Author's Note: Me again kiddos.

I hope you enjoy and review this update.

Chapter 16

*word count comparisons will have to take a hiatus until we're back even with the original (but it's for sure more)*

Fatherhood was already fraying his nerves, and his child hadn't even been born yet.

Eddard Stark, simply put, wasn't supposed to be here—Brandon was. Brandon was the one born to lead thousands of Northmen in war. Brandon was supposed to be the Lord Paramount of the North, reigning over the largest region of Westeros and making decisions that affected the health and wealth of tens of thousands of innocents. Brandon was supposed to be married to Catelyn Tully, and to be the father of the heir to the North that currently grew in her. None of it was ever meant to be Eddard.

But I am the one here, however much I wish it were another.

Brandon was dead, strangled to death by his own efforts to save their burning father. Catelyn Tully was heavy with his child, safely—or so he prayed—in the castle of her childhood home. Eddard was here, going to counsel the man trying to take the throne from House Targaryen, leading thousands of hard northerners in these soft lands of summer.

Eddard stepped out into a gentle rain, which was a welcome reprieve from the torrential rain they'd been dealing with over the last few days. He heard the call of sentries as he did so, glancing to see a line of ten mounted men riding through the muddy 'road' in the midst of their camp, a dancing maiden on their tabards. Eddard nodded towards them, speaking to the man walking at his right. "Sometimes I wonder if Piper and Wode have done too good of a job disguising our presence."

Little Lord Howland Reed, the Crannogman Lyanna had befriended in Harrenhal some moons and a lifetime ago, nodded. "I know we needed time to marshal here without the Targaryens knowing, but we are as ready now as we'll ever be."

Eddard grunted agreement, slogging through the mud towards the pavilion of black and gold. It is time to invite the dragons among us. He would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about what that meant, and he hated few things so much as he hated lies. He wasn't ashamed of that fact; Eddard didn't lack bravery, as he'd shown in a handful of skirmishes that he'd personally been a part of. But now there was so…much. So much to worry about, so much to consider. Where he'd once been a second son, the spare to the heir, he was now the leader. The one in charge. The Stark of Winterfell. All of the North was now his responsibility, and hewas near overwhelmed with it. And if he were to die, that same responsibility that crushed a man grown would fall to a babe not yet born.

He thought of the letter in his tent, written by a woman he didn't know. All he knew of Catelyn Tully—Catelyn Stark—came from the words of his now-dead brother and an awkward wedding night, not helped by the fact that he'd left immediately after it to gather his father's—no, his—bannermen. He'd returned to Riverrun a few moons later to find the red haired girl was carrying his child but was still a stranger. He'd only had a few days with her then, waiting for Jon Arryn to join them, before they'd marched away again, towards where Robert Baratheon evaded the men of the Reach and Aelor Targaryen.

It had been as awkward then as it had before. Brandon would have handled the whole ordeal excellently, Eddard knew. He'd know just what to say to a young wife he was unfamiliar with, know how to make her laugh and feel comfortable with him. Ned had not a single clue how to even begin, and it showed in the awkward conversations—or lack thereof—he and his lady wife attempted to have.

But the child she carried…well, that had changed Eddard. It was all he could think about, and the overwhelming sense of protectiveness he felt when he'd placed his hands to her belly made him see the world in a different light. It fascinated him, knowing he'd had a part in creating the tiny life that his wife said thoroughly enjoyed making her heave her stomach empty of the morning. Even now, miles away, it was very nearly all the Northman could think about. Worry continuously nagged at him, fear that something would go wrong with the birth or that the child wouldn't even make it that long nearly driving him to a panic, and Eddard Stark did not panic. It shocked him how much he already cared for his son or daughter. It terrified him to think the danger they would be in if he were to fall or to fail.

Both of which were probable outcomes.

He stepped into the tent to hear the voice of Jon Arryn, the man who had fostered both Ned and Robert and refused to surrender them when Aerys demanded it. The Lord of the Vale was broad shouldered and fair haired, and looked a decade younger than his actual age of three and sixty. Dressed in practical plate—Jon did not care for the ornamental, silvered armor of show that many southerners did—he was the foremost voice of reason among the war council. "Tywin Lannister is still a prisoner in King's Landing," his calm voice said, rain riddling the canvas the war council sat under relentlessly. "But his brother Ser Kevan is leading the remaining Westermen with the loyalist army. It puts their numbers roughly even with our own."

"With a good number being veterans," Bronze Yohn Royce put in, bronze armor resplendent even if rather impractical. "Certainly more than we have."

"Veterans of what, a few slaughters?" Greatjon Umber put in with a short laugh of derision. The giant man with a giant as a sigil had given Eddard a fair amount of trouble when he'd first rallied the banners, but in the recent weeks had seemed to take a shine to the young Lord of the North. He was boisterously loud, but he also had a streak of undying loyalty Eddard hoped he could earn. "They haven't seen true war."

"Maybe not," agreed burly Hoster Tully, Eddard' new goodfather. His hair was going grey, but streaks of it were still as red as Catelyn's, and his eyes were just as blue. Eddard wondered if his child would one day look like this man, if they were male and were given the chance to grow old. "But they've seen more war than our men. The skirmishes we've fought are not true battle."

"My lads have seen war, my lords," chimed in Robert's booming voice, sitting at the head of the table. His closest friend looked like a king, none could deny that. He was tall and broad as a tower and muscled like a bull. That, paired with his gregarious personality, made it very easy to follow him, even for men who weren't close friends, as Eddard was. "For both good and ill in the Stormlands.

"True," Jon said, "But even that is not what we will be facing here. Some of us have seen true battle of large forces during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but this will be the first on Westerosi soil in decades. I think the difference more than you realize, Robert."

Robert nodded, never one to take offence at Jon. "I understand." For a man of such passions, he was difficult to truly offend.

Rhaegar managed though. That's part of why we are here, that and…

The smiling face of his sister settled in Ned's mind. If it weren't for his upcoming child, she'd be the only thing he thought of. I'll find you Lyanna. I promise.

Short and chubby Lord Clement Piper, who commanded their scouts, spoke. "They are on the march, in this general direction. They either suspect where we are or know where we are. They'll be here within the week."

A sense of scared anticipation settled over the tent, but Robert Baratheon smiled. "Justice will soon be carried out, then, on the sons as it was the father."

Ned and Jon Arryn shared a quick glance. Robert, friend though he was, had become nearly unreasonable when it came to the Targaryen family as a whole. The way Ned saw it, their conflict with the royal family was firmly with two men; King Aerys, who had killed Brandon and Rickard, and Rhaegar, who had taken Lyanna. The former was dead now, and Ned wished to see the latter join him in death nearly as much as Robert did, but the rest of them he wasn't so certain of. Aelor, now being called the Dragon of Duskendale, who had come closer to catching Robert in the Stormlands than he would probably ever know, was not of the same ilk as his father. I don't know him well, but he seemed the right sort of man. Brandon, though not friends, spoke highly of Aelor before it all went to hell. Eddard himself had seen the prince's reaction to Rhaegar crowning Lyanna instead of Elia. He'd been angrier than the woman scorned, perhaps even angrier than Brandon had been. The other boy, Viserys, was a child, as was Rhaegar's two children, and the king's mother Rhaella was as much a victim of Aerys as Eddard himself. They share the blood, yes, but they don't share the sins.

Eddard could see it was important that Aelor be removed—he was a man grown and a highly respected warrior, and not the sort to let his family's crown go whilst he had breath in his lungs. But the others, children and a meek woman, were innocents of everything but their parentage.

For Robert, that seemed enough to damn them. Ned was quiet but he wasn't stupid, and he had heard the unspoken implications of why Robert wished Tywin had succeeded. It went beyond the tactical advantage, beyond strategy. Tywin would have handled the Targaryens there the way he had handled the Reynes of Castamere. The very idea made Ned's gut as cold as his homeland.

He was quiet for the rest of the meeting, supplies and reports by the dozens, and as soon as they were dismissed he stepped back out into the rain. Small Howland Reed materialized out of nowhere to walk beside him, the tiny Crannogman having been Eddard's constant companion since Lyanna's abduction. The Lord of the Neck had instantly grown enamored with Lyanna in the way only Eddard's sister could ensnare people, and though Howland was as calm and somber as any man Ned Stark could ever remember meeting, it was clear that he was as concerned with Lyanna's safety as maybe even Ned himself. He also had a way of knowing what was going on in Ned's mind. "It will be hard for Rhaegar or Aelor to tell us where Lyanna is if they are both dead."

Eddard nodded smally, the rain pelting his face and furs as he made his way towards where his Northmen were camped. "Robert has been blinded by his anger."

"You are angry, as am I, my lord, but our goal is the return of your sister over revenge. I had thought it Robert's as well."

The Lord Paramount of the North glanced into the spitting skies, then to the east towards his unborn child. "So had I."

When Howland spoke again his voice was quiet, even for him. "We will find her, my lord."

Ned nodded smally, but he said nothing.

Aelor didn't wait for Ser Arthur to admit him, walking through the tent flap and into the king's pavilion with Oberyn Martell on his heels. "We have an idea."

The king was seated, silver head bare, the red gold crown of their father on the table beside him. He didn't bother to look annoyed at the interruption; he likely knew it would do him no good. "Good morning to you as well."

The Dragon of Duskendale was still too angry and too ashamed to stray from the subject at hand. Focus on why you are here. Shut the rest out. He gestured to the two other men who had entered behind Oberyn, both of average build and with the same dark hair and hawk noses. "Ser Ormund Darry and his squire Raymun Darry, Lord Grover's first and fourth sons respectively." The two young men bowed respectfully, Raymun—four and ten—twisting the hem of his tabard in his hands nervously.

Rhaegar nodded. "It is my pleasure. Your family's loyalty to House Targaryen will not be forgotten." His voice took a quieter tone. "I weep with you for your uncle, Ser Jonothor. He was a good man, and a better Kingsguard."

Ser Ormund, the heir to Castle Darry and a knight of two and twenty, nodded his head. "Thank you, Your Grace. It is our honor to serve."

Oberyn spoke, Dornish accent a smoother contrast to the rural Riverlander lilt. "We have a way to prevent this from being a total slaughter."

That was a lie, really. Aelor had no doubts the upcoming battle would be a slaughter no matter what they did. He only hoped to mitigate it. That other voice, the one that had spoke to him at Harrenhal, spoke again. Mitigate it on our side, at least.

Aelor ignored it, speaking again. "There is another way across the river."

Rhaegar's already serious face hardened in concentration. "Where?"

Aelor gestured to Ser Ormund, who bowed his head again and began speaking. "It's not a true way, Your Grace. It's much too deep for wagons. But these are Darry lands, and my brothers and I know them far better than any Baratheon or Tully." He glanced at his brother. "Raymun knows of a small creek inlet that heads in the middle of the Willow Woods. If we were to follow it up to its source, it'll put us in the woods in the flank of the rebels."

Thankfully Rhaegar seemed very intrigued, though he spoke the voice of reason. "Odds are good they have already found it."

Raymun Darry spoke. "Doubtful." The lad blushed as red as a beet, apparently surprised at his own voice. "I mean Your Grace. Sorry. Your Grace."

Rhaegar waved his apologies away with a hand, turning his violet eyes on the younger lad. "Go on, Raymun."

The king had a way of putting people at ease, Aelor could never deny that. The young lad spoke with a sudden fervor. "It's not easy to see from either the river or the woods. Its banks are high enough that a line of men, going one at a time, could stay hidden until they are close. Even then, the headwater is in a pile of stone with several cuts and bends. Only someone who knows what to look for would think it to be anything more."

Ser Ormund seamlessly took the narrative back from his brother. "We found it on a fox hunt over a year ago, much by accident Your Grace. The willows are heavy for long portions, obscuring the creek. A man and a horse would have Seven Hells own trouble fighting their way through, we found that out quickly, but dismounted men…"

Rhaegar nodded slowly, then looked to Oberyn. "I take it that is where you come in, Prince Oberyn. A man can't swim the river in armor, but you never did like fighting in it anyway."

Oberyn nodded. "I'd like to take three hundred volunteers to swim it and hit them from the flank once the battle begins."

Rhaegar sat back. "Three hundred aren't many, especially if you're unarmored."

"More than that and we run the risk of them knowing we are there before we want them to. We'll still need the men to climb out, prepare, and charge. If we make a lot of noise, they won't know if we are three hundred or thirty thousand, at least not at first."

Aelor spoke. "I'll have fought my way to a foothold on the far bank by then. The distraction and the chaos will give us an advantage when you bring in the infantry."

Rhaegar looked at him, eyes piercing. They hadn't discussed who would lead the charge since their argument, but Rhaegar had seemed to think it would be the king himself. Aelor knew that was horseshit; if anyone was leading the vanguard, it would be Aelor.

The king held his brother's gaze for a long while, then slowly nodded. "Pick your men, Oberyn, but do not make this common knowledge. I do not know there are spies in our midst, but I find it much more likely than there being none. The only men who know what you're doing before you do it is the men in this tent. Am I understood?"

The Darrys both spoke their agreement with gusto. Oberyn and Aelor merely nodded.

The king glanced at the Prince of Dorne. "It is a dangerous role you have given yourself, Prince Oberyn."

The Dornishman sniffed. "These are dangerous times, thanks to the actions of some."

Rhaegar had the audacity to chuckle. "You'll need the best swords we have, though I cannot spare my brother. He seems to insist on leading the vanguard, and I am no fool; he is the one needed there, more than any other." His smile grew. "But I have a different man who might suit you even better." He raised his voice. "Ser Arthur, enter if you would."

The Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, entered the tent at once, swords on his hips. The pommel of Dawn, his family's greatsword, glittered in the torchlight. "Your Grace."

"Find a man of suitable size and skill to wear that white armor, my friend. The enemy will see it by my side and assume it is you, but you will be ready to unleash hell like only you can upon them. Is this agreeable?"

"Or course, Your Grace," Ser Arthur said slowly. "Though I hesitate to leave you."

Rhaegar smiled at his longtime companion. "If they know Arthur Dayne is in the rear, the rebels will panic. I need that panic even more than your formidable protection."

Aelor listened as the details were hashed out among the Kingsguard, king and Dornish prince. He approved of the move to be sure. Aelor was good with a sword, better than good, perhaps better than most of the Kingsguard, but Aelor knew the truth; while he might give Arhtur trouble were they to cross swords, the Dragon of Duskendale would not emerge the victor. Rhaegar has the right of it. His blades may well be all the advantage we need.

It was a hopeful thought. A foolish one, for they would need more than just the prowess of one man, however formidable he may be. But Aelor let it fill him for a moment anyway.

As the others spoke, Aelor looked out into the dawn light as the first rays of sun—blessed sun—rose from behind the trees. He wondered if Elia was looking at that same sunrise.

Silently he prayed this ploy would let him live long enough to ask.

A/N: Spoilers

For you readers of the original, I've decided to go ahead and split the Battle of the Trident this go around. It was all (for the most part) in Chapter 19 of the original. It will be in Chapters 18 and 19 this go around (and a small part of 20). The first part of this chapter was originally Chapter 17, though it has been reworked. The second part is new content, though it helps explain something that was in the original. I hope you enjoy!

Cheers!