As the din of victory gradually faded, the casualty count brought heartbreaking news.
The smug expression on Lord Mace Tyrell's face froze and shattered the mont he heard the report. His nephew, the young Ser Quentin Tyrell, had charged bravely in the initial lee, only to fall in battle.
Mace hurried to the young body laid out on a cloak, his portly figure stumbling slightly. He dismissed his attendants and crouched alone, using a trembling hand to close Quentin's unseeing eyes. In this mont, he was not the grandiose Warden of the South, but simply a grieving uncle.
"Foolish boy... why such a hurry to et the steel..." he murmured hoarsely, gently brushing the blood and dirt from his nephew's cheek. His movents were incredibly tender as he arranged the body, as if afraid to disturb the young man's long sleep.
When Mace stood up again, his face wore a mask of mixed sorrow and pride. He turned to the surrounding soldiers, his voice booming once more, but now laced with genuine emotion. "Behold! This is the blood of House Tyrell! My nephew, Ser Quentin, showed matchless courage! His bravery will be sung of alongside this battle!"
These words were both a eulogy for his nephew and a tool to boost morale—a skill the Lord of Highgarden excelled at. Yet, it was also full of genuine feeling. As he turned to order a grand burial for Quentin, the loneliness radiating from his broad back was more real than any speech.
Before the smoke at Ashford had even cleared, the curtain of political trading was quietly drawn.
Lord Cafferen—the knight who had been captured at Sumrhall and persuaded to join the rebellion—had ultimately given his life to save his liege from Randyll Tarly's blade, proving his new loyalty in blood. His head was solemnly placed in an exquisite box lined with black velvet by Randyll Tarly, in a manner befitting his station.
While this heavy trophy and an objective battle report were being sent to King's Landing, a ssenger from Highgarden had already departed earlier, carrying a personal letter from Mace Tyrell, racing to the Red Keep.
In the letter, Lord Mace embellished heavily, painting the Battle of Ashford as his own masterpiece of strategy and valor. He claid that his tily arrival with the main host had thunderously intimidated the rebels, and his brilliant command had crushed the arrogant Robert Baratheon in one stroke. Regarding Randyll Tarly's feat of defeating the enemy commander and deciding the victory, as well as Lord Cafferen's true cause of death, the letter rely glossed over it with a single line: "The soldiers under my command fought bravely."
This carefully crafted victory report aid to emphasize one point to the Iron Throne: House Tyrell's loyalty was unbreakable, and he, Mace Tyrell, was the true pillar of the realm. As for the box containing the head, in Highgarden's report, it seed like an inevitable fruit of his wise command. When Randyll Tarly learned of this, he simply looked at Lord Mace, a trace of imperceptible contempt flickering in the corner of his eye.
Robert Baratheon rode north, his defeated army trailing behind him like a wounded python struggling through the mud.
Every hoofbeat sent a throb of pain through the wound in his shoulder and neck. The rough bandages were soaked with blood, drying stiff in the wind like a brand of sha, constantly reminding him of the defeat at Ashford.
The biting wind cut across his cheek, but it couldn't cool the burning heat in his heart.
Robert's thoughts uncontrollably drifted back to the battle. He could clearly see how Randyll Tarly's cavalry moved like an extension of the man himself, that exquisite trident formation tearing his lines apart with precision. Even as the defeated general, a pure, warrior's respect grew in his heart—that man really knows how to fight.
This shred of respect was imdiately swallowed by a fiercer rage. He, Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, had lost in a head-on duel, cut down by that Valyrian steel sword "Heartsbane"! This humiliation burned a hundred tis hotter than the pain of his wound, searing his insides.
Though defeated, there was no depression in Robert's eyes, only a more intense fire. Failure was like a heavy whetstone; instead of dulling his edge, it sharpened his will for revenge. He looked north, where his allies and a wider battlefield awaited.
A warrior's glory could only be reclaid on the battlefield, with enemy blood and total victory.
Robert gripped his reins, silently swearing: Next ti, I will not lose!
Before the dust from the collapse of the Twins had even settled, the coalition led by Euron and Ned surged south along the Green Fork like an unstoppable flood, heading for Riverrun.
When this army, carrying the montum of victory, appeared in the heart of the Riverlands, the drawbridge of Riverrun slowly lowered.
The castle, guarded by rushing rivers, welcod its vital allies. Lord Hoster Tully ca out to et them personally. The Lord Paramount of the Trident was tall and broad, his blue eyes shining with wisdom.
Lord Hoster stood under the high gatehouse of Riverrun. Though ill, his figure remained as straight as a pine. His gaze burned from deep sockets as he gripped Eddard Stark's arm, his voice filled with a long-held relief. "I've waited a long ti. You're finally here."
Eddard Stark's face was calm, a shadow of heaviness passing through his grey, direwolf eyes. He bowed, hand on his chest, and said in a low voice, "My Lord, regarding House Frey, we had to..."
"You should call Father-in-law now!" Hoster raised a hand and shook his head firmly, cutting him off.
"Apologies! Father-in-law." Ned gave a sheepish smile. The sudden change in status and the pressure of war ant he hadn't yet adapted to the new title.
The Lord of the Riverlands, known for his strength and pride, was also a devout follower of the Seven. "Ned, my son by marriage, you need not apologize for a righteous decision and battle." His voice suddenly turned cold, carrying a stern anger. "If I had known Walder Frey dared to sacrifice the blood of pregnant won to an evil god, committing such blasphemy against gods and n, the trout banner of House Tully would have been planted on the ruins of the Twins long before you arrived!"
Standing nearby, Euron Greyjoy smirked. "Pity. That was a lot of toll money and tax revenue, just washed away with the water."
Hoster shot him a cold glance, filled with a noble's characteristic disdain. "Castles and bridges can be rebuilt, but honor and faith cannot be stained. Enough. Let us never speak that nauseating family na again." The chill on his face vanished instantly, replaced by the hospitable smile of a lord. He reached out and draped his arms around the shoulders of both allies. "Co. I have ordered a feast. Victorious warriors deserve fine food and wine. That is the best gratitude to the Seven."
With that, Hoster turned and led them toward the castle.
At the castle gates, Lord Hoster solemnly presided over the ancient ritual. A servant brought a silver platter with bread and salt, presenting it first to Eddard Stark.
Ned's expression was solemn. He broke off a piece of bread, dipped it lightly in the salt, and ate it. Euron followed suit. Though his movents carried a hint of casualness, he did not slight the thousand-year-old tradition.
As the taste of bread and salt lted on their tongues, the sacred guest right took effect.
From this mont on, until they left Riverrun, Lord Hoster was obligated to ensure their safety, and they, in turn, could bring no harm to their host.
In the Great Hall, the air began to fill with the aroma of roasted at and the sweetness of ad.
The banners of the coalition—the Golden Kraken of Greyjoy and the Direwolf of Stark—flew alongside the Silver Trout of Tully on the battlents of Riverrun. Three powers converged under this strong fortress, marking the mont the rebellion against the Targaryen dynasty truly beca a united front.
Eddard Stark and Lord Hoster clasped hands tightly. Between the new Warden of the North and the seasoned Lord of the Riverlands—between son-in-law and father-in-law—no excessive words were needed. A firm alliance had been forged.
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