Author's Note: Hey guys, I am sorry I have not been more active in these past few months; a lot has happened in 2020 leading into the new year of 2021, including personal issues, but recently I just bought my own house which included a lot of legal mumbo jumbo and finalization, plus my own place didn't have any WiFi so I had literally no access to the internet before getting Xfinity Comcast Cable + Internet installed (02/14/2021). Hopefully, this means no more hinderances for at least a while.

—Near the Riverlands—

Riding down the high road along the Mountains of the Moon, Daemon and Samson were accompanied by Ser Petyr to officially begin their first task of uniting Westeros. The young Prince's uncle and Master of Ships, Jacaerys, had already ventured to Gulltown by himself to rally his armada against his tyrannical elder nephew's fleet. Jaqoros remained in the Vale to oversee the rebel spy network. As for Petyr, he received two vital tasks from Sharra and the other high lords of the Vale: evaluate the sincerity of Prince Daemon's intentions, and partly to ensure neither Daemon nor Samson tried anything stupid.

Admittedly, the travel itself was as dangerous as the task itself: shadowcats and Vale hill mountain clans, the trio had their armaments ready. Swords, lance, musket rifles, and pistols… Ser Petyr's knowledge of the high road proved useful not only for traveling safely but to effectively bypass General Gerion Lannister's massive armies.

"It won't be long until we reach the Riverlands now," Petyr mentioned.

"Any signs of the Lannisters?" Samson inquired.

"No. Not yet, General. Still… I recommend exercising extreme caution. King Argilac has placed quite a hefty bounty on all our heads, yours included."

"Let my brother try," Daemon replied rather curtly. "The more he tightens his grip, the more support he will lose. It's only a matter of time before his efforts implode."

Now normally Samson would ignore such a comment, but the way Daemon responded was unnerving. He had heard rumors surrounding his protégé and royal he had declared allegiance to and the new Lady of the Eyrie Sharra Arryn; but they were just that: rumors. Whether they had merit, Samson guessed that Daemon's thoughts would hinder his overall growth. And that was something this revolution could not afford right now—not with the civil war going on all around them. For this revolution to succeed, Daemon needed a clear judgment and to think rationally. He was still young, Samson knew that, but he had yet to test himself in the actual field of battle. By the time the trio appeared from the High Road entrance, they heard the distinctive sound of a fast-flowing stream of water.

"Is this…?" Daemon inquired.

"Yes, lad. We're no longer in the Vale," Samson confirmed. "We're on the eastern skirts of the Riverlands. I'd said we're nearing the Trident river."

Petyr nodded. "You hear the stories about the Trident, even as far as the Fingers. Around 842 years ago, it was said that the fate of all Westeros would be decided here at this very place. The Battle of the Trident. Our forefathers back then consisted predominantly of soldiers of the North, Vale, Stormlands and the Riverlands as the Reach and Dorne still supported King Aerys II the Mad of House Targaryen."

"I remember reading about it at the university libraries. And the lectures from Grand Maester Asten."

"Correct. Your ancestor Robert Baratheon led an army comprising around 35,000 men in total—compared to the Mad King's 40,000. But what Robert's forces lacked in numbers, they made up for in battlefield experience. As the battle progressed with both sides showing no signs of gaining any ground, your ancestor fought Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat. Although Rhaegar wounded Robert, the Baratheon warlord proved too much and delivered the killing blow with his monstrous warhammer—caving in Rhaegar's breastplate so hard it shattered his rubies all around."

Daemon hummed. "And thus, sealed the fate of House Targaryen and the ascension of my house to the throne. Of course, if my ancestor had not won that day, House Baratheon would not be where it stands today. Or all of us. Our houses since that day had been intertwined."

"Just as we are now," Petyr noted. "But it's the Baratheons fighting each other this time."

"It's been long overdue. I should have done something about my brother a long time ago than just sit back in fear and do nothing like a small, helpless child." Not just for what he did to me, but to the people of the realm… and to Sharra.

"You're doing so now," Samson reassured him. "Try not to be too hard on—"

"Wait! Look over there! Smoke!" Petyr exclaimed with an alarm.

Samson and Daemon immediately turned in the direction Petyr was pointing at and both expressed surprise to see an enormous cloud of smoke emanating from several yards away, showing trouble was nearby. Clicking their tongues, all three motioned for their horses to speed up along the kingsroad down the Ruby Ford of the Trident. It was a long ride, but something would forever sear the scene that greeted them into their brains for a long time.

Upon arriving, it was a scene of total carnage. What was once the historical tourist attraction, the Inn at the Crossroads was reduced to a smoldering husk with burning embers still present; bodies of civilians—men, women, and children—laid about in a mass pileup near mass graves. It wasn't just murder; it was an outright slaughter.

"Oh my Gods…" Daemon gasped. He felt a tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"Not even the children were spared. What level of atrocity," Samson examined the slaughter.

"Professor, is there… is there a chance someone—anyone—could still be alive?"

"I don't think so, lad. Whoever did this must have made sure there was little to no room left for doubt."

"But who? Who could have done this?"

You'll only need one guess, Samson thought. His gut instinct suspected it was the Lannisters, but no banners were flying, no soldiers anywhere… Whatever came through here, they just missed it. But Samson found footprints trekking through the mud nearby; they aligned in near-perfect unison, side-by-side in marching formation as he examined the corpses. "Some stabs, puncture wounds… Likely caused by swords or lance. I see some gashes on the hands as well… one of the sorry bastards tried to fight back. Had no chance."

"Why would…?"

Petyr was the furthest off, lowering his head in silent prayer. He wasn't religious, but the Brotherhood of Winged Knight soldier felt it courteous to the fallen. A lot of these bodies would need a proper burial, their next of kin notified… if they had any at all. But as he rose, he saw a slight movement out of the corner of his left eye.

"H-help… m-me…" the man gasped. He was bloodied; badly wounded and his uniform torn.

Petyr rushed over the examined the silent cry for help. As he raised the man's head, his eyes widened with disbelief. His uniform—although torn—matched the sigil of House Arryn; light-blue coloring with feathers donned upon his sleeve. It was him! This is the man they've been looking for.

"HEY! We got a live one!" he shouted.

Daemon and Samson immediately snapped their heads towards Petyr and rushed over as fast as they could. Both men knelt beside the dying man as he gargled and gasped for air.

"It's him! It's Ambassador Tycho." Petyr returned his attention to him.

"S… Ser P-Petyr…?" Tycho gasped.

"Yes, friend. It's me. Don't worry. We've got some bandages in our pack. We'll get you patched up and—"

Samson examined him closely. "Multiple stab wounds caused by repeated knife strikes. Chest, stomach, intestines… even some lacerations near the femoral artery. I'm sorry, Petyr, but your ambassador doesn't have much time left."

"But—!"

"N-no… He-he's right. I… I've lost too much blood… Th-there were so many…"

"I'm sorry we couldn't get here fast enough," Daemon pressed his hands on the open wounds. "Please, tell us what you know…. If you can."

Tycho felt disoriented; if these were going to be his last words, then he'd put them to use and pass on his knowledge—even if the information he possessed could be one day vital. "L… Lady Arryn sent me to… to negotiate an alliance… with-with Edmyn Tully… th-the Lord of Riverrun and…. L-Lord Paramount of the Trident."

"Lady Myranda was his sister and heir and Riverrun's representative at parliament."

"Y-yes… Wh-when we heard of… of her execution, Lady Arryn suspected… the Vale would be targeted next. So she… she tasked me with th-this mission. Without the Riverlands' fertile farmlands… our people will starve."

"And Argilac and Gerion's troops will continue to march unopposed until all who stand against them are laid to waste," Petyr suspected.

"Y-yes…"

Damn you, brother. Damn you to the deepest corner of the Seventh Hell! Daemon felt himself growing increasingly more disgusted the more he hears it. "But… what happened here?"

Tycho turned to the Prince. "I… stopped only for a day's rest… But then I heard screaming…!"

"Easy, easy," Samson hushed. "Don't force yourself too much. Now, calmly explain to us what you just saw."

"Ser Loreon Lannister and h-his men ambushed us… Th-they lined us all up… demanded answers when we had none… then they started…. killing everyone! Burned the whole inn to the ground! The inn owner's lad tried to stop them, but… Ser Loreon cut him down like he w-was nothing. He wasn't even armed…"

Daemon turned to Samson. "Who is this Ser Loreon?" he asked.

"General Gerion Lannister's son and a major in the Royal Army," he answered. "Pompous and arrogant, he is the heir to his father's lands and titles. But don't be fooled: Loreon is an experienced battle commander, and his skill with a blade is not to be trifled with as he's easily worth the strength of 20 men. The man is a dangerous warrior—which is why none are to face him in one-on-one combat."

"P-Please…" Tycho pleaded; his energy was quickly fading. "…without an alliance, I… I fear what will happen to… to my countrymen. I… I failed Lady Arryn…"

"No, you didn't fail anyone," the Prince interjected. "We're not done yet. We'll finish your mission for you. What's the quickest route to Riverrun from here?"

"And we need to do so without running into the bulk of the Lannister army," Samson agreed.

The dying ambassador slowly raised a hand. "T-that way," he directed, pointing his finger west. "F-follow the Red Fork… and y-you can approach R-Riverrun… from behind," he choked before handing the group a scrolled-up parchment sealed with wax. "Take this… Deliver it to… to Lord Edmyn."

Daemon nodded. "We'll deliver the message to Lord Tully… or die trying. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New, my lord ambassador. We'll get you and the Vale into this alliance."

"T-Thank you. And… tell… tell Lady Arryn… I-I'm sorry…" he gasped before finally slumping over; his body was completely lifeless. It was a miracle he even lasted this long, despite his wounds.

Petyr stood. He gripped his double-edged longsword tightly; the falcon-head pommel barely tapping the side of his silvered plate armor. "You will be avenged, wise sage. May the Father judge you justly, Lord Ambassador Tycho of House Corbray," he stood. "King Argilac will pay for this outrage!"

'Av… enge… us' were the words of the late Lord Grandison echoing through his head as a reminder of hs elder brother's atrocities. Daemon stood. "Yeah, well, get in line," he huffed. "My hatred for my brother runs far deeper than yours."

"ENOUGH!" Samson stood to his feet. "There will be no quarreling between you two. You heard what the late ambassador said. There's another route to Riverrun from here that'll get us there without us ever acccidently running into the Lannsiter forces. Without an alliance, the Riverlands and Vale of Arryn have no chance. The realm will continue to suffer at Argilac's hands. Even our fleets cannot hold them off forever, and we need more men if we're to form a veritable army united behind one leader with a singular purpose. We can't do that if we're constantly at each other's throats! So, we're not. Fighting. Each other. Anymore! Do I make myself clear?"

Both Daemon and Petyr flinched at the professor's booming, commanding tone. "Yes, General," they said simultaneously.

Samson sighed. "Not much we can do for these people… and any burial will be too time consuming. If we hurry, we should reach Riverrun in less than a day and a half."

"If the horses last the long-forced march."

"It's risky, so let's make this count…."

—At Harrenhal—

Within the ruins of Harrenhal, the largest castle in Westeros, the golden lions of House Lannister hung on the walls as soldiers loyal to King Argilac and General Gerion drank a toast in celebration of their triumph over the rebels. The Battle at Harrenhal ended with an overwhelming victory for the loyalists; almost the entire rebel forces were utterly wiped out, including some defectors and other high-ranking officers loyal to House Tully.

Every child of the Trident knew the tales told of Harrenhal, the vast fortress that King Harren the Black had raised beside the waters of Gods Eye nearly one thousand years ago, when the Kingdom of Westeros today had been seven individual realms, and the Riverlands were ruled by the ironborn from the Iron Islands. In his pride, Harren had desired the highest hall and tallest towers in all Westeros. 40 years it had taken, rising like a great shadow on the shore of the lake while Harren's armies plundered his neighbors for stone, lumber, gold, and workers. Thousands of captives died in his quarries, chained to his sled, or laboring on his five colossal towers. Men froze by winter and sweltered in summer. Weirwoods that had stood for almost 4,000 years were cut down for beams and rafters. Harren had beggared the Riverlands and the Iron Islands alike to ornament his dream. And when at last Harrenhal stood complete, on the very day King Harren took up residence, Aegon the Conqueror had come ashore at King's Landing. Harren and all his line had perished in the fires that engulfed his monstrous fortress, and every house that held Harrenhal since had come to misfortune. Strong it might be, but it was a dark place and cursed.

The way the Lannister soldiers sang was almost deafening.

And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.

Seated at the main table with his legs crossed on top, Ser Loreon Lannister confidently sipped his wine as his troops celebrated. Artillery, cavalry, mortar fire… but Loreon's favorite remained to get in close with his longsword Lion's Roar to get the job done; in the battle, he must have felled over 50 men—either by the blade or firing his flintlock.

In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.

"It is a great day, my lord. The rebels have been completely routed," said a Lannister captain, raising his voice enough for his commanding officer to hear him over the singing. "Harrenhal, the strongest castle in Westeros, belongs to us now."

And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,

"And the river lords are wide open to attack. Still… a tad bit disappointing, it was too easy. No challenge at all," Loreon replied, feeling bored. "What else do you have to report, captain?"

"We found Lord Edmyn Tully, my lord."

"Good. Bring him to me."

"I… he's dead, ser. Mortar fire while we laid siege," he replied. He had his men bring forth a stinky bundle, reeking of decomposition and ash. With a snap of his fingers, the bag unfolded—unveiling dismembered body parts. "This is what's left of him."

Loreon's face scrunched at the stench. "Mmm!" he then spotted Tully's signet ring on a dislocated finger. "Yes, that's him alright. The sorry old man never stood a chance against the realm's finest. Now the river lords are without their trout master, they'll be completely helpless against us lions. The Riverlands are now ripe for the taking."

"Yes, my lord—"

A messenger then ran into the room. "Pardon the interruption, sers!" he apologized.

"What is it now?" inquired Loreon.

"Our scouts have just reported back. Private Enslin informed us that the Northmen have crossed the Neck. They're on their way here."

"How many men?"

"About 40,000 troops, ser; including cannons and mortars. They are under the command of Ser Rodrick Stark and his brother Ser Brandon Stark."

The wolf who ran away now returns with his pack. "Ahh, the Winter Wolves – the fiercest, most ferocious fighting force in the North. The finest warriors House Stark has ever produced… and the traitors who fled King's Landing avoiding King Argilac's justice," Loreon smirked. "Which way are they heading?"

"To Riverrun, ser."

But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.

Loreon initially made a blank expression before shifting into a serious one, full of confidence in his chances at acquiring yet another military victory and the opportunity to face-off against the heir to Winterfell, Ser Rodrick Stark. Stark is one of the North's strongest warriors who were once its prominent politicians at parliament before its dissolution but was luckily one of the very few to escape captivity and return home to muster a large army to march south. Named after the Northmen who supported the claim of Rhaenyra Targaryen centuries ago, the Winter Wolves were considered the North's elite military forces who led the vanguard of every major campaign; to put on the wolf pelt was considered a great honor.

Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,
and not a soul to hear.

The Lannister knight rose from his seat abruptly, causing the singing to immediately stop. "The wolf rushes into the lion's jaws. So be it," he said. His confidence even suggested he was well and truly capable of defeating both the Tullys and Starks in one fell swoop. "Captain, command the drummers beat assembly. I want a full night's march before the rebels know we're on the move."

"Yes, my lord," the officer replied.

"And send word to the capital. Tell my father and His Grace that I'm moving against Rodrick Stark."

"At once, my lord."

Once the officer sprang out of the room, Loreon stared at his men. "Listen up!" he commanded, causing his troops to immediately fall into line. "We have those rebel scum on the run. Scattered, bloodied, broken… but the hunt is not over yet. Let no man forget how menacing we are! We are lions! The Lion's Pride!"

"Lion's Pride, a'ooo!" they rallied.

"You see that outside these walls?" he pointed his blade out the window beyond the horizon. "Glory! Immortality! Our victory will be carved in stone, forever recorded in the annals of history! Take it! It's yours!"

"A'ooo! A'ooo!"

"Now… the time has come to crush this uprising once and for all. All forces to Riverrun!"

"A'OOO! A'OOO!"

Chapter End

Author's Note: Again, sorry I haven't been active lately but I've completed the next chapter where we are introduced to General Gerion Lannister's son, Ser Loreon. What is your interpretation of him – of his character? As for Prince Daemon… with the Vale's ambassador dead, he'll now have to make the travel to Riverrun himself as a favor to House Arryn to fully gain their support. We even learn that some who were apprehended when Argilac disbanded parliament escaped and came back to support the rebels. How will the expected battle of Riverrun play out? Let me know.