Robert Baratheon was still nding from Ashford, resting in his solar, when a soldier burst in.
"Lord Commander, a host is at our gates. Small, but led by Lord Stark and Lord Arryn."
At once, Robert's grin split wide. His chosen brother, his foster father — finally here. He stood without hesitation. "Take to them."
Patience was never Robert's way.
When they t, his booming laugh filled the air. "At last you're here!" He wrapped both n in a crushing embrace.
They returned it, though more reserved.
"You're well?" Jon Arryn asked, concern in his voice. "I heard you'd taken a wound."
"I'm whole," Robert said. "Ready for war."
"That is good," Arryn replied, grave as always. "We'll need you."
Robert led them inside, but his brow furrowed as he counted heads. "Why so few? Barely six thousand. Trouble in the North? Or in the Riverlands?"
Jon Arryn shook his head. "No — both have answered well. More than expected, even. But the host you see here is deliberate."
Robert looked puzzled until Ned spoke. "I couldn't bring the North myself. Storms scattered — I barely survived. But my brother Artos called the banners in my stead. He commands the bulk of the host now. He gave five thousand to march with Jon, while he turned south toward the Reach."
Robert blinked, chewing on that. "So most of the North follows a boy? And still — these numbers are thin."
Jon Arryn explained the situation: the Crown's army on the move, the trap already being laid.
Robert frowned, doubtful. "A trap, aye. But your brother… fifteen nadays at best? If he falters, if the North breaks, we'll be slaughtered."
"He won't falter," Jon Arryn said firmly. "He's already fought — and won. Outnumbered, he shattered the Reach host and took Mace Tyrell captive. That victory cut the Reach from the Crown. And it was Artos who discovered Connington's march in the first place. Without him, we'd be blind."
Robert's jaw dropped — then he threw back his head and laughed. "By the gods, Ned, you've got an interesting brother. Outnumbered and he wins? Takes Mace bloody Tyrell? What a Stark to have at your back!"
Ned only smiled. "He's a Stark. That's enough."
---
Jon Connington
Twelve to fifteen thousand marched under my banners now. n joined as we passed through the Crownlands, eager to prove loyalty to the King. I would repay their faith with victory.
Stony Sept lay ahead, small, weak, and ripe for the taking.
"Prepare the n," I ordered. Knights carried my words down the lines.
The army moved with the confidence of wolves closing on a lamb. A tiny town, flimsy walls — we would break them easily.
We began the assault without hesitation.
And walked straight into hell.
---
Eddard Stark
From the woods we watched them. The traps were set, the n hidden, every bowstring drawn.
"Hold," I commanded, my voice carrying steady.
The Crown's n advanced, oblivious. When they reached the mark, my hand rose.
"Loose!"
A storm of arrows answered. From the front, from the flanks — the sky blackened, and n fell screaming in droves.
The enemy wavered, stumbling under the storm. Now was the ti to drive them back.
"Forward!" I roared, leading Northn and Valen in the charge. Steel crashed against steel, and I cut down the first man before he could raise his shield. The line broke, blood and panic spilling with every blow.
---
Jon Connington
A trap. Gods damn it. My n reeled under arrow-fire, but we still had numbers. The losses were bloody, but not ruinous.
I could salvage this. Better to pull back, regroup, strike again with order.
"Retreat!" I bellowed, rallying knights to cover the withdrawal. We'd fall back, draw them out, bleed them on ground of my choosing.
But fate had other plans.
---
Artos Stark
Through Rick's eyes I saw it — my brother at the front, fighting like a true Stark of Winterfell. He was ice in the storm, cutting through n as though they were straw. Pride swelled in . He would be a good Lord.
Then I saw it — the Crown's banners pulling back.
I blinked back into myself. Howland Reed stood beside , waiting.
"They're retreating," I told him. "Prepare the archers."
He nodded and slipped away. I mounted, riding to the waiting host. My turn was coming.
---
Howland Reed's n lay hidden, bows in hand, the air tight with anticipation.
Reed raised his arrows. "Draw."
Strings pulled back.
"Loose!"
Thousands of shafts tore through the sky, raining down on weary, retreating n. Their relief turned to terror in an instant.
Bodies fell like cut wheat. The trap had snapped shut.
---
Jon Connington
What in the seven hells. One trap, then another. My retreat turned to slaughter.
The n faltered, hope draining. I could see it — despair spreading like plague.
"Hold fast!" I shouted, forcing steel into my voice. "We fight for the King! For the Seven! For our Prince!"
So rallied, but it was thin resolve. And then I saw them — riders. Heavy cavalry thundering down, the ground shaking beneath their charge.
Panic spread. The n scread. This wasn't the rabble we expected. This was the whole rebellion, waiting for us.
The intelligence had been wrong — or betrayed. Riverrun, the North, the Vale — all here. Impossible, unless soone had whispered our march.
Damn them all. Damn the King for his unpopularity, damn the traitors, damn this cursed field.
But I still had a duty. For my Silver Prince.
If I could cut down the rebel leaders — that northern boy — I could still turn this.
Then the charge hit.
---
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