannis, gaunt from hunger, unbowed despite months of siege, despite still being frail from months of near starvation still thought only of his brother. That fierce, unyielding love for Robert shone brighter than any crown. 

Selwyn’s eyes softened as he looked at him. “My lord,” he said gently, “I believe King’s Landing will fall before Mace Tyrell, and his host ever reach the Blackwater’s southern bank. The Kingswood is a cruel country for an army so vast, much of it on foot which they can't leave behind. They will be slowed at every turn, while Lord Robert and Lord Hoster, from the information the Reachmen had received, have driven their men in forced marches since the Trident. They have at least five days’ lead on the Tyrell host. And the  Kingswood's terrain will bleed more days yet from the Reach, and it's terrain will bog down their march.”

“Even if our forces reach the city first, they must storm it,” Stannis shot back. “That will cost them men. And even should they take it swiftly, what is fourteen thousand against fifty? They will be forced behind the walls—and behind those walls lurks a populace that has bent the knee to dragons for near three hundred years. A hostile city, a fresh siege, and Robert with too few men.” His jaw clenched as he forced the words out. “I will not see my brother trapped as we were, starving in the dark, waiting for death. And I doubt the Tyrells can afford to sit idle in front of the walls for a long siege like the one here at Storm's End. They will want it finished swiftly, he might try storming the city, and the hostile populace won't help Robert and Lord Hoster in holding the city.”

The chamber fell silent. His words hung heavy in the air.

At length, Selwyn said carefully, “Lord Stannis, you are forgetting another player.”

Rhaelle’s gut tightened at once. She knew of whom he spoke even before he named the lion.

“Tywin Lannister,” Selwyn continued, “has been marching with twelve thousand men since the Trident.”

The chair screeched back across the stone as Stannis surged to his feet, his face dark with fury. “I will not put my brother’s fate in Tywin Lannister’s hands! The man sat idle through every hour of this war, waiting like a spider. If it had been our side broken at the Trident, he’d be marching on Riverrun now, not King’s Landing. And even now, what certainty do we have that he will not see the Reachmen’s numbers, deem our cause lost, and throw in with Mace Tyrell? If he thinks siding with the Targaryens would serve Lannister power, he would not hesitate for a heartbeat.”

A heavy silence followed, and Rhaelle’s own stomach coiled tight with dread. She remembered Tywin as a boy at court—cold eyes, colder heart. He had lived all his life for the greatness of House Lannister. If helping the Targaryens promised him more than raising up a new dynasty, he would not scruple to crown the dragon again.

Selwyn said nothing, and his silence was telling.

But before any of them could answer, a new voice cut across the chamber, deep and certain.

“He will not.”

All three turned sharply toward the doorway. Harbert Baratheon stood there, arms crossed against his broad chest, shadows dark beneath his eyes. He stepped forward as he spoke, his boots echoing on the stone.

“Tywin Lannister will not join the royalists. Aerys has done him and his precious name too much harm for that. He has waited years for the chance to see the dragon fall, and he will not waste it now.”

He raised a hand as Stannis half-moved to rise and offer his chair.

Rhaelle’s sharp eyes did not miss the dark circles beneath Harbert’s own—nor the weariness that weighed his step. This was the first time she had seen him beyond Renly’s chambers since he'd led the sally from Storm’s End with Stannis, since the night he slew Alester Florent with his own hand. He had returned from the carnage only to bury himself in vigil by her sick youngest grandson’s bedside. When she had asked him why, he had only murmured that it eased the guilt he carried for killing a man he once called friend.

She knew well enough that Harbert was comforting himself for killing Alester, who had been his brother in all but blood. The only thing that seemed to assuage his guilt was keeping vigil at little Renly’s bedside. Her youngest grandson had been sick these past fourteen days, and his fever had worsened the very night before the siege had been broken. The child had collapsed in Harbert’s arms, and it had terrified her good-brother beyond words.

Rhaelle had a sneaking suspicion that was why Alester Florent had ended up dead instead of taken prisoner. Harbert had turned his fear for Renly into fury against the Reach, and in leading the sally he had poured that terror into blood. Alester had been the unlucky object of it, cut down when he might otherwise have been spared. She was almost certain that had Renly not been clinging to life, Alester would still be breathing.

She was brought out of her thoughts by Harbert’s voice.

“I knew Tywin Lannister when he was a mere child of ten, a cupbearer at court,” Harbert began, his tone steady though his eyes shadowed. “I was with Steffon then, during his fostering in King’s Landing. Even at that age, Tywin was prideful—proud of his house, quick to take offence at any insult to his House, and careful to guard its honor. It was he who restored the power and reputation of House Lannister after his father’s misrule. And Aerys has done nothing but slight him since. From his cruel jests after Lady Joanna’s death, to robbing him of his heir by naming Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard, the dragon has given the lion naught but insult.”

Harbert’s gaze swept the chamber. “That is why Tywin sat out the war when it began. The fact that he only began to march after Rhaegar was slain and the royal host destroyed—it does not speak of loyalty to his king. No, he marches now for vengeance against all the slights Aerys did to him. He's marching to get his pound of flesh from the carcass of the dragon.”

He let the words settle, each syllable measured.

“But you are right, Stannis,” Harbert said at last, inclining his head to his grand-nephew. “I will not leave Robert alone to face the Reach, whether he has twenty-six thousand or fourteen thousand. He is my blood as well as yours, and I will not abandon him—not when I can help.”

Yet his eyes turned then to Selwyn.

“But Lord Selwyn also speaks true—we cannot march with what little we have. Of his host, little more than fifteen hundred men can still take the field. From our garrison, we might scrape together two or three hundred more, for we must leave at least eight hundred behind to hold the castle and guard our captives. If the gods favor us, we may raise a few hundred more from nearby villages, but even then it will not be enough to turn the tide. If we truly mean to help Robert, we must find more men.”

“Ser Harbert,” said Selwyn quietly, “I do not disagree about our needs of more men. But most of our strength rode with Lord Robert when he marched to Ashford. Those not slain or captured their fled North with him, and are still with him. When the Reach invaded the northern Stormlands; what fighting men remained you bought them to Storm's End for the Siege. As for Tarth and the Southern Stormlands, I stripped them bare to raise this host. You'll find southern Stormlands have no more to give, unless you would strip bare the garrisons in castles and keeps and leave them undefended—and invite Dornish raiding.”

His words carried weight, and Rhaelle found herself conceding their truth even as her heart clenched. All eyes turned back to Harbert.

“I was not speaking of raising new levies,” Harbert said, his voice low but firm. “That would take too long. I speak of men already raised.”

“Speak plain, Great-Uncle,” Stannis said gruffly, eyes narrowing.

“Robert marched to Ashford with thirteen thousand men,” Harbert answered. “Three thousand were lost to Tarly’s ambush. Four thousand were taken captive by the Reach. Those Stormlanders who could not flee north with Robert—perhaps another thousand— fled back to the Stormlands, and fell into Reachmen hands when they poured into the Stormlands. Most of those captives, were carried off to Summerhall, guarded by but a small force. The four thousand from Ashford were divided between Ashford itself, Starpike, and Longtable. And this information I got from Lord Trystan Peake who sits in our dungeons, and I visited him their.”

Stannis’s eyes darkened. “And what if Trystan Peake is feeding you lies?”

“He isn't,” Rhaelle interjected before Harbert could answer. Three heads turned toward her.

“He will not lie—not when both he and his son are in our keeping. He knows well enough that if we learn he deceived us, his boy will pay the price as much as he. Trystan may risk himself, but never his son.” She forced her voice into certainty, though her heart was less sure. It had been long since she had known Trystan Peake well, but she remembered the boy he had been during the six years they were raised together. Even then, he had cared deeply for his kin and shown a fierce protectiveness toward them.

Trystan had been taken as a hostage by her father after he ascended the throne, recompense for the Peake Uprising that had claimed the life of her grandsire, King Maekar. Though Trystan had been confirmed Lord of Starpike at only four years of age, his grandsire, father, and uncles were all sent to take the black. He himself had been brought to King’s Landing as a hostage. Yet her father had treated the boy more as a ward than a hostage, and, seeing that he was closest in age to her among his children, he had encouraged her to befriend him. They had been inseparable until she was sent to Storm’s End at the age of ten.

For some years they had continued to write, but the correspondence dwindled once he became a squire to her brother Jaehaerys. She had not seen him again for many years, until the war in the Stepstones, when he rode among the honor guard that returned her  Osmund's body to Storm’s End. He had beenthe only Reachlord who had done so, an act that earned him the respect of Steffon and the other Stormlords. And when he heard of Jaehaerys and Shaera’s cold disregard for Osmund’s death, it was Trystan who sought her out and offered comfort. He had been kind when her own kin in King’s Landing had not.

Aye, she thought, more certain now. He would not gamble with his son’s life.

“So you would have us march to free our men, Great-Uncle?” Stannis asked, his eyes fixed upon Harbert.

“Aye,” Harbert nodded once.

“My lord, freeing our men in Summerhall may be possible,” Selwyn cautioned. “But Ashford, Starpike, Longtable—too deep in the Reach, too far for so small a force. It would be folly, to march that deep in the Reach with our numbers.”

“I agree we can't march on Ashford and Longtable,” Harbert replied evenly. “But Starpike is another matter. For we hold the key to it in our dungeons.”

“You mean to use Trystan Peake and his heir,” Stannis said flatly. It was no question.

“Aye. Trystan is a caring father. He gave me all he knew in exchange for visiting his son If we promise his boy no harm, he may persuade his men at Starpike to yield. And if they do…”

“Aye. From what I have seen of Trystan Peake, he is a devoted father. He gave me all he knew in exchange for me permitting to visit his son.  And from what your grandmother says,” Harbert paused to glance at her, “he will not be willing to endanger the boy. If we promise his boy no harm, I believe he will order the men at Starpike to lay down their arms and release ours. From there…”

“Then we would have enough strength to march on Ashford and Longtable,” Stannis finished, realization flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps even unopposed, with most of the Reach lords either marching north to King's Landing or watching the Ocean Road.” His voice grew more intense. “It is a great plan, Great-Uncle. But the crux lies in convincing Trystan Peake. He would be asked to forswear his liege lord, to free enemies in the heart of the Reach when most of the Lords are away, to risk the scorn of his peers after the war. And the Peakes are hated enough in the Reach as it is, after their uprising against Maekar. Such treachery will make them more despised still. I am not certain he will dare it.”

Iron Fleet Justification 

Author's Note: Deluded_Peacemonger and later L3t_U5_D0_That_Aga1n  pointed out that Iron Fleet wasn't constructed until after Balon took over as Lord a information I didn't know at that time but I have come up with a plan for a Iron Fleet justification for it it to exist in the time of Quellon Greyjoy and before Balon to make this War a bit not one-sided and to make Ironborn a legitimate threat.

258–259 AC: Foundations of the Iron Fleet

When the Band of Nine rose to power, seizing Tyrosh and raiding Stepstones and royal fleet bases, King Aegon V ordered the Redwynes, the Lannisters of Lannisport, and the Greyjoys to prepare their fleets for war.

Quellon’s father seized the opportunity. With Aegon’s permission, he raided the Band of Nine’s holdings, using the spoils to establish a permanent, organized fleet for the Ironborn. This laid the foundations of what became known as the Iron Fleet, initially consisting of 15 ships.

260s AC: War of the Stepstones

Under King Jaehaerys II, Westeros intervened in the Stepstones. Quellon sailed with the Iron Fleet, and during the fighting they captured 17 enemy ships, which were incorporated into their own force.

At the same time, Quellon’s father ordered the construction of another 18 ships. By the time of his death, the Iron Fleet numbered 50 vessels—a disciplined, formidable force for the Iron Islands.

Quellon’s Rule

Upon succeeding his father, Quellon introduced his famous reforms. Though he curbed traditional reaving in Westeros, he did not disband the Iron Fleet. He believed it served as:

•A deterrent against rebellious vassals uneasy with his reforms.

•A professional, standing force that could keep his men sharp.

•A tool for reaving abroad, especially in Essos and the Stepstones, without violating Westerosi peace.

•The Iron Fleet thus became both a symbol of unity and a safety valve for restless captains.

By 283 AC: The Iron Fleet is ~100 ships, battle-hardened, disciplined, and well-commanded. Ready for Balon’s gamble. And very much sharp and well trained due to the reaving they did in Essos and Stepstones.

A/N:-

I am Sorry for not updating for this long. I know many writers don't update for months but that isn't my style I like to update my stories (atleast "In the Reign of the Wolf" & By Right of Conquest) every 10 days or so But just joined Collage first year and changed and got upgraded three times in the past month and it's been very hectic and hard this past month. But I am back now and plan to update very regularly.

Btw, I know I promised a Ironborn theatre of War from this chapter but I needed to stretch my hands after a month of  inactivity on this story so you got this instead Sorry about that.

Also, I'll give you a choice on whom you guys want as the Castellan of Moat Callin:-

•Errold Stark (Uncle of Edwyle Stark Ned's Grandpa and born in 210 AC and Head of Barrowtown Starks branch and will be around 73)

•Cregan Flint (Uncle of Lyarra Stark through her Mom Arya Flint 225 AC 58)

Your guys choice totally 😁😁😁.

Btw, I'll give my numbers for the Rebel forces division at the Battle of the Trident 

North: 14,000

Riverlands: 8,000

Vale: 9,000

Stormlands:4,000 (Robert was able to flee with 6,000 from Ashford and many of his men were injured or killed in pursuit by Jon Connington after Battle of the Bells he had to leave a lot of injured at Riverrun while he marched with the other Rebel forces to Trident)

Now Rebels forces division:-

•14,000 with Robert, Hoster and Blackfish at King's Landing.

•13,000 with Ned and Jon Arryn at the Trident.

•12,000 with Tywin at King's Landing making common cause with Rebels and a host of 26,000 when combined mostly 8000 men are mounted rest are infantry.

•8,000 Valemen under Yohn Royce marching for the Trident.

•8,000 Valemen under Horton Redfort in the Vale.

•18,000 men at Hornvale under Tygett Lannister approx 13,000 are infantry and 5,000 cavalry.

•Potential Northern reinforcements gathered at Winterfell haven't decided the number yet (feel free to give suggestions). 

PS:Camsonius hoped you liked the explanation for Harbert killing Alestor instead of taking him prisoner because you asked this question in the last chapter.

PS: Guys this war isn't going to be a easy one for the Rebels as I said this War will extend on multiple fronts for atleast a year or two.

P.P.S: Can anyone please tell me if the Whents sided with the Targaryens or not?🙏🙏🙏🙏.

Chapter Text

283 AC, Moat Cailin—The North

The Children's Tower 

Cregan Flint grunted as he unrolled the raven’s message from the Trident. The letter bore the deal of his great-nephew, Eddard Stark, commanding him to prepare for the arrival of Martyn Cassel. Cassel was to return to Winterfell and take command of the second host that had been raised there.

The letter also spoke of Lord Wyman Manderly, who would accompany Cassel northward. Ned gave no reason for the Manderly's journey, and Cregan found he cared little for it. What stung him was not Manderly’s presence, but the fact that his own orders remained unchanged. He was still to sit at Moat Cailin, holding the fortress with the nine hundred archers Ned had left him. Instead of being in the South taking vengeance for his good-nephew Rickard, and poor Bran. Duty bound him here, yet in his heart he longed to mete out vengeance with the rest of the North.

He had been one of the first to call his banners when word reached the North of what that sister-fucking cunt Aerys had done to Rickard and Brandon. Cregan had already been in Winterfell with his men before Ned had even returned from the Vale. That in itself had been a strange thing to stomach. Ever since the boy had began his fostering at the Eyrie, it had always been Cregan who escorted him south—handing his great-nephew into Jon Arryn’s care—and then, once a year, escorting him back to Winterfell to visit his family. It had become something of a tradition between them, a quiet duty Cregan had taken pride in taking his great-nephew to and, from his home. So when this time Ned returned from the Vale alone, a man grown and ready to lead the North to march South for vengeance for his brother and father, Cregan had felt the loss of that small tradition more harder than he thought he would, because it was the first time Ned had returned without being escorted by him.

Still, his eagerness for war had not cooled. His axe longed to drink Targaryen blood for Rickard, for Brandon. He'd been eager to avenge them in his niece Lyarra's memory. But when they reached Moat Cailin, Ned had charged him with another task. Cregan was to hold the ruined fortress with nine hundred archers, to be Winterfell’s shield in case all went wrong in the South. No foe was to pass the Neck while he lived. Duty was duty, though it burned him to be left behind.

Not long after Ned marched south, funds had come from Winterfell. Old Errold Stark—Ned’s great-uncle, head of the Starks of Barrowton, and sharper at seventy-three than most men half his age—had ridden from Barrowton to serve as regent for young Benjen at Winterfell on Ned's request. Errold Stark, was the oldest Stark alive— but still sharper than most, and that had been the exact reason for Ned appointing him the Regent. Errold had immediately seen to Ned's commands of raising a second host, he'd charged Rodrik Cassel to raise the second host, and had even sent coin to Cregan to make the Moat inhabitable for him and his men. Cregan, and his men had been sitting idle. Idle hands bred trouble, so Cregan set his men hard at work. The Gatehouse Tower had been hacked clear of the tree that split it's northern side, it's stones reset enough to house the bulk of his force. A hundred men garrisoned the Children’s Tower with him, and some held the Drunkard’s Tower. Most were housed in the Gatehouse Tower because it was in the best condition of all the Towers.

But even with the work of mending towers and keeping men busy, neither Cregan nor his garrison could turn their thoughts from the war in the South. Every man in the Moat yearned for the sight of ravens, hoping for news arriving from the South.

At last, a few moons after Ned had marched south with the host, the letters began to come. The first spoke of victory at the Stoney Sept, where the rebel lords had broken the host of Aerys's Hand. That news was met with cheer enough, but greater still was the word that followed: Ned had wed the daughter of Lord Tully, a bitter turn in Cregan’s mind, for the girl had once been promised to Brandon.

Yet it was the third raven that set the Moat ablaze with joy. Word of the Trident. Word that the silver-haired bastard Rhaegar lay dead—struck down by Ned himself, no less. Men shouted, drank, and roared their triumph until the swamps echoed with their cries. And greater still, the letter told that Ned had been proclaimed king, by right of conquest. The fact that Ned had claimed the Throne, after killing the Silver haired bastard who took his sister had been another point of elation for the garrison.

A Stark upon the Iron Throne. The men near wept with pride, and even Cregan had, read the letter thrice over before he could make himself believe the words. His Ned, King of Westeros?

It was so, so, so unbelievable. It seemed only yesterday that he had escorted Ned to the Eyrie for the first time, the boy half-hiding behind his leg when Lord Arryn had come to receive him. And now that same boy—his Ned—was to be King of Westeros.

Cregan was not ashamed to admit he had wept with pride in the privacy of his solar. His great-nephew, his blood, would sit the Iron Throne. Afterward, he'd immediately gone to the godswood to kneel beneath the weirwood tree, whispering thanks to the Old Gods for their justice at last. His sister Arya, if she yet lived, would have burst with pride to see her grandson crowned king.

That night he had let the men feast. Provisions were opened, ale barrels broached, and the swampy halls of Moat Cailin rang with Northern voices raised in triumph. They had earned their joy.

For who deserved such triumph if not the Starks? The First Men’s blood still ran strong in them, a line older than the Wall, older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves. Eight thousand years they had ruled the North, through winter and famine, through the Andal invasions, and the Wildling raids. Where others had been wiped out, they had endured. Where kings burned and broke, the Starks held fast. If any house in Westeros had the strength to rule all the realm, it was the Starks. They'd ruled the North for eight thousand years, he was sure they'd be able to hold Westeros better than the Valyrian fuckers.

The Targaryens had been tyrants with Dragons, brother-wed-to-sister, madness in their veins. But the Starks had never needed dragons to hold their Realm for them. They had kept the North whole through more than eight thousand years with grit, duty, and the memory of winter. That same steel, Cregan knew, would bind the Seven Kingdoms better than dragonflame ever could. He had no doubts. A Stark would not only take the throne—they would hold it better then the Dragons before them.

They'd hold the Realm—like they'd held the North for the past eight thousand years.

Yet even in his pride, a quiet ache settled in Cregan’s chest. Ned was now king, that meant he would live in the South now, in King’s Landing. Cregan could not help but feel the sting of loss. All his life it had been his charge, his duty, and yes, his pride to escort his great-nephew south to the Vale and back again. To guard him along the high roads and watch the boy grow from timid child into quiet, steadfast man. It had been their tradition. And now, when Ned had marched south for the last time—not as ward or bannerman, but as conqueror and king—Cregan had not been the one at his side.

Instead, the boy he had once carried on his saddle before the gates of the Eyrie would now wear a crown of conquest. Cregan could not help but wonder if Ned, as King of Westeros, would now abdicate his Lordship of Winterfell. Ofcourse he would, he couldn't be both the King of Westeros, and Warden of the North.

The Warden of the North needed to be in the North, and the King couldn't rule from Winterfell. Benjen was still but a boy, yet who else could inherit the Lordship of Winterfell and the Wardenship of the North? Aye, it would be Benjen who would take the reins of House Stark, and the North while Ned would take the charge of the Realm from the South.

It was strange to think of Ned founding a southern branch of the Starks, a royal line rooted not in Winterfell but in King’s Landing. A House Stark of the South. A House Stark of King’s Landing. The thought sat oddly with him, like wine gone sour.

And that led him into stranger musings still. What did that make them now, in truth? Which was the cadet branch and which the true line of Stark's? Was it House Stark of Winterfell—the ancient stock, ruling eight thousand years in the North—that now bent to a younger son? Or was it House Stark of King’s Landing, born of conquest and crown, that must be accounted the senior line?

By rights, Ned was the head of his house when he marched south, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. If he now styled himself King, and founded a royal branch in the South, then did he pass the lordship and headship to Benjen—or did Benjen merely hold it in trust for the northern line, while Ned’s branch reigned from the Iron Throne? And if the new line sprang from the elder, could the elder line truly be called “cadet”?

By rights, Ned was the head of his house when he marched south, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. If he now styled himself King, and founded a royal branch in the South, then did he pass the lordship and headship to Benjen—or did Benjen merely hold it in trust for the northern line, while Ned’s branch reigned from the Iron Throne? And if the new line sprang from the elder, could the elder line truly be called “cadet”?

Cregan found himself chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Starks had ruled Winterfell for longer than men had written histories, and now he was puzzling over which Stark was more Stark than the other. Was Winterfell the cadet branch now, because a senior member who'd was now the king that sat in the South? Or was it King’s Landing that was cadet, because Winterfell’s roots ran deeper than all the Seven Kingdoms put together?

He could almost hear his sister Arya laughing at him from beyond the grave for wasting thought on such riddles. Yet still the question lingered, nagging at him like a half-healed scar.

283 AC — Flint’s Finger, The North

Urrigon Greyjoy stood at the prow of his longship, the salt wind whipping his hair, his eyes fixed on the sea below him. The waves would lead him to the land where, at last, he would pay the iron price.

It mattered, more than words could tell. He would be the first Greyjoy in near a decade to pay the Iron price on Westerosi soil. None of his elder brothers had gotten to kill their first man or take their first woman on the shores of the Reach or the Westerlands, like their ancestors. Their kills, their plunder, had been taken far from home—in the Basilisk Isles, among the corsairs of Yi Ti and Volantis. Victories, yes, but hollow ones, far from the shores their ancestors had bled upon. All because their father had lacked the courage to strike at the greenlands.

But Urrigon would get his chance, he'd be the first Greyjoy after a decade to pay the Iron Price on Westerosi soil. That was the reason why Victarion had entrusted him with three longships and three hundred men, ordering him to seize Flint’s Finger.

The Iron Fleet had split its strength for the war. Thirty ships, near three thousand men, had been dispatched north with them by Balon. He'd put Victarion in command of the expedition North, while he himself had went with Euron and another thirty ships to draw Stark out at Seagard. Their task was to take Most Callin, and deny any Northern host marching South.

They were also accompanied by Rodrik Harlaw–Balon's Goodbrother–who'd protested against the plan and an irritated Balon had ordered him to take his House's ships to accompany North naming him Victarion's second in command as well. Everyone knew it was no honor; it was exile, a way to rid Balon of repeatedly hearing his protests against the rebellion. More vassals had sent ships that had joined them along the way, another fifteen hulls, another fifteen hundred men. All told, the kraken now sailed north with some forty-five ships and forty-five hundred raiders.

Victarion and Lord Rodrik had spent the voyage bent over maps, plotting how best to crack Moat Cailin. Urrigon had sat in those councils, restless as a hound on a short leash, bored near to madness by talk of strategy and supply. He was no captain of fleets, no lord of battle. He was a warrior with sea in his blood and axe in his hand, and all he wanted was the chance to pay the Iron price.

It had been Lord Rodrik who devised the plan for taking the Moat. He convinced Victarion that Stark would have left a strong garrison to hold the Gateway of his homeland. So, taking the Moat from a one pronged attack wouldn't be wise. Instead, the two agreed upon a two-pronged attack from both sides on the Moat. Victarion would land to strike from the Southern side, while Lord Rodrik would lead an assault from the northern side. Under cover of night, their ships would slip into the Fever River, and at the crack of dawn, they would fall upon the Moat from both sides.

But another part of the plan had been taking Flint's Finger, which was enroute to Moat Callin and could potentially send warnings to the garrison at the Moat. Thus, it was important to take the castle. Victarion had no wish to waste ships or men on a minor castle, so he had turned to his youngest brother. Take it swiftly. Take it cleanly. Let no raven fly.

To Urrigon, it was more than an order. It was a gift—the gift of the chance to pay the Iron Price.

And he did not intend to fail.

The gates boomed under the ram, and Urrigon grinned. Every strike was a heartbeat closer to glory. Torches flared, on the keep’s walls. From the battlements above, a handful of Northern archers loosed arrows down, shafts hissing into the night air—one of my men dropped with a bolt in his neck, another staggered with an arrow in his gut, but it didn’t matter there were too few bowmen to slow the tide.

It had been barely a hour since, the first longship had scraped ashore at Urrigon's command. In that hour the castle’s alarm bell tolled, thin and frantic, but too late. Urrigon was already bellowing his men forward, pointing his axe toward the gates.

But, he had expected them to sally out to face him and his men but quickly realised they didn't have the numbers to do it. They, most probably had around a hundred, or perhaps even less than that. Because, Lord Flint had most probably taken most of his levies South with Stark.

Urrigon after realising that had led the men's charge to reach the gates quickly, before the garrison inside could prepare a defence.

“Harder!”  Urrigon shouted, his voice carrying over the crash of timber and the clang of steel. “Put your backs into it! Break that gate!”

The timbers held for the time, the defenders bracing the gates with beams, their shouts echoing through the courtyard. Spears jabbed down from murder-holes, killing two of his men outright. 

Another crash, another splinter, and Urrigon heard the wood groan. He tightened his grip on his axe, knuckles white, heart pounding. Soon. Very soon.

Flame rained down suddenly—oil set alight, roaring into a sheet of fire that burned half a dozen men where they stood. The stench of cooked flesh hit his nose, and Urrigon snarled in anger. 

“Harder!” He roared, voice raw. “Break me that gate!”

The ram crashed forward, and the wood splintered. A heartbeat later, the gates burst open.

Urrigon charged first, bellowing as he leapt over the wreckage. A guard jabbed his spear at him—too slow. He smashed it aside with his axe and buried the blade in the guard's skull because he had made the mistake of not wearing a helm. His blood sprayed warm against my face, and Urrigon grinned. First blood. Mine.

The yard erupted in chaos.

Steel met steel, shields clanged, men screamed. Their garrison was pitiful—no more than a hundred true fighters. But the whole bloody castle had armed itself. Cooks with cleavers, maids with pitchforks, old men with rusted axes. 

“Is this your strength?” Urrigon jeered as his axe tore through another guardsman’s breastplate. “Green boys and milkmaids?”

They came like wolves.

A boy—no older than twelve, face still soft with youth—darted from the kitchens with a knife in his fist, slashing wildly at the first of Urrigon's men he met. The man split him from collarbone to belly, and the boy’s guts spilled steaming onto the stones. Beside him, a gray-bearded man swung a pitchfork into another raider’s side, driving him back a step before three axes found the old man and left him twitching in the mud.

A graybeard charged Urrigon, roaring, an axe swinging wild. Urrigon caught the blow on his shield, shoved him back, and split him from collarbone to gut. His entrails spilled hot and steaming onto the stones. Another man—a boy, really—stabbed at the ribs with a kitchen knife. The point scraped off Urrigon's mail, and I seized him by the hair. His skull cracked against the wall once, twice, before he went limp in my hands. Urrigon tossed him aside, laughing.

Still they came. A serving girl drove a pitchfork into the thigh of one of his men, dropping him with a scream. Before she could wrench it free, Urrigon swung, the axe taking her arm clean off. She shrieked, blood gushing, and he silenced her with a kick that shattered her jaw.

Fools. Brave, stubborn fools.

“Kill them all!” Urrigon roared, voice ragged with glee. “No quarter!”

The air grew thick with the iron stink of blood. Every corner of the yard became a killing ground. The defenders fought with a ferocity born of despair—screaming, weeping, refusing to yield—but one by one they fell.

Urrigon carved through them like axe through driftwood. His arms burned, breath came out ragged, but the rush of the fight was fire in his veins. A guardsman in a dented helm barred the way, shield high, sword steady.

At least this one looks like he knows how to fight, Urrigon thought. 

We circled in the blood-slick yard. He struck first, blade flashing for my neck. I caught it on my axe-haft, shoved hard, and slammed my shield into his chest. He staggered, came on again, a wild overhead slash. I stepped aside, buried my axe in his knee. He dropped with a scream, and I ended him with a stroke that near took his head from his shoulders.

Another woman—older, gray in her hair—came shrieking from the kitchens with a cleaver. She hacked at me, shrill and desperate. I caught her wrist, twisted until I heard the bones snap. She spat in my face. I laughed, drove my dagger up under her ribs, and let her fall.

The yard became a charnel pit. Bodies piled high by the gate, blood pooling black across the stones. My boots slipped in it, sticky and warm. The cries of the wounded rose around me, mixed with the clash of steel and the cawing of circling crows.

Urrigon cut his way through them, laughing as his axe rose and fell. He smashed a guard’s shield apart with a single blow, then split the man’s helm like firewood. Another tried to grapple him from behind, arms locking about his chest, but Urrigon drove his head back into the man’s nose, felt the crunch of bone, and turned to bury his blade in his throat. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and bright, and he grinned through it like a madman.

At the well, half a dozen men made their last stand, backs to the stone rim. They fought like cornered wolves, spears flashing, swords whirling, until Urrigon’s raiders closed in on every side. One went down, then another, then the rest in a heap of limbs and broken steel.

By the time the last of them fell—the captain of the guard, who fought on with two swords in his hands until three axes brought him down—their courage had bought them nothing. Not escape. Not victory. Only death.

By the time the sun began to bleed over the horizon, the keep’s yard was a charnel house. Corpses lay stacked by the gates where they had tried to hold. More sprawled in the mud by the stables, hacked to pieces, their blood pooling black in the torchlight. Servants and soldiers alike were strewn across the cobbles, butchered together in one indistinguishable heap.

Less than fifty Ironborn had fallen. The rest of the garrison—all hundred and more—were dead or dying.

Urrigon threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing in yard. This was it. This was glory. He had paid the Iron Price.

And the castle was his.

Urrigon stood amidst the ruin, chest heaving, blood dripping from the edge of his axe. All around him, his men dragged the surviving women and children into the yard, binding them in chains. A sobbing maid was pulled past him, then another. Then, at last, Lady Celyse Flint herself was brought forth, her gown torn, her hair unbound, her pale face streaked with ash and tears. Even in grief she was striking.

Then they brought her to him.

Lady Celyse Flint.

Tall, proud, with hair like black silk and eyes full of fire. Her gown was torn, her cheek streaked with ash and blood, but she held herself with the bearing of a queen. Even beaten, even surrounded, she looked at Urrigon as if he were filth.

That only made her more beautiful.

He stepped close, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat, close enough to smell her fear beneath the smoke. 

“On your knees,” the raider behind her growled, shoving her forward. Chains rattled as she fell before him.

Urrigon looked her over with a wolfish grin. “A fine prize,” he said, stepping close. His hand came down hard on her rump, making her stiffen with fury. “I’ll have her kept safe. Find her a chamber, bolt the door. She’ll be confined until I decide otherwise.”

The man laughed as they hauled her away.

Urrigon turned back to the yard, surveying the heaps of bodies piled like cordwood, the pools of blood glistening black in the dawn light. The stench was thick and foul, but to him it smelled of victory. He had paid the iron price, and the taste of it was sweeter than any lemon-cake.

Smirking, he raised his axe in salute to the dead.

Flint’s Finger had fallen.

A/N:-

Here's a question for you that I want all of your opinions on:- 

Which do you think will be the cadet branch eventually . House Stark of Winterfell this is the House Ned belongs to but he'll soon from House Stark of King's Landing but technically House Stark of King's Landing will be formed by the senior member (Ned)of House Stark of Winterfell so who granted the Headship of House Stark of Winterfell to a younger member (Benjen). But House Stark of Winterfell existed long before House Stark of KL. What's your opinion on this?

PS: Sorry for the late chapter 😅😅😅, I got busy with my first college assignment for a while and the moment it was done I rushed back here. And I would have gotten the chapter out before 20th but I had to redo the Flint's Finger battle a lot of times because I was trying to try a new pov thing for Battle which failed epicly. So, back to my old style 😁😁😁😁.

Btw, I'll give my numbers for the Rebel forces division at the Battle of the Trident 

North: 14,000

Riverlands: 8,000

Vale: 9,000

Stormlands:4,000 (Robert was able to flee with 6,000 from Ashford and many of his men were injured or killed in pursuit by Jon Connington after Battle of the Bells he had to leave a lot of injured at Riverrun while he marched with the other Rebel forces to Trident)

Now Rebels forces division:-

•14,000 with Robert, Hoster and Blackfish at King's Landing.

•13,000 with Ned and Jon Arryn at the Trident.

•12,000 with Tywin at King's Landing making common cause with Rebels and a host of 26,000 when combined mostly 8000 men are mounted rest are infantry.

•8,000 Valemen under Yohn Royce marching for the Trident.

•8,000 Valemen under Horton Redfort in the Vale.

•18,000 men at Hornvale under Tygett Lannister approx 13,000 are infantry and 5,000 cavalry.

•2000 Stormlanders too injured from Ashford, and Jon Connington's chase left at Riverrun to heal under Harrold Rogers, and approximately another force of Riverlanders which I haven't decided now so open for suggestions 😁😁😁😁.

•Potential Northern reinforcements gathered at Winterfell haven't decided the number yet (feel free to give suggestions). 

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 😁😁😁😁.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from “The War of the Four Kings”

by Archmaester Donnel Cerwyn, Citadel of Oldtown

The War of the Four Kings (282–284 AC), so called for the four Kings who claimed crowns during one of the bloodiest and most transformative conflicts in Westerosi history — King Aerys II Targaryen, King Eddard I Stark, King Balon IX Greyjoy, and King Viserys III Targaryen—marked the violent end of the Targaryen era in Westeros, and the end of the old order.

The war started in the Year 282 AC, with the murder of Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon Stark on the orders of King Aerys II. Their deaths ignited open rebellion across half the realm, uniting Houses Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon into what is today termed as the S.T.A.B Alliance.

The first phase of the conflict, spanning from 282 to 283 AC, is referred to as Eddard’s Rebellion. During this phase, the allied forces of the S.T.A.B alliance fought against the forces of Aerys the Mad, and his loyalist forces in the Reach and Dorne, culminating in the fall of the Red Keep, and the capture of Aerys the Second at the hands of the Rebel forces.

The second phase (283–284 AC), known to historians as Eddard’s Consolidation, began almost as soon as the Red Keep fell to the forces of King Eddard. In this phase, the Ironborn under King Balon IX Greyjoy declared their independence and intention to break away from the Seven Kingdoms, and the last of the Targaryen loyalists—with the notable exception of Dorne—fought to restore the Targaryens to the Iron Throne. Prince Viserys was crowned King Viserys III Targaryen at Dragonstone, supported by loyalist houses from the Crownlands and the Reach. 

These overlapping claims plunged the realm once more into chaos. 

Thus ended the Year of the Four Kings—a time when one man’s madness and tyranny plunged Westeros into one of the most bloodiest civil wars in it’s history.

283 AC—Rebel Camp, King’s Landing 

The camp had been raised outside the walls of the city, banners of the stag, trout, and lion flapping in the wind. Both the Lannister host and the slowly departing rebel forces moving out from King’s Landing were encamped here. The city was still being cleared of Wildfire caches, and the populace was still uneasy, so instead of having war preparations inside the city, in the sight of frightened and weary smallfolk. Hoster had decided to move his forces outside the walls for preparation for the Battle, away from the view of the people.

They had chosen to muster their army beyond the gates.

The battle that was coming demanded it. The Reach host was approaching fast, and they needed to prepare for the battle.

That’s why the leadership of the army had gathered in this pavilion erected by Tully men to plan the defence of Blackwater. The pavilion, raised by Tully’s men, was broad and sturdy. In the centre lay a long wooden table, on it a detailed map of the northern and southern banks of the Blackwater.

Different wooden figurines marked the troops that would go into battle within a few days.

The tent was packed with Lords who stood in their natural clusters.

Lord Tywin stood directly across from Hoster, at one end of the table. His brother, Kevan stood to his left. To the left side of the table stood the Westerlander Lords: Lord Sumner Crakehall, Lord Leo Lefford, and the young Lord Gawen Westerling.

And directly opposite Tywin stood Hoster, with Brynden to his right, and to Brynden’s right stood Jason Mallister, Tytos Blackwood, and Qarlton Chelsted, and beside him was Gawen Westerling. To Hoster’s left stood Robert, and further along on the right side of the table stood stormlord bannermen—his grandsire Eldon Estermont, Lord Grandison, and Silveraxe Fell.

“According to our scouts—and from the letter we found in the Red Keep from before Aerys’s fall—the Reach host will be here within five days,” Brynden said.

“With how many men?” Lord Lefford asked.

“From what they wrote to Aerys in the raven they sent to Aerys from Storm’s End. They wrote that they would bring fifty-thousand swords to his defense,” Hoster replied to the question.

Silence followed his words.

Lords Lefford and Crakehall exchanged nervous looks. The young Lord Westerling turned toward Tywin, searching for some reaction from his liege—but found none. As Tywin kept the expression on his face impassive.

The Stormlords, Riverlords, and Chelsted didn’t give any reaction to the words because they’d already known this information for days, but that wasn’t the case for the Westerlander Lords, except Lord Tywin, whom Hoster had told. 

They’d had an idea of the numbers the Reach could bring but to hear it be confirmed.

“Surely, with both King’s Landing and King Aerys in your hands already, they’ll reconsider their choice to give battle?” Lord Sumner Crakehall ventured nervously.

“It’s a possibility, my Lords,” Qarlton said carefully.

All heads snapped in his direction.

Crakehall looked relieved to have support. The others watched with interest. As Aerys’s former Hand, Chelsted might possess something capable of swaying the Reach.

Tywin looked at Qarlton with thinly disguised disdain.

But the man himself looked at Hoster, for his permission to continue. Hoster inclined his head slowly in permission.

“The Reachmen will learn soon enough through their scouts that King’s Landing is in our hands,” Qarlton began. “That alone would make them wary. But if we tell them what Aerys intended to do—if we tell them that he meant to burn the entire city to the ground, that he placed wildfire even beneath the Sept of Baelor—many among them will be reluctant to continue the war for a mad king who sought to destroy one of the holiest Septs of their Faith and the High Septon.”

“Aye,” Lord Crakehall agreed quickly. “The lords of the Reach are the most faithful in the land they would be most wroth over the attempted murder of His Holiness—”

“Are you saying we are not?” Jason cut in sharply.

“Nay, my lord,” Crakehall replied hastily. “We are all the most faithful, and rightfully wroth with the plot to destroy his Holiness and the city. I only meant that the Reach has a deep connection to the Faith; we all do, but the Hightowers had long-standing ties to the Faith—they havd ever styled themselves the Shield of the Faith—they have deep connections with the Most Devout and the High Septon. They in particular would be most wroth to learn of what King Aerys intended to do to the Faith. They will not be willing to fight any longer, and there will be many who will follow their example.”

“And it would be better for all sides if battle were avoided,” Leo Lefford added. “They’ll not wish to throw their men across a heavily defended river crossing which would cost them dearly while we, though now in a stronger position with our hosts united, are still outnumbered nearly two to one. Our position is not as strong as I would like when facing a host like that.”

“While I would welcome a peaceful end over bloodshed,” Kevan Lannister said evenly, “we must not deceive ourselves. I agree the Reach will learn of our united hosts and the fall of King’s Landing through their scouts. They will come prepared—wary, yes, but ready to give battle to make a crossing. What I doubt is that they will take our word on Aerys’s plot to burn the city.”

“Aye,” Hoster said in agreement. “They may see it as propaganda—lies meant to deceive them into bending the knee. A tale to further blacken the Targaryen name further while casting ourselves in better light and make us appear righteous.”

“And we lack witnesses who’s testimony they would consider beyond question,” Robert said.

“We can use Lord Chelsted’s testimony,” Gawen Westerling offered. “He was Aerys’s Hand. If he stands beside us at parley and recounts the riot of King’s Landing—why he rebelled against him and opened the gates to Lords Tully and Baratheon—”

“Unfortunately for us,” Tywin interrupted, his voice edged with thinly disguised contempt, “Chelsted’s reputation as a craven precedes him. Many would find it easier to believe he simply turned his cloak to when he saw the tide of war turning against his side than that he defied the king—the same one who he spent years filling the ears off and obeying his every whim to get favours—on principle. They will require testimony from someone far more credible than Lord Chelsted to believe what Aerys intended to do.”

Chelsted for his part did not rise to the insult. Nor to the look of utter disdain Tywin cast upon him.

There was silence in the tent for a moment or two before Leo Lefford spoke up.

“So… who will they believe?” he asked hesitantly.

“No one we can present,” Robert said bluntly.

“That isn’t exactly true,” Eldon Estermont interjected.

Heads turned toward him.

“We can use His Holiness,” Eldon continued. “As Lord Crakehall said, many lords of the Reach hold the High Septon in the highest regard. If the truth comes from him—if he speaks of what Aerys intended to do to the city—they will believe him. They may even withdraw and make terms with us rather continue fighting for the cause of a man who tried to destroy a city of half-a-million people.”

A murmur of consideration rippled through the tent.

Lord Lefford nodded quickly. “That… is sound. If the High Septon condemns Aerys openly, and gives his testimony from the riot the Reach would struggle to justify fighting on his behalf.”

Sumner Crakehall nodded eagerly. “Aye. If the High Septon calls for peace, the Hightowers will heed him. And if Oldtown hesitates, half the Reach will hesitate with them.”

To the surprise of several present, Tywin Lannister inclined his head slightly.

“This is, in fact, a strong possibility,” Tywin said coolly. “The High Septon’s word and authority carries weight in Oldtown and Highgarden alike. If he were to give his testimony we could broker terms between us and the Reach, it could avert a very costly battle.”

Kevan gave a small nod. “It is not impossible that peace could be arranged through him.”

All eyes turned to Hoster.

Hoster’s expression did not change.

“The High Septon cannot help us,” he said flatly.

The murmurs died instantly.

“He has not left the Sept since the riot,” Hoster continued. “When the wildfire caches were uncovered beneath the city—beneath the Sept itself—it nearly broke him. He collapsed when he was told how close the city came to destruction. The maesters say he has taken to his chambers and speaks in fragments of prayer and lament. He refuses audiences beyond the Most Devout. He will not leave the Sept. He will not stand in a war council. And he certainly will not ride out to broker peace between two hosts poised for battle.”

“If we send word in his name in a letter with his seal?” Sumner Crakehall tried.

“And have the Reach believe we force a trembling old man’s hand?” Hoster replied evenly. “Or worse, that we forge his words? No. If the High Septon speaks, he must speak in strength. And he has none to give us.”

That ended it.

Silence followed.

Hoster’s gaze swept around the tent.

“Even if he could be brought, it would take days to steady him enough to speak. We do not have those days.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not argue.

Hoster continued, voice steady;

“I will arrange for additional witnesses to accompany us if parley is offered. But we must be realistic. There remains a very great chance that we will have to fight.”

No one contradicted him.

“I have already sent word to King Eddard and Lord Arryn at the Trident,” Hoster continued, all eyes on him each man listened closely. “They will march to reinforce us. Until they arrive, we need only prevent the Reach forces from crossing to the north of the Blackwater. That is our only objective. When King Eddard arrives, he will decide our next course of action.”

“But until then, our only task is to hold them south of the Blackwater,” Brynden said, firmly.

“They outnumber us nearly two to one,” Sumner muttered, worriedly.

“Aye,” Robert growled.

He stepped forward, planting both hands upon the table.

“But they suffer one big disadvantage,” he continued, voice rising. “They must cross the river. We need to only hold it.”

He straightened, blue eyes blazing.

“They will be the ones struggling through mud and current, while our arrows rain down on them. They will be the ones trying to form ranks on slick banks while we smash them back into the water. We hold the fords. We hold the banks. We choose where they bleed.”

Men straightened unconsciously.

“And as for being outnumbered—Rhaegar outnumbered us at the Trident,” Robert went on, a big grin breaking across his face. “And look what that earned him. A skull cleaved in half. His grave is the Trident, and his host was shattered around him.”

Smirks tugged at the lips of those who had fought at the Trident—Hoster, Brynden, Jason, Tytos, Eldon.

Seeing the effect of his words, Robert pressed on.

“And that day we let Rhaegar cross by our own will. We wanted him on our side of the river.” He straightened to his full height. “This time, we do not even intend to grant them that courtesy. Here we deny them every ford, every step, every inch of ground. They will dash themselves against us and break.”

A rough chuckle rippled through the pavilion.

“Think on that, Lord Crakehall,” Robert boomed. “If we broke a host that outnumbered us when we chose to let them on our land, what do you suppose we’ll do to gardeners who’re so green they piss grass?”

Laughter broke out, from those who’d been at the Trident.

Grandison thumped his fist against his breastplate. Tytos grinned. Young Silveraxe Fell gave a shout of approval. Even Hoster struck his palm against the table once in agreement, followed by Jason, Eldon, and Brynden.

Among those who had not fought at the Trident, the young Lord Gawen Westerling stood a little taller, Robert’s words clearly giving him confidence. Lefford and Crakehall looked far less anxious than before.

Only Chelsted, Tywin, and Kevan remained composed and unreadable.

“Lord Blackwood will be in charge of the city garrison and keep all the gates,” Hoster said, pointing his stick down at the map. “Lord Chelsted will serve as your second. And I’ll give you one thousand men to man all the gates, with another seven hundred archers to cover the walls facing the Rivet. Place all the archers upon the Mud Gate Wall—there they will be of most use to us and in best position to support us during the battle.”

Tytos inclined his head in agreement.

Hoster kept his face composed, but inwardly he felt little comfort in the numbers he had just spoken.

Seven hundred archers.

Far fewer than he would have liked to place upon the walls of King’s Landing.

But they could spare no more.

Every bow that remained inside the city was one less bow defending the riverbanks, and the battle would be decided their. So he had ordered Tytos to concentrate every archer upon the Mud Gate walls, where they could fire directly on any force attempting to cross the ford below.

It was the best he could do.

Beyond that, he had placed three hundred men within the Red Keep itself—to secure the castle and, more importantly, to guard the prisoners. Aerys was imprisoned within the Maidenvault, along with much of his court—who were captured after the Fall of the Red Keep. Princess Elia and her children were confined there as well, along with several hostages they had taken taken on their march towards King’s Landing.

Aeeys might be mad, but his blood was still valuable, and there were many in the realm who would see them freed if given the chance.

Too many important lives in one place.

Another reason this battle could not be lost.

He had taken other precautions as well.

The remaining thousand men were spread across the gates of the city. If the worst came to pass—if the battle was lost and the army forced back inside King’s Landing—those gates would need to hold long enough for the battered host to retreat behind the walls.

It was a precaution Hoster prayed they would never need.

Altogether it left two thousand men to hold the city itself and cover their retreat if needed.

Hoster prayed it would never come to that.

“Now that leaves us with twenty-four thousand men to defend the crossing,” Hoster said aloud.

The pavillion fell quite.

“They will be enough,” Robert boomed suddenly, grinning.

The silence shattered with his words.

Robert leaned forward and snatched up a stick, pointing it toward the bank just before the Mud Gate.

“This place,” he said, tapping the map, “needs the least men to defend it. Any force trying to cross here will already be under fire from the archers on the walls. They’ll reach the ford disordered, disorganized and bloodied before they even meet our line.”

His grin widened.

“It won’t take too many men to throw them back into the river.”

“Aye,” Jason Mallister said with a nod. “Lord Robert speaks true.”

“The Mud Gate is the weakest of the city’s gates,” Tywin spoke up. “I agree the Reachmen will face the most difficulty in crossing here. But we should not grow too overconfident either, and should place a strong force here because if the Reachmen cross and gain a foothold in sufficient numbers, the gate itself won’t take long to break.”

All eyes turned towards him.

Tywin had administered the city for nearly twenty years as Hand of the King. If any man here knew the strengths and weaknesses of King’s Landing’s defenses, it was him.

“Give me three thousand men and I will hold the flank,” Brynden spoke up suddenly, every head in the tent turned towards him.

Hoster studied his brother for a moment.

His brother was one of the finest commanders the Riverlands had ever produced. If their was any man in this tent who Hoster could trust to hold the flank against a superior force, it was him.

Yet Hoster had another task for him as well.

“I agree,” Hoster said slowly. “My brother is the most suitable man to hold our left flank.”

Brynden’s mouth twitched faintly.

“But I have another task for you before the battle begins,” Hoster continued, tapping the southern bank of the Blackwater.

Brynden raised an eyebrow.

“The land across the river is still empty,” Hoster continued, gesturing across the map. “The Reachmen have not yet reached it. I want you to send out scouting parties across the Blackwater and take measure of the ground. If their scouts appear, your men are to hunt them down and drive them off.”

Understanding flickered in Brynden’s eyes.

Hoster tapped the far side of the river.

“When the Reach finally arrives, they should arrive blind,” Hoster said grimly. “Harass them where you can. Strike their outriders, disrupt their advance, and keep them guessing. Make their march difficult. But once the Reach host arrives in full strength you are to withdraw your forces across the river immediately. Bring every man back across the Blackwater and take position before the Mud Gate.”

Brynden nodded.

“

“Our centre needs to be the strongest,” Robert said, pointing to the centre. “That’s where their main assault will be.”

He tapped the centre of the map with his stick.

“That is where we place our strongest troops.”

“Aye,” Jason said, nodding in agreement. “We’ll need to place most of our strongest infantry in the centre.”

“We brought four thousand infantry and eight thousand cavalry with us,” Ser Kevan spoke up. “We would be more than well-equipped to form the centre with our infantry and three-fourths of our cavalry, while the rest can be spread across the other flanks or held in reserve.”

Tywin inclined his head slightly.

“That would not be wise, my lords,” Eldon spoke up carefully. “None of us doubt the strength or discipline of your forces, Lord Tywin. However, it is also true that your men have not yet seen real combat in this war till now. While ours have fought all across the realm—from Summerhall to the Trident. They are veterans now, blooded and experienced.”

He paused before continuing.

“The Reachmen, too, have a bit of experience through their campaign in the Stormlands. Your soldiers are formidable, but they have not yet been tested. It would therefore be unwise for them alone to hold the centre. The better course of action would be to balance the line—with both our troops alongside yours.”

For a moment the pavilion grew still.

Tywin Lannister regarded Eldon Estermont in silence.

Kevan glanced toward his brother.

Tywin remained perfectly composed, his expression unreadable.

After a moment he said mildly, “A reasonable concern, Lord Estermont.”

The tension eased at once. Relief flickered across a few faces.

“We do not question the courage of your men,” Jason Mallister added diplomatically. “Only that the centre will bear the heaviest blow. Better we mix our forces.”

Kevan studied him thoughtfully.

“Aye,” Robert said. “No sense letting anyone have all the fun.”

That earned a few chuckles.

Kevan nodded slowly. “A mixed line would give the centre both strength and experience.”

Hoster exhaled softly.

Good. No need for wounded pride before battle.

“Well then,” Hoster said, stepping in.“I think six thousand of our men placed in the centre, alongside six thousand of Lord Tywin’s, will be sufficient to hold it. Lord Tywin—you brought four thousand infantry, correct?”

He looked to Tywin.

“You said you brought four thousand infantry, did you not?”

“Aye,” Tywin replied with a small nod.

“Very well,” Hoster continued. “We will require three thousand of your infantry and three thousand of your cavalry to anchor the centre.”

Tywin gave a slight inclination of his head.

“My brother Kevan will command our contingent in the centre.”

Kevan inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Who will command your portion of the centre, Lord Tully, Lord Baratheon?” Leo Lefford asked.

His questioning gaze moved between Robert and Hoster before finally settling on Hoster.

Hoster, for his part, didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he simply locked eyes with Robert, who met his gaze without hesitation.

They had discussed this before coming to the pavilion for the meeting. 

Robert had told Hoster plainly—he would either be in the centre or the vanguard, where the fighting would be fiercest. Hoster had no problem with that, because he knew Robert was a proven and formidable warrior, and more importantly a charismatic man—and a force of nature on the battlefield. His presence alone would do well to inspire and boost the morale of the the men.

But Hoster had also warned Robert. If Tywin Lannister placed himself in the centre, then Robert would not command it. Because the Lord of Lannister/Casterly Rock would expect command—by his rank in nobility and by the fact that he was experienced veteran of two Wars. And the fact that the forces he bought nearly made up half of their army.

Robert had not cared.

He had insisted on taking his place in the centre regardless, saying it mattered not whether he led or followed. He had said it plainly—command or no command, it made no difference to him.He had said command mattered little once the battle was in full flow. Once the battle began, he intended to be where the fighting was the thickest.

In the end, Robert had essentially left the matter in Hoster’s hands.

“Choose the commander as you will,” he had said. “You’ll hear no complaint from me.”

Now, that choice had come for Hoster. His options were Kevan Lannister or Robert.

Kevan Lannister was, by all accounts, a capable man. He had fought in both the War of the Ninepenny Kings and the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, just as his brother had—though never as the primary commander. His only real experience in command had been during the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, serving as Tywin’s second.

But against Robert’s experience, it was hardly comparable. Robert was the only man who had fought in every major battle of this war from Gulltown to the Trident. He was a bloodied-proven commander, and was by far the most experienced Commander of this war. 

Besides that, Kevan’s command experience seemed little more than a footnote.

But their was another factor to consider. He could not leave the Westermen without meaningful command. To do so would risk slighting them—and offending their Lords was not something Hoster wished to do on the eve of battle.

Hoster himself was the primary commander of the whole army, while Brynden was commanding the left. The Westermen would need to be given at least two commands—but where? That was the question.

Hoster was already in command of the army and would remain in the reserves with a sizable force. That meant he wouldn’t have any men to spare from his own troops to form the right flank.

Instead, he would have to leave it to the Westermen to make up the right flank, which would, at the very least, grant them a command of their own.

Hoster also needed a second-in-command.

If something happened to him—unlikely as that might be because he would be in the reserves—someone would need to take control.

His first choice would have been Brynden. But his brother was in a position was in a position far too isolated to assume overall command of their forces if something happened to Hoster.

While his second choice, Robert was out of the question—he would be in the centre, deep in the fighting, exactly where he wished to be locked in the thickest of fighting.

Which left him only one choice to name as his second—Tywin Lannister.

The Lord of Lannister/Casterly Rock was an experienced man in warfare, and a veteran commander as well. Hoster was sure that he would see the man in the reserves with the men he had left.

The decision settled in his mind.

He straightened slightly and spoke aloud.

“Lord Baratheon will command the centre, and our contingent within it alongside Lord Jason Mallister. Ser Kevan Lannister will serve as his second-in-command for the centre.” Hoster said, finishing with a firm tone.

He would have preferred to name Jason as Robert’s second, but this would have to suffice. Robert had scarcely three thousand five hundred Stormlanders left; which was why Hoster had little choice but to reinforce their contingent in the centre with twenty-five hundred Rivermen under Jason.

Robert gave a sharp nod, a grin already tugging at his lips.

“A fine place for a fight,” he said.

Jason gave a sharp nod.

Kevan inclined his head. “As you command.”

All eyes turned, almost instinctively, toward Tywin.

The Lord of Casterly Rock remained expressionless. His face betrayed nothing. No flicker of approval, no sign of displeasure—nothing at all.

Hoster decided to continue.

“Now, Lord Tywin, I will require the remainder of your infantry—one thousand men and three thousand of your cavalry for the right flank.”

Tywin’s eyes went briefly to the map before returning to Hoster.

“As you command,” he said calmly. “I shall place Lord Lefford in command of the right, with Lord Sumner as his second.”

Leo Lefford straightened slightly. “I will not fail, my lord.”

Sumner Crakehall gave a firm nod and said. “You honour me, my lord. I shall not fail.”

Several men around the table, rapped their hand on the table in agreement.

Hoster moved his stick again across the map, tapping it directly on the ground behind the centre.

“I will place myself in the reserves, directly behind the centre, with two thousand men,” Hoster said, his eyes moved across the map before lifting to meet Tywin’s. “Lord Tywin will serve as second-in-command of the army.”

Tywin inclined his head in acknowledgment.

There were no strong reactions from either the Western lords or his own Riverlords—no protest, no surprise.

Though Hoster did notice Lord Grandison’s head snap towards his liege, clearly seeking some reaction from Robert at not being named second. He found none. Robert stood as he was, unconcerned, as if the matter were of little importance.

“Lord Hoster,” Jason spoke up, turning all heads in his direction. “Might I suggest placing at least five hundred men behind the Mud Gate as reserves for the left flank?”

Hoster lifted his head slightly, motioning for him to continue.

“Ser Brynden will be sending men across the river to harass them,” Jason continued. “He may take losses. True, he’ll have the archers on the walls to support him—but his force is the most isolated from the rest of the army. We won’t be able to reinforce him quickly if need arises.”

He paused briefly before concluding, “It would be prudent to station some men behind the Mud Gate to support him if needed. You will still have sufficient strength in the reserves—with fifteen hundred of your own and near two thousand of Lord Tywin’s.”

“Aye,” Robert said in agreement. “Best not leave Brynden hanging alone out there.”

Hoster considered it briefly. Even after detaching five hundred men, with his own men and Tywin’s, he would still have near three thousand five hundred in reserve. It was acceptable.

“I agree,” Hoster said at last. “Five hundred men will be placed behind the Mud Gate to provide assistance to the left flank, should it be needed.”

He tapped his stick against the map again, this time indicating a position between Hoster’s reserves and the right flank.

“You will place your reserves here, Lord Tywin,” Hoster continued, lifting his gaze to meet Tywin’s. “From here, you may support both the centre and the right, as required.”

Tywin studied the map briefly before nodding. “Lord Westerling will serve as my second in the reserves.”

Gawen Westerling inclined his head in acknowledgement. “As you command, my Lord.”

Robert leaned forward again, tapping the map on the west of their right flank.

“The Reachmen may attempt to outflank us on the right,” he said. “We should be wary of that.”

“We could send patrols upriver,” Gawen Westerling suggested. “Rotate them between the forces in the reserves. They could watch for crossings and warn us in time to respond.”

Robert shook his head.

“That spreads us thin,” he said. “Too much ground, too few men. If they find a crossing, we’d be forced to react but I am afraid we won’t be able too react in time.”

He tapped the map firmly with his stick.

“We dig in. Trenches along the right flank. Deep enough to break any charge. Raise wooden palisades behind them. If they try to cross there, they bleed for every step—and our archers will make it worse.”

He glanced up, eyes hard.

“If they cross, they will bleed for every step before getting to us.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“A sound plan, Lord Baratheon,” Qarlton Chelsted said, offering a nod of approval in Robert’s direction.

“Aye,” Lefford added. “This would make the right flank far more secure.”

“This would be the wiset course of action,” Grandison agreed.

Crakehall nodded vigorously. “They’d think twice before trying us there.”

Silveraxe Fell let out a short laugh. “Or die trying.”

Eldon Estermont allowed himself a small, proud smile at his grandson getting praised.

Robert, for his part, showed no reaction. He simply remained bent over the table, eyes fixed on the map.

Notably, Tywin, Kevan, Hoster, and Brynden remained silent.

Hoster watched Robert closely, who was hunched over the table, studying the map.

The boy had offered a sound solution—perhaps the best available to a real plausible threat.

But time…

Time was not on their side.

They had, at best, five days before the Reach forces arrived. Not nearly enough time to dig the kind of trench Robert envisioned, nor to raise palisades strong enough to hold under attack. Not without labour. And labour was uncertain.

The city itself was restless—the people of King’s Landing were uneasy—uneasy with the clearing of wildfire caches underneath them, and the knowledge that battle would soon return to King’s Landing again. Many were already preparing to flee, before Battle came back to the city again. That would mean fewer hands to put to work.

That meant fewer hands they could put to work.

Fewer men to dig, to build, to prepare.

Still…

Not all were leaving.

Some had already volunteered to help in preparing the city’s defence against Targareyn Loyalists. Fear could drive men to flee—but it could also drive them to act.

There were still so many of them who had stepped forward before during the riots—men willing to defend the city against the plot to destroy it—their were so many of them still in the city preparing to leave. Perhaps they could be persuaded again.

If they could be rallied—

With the right voice leading them, the trenches might yet be begun to be digged—if not completed.

Hoster’s gaze shifted to his right moving from Brynden, to Jason, to Tytos and finally  settled on Chelsted.

Chelsted.

The man stood with his arms crossed across his chest, his expression unreadable.

Yes.

If anyone could rally the people, it would be him.

He might have been a craven and lickspittle before but now….

To the people of King’s Landing, he was something else entirely.

A man who had defied a mad king to save them.

A man who had helped save them at the risk of his own life.

A hero.

A Saviour. 

The man who had led the city through its darkest times.

Yes.

If anyone could persuade the people to stay—to work, to build, to prepare—

It would be him.

If anyone could rally the smallfolk to labour, it would be him.

Hoster made a quiet note of it.

He would speak with Chelsted after the meeting was over.

Tywin watched with his arms crossed over his chest as the lords began to file out of the pavilion.

He had already sent Westerling, Crakehall, and Lefford ahead with instructions to begin moving their contingents to their designated positions for the Battle. Around him, the Riverlords and Stormlords were leaving as well—no doubt to prepare their contingents to move the positions assigned to them for the battle.

Soon enough, Tywin was left with only Kevan, Hoster Tully, Chelsted and Robert Baratheon for company in the tent.

Tywin’s eyes moved around the tent, before finally settling upon the young Lord of Storm’s End.

Robert Baratheon.

Tywin’s gaze settled on the young lord as he leaned down to whisper something into Tully’s ear.

Gods.…

Gods…. he looked so much like Steffon.

The last time Tywin had seen the boy, he had been barely five or six namedays old—but now…

Now he was a man grown.

Now he was the near identical image of his father—with the iconic Baratheon black hair and blue eyes.

The same broad build as his father.

But his height—that was something else entirely.

That came from his grandfather.

Lord Ormund Baratheon had been a tall man, well over six and a half feet. Robert seemed to match him—perhaps even surpass him by an inch or two.

Steffon himself had never quite reached his father’s height. He had been Six feet, perhaps a little more. But he had never reached his father’s height as he had hoped much to his chargin—the fact that he had never been able to reach his father’s height had been something he had often complained of during their days as wards in King’s Landing. Tywin remembered well enough that his old friend had a contest with his father since childhood on getting taller than Lord Ormund but he had lost that badly.

He had always used to mope about not being able to surpass his father. 

And now…

Losing that contest to his own son as well…

That would have irked him greatly.

Tywin allowed himself the faintest flicker of amusement at the thought.

It vanished just as quickly as it came.

His eyes lingered on the young Lord of Storm’s End. His eyes sharpened as he studied the man more closely.

The boy had a sharp mind for war—that much had become clear during the war council.

Refined. Decisive. Instinctive.

A dangerous mind for sure.

And he was charismatic as well. He had the presence—that drew men to him—that inspired everyone around him. Tywin had seen it during the war council itself.

That, more than anything was a very dangerous combination.

At the beginning of the war, Tywin had assumed Robert Baratheon would emerge as the natural leader of the rebel alliance to depose the Targaryens. The boy had a blood claim to the Iron Throne, though however distant it may be—but it was still present. And his string of victories in the early months of the war had only strengthened that belief.

But instead, the rebels had chosen Stark.

No one had seen that coming. True, the boy’s house was one of the oldest and most ancient in Westeros—but Eddard Stark himself had not even been meant to rule. A second son, raised as the spare to a elder brother he was never meant to replace. He had been a second son, never meant to rule Winterfell, let alone the realm.

And yet…

He had killed Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident.

That single moment had changed everything. That had given him all the legitimacy, he needed it seemed atleast in the eyes of the Rebels.

Steel had decided what blood could not.

For crowns were not always inherited… sometimes, they were taken by conquest.

And a kingdom, once won, needed no lineage to justify its ruler—Only the sword, the power to wield it and the will to use it.

He had claimed it, as all conquerors did…

By Right of Conquest.

That was, after all, the most ancient right. The right from which kingdoms had first been born. Blood inheritance had come later—after the first kings had carved their Kingdoms from the lands after spilling blood and named themselves Kings through the right of conquest.

Before that, there had been only one truth.

Men took what they could… and held it if they were strong enough.

That was how thrones were made. That was how they endured.

By right of conquest.

It was the same claim the Aegon the Conqueror himself had used when he united the Seven Kingdoms beneath the Iron Throne and his House. Not by blood, nor by ancient law—but by conquest and sword, and the strength to make it unquestioned. He had named himself king of the Seven Kingdoms—declaring his rule over them by right of conquest. 

It was fitting really, that the Targaryens had lost their throne and their rulership of the Seven Kingdoms by the very same principle upon which they had built it.

By right of conquest.

Tywin’s thoughts darkened slightly.

The same right that had built the Targaryen dynasty…

Had now torn it down.

“…I’ll see you in an hour or two, Ser Kevan, to discuss the positioning of our troops in the centre.” Robert Baratheon said.

The words bought Tywin out of his thoughts.

He turned his head slightly, his attention returning to the present.

Kevan inclined his head in Robert’s direction in acknowledgement.

Robert gave a brief nod before turning on his heel and striding out of the tent without another word to anybody.

Tywin’s eyes followed him until the flap fell shut behind him.

Now only him, Kevan, Hoster Tully, and Chelsted remained in the pavilion.

There was a brief moment of silence.

Qarlton Chelsted’s eyes flicked toward Hoster Tully.

Hoster gave a small, deliberate nod.

Chelsted stepped forward in Tywin’s direction.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly.

That… was unexpected.

Of all men, Chelsted was the last man he had expected to approach him. He had expected the man to avoid any interaction with him at all possible times, given their… history.

The man had always filled Aerys’s ears against him, along with the rest of the lickspittles on Aerys’s Small Council—Merryweather, Rykker, Velaryon, and Staunton. Spineless, incompetent cowards, the lot of them.

Though, to be fair to them, Merryweather and Chelsted had been competent enough in their offices on the Small Council.

Chelsted had been… better than most.

Competent, at least.

But craven.

Their rivalry had begun over something simple. A mistake.

Chelsted had pardoned tariffs on grain entering King’s Landing during winter, of his own violation without seeking permission—a move that had pleased the smallfolk but cost the royal coffers in revenue, and most importantly he had done it without seeking the approval of either the King or the Hand. Tywin had reprimanded him for it and had even moved to have him removed as Master of Coin for insubordination.

Chelsted, instead, had run to Aerys.

He had spun the matter well—spoken of the people’s gratitude, he had spoken of how the reduction had helped the smallfolk, how they now praised the king. He had spoken of how the reduction had helped the smallfolk, how they now praised the king.

And Aerys—ever hungry for adoration—had publicly reprimanded Tywin for overreach.

From that moment onward, Chelsted had clung to Aerys’s side. A craven like Chelsted always wanted protection, a stronger hand to shield him. And Aerys had been the perfect choice.

The surest way to remain in the king’s favour had been simple—oppose Tywin Lannister and be Aerys’s lickspittle—something Chelsted had been extremely good at.

Chelsted had done so eagerly.

A survival instinct.

Nothing more.

Now that same man stood before him, reaching into a pouch at his belt.

Tywin watched as Chelsted reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out something.

A sealed letter.

He extended it towards Tywin.

Tywin did not move to take it.

Instead, he raised one eyebrow and asked;

“What is this?”

Chelsted’s eyes flicked to Hoster for a brief moment before returning to Tywin’s face.

“This is a sealed testimony by Grand Maester Pycelle,” he said, meeting Tywin’s gaze. “After examining your son. It contains his findings… and his assessment of the boy’s condition.”

Tywin’s arms uncrossed instantly.

His hand shot forward—just a fraction too quickly to be called anything but restrained urgency—and the letter was taken from Chelsted’s grasp.

Chelsted’s hand lingered for the briefest second before withdrawing, a hint of surprise flickering across his face.

Tywin’s eyes moved immediately to the seal.

Aye.

The Grand Maester’s seal.

Their was no mistaking it.

“We have been keeping the Grand Maester confined in the Maidenvault as well,” Hoster Tully said. “But we allowed him out to examine your son, and he has described his exact condition as he has seen it in that letter. You know Grand Maester Pycelle well enough to trust his word, I think.”

Tywin said nothing in reply.

His eyes were fixed on the seal.

It took all he had in him for Tywin not to tear the seal and look at the contents inside the scroll at that exact moment, but his composure won over.

He looked up to Hoster Tully instead, his expression once more composed.

“So,” Tywin said coolly, “you have been keeping the Grand Maester confined with the rest of Aerys’s court as well?”

“Aye,” Hoster replied with a nod. “Though we did do him the courtesy of not throwing him into the dungeons like many others.”

“It is wise, Lord Hoster,” Tywin said evenly. “Pycelle is a competent maester—none can deny that. One does not discard such skill lightly. Because you never know when his experienced pair of hands may come to your use.”

Hoster inclined his head.

“Perhaps. But I’d rather not use the hands that served a madman till his last,” he replied, “unless it is absolutely necessary.”

Tywin studied him for a brief moment.

“Well said,” Tywin replied, inclining his head in Hoster’s direction.

A/N:-

I’d like to first of all apologise to everyone for not updating this long. I had my first Semester exams in December thus had to go on a bit of a pause. And when I got back in Jan to start writing this chapter well I had another plot line of a Faith split being shown in this story which would have been a part of this chapter but I kinda realised that I would not be able to give it a fitting conclusion nor was it a viable way to split the Faith in this story so I decided to remove it entirely which kind of broke my rhythm for a while and it took time to get back on track with it but I got to it and am now well and truly back with a lot of updates planned for soon.

This is my first fic to cross over a 500 Kudos 🥳🥳🥳. I can’t tell ypu how delighted I am about this it is a big accomplishment for me especially the fact that this milestone came before I even reached my one-year anniversary for my account on ao3. I don’t know how to express this. I would like to Thank all my readers for all their encouragement throughout the time I have been writing this fic it was an absolute honour and joy to have had all of you here supporting me and waiting for every update. I love talking to each and everyone of you in the comment section and the conversations I have with you always makes my day 💙💙💙. Love your suggestions and ideas those always get my brain running as well 💙💙💙!!!

PS: The Historical note at the beginning was my tribute to one of my very favourite fics of all times “Eddard the Unifier” by taha231 it was the fic and from another one of my favourites  “Burned them all” by Deluded_Peacemonger that I took inspiration of the idea Wildfire plot getting exposed and the consequences that follow. Anyway that absolute brilliant fic is now entering its final stage and taha231 always includes these notes which I have always loved and cherished whenever a chapter is released so this Historical Note is my tribute to Eddard the Unifier as it enters its final stage now.

P.S.S: Special 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. And he helped me out when I broke was unable to write more on Faith Split he was the one I went to advice for on weather I should remove that plotline or not and he helped out. 

Chapter Text

283 AC—King’s Landing

Hoster had his horse trotting slowly beside Chelsted’s, a retinue of nine knights was following them close behind on horseback. They were riding for the Gate of the Gods to enter back into the city.

The knights were following behind at a close distance—far enough that they would hear nothing, yet near enough to come to Hoster’s aid if needed.

Qarlton Chelsted also had his horse trotting slowly beside Hoster’s, clearly anticipating that Hoster wanted to have a word with him.

Hoster looked at the man beside him. His face was blank—as it always was when he was not speaking. Hoster hadn’t seen the man smile for the near week he had been with him—ever.

The man always kept his expression schooled and unreadable, except for the times when he was speaking of Aerys, then regret would seep through. The man always bore a regretful expression on his face when speaking of his former Master, and half filled with self-loathing.

There were moments when Hoster had seen the man when he thought he was alone, and his expression had been full of self-loathing and sadness. Hoster knew the man felt immense guilt and regret for his part in enabling Aerys.

The fact that he’d played a major part in dethroning Aerys and had wrestled control of the city from him hadn’t brought the man any ease from that guilt.

And Hoster didn’t feel too sorry for him either—Aye, the man had saved the city and was helping them a great deal, but he had also been one of those who had fed Aerys’s madness—one of those who had enabled it. That crime did not vanish simply because he had turned at the end. That crime shouldn’t ever be forgotten.

Still….

Guilt could be useful.

Hoster understood that such guilt made the man useful—he would seek atonement from that guilt by aiding the new king, he could be relied upon to act. Chelsted would serve them—whether to ease his conscience, and atone for his crimes or to save his own skin from royalist retribution, it mattered little to Hoster. What mattered to him was that Chelsted would side with them. And that He was a useful man.

The smallfolk of the city regarded him as a hero because he had saved them, and they held him in the highest of regards.

To them, he was no craven councillor the rest of the Realm saw him as.

He was a hero.

A savior, who had broken with the King for their sakes.

The Smallfolk loved him. They held him in the highest of regards, because he had saved them fron destruction.

That Hoster had a feeling that would be needed once the war was over. Eddard would need this man after the war, ofcourse  Ned was popular enough among the smallfolk, who had rioted in his name, but having Chelsted—the man who had leaked the plot and essentially saved the city—in his administration would only further endear Eddard to the Smallfolk of the city.

Hoster brought his horse to a stop once they were at a safe distance from the tent, and the Gate of the Gods was only a short ride away.

Chelsted followed suit, stopping his horse a step behind Hoster’s. The men behind them halted just past earshot, but still close enough to rush to their aid if needed.

Hoster turned his horse to look at Chelsted. The man looked him back directly in the eye, his forest green eyes held a hint of wariness in them.

“It seems you were correct after all, Lord Chelsted,” Hoster said, looking Chelsted in the eye. “Lord Lannister seems to trust the Grand Maester after all.”

“Pycelle was his man, always, since the start,” Chelsted replied. “The man is someone Lord Tywin actually trusts. Although now there is a possibility that he might send his own healers to take over the care of his son—or at the least ask for Grand Maester Pycelle to be released from confinement to tend to Ser Jaime.”

He considered it for a moment before replying.

“I would have no problem if he asks for the Grand Maester to take over his care,” Hoster said slowly. “But if he asks to send in his own men, that makes me wary. They would report everything they see in the Keep back to him. Even if we steer them to the Maidenvault, they would still pass by the Throne Room and see it completely intact—despite me telling Lord Tywin otherwise, that there had been explosions there which his son had been caught in, and thrown head-first against the pillar. If Lord Tywin learns I lied to him, he will investigate and that—does not bode well for our alliance.”

Chelsted didn’t respond immediately. instead he looked down for a moment and chewed his lip before speaking;

“You are not wrong, my lord,” he said carefully. “If Lord Tywin does find out we lied to him, it would rouse his suspicion. He would investigate on what exactly injured his son, and his finger would be on us because we lied about the cause.”

He glanced back up.

”But we can always conceal the Throne Room from view and say it is undergoing repairs. Or at worst…,” he hesitated slightly, “we could create some damage to the Throne Room ourselves.”

Chelsted finished with a small uncertain shrug. Hoster bit his lip in thought. It was not a important or immidiate problem right now, but it had potential to be one.

But right now—he decided it was more important to focus on matters at hand.

“You supported Lord Baratheon’s plan to dig the trenches,” Hoster stated.

“Aye, I did,” Chelsted replied, his face became guarded again—clearly surprised by the sudden change of topic in the conversation. 

“It is a good plan, I admit,” Hoster said. “But I fear time is not on our side, Lord Chelsted. The trenches must be dug along our entire right flank, and they must be dug deep. But we currently do not have either the labour nor the time on our side, to  complete the work within five days.”

Chelsted began to open his mouth speak, but Hoster raised his hand to stop him.

“Aye, the men in our hosts could be put to the task,” Hoster continued.“but they must be prepared for battle. They will be moving into the positions we have assigned them to, and drilling their formations, and I would rather not divert them to digging trenches when they should be readying themselves for the Battle and building our defences along the river. Not only would diverting them all to dig the trenches would delay them moving into their positions—but it also would divert their attention from building defences along the river, and scouting the fields across the river. Our only hope of completing the trenches in time is if we get the smallfolk of the city to help us.”

Chelsted looked surprised.

“My Lord, the Smallfolk they are already uneasy about the coming battle. There are many who are preparing to flee the city before the Reach Host arrives, to avoid being caught in another Battle. They have already come too close to death in this city for their comfort—I sincerely doubt many of them would want to volunteer to help with our preparations on the battlefield, or remain in the city at all.”

Hoster didn’t respond immediately to the man. Aye, there were many in the city who wanted to leave—to go north to avoid being caught in the coming battle. Hoster had intended to allow them to depart through the Iron Gate or the Dragon Gate. Because, if gods forbid, they lost the battle and it came to a siege, there would be fewer mouths to feed in the city.

He still intended to let them go, but he would prefer that the able-bodied men stayed—those who could be put to work, helping prepare their defences for the battle that was coming.

“I know many of them intend to leave, Lord Chelsted,” Hoster began. “And I mean to allow it. But there are still many who intend to stay and some have already volunteered to help us prepare for the Battle.”

He turned his full attention to Chelsted.

“But the number is too few, and we need more of them to volunteer to help us. And you are the only one who can rally them to help us.”

“Me?” Qarlton asked, looking dumbfounded.

“Aye you, Lord Chelsted,” Hoster replied. “It was you who led them during the riots, wasn’t it? It was you who led them to overthrow the Targaryens in the city. It was your words they listened to—that rallied them into wrestling the control of the city from Aerys. You were the one who inspired them to stay and fight instead of breaking out of the city. You led them through the darkest phase this city has ever faced—the closest it has ever come to complete and utter destruction.”

His voice hardened with conviction.

“If you speak, they will rally again. Tell them—Tell them—that the Reachmen are coming to retake the city in the name of the same Rulers who tried to destroy it—who tried to kill them all. They listened to you once; they will listen to you again. Speak to them about our need for their help, in defending the city from those who seek to restore the same people who intend to destroy it. Remind them how close the city came to destruction at the hands of Aerys—and that now these same men would restore that same king if they could.”

Hoster finished, short of breath, and it took him a moment to catch his breath, and steady himself again.

Hoster stared at Chelsted for a few moments as the man’s face went through a flurry of emotions uncertainty, reluctance, guilt before finally settling into determined expression. 

“There is a sermon being held at the Sept in the evening,” Chelsted began slowly. “Many people will be there. I will go and speak to them—and ask for their support, to end the threat of the Targaryens once and for all. They word will spread quickly from the Sept to the rest of the city.”

283 AC—Great Sept of Baelor, King’s Landing

The evening light spilled through the great  glass dome and hanging crystals of the Great Sept, the light was being reflected in rainbows by them.

Within, the Sept proper stood the towering stone statues of the Seven. Many had gathered in front of the statues—though Qarlton noticed the number was far fewer than on normal days, he knew many were already preparing to flee the city, at this very moment. Packing what valuables they could carry, and many would leave by nightfall today, or at the first light in the morning.

He doesn’t blame them at all. He of all people, can understand the want to flee in the face of conflict. The want to protect themselves and their families was something every man feels.

Qarlton himself had sent ravens to his castle, ordering his family to leave the Crownlands, and go to the Riverlands. Where Lord Hoster’s bannermen would give them refuge, and they would be safe there till the War was over.

He himself only remained in the capital, because he had run enough.

Because it was partly his cowardice… his silence…his complicity…his sycophancy…that had helped bring the city to the brink of destruction—He would no longer be a craven and flee again.

He needed to atone for the part his actions  had played in this war.

That was why he was here. He had spent all his life being a craven but no more—he would remain here, and he would see this through—to the end. And give it his all to ensure that Aerys, nor his line were never restored to the Iron Throne.

That was the only way he could even begin to seek atonement, for his actions which had contributed to this War.

His nose filled with the smell of sweet incense, as he walked further into the Sept Proper. The crowd parted instinctively at the sight of him, many stared at him and some even bowed their heads in acknowledgement.

There were many who did not even notice him, they were holding candles in their hands and their eyes were squeezed shut as they prayed.

He walked forward between the crowd.

His eyes were fixed ahead—toward the septons gathered near the central altar, preparing for the evening sermon.

They stood in a small cluster, all of them in silver robes, and crystal coronals. All of them were of the Most Devout, Qarlton recognised instantly. It made sense to him, that in the absence of the High Septon that members of the Most Devout would give the sermons.

Qarlton approached the group without hesitation.

“I bring a message,” he said, his voice just loud enough to draw the attention of the group, “in the name of His Grace, King  Eddard of House Stark, First of his Name, to give to the people of King’s Landing.”

A few Septons exchanged glances. 

Some of them looked surprised, and some of them wary. 

And two looked utterly displeased.

Then one of the two who had exchanged displeased glances stepped forward to respond—a stern-faced man with grey hair, with his lips pressed into a thin line.

“This is a time of prayer, and a time to impart the wisdom of the Seven to the people,” he said sharply, his lip than curled up. “Not time for the word of a man.”

“Not just any man but the God’s anointed King,” a voice behind them cut in dryly.

Qarlton whipped around sharply, to look at who had followed him without him catching it.

And there stood Lord Hoster Tully, with two of his guards behind him. 

Qarlton blinked, surprised by the presence. He had not expected the man to be here, this evening.

He hadn’t seen the man since noon when they had both returned to the city after their conversation outside the walls. The man had been busy coordinating the movement of troops and preparing for the coming battle. 

He hadn’t expected the man to join him in the Sept—because the man had told him to speak to the people, and than there was the fact he had expected Lord Tully to accompany his brother and his contingent outside the city to take a survey of the battlefield.

“Not anointed by mine or your gods Lord Tully,” the Septon replied cooly. “Unless, ofcourse, if you have forsaken the Seven for the trees.” 

The man finished with lifting a eyebrow towards Tully, who for his part remained composed, and gave no outward reaction.

“Nay, I am still faithful to the Seven-Who-Are-One,” Hoster replied, in a equally cool tone.

“Than you should know that the words of a man have no place in a Sermon. Only the wisdom of the Seven has a place in any sermon,” the Septon said firmly.

Qarlton decided to interrupt.

“But it is often the case,” he pointed out carefully. “That the King, or their representative is allowed to speak before the Sermon. To bring the word of His Grace to the people,”

What he left unsaid was that even Aerys had been granted the courtsey of having his word spoken before the sermons—if he wished it.

It had been a tradition since the days of King Daeron the Second, if the Crown wanted to make announcement to the people of the city, they could come and make it before the Sermon started themselves, or send their representative to do it.

He remembered the most recent instance had been when Prince Rhaegar had spoken before the sermon, when he had been gathering troops for his host to march against the rebels, urging all able men to volunteer, and join his host.

The Septon hesitated, for a few moments before speaking.

“Those kings had been anointed by the High Septon, and the Faith,” he said at last, “Eddard Stark has not been anointed by either.”

“Yet.” The word came from behind them. All heads turned in that direction. A man in silver-white robes was walking towards them, a coronal on his head as well.

Qarlton recognised the man instantly.  

“Septon Lucerys,” he said, inclining his head in acknowledgement. The man nodded back in acknowledgement as well—Qarlton remembered the man well. He had been the man the Most Devout had sent to speak with him during the times the riots had started to coordinate to which parts of the city would they need to send the Healers, and to get assurances for the protection of the Sept and Qarlton remembered him well because of only one incident. They had been meeting in the Dragonpit which had been Qarlton’s command base during the riots, and naturally that meant the wounded were bought back there—but they had had a shortage of healers that day, and the man had immediately jumped into action and joined the already few healers they had and hadn’t left the Dragonpit till the Rebel Host had finally come to sieze the Red Keep after which the man had returned to the Sept. 

Lucerys stepped forward, into the middle of the group and his eyes moved to study everyone before settling on the Septon who had been speaking with them.

“The Faith has not yet spoken on this matter, and as such have not made any decision,” he said calmly. “But that doesn’t mean we have refused to anoint King Eddard Stark. ”

The septon frowned at Lucerys.

“Aye, we have not because it is only his Holiness who can make that decision, and he currently is in no state to make it. And we don’t have the authority to do it in his stead—especially given the circumstances,” the Septon finished looking pointedly at Lucerys.

Hoster chose this moment to interject. “Aegon the Conqueror, was accepted by the Faith and His Holiness after he had conquered Six Kingdoms, and they anointed him because they recognised his claim to Kingship By Right of Conquest. King Eddard has slain Rhaegar Targaryen, at the Trident and has five Kingdoms sworn to him willingly, and he killed the last Crown Prince of the Targaryens which gives him the claim to the Iron Throne, and the Kingship By Right of Conquest.”

All eyes turned to Lord Hoster. Silence followed his words for a few moments before the Septon spoke again.

“The conqueror was only accepted as King, after the Seven had guided the High Septon of that time to accept him, and House Targaryen as the King and royal House of Westeros. Only his Holiness can do the same for Lord Stark, and House Stark.”

“On the matter of authority, I concur with, Septon Theomore,” Septon Lucerys spoke up. “Only His Holiness may formally recognise a new king. The Faith cannot recognise Eddard Stark as King, until His Holiness—the High Septon makes the decision. But that does not mean you are speaking any falsehood either, Lord Tully. The Faith has long acknowledged that conquest may establish a crown.”

Lord Hoster’s eyes bored into Septon Lucerys who met his gaze unflinchingly.

The rest of the Septons, for their part looked distinctly displeased with the declaration Septon Lucerys had made at the end.

Because that could not be denied.

There had been many times throughout when the Faith had accepted the Crowns forged from conquest. King Artys “Winged Knight” Arryn after his conquest of the Vale, Bendict Justman after he had subdued the rest of the River Kings, the Teagues after carving out their dominion over the River Kings, Storm King Arlan Durrandon after he had extended the Stormlander rule over the Riverlands, and most recently of all, Aegon the Conqueror, after the War of Conquest itself.

The Faith always found ways to accommodate power once it firmly established itself, Quentyn realised the more he thought about it.

It was what Septon Lucerys was doing, the man had agreed with Lord Hoster—carefully, cautiously, but he had agreed nonetheless. He was placing himself in a position where he could later support Eddard Stark’s claim without seeming to have defied the authority of the High Septon or the traditions of the Faith.

The rest of the septons, however, did not seem inclined to follow him in that. Rather, they appeared eager to avoid the matter altogether. They hid behind procedure, behind the authority of the High Septon, behind the uncertainty of the moment. Yet every one of them wore the crystal coronals of the Most Devout.

Which meant that while they lacked the authority to crown a king, they still held enough influence to shape how the Faith would respond to one.

Qarlton’s eyes shifted back to Lord Hoster, who still had not blinked. His eyes were still locked with Septon Lucerys’s. Both men were staring at each other, and had not blinked since their eyes had locked with each other.

It almost looked like as though they were weighing one another with their eyes.

Lord Hoster’s eyes were hard and assessing, as though measuring exactly what sort of man stood before him. And Lucerys met that scrutiny calmly, there was no uneasiness in the septon’s face, nor any nervousness either. He had a calm serene expression on his face. And his eyes they seemed to say that he understood perfectly well what Lord Hoster was looking for, and they seemed to say something that Qarlton could not get. But the man had a knowing glint in his eyes as he looked back at Hoster.

It was Lord Hoster who finally tore his gaze away from Septon Lucerys, and broke the silence that had fallen over the group;

“There is an army marching to this city,” he began, his voice low but loud enough that all those near him could hear what he was saying. “To restore the very man who tried to destroy this city, and everyone in it.”

His voice rose a few octaves at the end. And it was enough to draw the attention of a few people nearby, who turned their eyes to the odd group of Septons, and Lords standing together.

The Septon who was standing with Septon Theomore, looked alarmed as he saw the heads of several worshippers turn to the commotion.

“I understand that only, His Holiness can decide the Faith’s stance,” Lord Hoster continued, looking unbothered with attention his loud words were attracting. “But we are trying to prevent a madman being restored to the Iron Throne. A madman you all overthrew, and we need your help to ensure it remains that way.”

Septon Lucerys raised a brow, an inquisitive look on his face. Septon Theomore, maintained a cool expression on his face, through there was a hint of curiosity there as well.

The expressions from the rest of the Most Devout ranged from guarded neautrality to outright curiosity. The Septon standing beside Theomore, looked increasingly alarmed as his eyes darted around looking as more worshippers turned their eyes to where they all were standing, clearly drawn by Lord Hoster’s loud words. 

Him and Qarlton, seemed to be the only ones noticing the eyes turning towards them. The rest of the group’s eyes were completely fixed on the Lord of Riverrun.

Qarlton realised then that Lord Hoster was doing this deliberately.

The man wanted ears upon them.

“The Reachmen are marching upon the capital,” Hoster continued, his blue eyes darting between the gathered Septons before him. “By our estimates, they will reach the Southern bank of Blackwater in five days. We are preparing to meet them in Battle, and we need the help of each and every one of the citizens of King’s Landing to prepare ourselves for the Battle to save the city, from those who seek to restore the man who would destroy it.” Lord Hoster finished with a particular emphasis on his final words.

Silence followed his words. Even the Septon who had been glancing around in alarm at the growing number of common people whose attention Lord Hoster’s loud words were grabbing, stilled to look at Lord Hoster.

A few Septons looked pained, they were likely from the Reach, and hearing the mention of their countrymen marching to restore the man who had nearly destroyed them all.

“How can we offer our assistance, Lord Hoster?” Septon Lucerys asked, after exchanging glances with several of the other Septons.

“First, I need you to allow Lord Chelsted to address the worshippers here before the Sermon,” Hoster began, his voice dropping a few octaves now.

The Septon standing beside Septon Theomore began to speak.

“But—

“Peace, Septon Meryl,” Lucerys interrupted him, raising a hand to stop him. “Lord Chelsted, was the one who saved the city and all of us in it from destruction. Aye, the Faith has not recognised King Eddard till now, but we all recognise Lord Chelsted as the saviour of this city. He is the man who broke with Aerys, and warned the city of Aerys’s plan to destroy us all. It was him speaking up, that saved us all. Had he remained silent, we would all be ash. It was his words that saved us all, not his silence. If Lord Chelsted, says his words are to save this city once more, then I, for one, would hear them. Because his words have already saved us once, not his silence, and I do not want us to silence him, not when his voice has saved this city once already.”

Lucerys’s gaze swept across the gathered septons before shifting briefly toward the small cluster of worshippers nearby whose attention Lord Hoster’s raised voice had drawn. Several of them now stood straining to overhear the rest of the conversation.

Unlike Hoster, however, Lucerys had kept his own voice measured—carefully pitched for the ears of the septons and lords around him, but not loud enough to carry to the ears of the worshippers nearby. 

One of the more elderly looking Septons stepped forward.

“I concur with Septon Lucerys,” the man said, his eyes flicked to Qarlton. “Let Lord Chelsted speak, his words saved this city. It would be criminal of the Faith to silence him now when he asks to speak. The Seven would be wroth with us, if we silence the man whose voice saved us all.”

Recognition dawned on Qarlton, as he looked at the man—Lambert. He remembered the man from a few years ago, when the man had been the Septon in charge of the Royal Sept within the Red Keep.

Septon Meryl looked distinctly unhappy, but even he hesitated now as several of the other septons murmured amongst themselves.

Qarlton’s ears caught fragments of the whispered words.

“…He saved the city…”

“…the people will expect…”

“…it is only right to let him speak….”

Septon Meryl’s lips thinned at the murmuring around him.

Septon Theomore remained silent for a few moments longer, his eyes moving from Lucerys, to Lambert, and finally toward the worshippers nearby who were still watching them with growing curiosity.

At last, the stern-faced septon exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Lord Chelsted may address the worshippers before the sermon,” Septon Theomore declared, though his tone carried little enthusiasm for the decision. “Provided his words concern the defence of the city and the preservation of peace amongst the faithful, and nothing else.” He finished with a particular emphasis on the last word, as he looked at Lord Hoster.

A few of the septons nodded in agreement at that.

Something like satisfaction flickered briefly across Lord Hoster’s face before it vanished behind his usual composure.

Septon Meryl still looked dissatisfied.

“This risks entangling the Faith in matters of war,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“The Faith was entangled the moment Mad Aerys sought to burn the city alive,” Lambert replied sharply, before anyone else could speak. “The Seven did not spare us so we might hide behind silence now. When people seek to restore that madman.”

Several septons murmured their agreement at that.

Even those who looked reluctant no longer seemed willing to openly oppose the matter.

Qarlton watched the shift happen almost in real time.

Not one of them wished to appear the lone voice arguing against the man who had saved King’s Landing.

Lord Hoster had manoeuvred them into this position carefully, and Septon Lucerys had merely given them the path to yield without humiliation.

Septon Theomore’s eyes shifted toward Qarlton at last.

“You may speak before the sermon, Lord Chelsted,” he said formally. “But mind your words carefully. The Great Sept is no court.”

“No,” Qarlton replied quietly, “It is far more important than any court.”

That seemed to end the last of the objections.

For a brief moment, silence settled over their odd gathering of Nobles, and Septons.

Then Lucerys inclined his head toward the central altar.

“The worshippers are already gathering,” he said calmly. “If Lord Chelsted is to speak, it would be best not to delay further.”

A/N:-

I would first of all like to thank ArvidGreat who suggested me the new Faith factionalism idea after my previous Faith split idea failed Arvid suggested the new idea which you will find out more about in the future chapters. All credits for the idea goes to Arvid.

I have something I want all of your opinion on  Elbert Arryn (the nephew and heir of Jon Arryn) died in KL at the hands of Aerys II and was one of the companions of Brandon Stark along with Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce and Jeffery Mallister. And we all know how Rickard and Brandon were executed but than there is also the fact that his companions except Ethan were also executed along with their fathers who were also summoned by Aerys to ander for the crimes of their sons, and were executed. But now what about Elbert his father was Jon Arryn’s younger brother who died of a burst belly far before the events of the Rebellion so I think Jon Arryn was summoned for Elbert along with the heads of Ned and Robert but we all know he defied the commands so is it possible that he sacrificed Elbert for Ned and Robert? 

Chapter Text

283 AC—Moat Cailin, North

The Children’s Tower

The Children’s Tower shook again as another ram slammed into the recently installed timber door below. Dust rained from the ceiling. Somewhere outside the Tower, men screamed in agony, steel clanged against steel, and the drowned cursing, and shouts of the Ironborn echoed from outside the Tower. 

Cregan Flint tightened his grip around his axe.

Blood soaked the half-torn furs around his shoulders now. Some his own. Most not.

The Children’s Tower was all that remained, now. 

The Ironborn had attacked in the night, like the cravens they were. His archers had been alert on the wall to see them coming, and had roused everyone. 

The Ironborn had attacked from the West, and they had been able to hold back the Ironborn assault for a time. The men had been in the Drunkard’s Tower, which was where the south, and west walls had once met.

They had immediately sent word to the Gatehouse Tower, and Children’s Tower and Cregan had led most of his men to defend the western part of the Moat. 

Twice the Ironborn had charged, twice they had been beaten back.

The ruined towers of the Moat had stood like giants amidst the swamp, and from their broken battlements the Northern archers had rained death upon every fool that tried to advance.

The bogs west of Moat Cailin had burned orange beneath the flaming arrows, and the marshes had rang with the screams of the drowning Ironborn. The curs had stumbled into hidden sinkholes with arrows jutting from their throats. Others had vanished beneath black waters made red by torchlight, and their blood. 

The first advance had been completely broken, with barely any survivors for the Ironborn. 

Cregan had guessed it was the vanguard of the Ironborn, because of the small number of men in the first wave. He knew Ironborn liked to raid in small numbers to be able to flee easily, but they wouldn’t dare mount a attempt against a fortress like Moat Callin with such few numbers. So he had kept the men ready, and braced for another assault which had come less than a hour after the first one.

The Ironborn flying kraken banners had assaulted the Western approaches of the castle, once again and had been thrown back once again. 

The archers had turned the bogs into a graveyard, raining down arrows upon the Ironborn trapped knee-deep in mud and black water. Flaming arrows lit the sky orange while Ironborn corpses floated among the bogs. 

The second assault force had also been small, but it had given Cregan time to realise what had happened. Instead of marching from the south, the Ironborn fleet had sailed up the Saltspear and the Fever River to its headwaters, from where Moat Callin was only twenty miles away. They must have marched from there to attack the western part of the Fortress. 

He had immediately sent one of the soldiers back to the Children’s Tower to send word back to Winterfell, about the Ironborn attack. 

He had also come to the grim realisation of the fact, that Flint’s Finger and all their outposts on the Cape Kraken which had been there since ancient times to keep an eye out for Ironborn Reavers must have been taken by the Ironborn. As Moat Callin had gotten no raven of warning about any Iron Fleet sailing up north to Saltspear. 

But still Cregan had been sure they would be able to beat back any Ironborn assault. He had the strength of the best Northern Archers, in his ranks and Winterfell would send reinforcements as soon as they got the ravens. 

The Moat had never fallen to any invader from outside the North ever—in its long bloody history.

Only, the Starks had ever been able to conquer Moat Cailin—when they had deposed the line Marsh Kings. And taken their capital of Moat Cailin as their own.

Before that, and after that there had been no other instance of Moat Cailin falling too any other forces that had been from outside of the North. The swamps had belonged to the Northmen. The bogs, the black waters, the narrow causeways—all the old strengths of the First Men that had broken Andal kings for thousands of years.

Than the third bigger force had arrived from the west, and just as they had been preparing to fight. 

Then the horns had sounded from the north.

The Ironborn had done what no southern invader had managed in thousands of years. While one force had battered the western approaches of the Moat, another force must have slipped through hidden marsh channels north of the fortress and had struck the weaker northern ruins under cover of darkness.

Cregan had rushed to the northern part of the Fortress with what men he could spare while leaving a sizeable force to hold the Western part. 

They had tried to rush Northward, but it had already been too late. Ironborn poured through the broken northern fortifications while the Ironborn force launched another assault from the west. Trapped between both attacks, the garrison was slowly overwhelmed.

If it had been just the assault from the West, Cregan was sure they would have broken the Ironborn. 

But the Northern part of the Moat did not have the advantage of being covered by bogs, and as well defended as the other parts of the castle.

After that, the battle had ceased to be one of walls and arrows, and had become one of close combat.

The Northmen had fought like men possessed. The narrow causeways between the ruins became slaughterhouses where Ironborn and Northmen hacked one another apart amidst mud, blood, and torchlight. Archers who had spent the night loosing arrows from the battlements were forced into close combat with axes, swords and javelins.

And still the Northmen had made them bleed for every step—they took into the ruined castle.

The defenders gave ground only grudgingly, retreating only when the Ironborn numbers had gotten enough to flank them. They had left a pile of Ironborn corpses behind them. Men had fought in every part of the ruined castle. Wounded Northmen had dragged themselves back into the fighting with arrows jutting from their shoulders. Trying to close the breech of Ironborn in the castle.

But courage had not been able to mend the ruin of their position.

The assault from two sides had doomed them.

Every man Cregan had pulled northward to try and stem the breach weakened the western defences further. The Drunkard’s Tower, which had held so fiercely against the western assaults earlier in the night, began to buckle once its numbers thinned, and the Ironborn’s numbers had increased. More Ironborn surged through the western approaches to attack the Drunkard’s Tower with renewed fury while the northern defenders desperately struggled to halt the breech from the north.

The measly garrison of nine hundred archers had simply not been enough for such a battle.

Not against assaults from both west, and north.

The Moat had not been built to withstand enemies already inside its walls.

Cregan had tried to restore order where he could, had bellowed commands through the chaos while runners carried his orders between towers amid flying arrows and screaming men. But as more and more, Ironborn had flooded into the ruins, the defence had slowly fractured apart into scattered pockets of fighting.

First the ruined northern walls had been lost.

Then the western part of the castle had been lost when a Ironborn force had slipped through a northern breech, and cut off the western part of the castle, and the Drunkard’s tower from the rest of Moat Cailin.

The Northmen had steadily been driven back toward the towers themselves.

Even then, Cregan had not abandoned hope entirely.

If they could hold the three towers—the Drunkard’s Tower, the Gatehouse Tower, and the Children’s Tower—they could still make the Ironborn pay dearly for every inch of Moat Cailin they took. The towers were the strongest surviving parts of the ancient fortress. If properly defended, they could bleed the Ironborn for hours yet. Perhaps long enough for the crannogmen to strike from the swamps, and salvage something.

And the Gatehouse Tower above all was still defensible. It was the strongest of the three towers, the best preserved, capable of housing the bulk of the surviving garrison.

That had been Cregan’s plan.

A fighting withdrawal to the Gatehouse Tower.

His plan had been to hold there. Bleed the Ironborn. And wait for relief to come.

But battle rarely cared for plans.

The retreat had collapsed into chaos before it could properly begin.

Ironborn had broken through the western ruins faster than expected, smashing apart the withdrawing Northmen before they could regroup. In the confusion, Cregan and the men around him had been cut off entirely from the larger body retreating toward the Gatehouse Tower.

He had tried to break through twice.

Twice the Ironborn had driven him back.

And so, with the enemy closing from every side and no path left open, Cregan had been forced to retreat into the nearest refuge still standing.

The Children’s Tower.

He still did not know whether the others had managed to reach the Gatehouse Tower.

Gods, he hoped they had.

If even a few hundred men had reached it, perhaps they could still hold for a time longer.

Perhaps they could still make the Ironborn bleed more, before they eventually took the castle.

Another crash shook the Children’s Tower violently.

Dust rained from the ceiling again.

The Ironborn had struck the door with the Wooden log again.

Cregan had less than ninety men left with him in the Tower. 

Most of the archers he had sent up the  stairwell, where they could loose arrows down upon any Ironborn trying to force their way into the Tower below. He meant to make the Ironborn pay dearly for every step they took upward.

He himself had remained below with around fifty men. Fifty exhausted, blood-soaked Northmen to hold the ground floor when the Ironborn finally broke through the doors.

His initial plan had been to hold all three Towers for as long as possible, and to make the Ironborn bleed dry as they attempted to take them. But he had too few men left to mount such defence of the Children’s Tower now.

He just hoped those in Gatehouse Tower would have better luck in holding against the Ironborn than him, and the defenders of the Drunkard’s Tower.

The news had been bought to him just moments earlier.

One of the archers he had sent upstairs, had taken the far-eye Cregan had kept in his solar upstairs to take a look around the Moat, and had found that the Drunkard’s Tower had been flying burning Direwolf banners. 

Cregan could only guess how it had happened. Likely it must have been the assault from both sides from outside the Castle from the west, and from inside those who had gotten from the breech that must have overwhelmed the defenders of the Drunkard’s Tower. 

Another crash on the door.

The great timber doors bowed inward beneath the force of the ram. Iron nails screamed in protest. Dust and splinters fell on the floor behind it.

Above them, from somewhere higher in the tower, bowstrings snapped in steady rhythm.

Then came the screams from outside, that bought a grin to Cregan’s face.

He recognised the screams of dying men well enough.

At least the archers were still making them pay with their lives.

It pained him beyond words that it would be under his command that the Moat would fall to outsiders—the castle that had been guarding the North since before the coming of the Andals, at last would be taken not by the dragonlords, not by southern kings, not by some great conqueror…

…but by fucking Ironborn of all people.

Over-glorified pirates who called reaving a way of life because they lacked the wit or courage to build anything of their own. Murderers who preyed on fishing villages and lonely keeps, butchered farmers in their fields, carried off women and children in chains, and then fled shrieking back to their rocks the moment a real army came marching for them. And somehow those thieving bastards were about to take Moat Cailin.

What truly confused him was why they had attacked the North at all.

This had been no simple reaving party. Not some handful of longships slipping ashore to burn villages and steal what they could carry before fleeing back to sea

This had been a proper invasion force. With enough men to storm castles. Men enough to take and hold the ground.

But why here?

Why Moat Cailin?

Why the North?

When the western coast of Westeros and the Reach lay open to reaving as well. Richer lands, with their fighting men off to war. Places filled with gold, grain, and fat merchant towns ripe for plunder. So why sail all the way north through swamps and freezing bogs to assault the strongest fortress in the Neck?

It made no sense. Especially given the fact that now the King himself was a Stark.

Had the Greyjoys declared for the Targaryens? 

The thought came to him, but even that explanation made no sense to him.

The Targaryens were finished—completely broken. The silver-haired bastard—Rhaegar was dead killed by Ned’s own hand, and the royalist host had been shattered. The raven from the Trident had spoken of the complete collapse of the Royalist host. 

Why would anyone choose now to side with House Targaryen?

And why would the Ironborn of all people throw themselves behind a dying cause?

No, none of it fit together.

Yet what other explanation was there for attacking the North? It was the homeland of the man who had deposed the Targaryens. It was Ned’s home.

He thought suddenly of Ned as a boy.

Quiet little thing. Grey-eyed and solemn. Always clinging to Cregan’s cloak during his first journey south to the Vale. Cregan had carried him onto horseback himself more than once when the boy had grown too tired to ride his pony.

And now that same boy wore a conqueror’s crown.

King of Westeros.

Cregan felt a soft smile forming, at the thought.

Seems I won’t see you crowned after all, lad. He thought sadly. He had wanted to go  South to see Ned’s coronation. But alas it was not to be.

Cregan rolled his shoulders painfully and glanced toward the doorway again.

The timber had begun to split near the center now.

Not much longer.

One of the younger men beside him swallowed hard enough for Cregan to hear it.

“Milord..” the lad whispered. “Do you think the Gatehouse still stands?”

Cregan looked at him.

It was Owen, a lad from his the Wolfswood barely nine and ten. There was blood sprayed across his face that did not belong to him. His spear shook despite both hands gripping it.

Cregan knew him well enough from when he had taken him to task during their time in Moat Cailin for abandoning his guard post on the Gate. Only to learn he had gone to visit his older brother who was stationed in the Gatehouse Tower—because his brother had been sick. He knew the lad must be worrying for his brother.

“Aye,” Cregan lied without hesitation, through he did not know truly. “Gatehouse still stands.”

The lie settled over the men like a blanket.

No one challenged it.

Because the alternative was too grim to speak aloud.

Another tremendous impact struck the door.

CRACK.

One of the crossbeams snapped apart.

Shouts erupted outside immediately.

“Again!” someone roared beyond the door.

The ram slammed forward once more.

The Children’s Tower shook violently.

A jagged split burst through the center of the timber doors now wide enough for torchlight to shine through from outside.

And through that gap came the sound.

Ironborn laughter.

One of the younger lads from his own lands whispered, “Gods help us…”

Cregan spat on the floor.

“Gods won’t hold this tower,” he growled. “We will.”

The men straightened at that.

Cregan’s jaw tightened.

“Shields forward,” he ordered quietly.

The men obeyed at once.

A rough shieldwall formed across the chamber before the doorway. Not a perfect one. Too many wounded hands holding them. Too few shields left intact.

But it would have to be enough.

One of the archers came stumbling down the spiral stair then, breathing hard.

“My lord,” he gasped. “The Drunkard’s Tower…the Ironborn….they’ve lit signal fires atop it now for their men.”

Cregan closed his eyes briefly. So it was truly lost.

The Ironborn had taken the western tower entirely.

Gods.

How many Northmen had died there? How many Northmen had been cut down all because Cregan hadn’t been able to hold the breeches. Because their commander had failed to defend properly.

He forced the thoughts aside as quickly as they came.

Dead men did not need their commander’s attention. Living men did.

“How many arrows left?” he asked.

“Not enough,” the archer admitted.

A grim chuckle spread through several of the men nearby.

Not enough.

That described all of them now.

Not enough arrows.

Not enough men.

Not enough shields.

Not enough hours before the North would learn Moat Cailin had fallen to the fucking Ironborn.

The Ironborn struck again.

The doors split wider.

An axe punched briefly through the gap from outside before one of his men hacked the arm off at the elbow with his sword. The severed limb dropped twitching on the stone floor, and seeping blood while the Ironborn outside screamed in agony.

His men roared savagely. For a moment the fear broke.

Cregan lifted his axe.

“When they come through,” he growled, “kill the first fools fast. Make the rest fear the doorway.”

A cheer agreement answered him.

The men pressed tighter together.

Another impact.

The left door hinge burst apart entirely.

Cold swamp air rushed into the chamber through widening cracks.

The Ironborn outside began hammering weapons against shields.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Like a crier’s drum.

Cregan could hear them chanting now.

“THE DROWNED GOD! THE DROWNED GOD!”

One of his greybeards spat onto the floor.

“Fuck their drowned god.”

That got laughs out of several men.

Then the ram hit again.

With a deafening crack the timber doors burst inward.

The shattered remains slammed against the stone floor.

And the Ironborn came flooding through the breach with axes raised.

The first Ironborn through the breach died before his boots even crossed the threshold.

An arrow punched clean through his eye with a wet crack and burst out the back of his skull. The force of it snapped his head backward and sent him collapsing into the men behind him.

Another arrow followed instantly. Then another. And another.

The stair archers above loosed into the packed doorway at near point-blank range, and suddenly the breach became a killing ground. Ironborn screamed as shafts punched through faces, throats, and chests. One Ironborn dropped clawing at the arrow lodged deep in his neck while another stumbled forward blindly with a shaft jutting from his cheek, and was killed by a spear soon after.

“Hold the line!” Cregan roared.

His men slammed shields together just as the next wave crashed into them.

The impact shook the chamber.

Axes hacked against shields of wood and iron. Spears thrust through gaps in the shieldwall. Men screamed inches from one another’s faces as the confined entrance turned into a butcher’s choke point.

For a few glorious moments, his men held the Ironborn at bay.

The narrow breach worked in their favour. Only a handful of Ironborn could force themselves through at once, and Cregan’s men butchered them as fast as they entered. One Ironborn climbed over the bodies only for Owen—the frightened Wolfswood boy—to drive a spear clean through his stomach with a scream of terror. Another lost half his jaw to a greybeard’s axe before tumbling backward into his fellows.

The dead began piling in the doorway itself.

Cregan stepped forward with a roar and buried his axe into a man’s collarbone hard enough to split mail and bone alike. The Ironborn collapsed shrieking while another swung wildly toward Cregan’s head. Cregan caught the blow on his shield and smashed the rim into the man’s face. Teeth flew across the chamber.

“FOR THE NORTH!” someone screamed.

The cry spread instantly.

“THE NORTH!”

“WINTERFELL!”

“STARK!”

“FOR KING EDDARD!” Cregan found himself roaring.

That led to even louder cheers.

“KING EDDARD!”

“KING EDDARD!”

“KING IN THE NORTH!”

The chamber thundered with chants.

Above them the archers kept firing downward into the crush. Arrows hissed through torch smoke, killing Ironborn faster than they could drag the corpses aside. One shaft struck a kraken-banner bearer through the mouth and pinned him briefly against the shattered doorway before he slid twitching to the floor.

And still more Ironborn came.

Too many. Again too many.

The dead clogging the entrance eventually became a ramp of corpses for the attackers to climb over. Ironborn forced themselves through screaming curses to their drowned god while those behind shoved them onward whether they lived or died.

The shieldwall began to buckle.

A northern shield split apart beneath repeated axe blows. The man holding it died a heartbeat later when an Ironborn axe buried itself in his forehead. Another Northman vanished beneath the crush entirely, dragged down screaming as raiders hacked at him on the floor.

Cregan fought in the thick of it all.

Gods, he was tired.

His axe split the one from shoulder to chest.

Every swing of his axe sent a ache through his shoulders and arms. Blood soaked his torn furs. His wounded side burned with every breath. He dropped his shield, and gripped his axe with both hands. He fought on, roaring curses as he hacked another Ironborn down across the face.

Beside him Owen gave a sudden choking gasp.

Cregan turned just in time to see the boy stare downward in confusion at the axe lodged in his belly.

For one terrible heartbeat the lad simply stood there trembling.

Then the Ironborn yanked the axe free.

Owen collapsed without a sound.

Something cold and murderous twisted inside Cregan then.

He surged forward with a snarl like an old wolf and split the Ironborn’s skull open so violently the man’s helm caved inward. Before the man’s corpse even hit the floor, Cregan tore his axe free and buried it into another man’s throat.

The fighting descended fully into chaos after that.

The shieldwall had shattered apart into desperate knots of fighting scattered across the chamber. Men slipped in blood and died on their knees. Ironborn and Northmen grappled one another against the walls with knives punching through mail gaps and under ribs. Torches fell and rolled smoking across the floors.

Above, the archers had stopped firing entirely now. No clear shots remained.

The Ironborn had pushed too far inside.

Cregan heard screaming from the stairwell moments later as the first raiders began climbing upward after the archers.

Gods damn it.

A greybeard from Barrowton tore an Ironborn’s ear off with his teeth before getting gutted across the stomach. One wounded archer with an arrow still jutting from his shoulder smashed his broken bow across a Ironborn’s face hard enough to blind him.

The Ironborn numbers kept filling inch by inch.

Cregan killed another man. Then another. And another.

The Children’s Tower had became a butcher’s yard.

Cregan spat blood onto the stone floor and tightened his grip upon the axe haft. Corpses lay everywhere—Northmen and Ironborn tangled together amidst blood, broken shields, and fallen torches. The floor  was covered in blood, and bodies.

His chest heaved painfully.

Then three Ironborn rushed him together.

One came low with a shield and a sword, another with an axe, the third with a knife already red from another man’s guts.

Cregan barely managed to turn the first axe aside before the shield slammed into his side hard enough to make him stagger backwards. Pain exploded through his wounded side.

The knife-man lunged instantly.

Cregan twisted—but not fast enough.

The blade punched into his side beneath the ribs. [Oblique muscles guys]

White-hot agony tore through him.

Cregan screamed in pain.

The Ironborn ripped the knife free and blood poured warm down Cregan’s hip at once. Another axe crashed against his shoulder hard enough to nearly drop him to one knee.

The world lurched sideways.

The three Ironborn piled onto him immediately like dogs scenting weakness.

They crashed together onto the bloody floor.

Cregan hit the floor hard enough to drive the air from his lungs.

Hands grabbed at him everywhere.

One Ironborn seized a fistful of his hair and smashed his head back against the stone, making him groan. Another tried to force the knife back into his wounded side but Cregan twisted at the last moment, while the third hammered punches into his face.

Cregan snarled like an animal.

His fingers found someone’s beard.

He yanked savagely.

The Ironborn screamed as Cregan tore half the hair from his face. Another hand clawed at Cregan’s throat trying to choke him while the knife-man drove the blade downward again.

Then suddenly a spear punched through one of the Ironborn from behind.

The man convulsed violently atop Cregan.

One of his remaining Northmen—a big bearded man from another one of the Mountain clans—had driven the spear clean through the raider’s back.

“GET OFF HIM!” the Northman roared.

The spear was wrenched free in a spray of blood.

Cregan surged upward immediately.

He seized the knife-man by the hair with one hand.

The Ironborn’s eyes widened.

Cregan lifted the axe high with the other—and buried it straight into the man’s skull.

CRACK.

The axe split through iron cap, bone, and face alike. Blood burst across Cregan’s arms.

The third Ironborn tried to scramble away.

Cregan grabbed him before he could rise and smashed the axe sideways into his jaw hard enough to spin him limp across the floor.

For a moment Cregan simply knelt there breathing hard.

Gods, his side burned with pain.

Every breath felt like someone driving hot iron between his ribs. Blood soaked the front of his furs now. He pressed one hand briefly against the wound and forced himself upright with a grimace.

The chamber swam in his vision for a moment.

Then the Ironborn parted fully.

A man stepped through them slowly. Black mail glimmered beneath his dark cloak which soaked with swamp water and blood. In his hand rested a longsword dark as smoke with ripples running through the steel like living shadows.

Valyrian steel.

Even amidst the chaos of the chamber, the blade stood out.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed immediately.

This was not some common raider then. This one was a Lord.

The Ironborn around him had gone quieter too, watching carefully now.

The man studied Cregan calmly.

Then he spoke.

“I am Rodrik Harlaw,” he said evenly. “Lord of Harlaw, and the Lord of the Ten Towers.”

His voice carried easily through the chamber.

Rodrik lifted the Valyrian blade slightly.

“Yield,” he commanded. “You’ve fought well. No shame in yielding now. I promise you, and your men quarter on my honour.”

Cregan stared at him for a long moment.

Then barked out a bloody laugh.

“Fuck you.”

And charged right at him. He came hard despite the wound.

Axe swinging two-handed straight for Harlaw’s skull.

Rodrik moved fast, far faster than any armored men had the right to.

The Valyrian blade turned the axe aside with a sharp ringing crack. The force jarred Cregan’s wounded side horribly. Pain shot through his ribs.

Rodrik struck instantly afterward.

The dark blade slashed across Cregan’s thigh.

Not deep. But fast, and quick.

Cregan roared and swung again.

Rodrik gave ground smoothly across the blood-slick floor, forcing Cregan to turn and twist after him.

And every twist tore agony through Cregan’s wounded side.

The bastard knew it too.

He was fighting patiently. He was waiting, and watching the wound.

Cregan hacked downward violently enough to split a man from shoulder to chest—but Rodrik was not there.

The Valyrian blade flashed.

Pain exploded across Cregan’s forearm.

Another cut.

Another step backward.

Cregan’s breaths were growing ragged now.

Still he pressed forward, and swung his axe at the Ironborn.

His axe crashed against the floor where Rodrik had stood a moment earlier.

He was too slow now.

Gods damn it.

He was too slow.

Rodrik struck him across the ribs with his shoulder suddenly and shoved him off balance.

Cregan stumbled.

His wounded side screamed.

And the Valyrian steel sword punched through beneath his shoulder.

Cregan gasped sharply.

For one heartbeat the chamber went dark around him.

Rodrik stepped close, holding the blade buried deep.

Blood ran warm down Cregan’s chest.

The old Flint looked into Rodrik Harlaw’s eyes.

Then slowly he opened his mouth—and spat blood directly into the Ironborn lord’s face.

Rodrik’s expression hardened.

He ripped the sword free.

Cregan Flint collapsed onto the bloody floor of the Children’s Tower.

A/N:—

Yk, I have my end sems starting Wednesday. But motivation for writing always hits the hardest when you should be studying for exams instead 💀💀💀!! For me atleast 😂😂😂!!

Deluded_Peacemonger, your advice on battle scenes from main povs is doing wonders for me 💙💙💙. I have learnt a lot about showing battles and combats from the fics of Camsonius, Deluded_Peacemonger, and Sammy.

PS: Do I have a bit of regrets over how I designed Ironborn strategy at the start of this fic? (Not the Seagard one). Yes, I do but well I have to stick with it now. Although, I have added another location where the Ironborn will strike at which makes much much more sense as well.

P.S.S:— Where I live it is already 23rd May 2026, but unfortunately ao3 is not letting me post on the correct date so I am posting it with the date showing 22nd May until I can fix the issue.

Chapter Text

283 AC—Rook’s Rest, The Crownlands

Lord Ardrian Celtigar, gripped the reins of his white steed as he rode forward. Lord Donnel Brune, and Lord Clarence Crabb rode a step behind him, conversing in low tones. 

There was a host of one thousand Cracklawmen at their backs. Far lesser than Ardrian would have liked at his back, but that was all the Cracklawmen had to spare. The rest were either too wounded or dead after their Battle with the Freys. There had been approximately fourteen-hundred Cracklawmen left after the Battle with the Freys, and the rest of that force had been either too injured to march or had been left back to guard the bogs and the Frey prisoners they had taken in the Slaughter of the Mists.

It had taken a lot of convincing from him, to get the Cracklaws to agree to march to Rook’s Rest with him. 

They were fiercely loyal to House Targaryen, but they weren’t stupid. They had been reluctant to march out of their bogs, preferring to let the enemy come to them instead. In their own lands where they knew every track, trail, and hidden path. It had taken much persuasion from his side to convince them to march out of their bogs. In the end, he had informed them off the Reachmen’s march and gotten them to agree to march as far as Rook’s Rest, and no farther then that, until the clash between Rebels and Reachmen got a result. That had been the compromise that he had reached with them to secure their agreement to march with him to Rook’s Rest.

He could see the walls of Rook’s Rest from here, and the checkered banners of House Staunton flapping in the wind above them.

He himself had no wish to march further south until a result was reached in the clash between the Rebels, and the Reachmen. He would take his decision after that.

He brought his steed to a halt when he spotted three riders approaching from the direction of the castle.

One of them carried a white banner of parlay, and another the checkered banner of House Staunton. The rider between them wore plate armor over good riding leathers and sported a greying beard.

“Shield the Lords,” Lord Clarence Crabb barked out.

A dozen Cracklawmen spurred their horses forward, moving between their Lords and the approaching riders. They formed a rough line in front of where Adrian was standing with Crabb and Brune, shields slung across their backs and spears held firmly in their hands.

At another sharp command from Crabb, the men lowered their spears as one. The long shafts dipped forward, iron points glinting in the afternoon sun. Two riders pushed to the front of the line and crossed their spears before them, barring the way.

The rest sat their horses in silence, watchful and wary, hands tightly clutching their spears. 

Only when the riders had come within earshot did one of the Cracklawmen cup both his hands to his mouth and shout.

“Halt!”

The three riders promptly reined in their horses.

The man in the middle urged his horse forward a few paces before stopping once again.

“Greetings,” the man spoke up. “I am Ser Rufus Harte, Castellan of Rook’s Rest, speaking for my lord, Lord Symond Staunton, the Lord of Rook’s Rest. He sends me to give his greetings to the commander of this host, and I would request the honor of speaking with the one in command, to deliver my Lord’s message.”

The man appeared to be in his forties to Ardrian, around his own age. His armor was well-kept, and he carried himself with the confidence of a man accustomed to authority.

Ardrian exchanged a brief glance with Donnel Brune and Clarence Crabb before turning his eyes back to the three riders.

“Let the man through,” Lord Clarence Crabb ordered, after riding a few paces forward.

The two Cracklawmen at the front of the line pulled back their crossed spears, opening a narrow path through the cordon.

Ser Rufus turned briefly to the rider carrying the white banner of parlay. Raising his left hand, and bringing it down he motioned for both of his riders to remain where they were before urging his horse forward alone. He rode slowly through the line of spears until he stood only a few paces from the three lords. Bringing his black steed to a halt, he bowed his head respectfully.

Lord Donnel Brune nudged his horse forward.

“I am Lord Donnel Brune of Dyre Den,” he announced, than inclined his head to his left. “This is Lord Clarence Crabb, and Lord Ardrian Celtigar of Claw Isle.”

The castellan bowed his head. “My lords.”

Ardrian did not fail to notice the flicker of surprise that had crossed the man’s face at the mention of his name. His eyes had widened in surprise, clearly surprised to find him of all people riding with the Cracklawmen—which was understandable given the history between his House, and the Cracklaws.

“My Lords,” Ser Rufus began. “It rejoiced us to hear of your victory over the Freys. I raised a cup in celebration when word reached Rook’s Rest.”

Donnel Brune acknowledged him with a nod, while Clarence Crabb looked like he was holding himself back from saying something. 

“My Lords,” Ser Rufus expression became serious now. “Lord Symond bids me to ask your business at Rook’s Rest.”

Donnel Brune inclined his head towards Ardrian, yielding him the floor.

“We come in the name of His Grace King  Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of his Name,”  Ardrian began. “To garrison the castle of Rook’s Rest, and to prevent any incursion by the Rebel scum.”

Ser Rufus was staring at him open mouthed. 

“King Viserys…?” Ser Rufus repeated incredulously. 

Ardrian realised with an internal groan that they still had not sent any letters from Dragonstone to the people they had dispatched him to visit. First he had been forced to explain the entire situation to the Cracklaws, and now he found himself doing the same at Rook’s Rest.

He understood the reasoning well enough. He truly did. Dragonstone did not wish to risk ravens falling into rebel hands and revealing their intentions. It was sensible. Prudent, even.

That did not mean he had to like it.

A single raven would have made his task immeasurably easier than having to explain the entire matter anew every time he arrived at a castle.

“Aye, King Viserys,” he began slowly. “After the news of the fall of King’s Landing reached Dragonstone, the Queen Regent Rhaella proclaimed Prince Viserys as King—.”

“But Prince Viserys is not next in line to King Aerys,” Ser Rufus interrupted him. “It is Prince Aegon who should succeed, King Aerys.”

Beside him, Lord Clarence Crabb let out a low snort. These had been the very same words he had uttered when Ardrian had first arrived in Cracklaw Point bearing word from Dragonstone, and it had taken a lot for him to explain the reasoning of those at Dragonstone. 

“As you know,” Ardrian said patiently. “following the Battle of the Trident and Prince Rhaegar’s unfortunate demise, King Aerys named Prince Viserys his Heir Apparent in place of Prince Aegon.”

The King had sent ravens to every castle of the Crownlands, of his proclamation along with instructions to resist any Rebel force that tried to enter the Crownlands.

“So, when word of the capital’s fall reached Draganstone, Queen Regent Rhaella, after consultation with Lords Velaryon, and Redwyne, proclaimed Prince Viserys as King, so that all remaining royalists may rally, and continue the war in his name.” Ardrian finished.

“So King Aerys has met his demise at the hands of the Rebels then?” Ser Rufus asked grimly. 

“Aye,” Ardrian replied without hesitation.“That was the word that the raven from Dragonstone carried.”

The man absorbed that in silence for a moment.

Ardrian did not blame the man for taking a few moments—the news been a surprise to him as well when he had gotten the letter from Dragonstone, at Claw Isle. At first, he had been unsure of the authenticity of the claim, because if King Aerys had been killed  one would have expected the rebels to issue a formal declaration. But, the rebels had been strangely quiet since the fall of King’s Landing. The only correspondence any crownlander lord, had received from the rebels, was the letter Eddard Stark had sent after the Trident to all of the Crownlander Lords; asking that they neither interfere with nor hinder the movement of his forces, in the Crownlands—promising that, in return they would be welcomed back into the King’s Peace after his ascension.

But, there had been nothing after the fall of King’s Landing. Perhaps it was because the rebels had secured most of the Crownlands south of Rook’s Rest to Blackwater—Duskendale being the only notable exception—before they had reached the gates of King’s Landing. Perhaps they hadn’t thought it necessary to have any correspondence with any other Lords due to the fact they had already subdued the heartlands of the Crownlands.

“And what of Prince Aegon? Princess Elia? Princess Rhaenys?” Ser Rufus asked, almost desperately.

“Their fate is unknown as of the last letter I received from Queen Regent,” Ardrian replied honestly, he did not know their fates all he knew from the letter he had received was that the King was dead, and as per his last proclamation Prince Viserys was King now. 

Ser Rufus looked ill-at-ease at the news. Ardrian knew the Hartes had long been loyal servants of House Targaryen for generations—and had been a part of Prince Rhaegar’s faction at court no less—so no doubt the uncertainty surrounding Princess Elia and her children’s fates did not sit easily with such men.

For a moment, none of them spoke and heavy silence followed.

Then Ser Rufus drew a slow breath.

“My lord will wish to hear this himself.”

“Then we shall hear what Lord Symond has to say,” Ardrian replied.

At once, Lord Clarence Crabb grunted.

“Aye. You can go hear him.”

Ardrian turned his head slowly.

There was something about the way Crabb had said it that he did not entirely care for.

The Lord of Claw Isle had spent enough time amongst the Cracklaws to recognize when they were volunteering somebody else for a task they had no desire to undertake themselves.

Rook’s Rest was loyalist territory, certainly.

That did not mean Ardrian intended to walk into a castle whose loyalties he had yet to secure with only himself for company. 

He smiled pleasantly.

“Lord Crabb,” he said, “surely it would be prudent for the Cracklaws to have a representative present as well. Lord Symond should hear the views of all those assembled here.”

For a moment Clarence Crabb simply stared at him.

Then his eyes narrowed.

Donnel Brune coughed suspiciously into a gloved hand.

“Aye,” Crabb said at last, sounding as though the word pained him. “Prudent.”

Ardrian’s smile widened.

If Lord Symond proved treacherous and decided to take him prisoner, the Cracklaws might very well abandon a Celtigar to his fate, and march back home. 

They would never abandon one of their own.

Should Clarence Crabb find himself imprisoned, every Cracklawman outside those walls would come storming through the gates to drag him back out again.

And by happy coincidence, Ardrian would be rescued as well.

283 AC, Lord’s Solar—Rook’s Rest, The Crownlands 

The Lord’s Solar of Rook’s Rest was not grand like Ardrian's at Claw Isle.

Its walls were built of old grey stone. Narrow windows admitted shafts of afternoon sunlight that stretched across the chamber, illuminating motes of dust drifting lazily through the air. A hearth lay along one wall, unused and empty due to the mild weather. 

Above the hearth hung the checkered banner of House Staunton, while a faded shield bearing the same pattern rested upon the wall beside it.

A heavy oaken desk dominated the center of the solar.

Lord Symond Staunton sat behind the desk, his brows furrowed as he studied the second of the two letters Ardrian had handed him.

The first letter—the proclamation naming Prince Viserys as King—lay discarded on the desk before him.

The second was the letter Ardrian had gotten from Dragonstone, bearing his instructions from Queen Regent Rhaella. Gather the loyal men of Cracklaw Point in the name of King Viserys. Then march to Rook’s Rest and secure the castle for the Crown.

Ardrian remembered the contents of both letters by heart now, and could recite both letters word to word.

He had been forced to explain their contents far too many times over the past week to forget them anytime soon.

Across the desk from Lord Staunton, he sat beside Lord Clarence, both of them were seated in two comfortable chairs. Behind Lord Staunton stood Ser Rufus Harte, leaning forward slightly as he read over his lord’s shoulder.

The only sound within the chamber was that of rustling parchment in Lord Staunton’s hands.

At last Lord Symond reached the end of the letter.

His eyes lingered upon the final lines for a moment before lifting to look at Ardrian.

“My lord,” Ardrian began, “you can no doubt recognize the hand of Queen Rhaella, as well as the seals of Lord Velaryon and Lord Redwyne from your years as Master of Laws. Thus, we know there can be no question as to its authenticity.”

Lord Symond nodded slowly.

“There is not.”

Then the man slowly lowered the second letter onto the desk beside the first.

For a few moments, Lord Symond merely sat there, fingers resting upon the parchments.

“Well,” he said at last, “there can be no doubt that these orders are genuine.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the narrow windows of the solar, beyond which a thousand Cracklawmen waited outside his walls.

“Whilst I am flattered that the Crown concerns itself with the security of Rook’s Rest, I cannot help but wonder if these swords might serve His Grace better elsewhere.”

Ardrian raised a brow in question, but otherwise remained silent.

Lord Symond continued.

“From what this letter says, you are to secure Rook’s Rest, and await the word from Lord Velaryon who was sent to Duskendale, to assist Lord Rykker in gathering his levies. I have received word that Lord Rykker is still having trouble in raising the men of Duskendale. The king’s cause will require every sword it can find in the coming days.”

He folded his hands upon the desk, his fingers interlocked.

“A thousand men are no small force. Their presence at Duskendale might prove of far greater value than their presence here behind my walls.” Lord Symond offered a polite smile to Lord Crabb, and Ardrian. “Rook’s Rest is secure. My walls are strong, my garrison is full of loyal and strong men, and no rebel host has yet been sighted in this part of the Crownlands since you routed the Frey host.” 

The smile lingered on his face as he inclined his head in Lord Crabb’s direction.

“I am certain His Grace would benefit greatly from the support of Lord Celtigar and the valiant men of Cracklaw Point, at Duskendale, where your presence could help Lord Rykker in completing the gathering of his levies.” 

Ardrian suppressed a groan.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Clarence Crabb narrowing his eyes at Lord Staunton.

It had already been difficult enough convincing the Cracklaws to march out of their bogs and come this far. The compromise had been to not march any further than Rook’s Rest.

Truth be told, Ardrian himself had no wish to march farther south before the clash between the Rebels, and the Reachmen was decided. Once that battle was resolved, he could determine his next course of action, as per the outcome of that Battle.

“Our orders are to secure Rook’s Rest,” Lord Clarence said flatly. “To prevent any more castles to falling into rebels hands.”

“My men are more than able to secure my castle, Lord Crabb,” Staunton replied. “Your swords will be far more useful to the crown at Duskendale, than behind my walls.”

Lord Clarence’s jaw tightened.

“Funny.”

Lord Symond blinked.

“Funny?” he repeated slowly. 

“Aye,” Lord Clarence leaned back in his chair. “You seem remarkably eager to be rid of a thousand loyal swords.”

The smile on Lord Symond’s face became strained, and there was visible frustration upon his face.

“You mistake me, my lord. I merely seek to place those swords where they might best serve His Grace.”

“At Duskendale.”

“At Duskendale.”

“Not Rook’s Rest.”

“Rook’s Rest is secure.”

“So you keep saying.”

Lord Symond’s strained smile had disappeared now, and there was a hint of visible frustration upon his face.

“Because it is true.” He said through gritted teeth. 

“And yet,” Lord Clarence said slowly. “you speak like a man who does not wish my men inside his walls. The men who are loyal to the King, whom you say you are loyal to.” 

The former Master of Laws stiffened.

“My lord—”

“Nay,” Clarence waved a hand. “Let us be plain. You speak like a man who wishes us gone.”

“Lord Crabb—,” Ardrian said warningly, as he watched Ser Rufus’s hand tighten on the hilt of his sword on his belt.

“No,” Lord Clarence shot back. “I think Lord Staunton speaks very much like a man who wants a thousand loyal men as far away from Rook’s Rest as possible—the same men he did not move to help when their was a army marching through his lands to reach them. For reasons only known to him, and the Seven.”

Before his Lord could reply, Ser Rufus stepped forward from behind his lord’s chair.

“You cannot mean that, my Lord.” the man said, his tone as hard as steel.

Every eye in the room turned toward him.

“My lord sent his all levies to join Prince Rhaegar’s host,” Ser Rufus said, his voice hard. “His own son—my goodson marched with the Royalist host to the Trident. He fought loyally beside Prince Rhaegar at the Trident. House Staunton, and my Lord have always served House Targaryen loyally.”

Silence followed in the solar, after Ser Rufus’s words. 

Then it all clicked into place for Ardrian.

His eyes flicked from Ser Rufus to Lord Symond.

The son—the heir.

There had not been any from the Royalist side that had returned from the Trident. 

It all made sense to him now.

Lord Symond did not know of his son’s fate.

For all he knew, the boy could be lying dead somewhere along the banks of the Trident. He could be rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere in the Riverlands. Or he could be languishing in a rebel dungeon awaiting ransom.

Ardrian did not know much of the boy except his name, and of his marriage to Ser Rufus’s daughter. He vaguely remembered hearing whispers at court around two years ago. The marriage had supposedly been arranged to draw House Harte away from Prince Rhaegar’s faction and closer to the King’s own faction.

If the lad had indeed perished at the Trident, Lord Symond’s only heir would be his infant grandson. 

Suddenly the man’s reluctance made perfect sense.

The man was doing precisely what Ardrian himself wished to do.

Wait.

Wait for the Reachmen and the rebels to clash. Wait for the dust to settle, to see which way the winds of war would blow.

Wait before wagering the future of his House upon a cause that might already be lost.

And that, Ardrian suspected, was the true reason Lord Symond did not wish a thousand royalist men inside his walls.

Not because he intended turn cloak, and betray the royalists today.

But because he wished to preserve the option of betraying him tomorrow.

If the Reachmen prevailed, he could point to his loyal service as Master of Laws, and the fact he had sent swords which had been sent to protect his own castle to Duskendale instead, to help the royalist cause and point to the fact he had sent his son to fight for Prince Rhaegar.

If the rebels prevailed once again and turned their attention northward, he could claim that he had never admitted a royal host into his castle after the Trident, nor had he interfered in any activities of any rebel force in the northern crownlands—he could have hindered they Frey march against the Cracklaws which he didn’t. He had followed the letters Eddard Stark had sent out after the Trident, to all Lords of the Crownlands word to word—had not interfered, or caused any hinderance to the movement of any Rebel forces.

He was playing the waiting game. A sensible move.

Under different circumstances, Ardrian might even have admired the man. But unfortunately for the man, it did not suit his plans if he were to have to march farther south until the Reachmen and the rebels had settled matters between themselves. 

His gaze settled upon the Lord of Rook’s Rest.

No, he did not plan to march any farther. Lord Symond Staunton was going to open his gates, for Ardrian and the Cracklaw men.

One way or the another. 

“My lord,” Ardrian began slowly, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room. “You must forgive Lord Clarence, he meant no offense. The men of Cracklaw Point are not known for their control over their tongues.”

Lord Clarance scoffed softly beside him. Ardrian ignored him, and continued on.

“These are uncertain times. News travels slowly. Rumors travel quickly. Men do not know who lives and who dies.”

Lord Symond’s expression did not change.

“The Trident was a bloody affair,” Ardrian said somberly. “Many noble souls of the Crownlands rode there. Many have not yet returned home.”

Ardrian noticed, Lord Symond’s fingers curling into fists. So did Ser Rufus.

“My lord,” Ser Rufus said carefully.

Ardrian pressed on, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“But you misunderstand my position, my lord.” His voice hardened a little. “I did not come here asking whether Rook’s Rest requires a garrison. I came here carrying the orders of the King, to secure the castle. If I leave Rook’s Rest ungarrisoned after being commanded to secure it, and move to Duskendale instead—which Lord Velaryon has been tasked to secure—without the leave from Dragonstone. I will be the one forced to answer to Dragonstone.”

Ardrian kept his gaze locked with Lord Staunton.

“If anything were to happen to you, My Lord it would makes us all the more answerable,” Ardrian continued. “After all, you sat upon King Aerys’s Small Council for most of his reign. You served as his Master of Laws. Whatever the rebels may say about pardons for all those who don’t resist. But men do not simply forget such things.”

He spread his hands.

“The rebels will certainly remember who you are, and more certainly Eddard Stark will remember, you served as the Master of Laws when his father, and brother were executed by King Aerys.”

Lord Symond’s face went still.

Behind him, Ser Rufus shifted uncomfortably.

“Eddard Stark, will remember you were the one who declared His Grace had acted within his rights.” Ardrian pressed on carefully, his eyes remained fixed on Lord Staunton.

There it was. The first flash of uncertainty on the man’s face gone as soon as it had appeared.

But Ardrian had caught it—the first crack was there.

“I spoke according to the law,” Lord Symond replied coolly.

“Aye,” Ardrian agreed. “But the Rebels won’t care for that.”

He did not agree with it in truth. There was nowhere in the laws that said the King could break such a sacred tradition—as Trial by Combat—at his own whim. King Aerys had broken the centuries old tradition, and there would be no justifying it to the rebels, who—if they won against the Reachmen—would come after all those who had been involved in any way with the slaughter that had taken place in King’s Landing—especially with Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn at the helm, both men who had lost family in that slaughter.

Ardrian just needed to put it into Lord Symond’s head, that if he was planning to turn cloak he might not be as well received in the rebel camp as he hoped.

“If you were some minor landed knight, the rebels might overlook you. If you were some hedge lord from the backwoods of the Crownlands, perhaps your name would pass unnoticed amidst the chaos that has consumed the realm,” Ardrian pressed on. “But you are Lord Symond Staunton. The man who counselled King Aerys for the majority of his reign. You sat the Small Council. You were his Master of Laws, and one of his closest advisors.”

Lord Symond’s expression remained carefully neutral, though Ardrian noticed the man’s jaw tighten slightly in worry.

“Men remember such things.”

Silence.

Ardrian allowed it to linger for a few moments.

“I think those at Dragonstone know your value as well. The Queen Regent could have ordered us elsewhere, there are other castles in the Crownlands, that require guarding.” 

All lies from what they knew all castles, south of Rook’s Rest to King’s Landing with the sole exception of Duskendale had most likely surrendered to the Rebel forces when they marched to King’s Landing. 

He gestured lightly toward the letter resting upon the desk.

“Instead, she ordered us here.”

Lord Symond said nothing.

“To secure Rook’s Rest. To secure one of the crown’s most loyal councillors, because she likely knows men like Eddard Stark won’t forget to wreck vengeance on you.” Ardrian finished.

A heavy, suffocating silence returned to the solar. 

Ardrian stood up, and walked to the window, looking down at the yard. 

"You speak of Duskendale as if it offers safety," Ardrian said, his back to the room. "But if I take my men and leave, you are left behind with nothing but a measly garrison and a reputation that the rebels have already condemned to the block. If I stay, I am a shield. If I leave, I fear the rebels might send another force in this part of the Crownlands. And this time around there will be no Cracklawmen, for them to hunt, and they might turn their eyes on one of the men they hold responsible for being loyal, and following the will of their rightful King."

Ardrian could feel the eyes of Lord Symond Staunton, boring into the back of his head but he did not turn around. Instead, lifting his eyes to look at the ramparts of the castle, and then beyond to where the thousand Cracklawmen were standing outside the castle, their spears like a forest of iron.

The former Master of Laws might have been a lickspittle, but he was an intelligent enough man by all accounts. And intelligent enough men always understood a threat when it was dressed as concern.

At last, Lord Symond leaned back in his chair.

“I see,” he said quietly.

Ardrian put his head over his shoulder.

“I am glad, my lord.”

Another silence settled over the solar.

Lord Symond’s fingers drummed against the oak desk before becoming still.

“You paint a grim picture.”

“I paint the picture before us,” Ardrian replied, completely turning around now. “Nothing more, Starks do not have a history of being merciful. Especially to those they hold responsible for any grievance. Take Cregan Stark during the Hour of the Wolf; he punished every soul he held responsible for the murder of King Aegon the Second. Despite the fact that those men had done that to prevent the continuation of this war, and to save the son of the Queen, Lord Cregan had been fighting for. I have no doubt Eddard Stark, will be just as unrelenting. He will let bygones be bygones for peace. Nay, he will hunt down all those who he holds responsible for the deaths of his father, and brother.”

Lord Symond let out a slow breath through his nose.

Ardrian continued before anyone else could speak.

“With King Aerys gone, you will be the primary target of Stark’s ire. If he sends his forces here, trust me Rook’s Rest will be glad of a thousand loyal swords within its walls.”

Lord Symond’s jaw tightened.

He knew as well as Ardrian did that there was no answer to that.

“Very well,” Lord Symond said resignedly “The gates of Rook’s Rest shall be opened.”

Lord Clarence grinned like a wolf.

Ardrian merely inclined his head.

“A wise decision, my lord.”

Lord Symond gave a humorless chuckle.

“Let us hope history agrees with you.”

283 AC—Ruby Ford, The Riverlands

The Trident was running slower this morning.

It’s waters were calm now. So unlike the day of the battle when the water had been rushing, and lapping against the stones. To Ned it felt as if the River had calmed itself down now that the Battle was over.

Ned stood exactly where it had happened.

Where he had killed Rhaegar Targaryen.

He hadn’t meant to come here—when he had left his tent this morning. Not really.

His wounds had finally healed enough that he could ride now—so he had decided to go for a ride to stretch his legs. His recovery period had left him restless—days spent within his tent, buried in councils with the lords as they planned for the aftermath of the war. And when he was not holding council, there were always more lords waiting for his attention, each with their own demands.

In the past days since the battle Ned had hardly had a moment to himself.

So the moment the Maester had cleared him to ride, Ned had grabbed his horse and rode out. Alone, save for a guard he had ordered to keep distance.

They would resume their march in two to three days, as soon as Lord Royce arrived with his host at the Crossroads inn, and sent word to them. The man had marched faster than expected and would reach them far earlier than anyone had expected of him.

He and Jon had decided that, instead of having the man join them at their camp, they would meet him south of the Trident, to resume their march to the capital.

They were leaving around twenty eight hundred men still too wounded to march at the Trident—under the command of, Helman Tallhart, Jonos Bracken and the new Lord Lyonel Corbray—all Lords too wounded to continue the march South with them.

They would be taking around thirteen thousand men still fit for fighting  to join Lord Royce’s eight thousand men, and resume their march. 

And then Ned would be busy again—with more lords vying for his attention.

So he wanted a little time for himself, before he would get busy again

Ned dismounted from his horse, and walked closer towards the Bank.

This is it, he realised.

Where he had killed Rhaegar Targaryen—cleaved his head from brow to crown, and sent his rubies scattering into the river.

Ned stared down at the exact spot where it had happened.

Where he had killed the Mad Bastard.

And had gotten himself stuck on that Throne he had never wanted, and put a burden on both himself and his line.

He was Ned Stark, second born son of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell. He'd never meant to be Lord of Winterfell much less King of Westeros.

A year ago, he hadn’t felt himself ready to be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

But he felt even less ready to be King of Westeros.

He felt that more and more every time they dragged prisoners of the Battle in front of him to give judgement. He’d sent the nobles to the stocks, and the lowborn men had been set to the grim task of sorting the dead from the battlefield.

Ned shook his head, forcing himself out of his thoughts, and turned his eyes back to the river.

The morning sun was shining down on the riverbed.

As he stared down at the river, he felt a dull ache rise in his side from the last wound Rhaegar had given him.

Tracing his fingers along his side, Ned felt the uneven ridge of bandages underneath his doublet he knew there was a uneven ridge flesh that now marked his torso underneath his bandages. The Maester had explained that Rhaegar’s blade had carved a path from the very bottom of his rib cage down to just above his hip, narrowly sparing the deep oblique muscles that allowed a man to twist in the saddle or turn with a blade, and how they had been spared the worst of it, and how his muscles hadn’t gotten too damaged. He had claimed that Ned was lucky—that if those muscles had been damaged it would have been a disaster. Ned could still ride, and would be back in his full fighting skills within a moon—so there would be no lasting damage to his body except for the scarring it had left. Ned would always have a scar running from the bottom of his ribs to his hip—the last gift from the Prince of Dragonstone.

Ned’s eyes stared down at the river, this was where it had happened.

The riverbed glinted.

At first, he thought it was due to sunlight that shone down on the water.

Then, he saw it.

A flash of deep, red crimson under the water.

A ruby. It was lying between two grey stones, flashing due to the sunlight.

Nay, Rubies. There were so many of them.

Scattered like droplets of frozen blood under the water. Deep red, catching the light in a way that felt… wrong.

The way they glowed it felt…. wrong. 

It almost seemed as though they were not reflecting the sunlight at all, but glowing with a light of their own—something from inside the rubies themselves. 

Ned frowned, stepping closer.

Rhaegar’s armor, he remembered. It had rubies on the chest plate. 

The rubies-studded armour had cracked when Ned’s sword had pierced Rhaegar’s chest—he remembered that clearly. Then they had flown. He had seen them scatter, when Rhaegar’s body had fallen from his Horse.

But still….. these shouldn’t be here.

Jon had sent men to look for Rhaegar’s body but they had been unable to recover it—saying it must have drifted away with the river currents. If that was the case the Rubies should have went with the current as well.

Ned stepped into the shallows, the cold water soaked through his boots. But Ned kept stepping forward till he stood ankle-deep in the water.

He crouched down, his hand reaching down into the cold water.

His fingers brushed against the cold sand in the river, his fingers closed in but as the ripples of his movement touched the spot, the red light vanished.

There was nothing but mud and cold water in the water.

He frowned, pulling his hand back out of the river.

A trick of the light, he told himself. His mind was still addled with the milk of poppy he had been given three days ago. So it was his mind playing tricks on him—nothing else.

But he still stood there for a long moment, simply staring at where he had first seen the rubies.

Then, slowly, he rose and turned to walk back to the bank where he had been standing.

“It’s just Milk of Poppy playing tricks on your mind,” he told himself. “The Maester said it could happen.”

He reached the shallows, and turned around again to look into the river.

The rubies were there.

Again.

Clear as sunlight in day.

Exactly where they had been before.

Ned’s felt a chill ran down his spine, and his stomach dropped.

“No…” he murmured.

He walked forward again. Slower this time. More cautious.

This was foolish. He knew it is foolish. But he still walked knee deep into water again.

He crouched down in the water once more.

It again seemed like they were not reflecting the sunlight at all, but glowing with a light of their own—something deep within the rubies themselves. One moment they burned a vivid crimson, bright and alive; the next, that inner light dimmed, fading as if it had never been there… only to return again, pulsing faintly like a burning coal.

The nearest ruby gleamed, crimson and bright.

Ned’s hand hovered just above it, his fingers brushed one—and then the current shifted.

Not violently. Not enough to splash. Just enough that the ruby slipped away, tumbling out of reach like a fish darting from the net.

Ned stilled.

The river calmed again.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. 

He reached again.

The ruby lay still, exactly where it had been.

His fingers closed in—and again, the water moved.

This time, not even enough to ripple the surface. But underneath the water, where his hand was, the current twisted just enough to pull the gem away.

He lunged for it again, his hand closing tight around it—and he withdrew his hand from the water sharply.

But when he opened his fist, his palm was empty.

Nothing.

Only a few drops of cold water was in his fist, trailing down his palm back into the river.

Ned felt a sharp chill crawl down his spine again, and he shivered.

"What in the Seven Hells?” he thought, even though he did not follow them.

He stared at the water. 

The ruby was there again, glowing bright crimson.

Then it was gone.

Ned jerked back into a standing position, and gulped.

“What the fuck is happening here?” 

Ned eyes were fixed on the spot where the ruby had vanished from just as he had tried to grab it.

Gone.

Not swept away, with the water current or anything. 

Gone. 

Simply gone, and disappeared from view. As if it had never been there in the first place.

His jaw tightened as another flicker of crimson appeared under the water at the exact same spot—faint at first, then brightening into deep red crimson, as though something inside it had burned suddenly.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost looked as if the light pulsed.

Like a heartbeat.

Ned’s stomach dropped, and he felt the hair on the back of neck stand.

His eyes remained locked on the pulsing red glow.

Rhaegar’s rubies.

Rhaegar.

A dark thought crept up in his mind, completely unbidden and of its own accord.

What if they are not just rubies?

Ned exhaled sharply, his eyes locked back onto the river.

The rubies glimmered again, scattered like drops of frozen blood. One shifted—just slightly—though the river above it lay still.

Not due to the current.

It had moved due to something else.

Ned felt the chill return, crawling slowly up his spine.

What if they hold his soul?

He thought about it for a moment. What if the Gods had cursed him?

Cursed his soul, bound it to the rubies which could not be moved from the place where he had died.

Ned clenched his fist.

It would be a fitting punishment for the man—who had kidnapped a fourteen year old girl, and taken her away from her family. Despite the fact he already had a wife, and two children with her.

The mad cunt’s actions had lead to the deaths of his father and brother.

And had played a part in starting this damned war.

It was fitting if the Gods had trapped his soul here, and simply left his soul to rot here as punishment for his crimes.

“Your soul…” he asked bitterly. “Is that it, Rhaegar? Too cursed to enter even the Hells? Is that why the gods left you here? Trapped in your own rubies? To forever be trapped here unable to leave, but fully able to watch?”

The ruby flickered again. It pulsed brighter as if acknowledging his question.

Then the light dimmed.

Ned took a step back.

Then another.

And another.

Till he stood only in ankle deep water.

Ned shook his head sharply. Whether it was sorcery, or some trick of his own weary mind, he wanted no part in it.

He forced himself to turn fully, boots crunching against the water as he made his way back towards the river bank.

But he still felt watched from behind.

Not by any man. That wasn’t it. 

It felt like a presence, who knew about him. Who was judging him.

He did not look back.

He would not allow himself to look back.

•••

He looked back as soon as he was on the riverbank.

The rubies were gone.

The river ran clear.

Then something red flickered again under the water.

Ned’s breath hitched.

"Your Grace!"

The shout came from behind him.

Ned jumped, his hand flying to the hilt of the knife on his belt. Before he remembered where he was.

A young squire stood a few paces behind Ned, beside Ned’s horse.

“Your Grace,” the boy repeated, dropping into a hurried bow. “Lord Royce has arrived with his host at the Crossroads Inn.”

Ned blinked once, before grounding himself in the present and, forcing the river—and whatever was in it—out of his mind.

“Has he sent word?” he asked, this was a pleasant surprise they had been expecting Yohn to arrive tommorow.

“Yes, Your Grace. And—” the boy hesitated, swallowing. “And… there is news.”

Ned’s expression hardened.

“From where?” Ned asked, crisply.

“Seagard, and King’s Landing, Your Grace.” the boy answered nervously.

“Speak.”

The boy shook his head. “Lord Arryn didn’t say what it was. Just told me to find you, and say it is urgent. And that it must be told to you directly.”

Ned frowned, it had to be serious otherwise Jon would not have sent word with the boy.

“…very well,” he said at last. “Take me to Lord Arryn.”

The squire turned at once, hurrying back the way he had come.

Ned followed—but before he left the riverbank, he paused.

His eyes flicked to the water again.

The river flowed gently. It was empty, and there was nothing in it—completely clean.

Then something flickered, under the surface of the water again—something red.

Ned jerked his head forward, and began walking away without looking again.

A/N:—

I will have the next chapter out after 13th June. And will try to give you guys a rough timeline of events I have created.

I owe apologies to both ArvidtheGreat, and OctoberApples told them both in the comment section that I would be updating earlier but kinda took longer than expected 😅😅😅.

PS: Special Thanks to BornInTheSecondGeneration for creating this wikibox for King Ned, and for telling me how to make these wikiboxes 😁😁😁. 

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