The Siege of King's Landing

Elia tightened the cloak around her shoulders, the early morning air biting and far colder than the warmth she had left behind in her chambers within the Red Keep.

But no chill could deter her—not today. She stood atop the gatehouse of the Gate of the Gods, the highest point from which she could witness what was unfolding below. The courtyard behind her had been scrubbed clean of the blood and remnants of the recent battle, yet in her mind's eye, the stones still bore a faint crimson hue, a haunting reminder of the violence that had so recently stained them.

But it was not the courtyard that held her attention now. Her gaze was fixed beyond the walls, on the sight she had prayed for, had begged for with every fiber of her being.

Before the walls stood an army—a sea of gleaming gold cloaks, their armor and spears catching the first light of dawn. The soldiers, every one of them excused from their duties within the city, were arrayed in perfect formation. At the forefront, a small retinue surrounded a mounted figure, a man who commanded the attention of all who beheld him.

He was clad in darkened plate armor, the metal a stark contrast to the gold of the cloaks, and over his shoulder hung a golden cape that fluttered in the cool breeze. Though his face was obscured by his helm, Elia knew that if he were to turn, she would see the engraved crown on his cuirass, and beneath the shadow of his helmet, those striking blue-green eyes she knew so well.

Tristifer Mudd carried himself with the dignity of a king as he sat astride his mount, his posture commanding and regal. He was her son's Hand and regent, and he had proven himself to be her son's fiercest protector. It was not just her children who had come to admire him—Tristifer had an ability to create an impression upon anyone.

There was a painful truth that Elia could not ignore. She was a widowed woman, her health fragile, and the possibility of bearing more children had been stolen from her by poor health. Tristifer needed a wife who could provide him with heirs, someone younger, healthier, and capable of ensuring the future of House Mudd.

The thought of it stirred something deep within her, a bittersweet ache she could not fully suppress. Still, she took solace in the care of Maester Allard, whose skill had brought her unexpected relief. The migraines that once plagued her were now a distant memory, and the fatigue that had weighed her down for years had lifted, leaving her with a strength she hadn't felt in a long time.

Perhaps it was not just Maester Allard's ministrations that had renewed her, but the knowledge that her children were finally safe, their future secured. The death of her goodfather, tragic as it was, had brought an end to a dark chapter, and the appointment of the new Kingsguard had ushered in a sense of stability. Tristifer's choices had been impeccable, appointing knights who were unwavering in their loyalty to House Targaryen and her children.

Whispers in the court had begun to circulate, comparing Tristifer Mudd to Unwin Peake, some noting the favor he showed to his cousin and foster brother by appointing them to his small council.

But as Elia watched him, she could think of no one less like Unwin Peake—or even the more recent example of Owen Merryweather. Tristifer's every action, from his visits to her children to his careful selection of the new Kingsguard, spoke of a man who placed the well-being of House Targaryen above all else. He had certainly accumulated power, but never at the expense of her children. She knew that no Hand could be without ambition or personal goals, but Tristifer seemed to have found a perfect balance in her mind, using his influence to fortify the realm rather than undermine it.

Elia's gaze finally shifted past Tristifer, settling on the camp that lay further from the city. Even from this distance, the remnants of the recent raid were unmistakable—soot-covered tents standing as grim memorials to the violence and fires that had ravaged the area. Days had passed, yet the scars of the attack remained raw and unhealed.

Before the blackened tents, the assembled forces of Lord Tywin Lannister and Lord Rickard Karstark presented a stark contrast. Banners of the lion, direwolf, and pale sun fluttered in the breeze, their bold colors signaling the might of Lannister, Stark, and Karstark. But the numbers beneath those banners were not what they once were.

Tristifer had informed her that the force had been greatly diminished from its original twelve thousand. After the Battle of the Gate and the subsequent raid, their numbers had dwindled to closer to seven thousand—almost half of what Lord Lannister had brought to bear.

Elia struggled to muster any sympathy for the loss of soldiers who would have slain her children without hesitation if their lord had commanded it. Perhaps that was harsh, but she knew with certainty that these men would have no qualms about sacking King's Landing if it were Lord Tywin's will at the very least.

Despite outnumbering Tristifer's gold cloaks by three thousand men, the 'Rebels' under Lord Tywin had made no move to advance. The Lannisters had hastily formed ranks as the sun revealed the massed gold cloaks standing outside the city's gate, a silent warning since just before sunrise.

"My Queen," came the voice of Ser Valtris, who stood protectively at her side. The newly appointed Kingsguard had been tireless in his duties, his vigilance unwavering as he ensured the safety of the small royal family that remained in King's Landing.

The Sunglass knight had been reluctant to let her leave the Red Keep, even as she had ridden out with the gold cloaks, determined to follow Tristifer. But she had insisted—this was something she would not miss, no matter the danger.

"Yes, Ser?" she asked, turning to her shadow. He nodded toward the horizon, his eyes sharp and focused.

Elia followed his gaze, and there, at last, she saw what they had been waiting for all morning.

On the horizon, a new host appeared, their banners catching the first light of dawn. The green and gold of House Tyrell was the most welcome sight Elia had seen in a long time. Beside the golden roses flew the red huntsman of Tarly, the purple grapes of Redwyne, the golden trees of Rowan, and the orange foxes of House Florent.

A wave of cavalry rode ahead of the marching infantry, moving swiftly toward the Rebels. It didn't take long for the Rebels to realize the gravity of their situation. There was a hurried shuffling in their ranks as half of them turned to face the approaching Reachmen. But as they took in the sheer numbers of the force arrayed against them—numbers that surely doubled their own even without counting the gold cloaks—their resolve wavered.

The Reachmen cavalry halted just short of the Rebel lines, and Elia watched with bated breath as two riders broke away from the main force, advancing even closer. She could see them shouting something to Lord Tywin and his men.

Tension hung heavy in the air, the possibility of battle still very real. Elia could do nothing but watch in silence, her heart pounding in her chest. It felt as if time itself had slowed, every moment drawn out to an agonizing length.

Then, finally, she saw it—the rebel banners beginning to dip, one by one. Relief flooded through her as the realization sank in. The black and white sun of House Karstark was the penultimate to fall, followed lastly by the grey direwolf of House Stark. And so, the Siege of King's Landing ended.

The rest of the Reach host had now fully arrived, moving swiftly among the rebel forces, separating them, and capturing lords, knights, arms, and supplies from the camp. The rebels were disarmed and subdued, their once-proud ranks reduced to prisoners in the wake of their defeat.

Beneath the city walls, she saw half of the gold cloaks break away and return to the safety of King's Landing, their task complete. The remaining gold cloaks moved to meet the Tyrell host, joining forces as the two armies began to secure the battlefield.

Within the hour, they began their return, marching toward the gatehouse where Elia stood. It would have been satisfying to look down upon Lord Tywin as he was brought beneath the city's walls, but what she desired even more was to stand face to face with him, to look directly into his pale green eyes and see the man who had dared to threaten her children.

"I wish to be in the courtyard, Ser Valtris," she said, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling within her.

Her Kingsguard hesitated for a moment, searching her gaze as if weighing the risks. Then, with a nod of assent, he replied, "Very well, my Queen."

Ser Valtris led the way down from the massive walls, his armored form a shield between her and any lingering dangers. They descended the stone steps in silence, their footsteps echoing softly in the narrow passageway. As they reached the bottom and stepped into the courtyard, Elia's eyes fell upon a familiar sight—her mount, waiting patiently for her.

It was a pale sand steed, a horse she had not ridden since before her wedding. The mare's sleek coat shimmered like the sands of Dorne, a poignant reminder of the home Elia had left behind. Unlike most sand steeds, known for their fiery tempers and unyielding spirit—traits that mirrored the fierce independence of the Dornish people—this mare was different. She had been a gift from her brother, Doran, chosen for her calm demeanor and gentle nature, a rare find among her kind.

Ser Valtris approached her with care, his strong hands steady as he helped her mount the horse. He adjusted the reins and stirrups, ensuring that she was comfortable and secure in the saddle before moving to his own mount.

They sat in silence, side by side, their eyes trained on the gatehouse as they waited for the armies to return. The moments stretched, filled with the quiet anticipation of what was to come. The mare stood patiently beneath Elia, her calmness a steadying force against the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the first men began to appear, their figures growing larger as they approached the gatehouse. At the very head of the column was Tristifer, his darkened armor unmistakable even from a distance. Beside him rode a portly man with a broad, beaming smile—Lord Mace Tyrell, his presence as commanding as it was affable.

Flanking Lord Tyrell was the severe Lord Randyll Tarly, his expression as stern and unforgiving as his reputation suggested, and another serious-looking man she quickly recognized by the golden tree emblazoned on his chest—Lord Mathis Rowan.

As they drew nearer, the courtyard buzzed with the sound of hooves and the murmurs of soldiers. Elia straightened in her saddle, her eyes meeting Tristifer's for a brief moment before she allowed her gaze to sweep over the rest of the approaching lords.

Lord Mace Tyrell's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Elia, and with a subtle shift, the leading lords altered their course, steering their mounts toward her and Ser Valtris.

As the procession continued, gold cloaks, Reachmen, and captured rebels filed into the city, their faces a mixture of relief and resignation. The lords, however, rode directly up to her.

Tristifer positioned his horse between them, glancing back and forth as he spoke with measured authority. "My Lords, may I present Queen Mother Elia Martell, and Ser Valtris Sunglass of the Kingsguard," he announced, his tone formal yet warm.

Elia had met all three lords before, most recently at Harrenhal, so the introduction was likely more for Ser Valtris and the significance of his new position. House Sunglass, though one of the Targaryens' original vassals from their days as Lords of Dragonstone, had never achieved the prominence of Houses Velaryon or Celtigar, despite their unwavering loyalty through the centuries.

The Reach lords exchanged brief glances of surprise, with Lord Mace blinking as his gaze shifted to the white cloak fastened over Ser Valtris' shoulders. Lord Randyll and Lord Mathis, more reserved, offered respectful nods, acknowledging both Elia and Ser Valtris before their attention returned to her. Lord Mace, slower to react, eventually followed suit, his usual affable demeanor slightly tempered by the unexpected introduction.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Your Grace," Lord Mace finally said, his voice buoyant but laced with a hint of curiosity. "And let me extend my congratulations to you, Ser Valtris, on your appointment. The Kingsguard is the greatest order of knights in the Realm."

"Thank you, my lord," Ser Valtris replied succinctly, his tone polite.

Elia glanced between Lord Mace and her knight for a moment, sensing the subtle undercurrents of the exchange. Then, with the grace and poise expected of her, she turned her attention back to the lords. "It was a most welcome sight to see you and your men, Lord Tyrell," she said courteously, her voice carrying a warmth that belied the tension of the morning. She offered a nod to the two other lords in acknowledgment.

"Well then, I must return the compliment, for the sight of you is most welcome as well," Lord Mace responded, his broad smile lighting up his face once more. "You look possibly more beautiful than ever before."

Elia offered a smaller, polite smile in return. "I thank you for your kind words, Lord Mace."

Turning to Tristifer, she inclined her head slightly. "Mayhaps we shall make for the Red Keep now?"

Tristifer held her gaze for a moment, a silent exchange passing between them before he gave a slight nod. "A sound suggestion, Your Grace," he agreed.

Just as Elia was about to move, something caught her eye that made her pause.

Atop a great war horse, as imperious as ever, came Lord Tywin Lannister. His resplendent armor, engraved with the lion of House Lannister, gleamed coldly in the morning light. The elder lord rode past with an air of authority, escorted by a dozen mounted gold cloaks who flanked him like a protective wall.

Lord Tywin's gaze never wavered from the path ahead, his posture rigid and his expression unreadable. Yet, despite his seemingly singular focus, Elia could sense that nothing in the courtyard escaped his notice. His presence was commanding, a silent reminder of the power he wielded even in defeat.

Elia felt both anger and fear well up in her stomach as she watched Lord Tywin ride past. The anger was understandable, a natural response to the man who had so recently threatened her children and her life, even if it was now unnecessary. But the fear—irritating, instinctive, and unwelcome—was something she couldn't shake.

It wasn't just the memory of the siege or the knowledge of what might have been; it was the realization that even in defeat, Lord Tywin was still a formidable force. Anyone who did not think him dangerous, even as a captive, was either blind or a fool. His true strength lay not in his abilities of the sword, but in his sharp wit and silver tongue. Unless they silenced him permanently—by cutting out his tongue or severing his head—his threat was ever-present, a looming shadow even behind bars.

Elia realized she had been holding her breath as Lord Tywin finally disappeared from sight between the buildings. In his wake came dozens of other highborn hostages, their faces marked by defeat and exhaustion. Among them, the most recognizable was the dejected figure of Ser Barristan Selmy, stripped of his white cloak. The sight of the once-honorable knight, now turned traitor, weighed heavily on her. She dearly hoped he would not be sentenced to the block; it was something she would need to discuss with Tristifer.

Behind Ser Barristan, two older men bearing the yellow lion of House Grandison walked in a somber line. One was wounded, leaning heavily on the other for support. Elia's heart tightened at the sight, remembering Ser Harlan Grandison, who had served as a loyal Kingsguard before dying peacefully in his sleep just before the ill-fated journey to Harrenhal nearly four years ago. She couldn't help but think that Ser Harlan would be heartbroken to see his nephews fighting against the family he had devoted his life to protecting.

Ser Kevan Lannister followed, surrounded by a small crowd of lesser Lannisters, none of whom she recognized. Unlike his nervous cousins, Ser Kevan wore the same expressionless mask as his elder brother, his stoic demeanor betraying nothing of the turmoil that surely brewed beneath. The citizenry would soon gather in Cobbler's Square to witness the defeated paraded past, but here, within the safety of the thousands of gold cloaks, there was little threat to these prisoners.

Elia noticed Tristifer had ridden up beside her, his presence a quiet comfort amidst the tension. She turned to him slightly, her voice soft but firm. "The Rebels have been gutted of many of their lords by your actions, Lord Hand."

Tristifer tilted his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the procession of Stormlords that followed. Their heraldry—Penrose, Buckler, Tarth, Fell, Horpe, and a number of the sons and grandsons of Lord Estermont.

"I suppose that is true," he eventually conceded. "Yet the war continues. Thousands more will perish, for Robert Baratheon still lives."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. "How do you know that?"

"Varys has informed me of reports," Tristifer replied, his tone measured. "A small retinue of Baratheon men-at-arms was seen escorting a cart holding a wounded warrior. The smallfolk didn't catch his appearance, but the most likely candidate is obvious."

Elia felt a chill at the implications of his words. Robert Baratheon's survival meant that the rebellion was far from over, and the bloodshed would continue.

As they watched, the Stormlords passed by, followed by a few Riverlords. Among them was a cart draped with a black trout Tully banner, led by two Tarly men-at-arms. Elia noticed Tristifer's gaze fix intently on one particular lord—a man with a small black beard and the sigil of a weirwood tree upon his chest.

The name of Lord Blackwood momentarily eluded her, but she recognized the house. Their daughter had been the queen of Aegon the Unlikely, the great-grandmother of her late husband. Suddenly, the reason for Tristifer's focused attention became clear.

"You met Lord Blackwood at Harrenhal, did you not?" Elia asked, recalling the fleeting moments she had observed them together during the tourney.

Tristifer's expression tightened slightly, a light grimace pulling at his features. "I did. We got along well. I even sparred with his younger brother, Ser Jammos."

Elia hesitated, unsure of how to respond to the weight of his words.

"There are many good men who ended up on the opposite side in this war," Tristifer continued, his voice tinged with regret. "If the Realm wishes to heal, compromises will have to be found."

Elia glanced at the Reach lords, who had respectfully distanced themselves, granting them a semblance of privacy. Lowering her voice, she met Tristifer's now-focused eyes. "This is true... but certain lords?" she inquired quietly.

Tristifer remained silent for a moment, watching her closely. Finally, with a grimace, he spoke. "It would be highly unpopular, regardless of his opportunistic entrance into the war."

She stared at him, feeling a pang of betrayal. Was he truly suggesting this? The man who had wished to kill her children... "Your Grace," Tristifer began, sensing her turmoil, but she turned slightly away, taking deep breaths to steady herself. "Elia," he continued, his voice softer, "I would hate to have seen him succeed. For your children, I wish only good health and long lives."

At the sound of her name, she reluctantly turned back to face him. "And yet?" Her voice trembled with controlled anger. "You say their lives and health are your wish, yet you won't end that wretch's life for his betrayal and treason?"

Tristifer's eyes darkened, though his tone remained measured and polite. "Now that is unfair, Elia. Don't act childish. There is a reason why Lord Tywin is in this position, and it's the same reason why I cannot harm him directly. His surrender, no matter how begrudging, grants him certain rights. To walk back on that would be seen as tyrannical and would only harm the Realm."

Elia's anger simmered beneath the surface, her emotions warring with the logic in Tristifer's words. She knew the reality of politics, the delicate balance that had to be maintained, but the idea of sparing Tywin Lannister, the man who had come so close to destroying her family, was almost too much to bear.

"Rights granted under surrender are almost as sacred and crucial in these lands as the institution of guest right," Tristifer continued, his voice calm but firm. Elia's eyes narrowed as she recalled one prominent historical example where such principles were disregarded, and it seemed Tristifer was thinking of the same. "The betrayal of the Young Dragon is still demonized to this day. Do you truly wish to pin your son with such a legacy? I act and speak with his authority and voice—my actions will reflect on him."

"Of course not," she hissed quietly, her tone sharp as her gaze flicked toward the Reach lords, who were growing impatient and had inched closer.

Tristifer held her gaze for a moment longer, his expression unwavering. "Good," he said, a note of finality in his voice. "This is a time of celebration. The repercussions of the war can be discussed later. I promise you, Elia, that Tywin Lannister will feel the weight of his treason."

Before she could respond, Tristifer turned to the Reach lords, his tone polite but firm. "Let us ride for the Red Keep, my Lords."

Lord Mathis and Lord Mace briefly glanced at her, curiosity evident in their expressions—though Lord Mace did a poor job of concealing his. Without a word though, they fell into formation and began the journey to the Red Keep.

Elia sighed before she followed with Ser Valtris forming up behind her. Hopefully, Tristifer would see the truth of her words before long. A lion was not an animal that one could tame and Tywin Lannister lived up to his family's sigil.

Sarra Whent brushed away the tear on her cheek, standing by the window as she gazed out at the familiar yet unsettling view. The dark waters of the God's Eye, with the Isle of Faces in the distance, had always fascinated her, but now they just reminded her of everything that had gone wrong.

Her brothers—Steffon, Willem, and Walton—had been so full of life, eager to prove themselves as knights. But they had returned from the Trident cold and lifeless, leaving her with only Symond, her younger brother. It felt like a cruel joke, losing three brothers in one blow. She had turned to the Seven, praying for answers, but the gods had been silent. Even the sept, which used to bring her comfort, now felt empty.

Sarra sighed and turned away from the window. The thought of the Isle of Faces crossed her mind, but she pushed it away. Her father had always forbidden them from going there, and besides, what could old trees tell her that the gods hadn't? It was a foolish idea, she concluded.

Still, she felt so alone. Her father was crushed by grief, her mother had become distant, and Symond barely spoke to her anymore. The Kingspyre, once filled with life, now seemed haunted by the memories of her brothers.

Sarra could hardly believe how much her life had changed since the Tourney at Harrenhal. That had been the pinnacle, a dream come true. Lords, knights, and even Prince Rhaegar himself had come to her home. She had been the initial Queen of Love and Beauty, and for a while, it felt like nothing could ever go wrong. Even when her brothers and uncle were knocked out of the lists, she had still been riding the high of it all, wrapped in the magic of that moment.

The tourney had been filled with handsome lords and knights, all vying for attention, showering her with compliments and asking her to dance. But there was one young man who stood out to her. He wasn't the most handsome—Ser Jaime Lannister or Prince Oberyn Martell were more striking, she knew—but there was something about him. He had a quiet confidence, not the brazen arrogance of the other men, and that intrigued her.

She remembered their dance as if it had just happened. It felt like something out of a song, a perfect moment where everything else faded away. She had been filled with a mix of joy and nervousness, barely able to speak, but it hadn't mattered. The dance was over too soon, and before she knew it, Steffon had come to whisk her away. Still, she could recall the gentle kiss on her hand before they parted, a moment that stayed with her long after the music ended.

That day had been the best of her life, even when her mother had insisted she return to her chambers, chaperoned by Steffon. Looking back, Sarra realized it might have been one of the last times she and Steffon were alone together. He had always been much older, and as they grew up, their interactions became less and more formal. The thought of him, so full of life then, brought fresh tears to her eyes.

The end of the Tourney had been a bitter one, though. At the time, she hadn't fully grasped the significance of what had happened. The slight to Princess Elia, the scandal of Prince Rhaegar naming Lyanna Stark as his Queen of Love and Beauty—it had all seemed like court gossip, something that would pass. But then the news came that Lady Lyanna had been abducted, and everything spiraled into chaos.

Sarra had almost forgotten about the charming Ser Tristifer Mudd, caught up in her worry and fear for her elder brothers as they marched off to war. First, they followed Lord Hoster Tully to the Stoney Sept, and then, after Lord Tully was injured, they served under Robert Baratheon at the Trident. Those days had been a blur of anxiety, with little room for thoughts of the handsome knight she had danced with at the tourney.

It wasn't until after the Battle of the Trident that strange rumors began to reach Harrenhal from King's Landing. Ser Tristifer Mudd, the unexpected champion of the melee, had somehow become Commander of the City Watch. No one even knew he had been a gold cloak, let alone one who would rise so quickly. Then, just a week later, more shocking news arrived: the death of the Mad King, the sack of the city by Tywin Lannister, and Ser Tristifer Mudd named Hand of the King.

Her father had laughed when he first heard it, thinking it a jest. Her mother had been dismissive, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of it all. But that changed after the Battle of the Gate and the Slaughter on the Kingsroad. For the first time since her brothers' deaths, Sarra saw something other than cold detachment in her mother's eyes—a spark of ambition, a glimmer of opportunity as she looked at her daughter.

It was then that her mother revealed a letter from Ser Tristifer, one that had been kept hidden from Sarra. Shocked and hurt, Sarra could barely process the fact that her parents had withheld something so personal from her.

She remembered that day clearly, how the weight of everything had pressed down on her. Harrenhal, always a gloomy and foreboding place, had become unbearable in its emptiness. As a child, she had found some joy in exploring its many abandoned halls, but after the deaths of her brothers, the castle felt suffocating.

The servants and occasional visitors had always whispered of ghosts and curses, tales of the burning by Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon, Balerion. The curse the castle's first lord was said to place as the dragon flame engulfed Black Harren.

She had never seen a ghost herself or believed in the curse before, but the strange noises that echoed through the halls—even in the Kingspyre Tower—were unsettling. The Tower of Dread and Widow's Tower said to be the most haunted, were places she had never dared to explore.

The curse of Harrenhal, where house after noble house had met its end, seemed all too real to her now. Six noble houses had held Harrenhal since Aegon's Conquest, and all had fallen. Was her family doomed to follow?

As she settled onto the bed, her gaze drifted to the table beside her. The letter still lay there, its wax seal partially intact from when she had sliced it open to read.

Sarra shifted on the bed and picked up the letter, holding it up to catch the glow of the bedside candle. The flickering light illuminated the remnants of the Crown seal, casting a warm glow over the paper and drawing her attention back to its contents.

Lady Sarra,

I hope this letter finds you in good health despite the trying times we all face. I was deeply saddened to hear of the loss your family has suffered. Your brothers were fine men and knights, and it was tragic to learn of their fates. Although we did not speak much, you have remained in my thoughts ever since.

These words cannot compensate for the loss of your brothers, but I hope they provide even a small measure of comfort in this difficult time.

Yours sincerely,

Ser Tristifer Mudd

The letter was brief and formal, but Sarra was struck by the realization that it was the only message of condolence she had received directly. While everyone who cared had offered their sympathies to her parents, she had received no such words herself until now.

Despite her sadness, Sarra felt a flicker of comfort in the knowledge that Ser Tristifer had been thinking of her. Even if his gesture was merely a formality or a pretense, it was the first genuine solace she had experienced in weeks.

At first, she hesitated even to think about responding. Distrustful and uncertain, she feared the letter might be some sort of trick. It took her time to overcome her reservations and consider how to express her own feelings.

But still, she had not sent a reply. Sarra glanced out the window once more—night had not yet fallen, and there was little else she could do to occupy her time.

With a moment of hesitation, she set the letter down on the table and slipped out of bed. On the opposite side of her chambers stood a writing desk.

She placed a fresh sheet of parchment on the desk before sitting down. Twice already, she had tried to write a reply. The first attempt had been so formal and detached that she was startled by the coldness of her own words when she read it over. She wanted to at least acknowledge their shared history and brief connection.

The second attempt had turned into a pouring out of every fear, feeling, and thought that had plagued her. That letter had been so raw and personal that she burned it in the fireplace after reading just the first few lines.

Surely there must be a middle ground? Sarra thought, and with that, she picked up her quill and began to write.

Dear Tristifer Mudd,

But before she could continue, the sound of footsteps approaching her room made her pause. Instinctively, she hid the letter, her heart pounding in her chest. Why was she so nervous?

A light knock on the door followed, and a voice called through it, "My Lady."

Sarra swallowed and then responded, "Enter."

The door opened to reveal Pia, one of the servants. The pretty girl stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. "My Lady, I thought you ought to know that a guest has just arrived."

Sarra raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" The news seemed ordinary enough, but something in Pia's tone made her uneasy.

Pia glanced around the room as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping. Then, with a spark of excitement in her eyes, she leaned in and whispered, "It is King Robert Baratheon himself."

A pit of dread formed in Sarra's stomach as her eyes instinctively darted to the letter on her bedside table. Pia noticed the glance, her curiosity piqued.

Sarra sprang from her chair, quickly positioning herself between Pia and the letter. Though Pia couldn't possibly see what was written from that distance, Sarra stood firmly in the way, taking deep breaths to steady herself.

"I—I, you should leave," Sarra stammered, noticing the surprise in Pia's eyes. "Thank you for the information, but I wish to be left alone now." She kept her tone firm, ensuring that the servant hadn't caught even a glimpse of the letter. Though logically, Pia wouldn't speak of the letter from their guest's greatest enemy in this war, Sarra wanted to eliminate any chance of such a situation arising.

Pia, still visibly confused, curtsied and said, "My Lady," before quietly leaving the room.

As the door clicked shut, Sarra exhaled slowly, her heart still pounding. The letter remained hidden, but the unease clung to her.

She refused to be the foolish, helpless girl her fears threatened to make her. That's why she wanted to be Tristifer's wife, no matter how the war ended. In a way, he had become her savior, an anchor she could cling to in the storm that had become her life.

Before the letter, she had been adrift—confused and lost, with dark thoughts circling her mind. More than once, she had gazed out the window, wondering if it was her only option.

But now, at least, she was certain of one thing.

Turning back to the writing desk, she pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. A foolish girl would struggle to write a letter. But she wasn't that girl anymore.

Sarra steadied herself, quill in hand, and began to write, determined to find the right words.

Tristifer sat silently at the head of the small council table, his hands folded neatly before him. He had arrived early, as was his custom, and watched as the others filed in one by one.

Varys was the first to join him, slipping into his seat with a quiet nod of acknowledgment, his face as unreadable as ever.

Next came Robin and Addam, engaged in a hushed conversation, their voices a low murmur as they took their places.

Princess Elia entered soon after, escorted by Lord Lucerys, who offered her a polite bow before guiding her to the chair beside Tristifer. He then took his own seat with a practiced grace.

Maester Allard was the next to arrive, his gray robes rustling softly as he moved to his seat. Close behind him were Lord Mace and Lord Randyll. The two exchanged quick nods with the Maester before acknowledging each other with a respectful incline of the head.

Randyll Tarly, a, for now, temporary member of the council at Tristifer's invitation, found his newly acquired chair beside Lord Mace. He took his place with a stoic expression, that he so often wore.

As the last of the council members took their places, the chamber doors closed with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the room, marking the beginning of the council session.

"Welcome, my Lords and your Grace," Tristifer began, his voice measured and deliberate as he ensured to acknowledge everyone with equal respect. His gaze swept across the table before settling on Lord Mace and Lord Randyll. "Allow me to be the first to congratulate our new Master of Coin on his appointment," he continued, nodding toward Mace. "We are honored to have you with us as you take your seat today."

Lord Mace responded with a practiced ease, his smile warm and reassuring. "Thank you, Lord Hand. I appreciate this honor and the opportunity to shepherd the Realm in these turbulent times."

"Fine words, my Lord," Tristifer replied politely, before turning his attention to Lord Randyll. "And a welcome to you as well, Lord Randyll. Though you hold no formal office on this council, your martial abilities are unparalleled."

Randyll Tarly gave a curt nod in acknowledgment, his expression impassive as he remained silent.

Tristifer, well accustomed to Lord Randyll's reserved demeanor by now, continued without missing a beat. "First, I believe it must be said—the end of this war is in sight. As we speak, Dornish Spears under Prince Oberyn Martell are marching through the Stormlands, not far from Storm's End."

"Last reports placed Robert Baratheon on the Kingsroad," Tristifer added, glancing toward Varys for confirmation. He was surprised when the Master of Whispers shook his head.

"Today, I received news that Robert Baratheon is currently licking his wounds and enjoying the hospitality of House Whent at Harrenhal, my Lord Hand," Varys informed them in his soft, unassuming voice.

Tristifer blinked in surprise. It had been barely a week since the Reach forces had arrived, and the Lannisters had surrendered. Just two days ago, he had received a letter from Lady Shella Whent, expressing a desire to discuss terms and hinting at a possible marriage alliance between him and her daughter, Lady Sarra. Now, Varys was telling him that the Whents were hosting Robert Baratheon.

He felt a flicker of doubt. Had he misjudged House Whent? Were they playing both sides in this war? What was their true game, toying with the idea of an alliance with him while sheltering his enemies?

"Where are Lord Arryn and his forces now, then?" Lord Randyll inquired, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room as Tristifer pondered the implications of Varys's news.

Varys remained unfazed by the question, his calm demeanor unwavering. "I've received word that Lord Arryn and his host recently left the Mountains of the Moon via the High Road. They are presumably near Willow Wood by now. Meanwhile, Lord Hoster Tully, leading a smaller contingent, has passed Stone Hedge."

Lord Mace raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Is Lord Tully not still recovering from his injuries at the Battle of the Bells?"

Varys shook his head slowly. "Lord Tully's current condition remains a mystery even to me, but given that he is leading the Rivermen, I can only assume he is well enough to accompany the army."

Tristifer finally shook himself from his thoughts, having been lost in the implications of the unfolding situation. "It matters little," he said firmly. "In any battle, he is still wounded and will be forced to lead from the rear."

The council seemed to accept this assessment, letting the matter drop as they turned their attention to the larger strategic concerns. Lord Randyll leaned forward, his expression sharp with interest.

"How do we envision this battle, then, Lord Hand?" Randyll asked, his curiosity genuine.

In response, Tristifer gestured for a servant to bring forth the map. "To answer your question, and to plan this battle, I will show it upon this map." Rising from his chair, he moved to stand beside the map now unfurled behind the King's seat, ensuring it was visible to all.

He first pointed to the northern shore of the God's Eye. "Robert Baratheon is here at Harrenhal," Tristifer said, placing a yellow pin beside the letters spelling out 'Harrenhal.'

Next, he selected a light blue and a dark blue pin, placing one near Willow Wood, north of the Trident and west of the Vale, and the other on the River Road near Stone Hedge, further west from Harrenhal and the yellow pin.

"Lord Jon Arryn and Lord Hoster Tully and their respective hosts," Tristifer introduced, noting the council's keen interest. "We wish to know where the next battle will be fought, but the answer is already clear in my mind. Robert Baratheon is shaken. In one evening, he lost and was separated from his mighty army, just as he was at Ashford."

Tristifer nodded in acknowledgment to the Reach lords, signaling their crucial role in that previous engagement. Randyll Tarly remained impassive, his eyes calculating, while Mace Tyrell struggled to suppress a self-satisfied smile.

"The rebels will have a host in the southeast of the Riverlands," Tristifer continued, trailing his finger northward from King's Landing along the Kingsroad, stopping at a seemingly unremarkable crossing of the Trident between the two blue pins. "And a royalist host will have to march north to confront them."

There was a murmur among the council as they absorbed the implications of his strategy.

"You believe he wishes to repeat history?" Lord Randyll asked, his tone thoughtful.

Before Tristifer could reply, Lord Mace interjected, "Surely he can't expect us to walk into the same mistake?"

Tristifer turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "What mistake would that be?"

Lord Mace hesitated, caught off guard. "Well... whatever led to Prince Rhaegar's defeat at the Trident, Lord Hand. He had superior numbers, and yet he lost."

Tristifer glanced around the council, ensuring he had their full attention. "It was no assured victory for the rebels. The battle could have gone either way until the Vale cavalry charged and the Prince fell." He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "I don't favor fighting at the Trident either, but I doubt we'll get a decisive battle anywhere else."

The council remained silent for a moment, digesting Tristifer's conclusion. Finally, Randyll Tarly broke the stillness, nodding slowly as he spoke. "I can agree with that assessment, Lord Hand. A decisive clash is indeed critical. The longer we allow this war to drag on, the harder it will be to secure a lasting peace—and the more extensive the rebuilding that will be required afterward."

Tristifer felt a sense of satisfaction as he considered Randyll Tarly's presence on the council. The older man, nearing his thirtieth nameday, was far more than just an exceptional military commander. He was educated, strategic, and understood the full spectrum of war—from the battlefield to the delicate peace that must follow. Randyll was not a man driven by bloodlust, but by the necessity of order and stability, making him a valuable ally, even if his focus often left little room for matters outside strategy and tactics.

"Wise words, Lord Randyll," Tristifer acknowledged. "I believe that if we march within the week, when Ser Baelor and Ser Garth arrive with the remainder of the Reach host, we will be well-positioned to engage Robert Baratheon and bring this war to an end within the next moon."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the council, the lords nodding in approval. Tristifer briefly met the gaze of Elia, who had remained silent throughout the discussion. Her dark eyes held a mixture of worry and hope, emotions she dared not voice but which Tristifer could clearly see. The weight of the realm's future rested on this council's decisions, and he knew Elia was acutely aware of that.

He broke his gaze from hers as Maester Allard cleared his throat lightly. "My Lords, Your Grace," the Maester began, addressing the council before turning to Tristifer. "It may be prudent to conclude on the numbers of this host?"

Tristifer nodded, a small smile on his lips. "Yes, indeed. Proceed, Maester."

Maester Allard adjusted the parchments before him and began to speak, his voice steady as he recited the figures. "Our losses at the Battle on the Kingsroad were significant—around five thousand men, roughly a quarter of the original host ferried over the Bay. A few hundred have since recovered from their wounds, bringing the host to a current strength of fifteen thousand."

He paused briefly, allowing the council to absorb the information before continuing. "As of our last reports, the combined strength of our forces—excluding those stationed at or en route to Storm's End—should number around thirty-five thousand, based on the estimates provided to me."

The Maester looked around the table. "This figure does not include the five thousand Goldcloaks stationed in King's Landing. While they could be drawn upon in an emergency, it is necessary to leave at least half in the city to maintain order and fulfill their duties."

Tristifer hummed thoughtfully before turning his attention to Varys. "Estimates for the rebels' strength?"

Varys furrowed his brows, considering the question carefully. "The two primary rebel hosts are estimated to be around fifteen to twenty thousand strong combined." He paused briefly, noting the council's reaction before continuing. "It is important to note, however, that the rebel host at Briarwhite was not entirely destroyed or captured. Many Stormlanders managed to flee into the Crownlands and Riverlands. With news of Robert Baratheon's survival now circulating through the Crownlands, it is possible that some of these men may rally and return to their lord's banner."

A murmur of concern rippled through the room, but Tristifer remained composed, nodding at Varys' prediction. "This is understandable," he said, his tone measured. "It is, after all, what happened after they were scattered at Ashford. The remnants of Robert's forces regrouped, just as they may now."

He paused, letting the council absorb his words before continuing with a note of finality. "Regardless of any resurgence in their numbers, we will outnumber them. Our forces are strong, and our strategy is sound. Tactics will be discussed in detail once we have certainty on where the battle will be fought."

"Storm's End will fall," Tristifer declared, his voice firm and resolute. "And Robert's brothers will either be under our control or rendered irrelevant. The momentum is in our favor, and I promise you all—I will not falter at the final obstacle."

A brief silence followed, the gravity of Tristifer's words settling over the room. Then, Lord Mace Tyrell cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "I have news," he began, his tone a mix of seriousness and an attempt at levity. "And with no offense meant to you, Maester Allard, but I must point out that the process for selecting a new Grand Maester is rather more... extensive than simply choosing the closest man with chains."

Lord Mace offered a smile, seemingly seeking to lighten the mood. "In certain circumstances, that approach could lead to quite unpleasant results."

The attempt at humor fell flat in the reserved atmosphere of the council. After a few awkward moments, Lord Mace cleared his throat and continued, his tone more measured. "Yes, well, I received a missive from my uncle, informing me that the Archmaesters have conducted a thorough process and, almost unanimously, have decided upon a new Grand Maester to take over the office left vacant by the traitorous Pycelle."

Tristifer raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the news.

Lord Mace straightened in his seat, his earlier attempt at levity now completely forgotten. "Maester Gormon Tyrell, my uncle, has been chosen for this honor. I suppose he is now called Grand Maester."

Maester Allard showed little reaction, understanding that his role had always been temporary while awaiting the Citadel's decision. Tristifer, however, was keen not to lose such a diligent and capable man. He turned to the visibly pleased Lord Mace, acknowledging the news with a measured response.

"I am sure the new Grand Maester will serve with distinction," Tristifer replied, his tone polite but noncommittal. Then, he shifted his attention to Maester Allard, who had been listening quietly. "Maester Allard, when Grand Maester Gormon arrives, I would be honored to hire you as my personal Maester. Until I hold a keep of my own, of course. I will ensure the Citadel receives the customary Maester's fee."

Maester Allard looked momentarily surprised, then deeply appreciative as he inclined his head. "It would be my privilege, Lord Hand," he responded, his voice steady with sincerity.

"Wonderful," Tristifer said, his tone signaling the end of the discussion. "Unless anyone has additional matters to bring before the council?"

He glanced around the table, meeting the eyes of each council member. When no one offered any further comments, he gave a decisive nod. "Very well, if there are no further issues, this meeting is adjourned. My Lords, Your Grace."

Tristifer had one final task before he could rest for the night. As he entered the quarters, he found them almost identical to Lord Eddard Stark's—imposing and meticulously arranged. Sitting before a roaring fireplace was the man who had summoned him, the shadows from the flickering flames playing across the stern face of Lord Tywin Lannister.

The Lion of the Rock regarded Tristifer with pale green eyes that tracked his movements with the predatory gaze of a hunter. Tywin made no attempt to initiate conversation, his silence heavy and expectant.

Tristifer poured himself a glass of watered Arbor Gold and settled into a chair opposite the Lannister lord. The quarters were lavishly decorated, a stark contrast to the austere confines of Maegor's Holdfast where Tristifer had previously met with a captive.

"Lord Tywin," Tristifer greeted after taking a sip from his cup, his voice steady.

Tywin's gaze remained as unyielding as ever. "Ser Tristifer? Or should I address you by another title these days?" His tone was laced with a thin edge of derision.

"Address me as you see fit," Tristifer replied with a cool detachment. "Though, I must say, I've heard rumors about certain tongueless servants who might find such double standards rather upsetting. You were notably rigorous about titles, particularly when it concerned the office I now hold."

The sharpness in Tristifer's voice was accompanied by a hint of mockery, a small thrill coursing through him as he verbally sparred with the infamous Lord. He was fully aware that this exchange might not be the wisest course of action, but he couldn't resist the challenge.

Lord Tywin's eyes narrowed, his expression growing more severe. Before he could respond, Tristifer pressed on.

"I am not here to trade barbs," Tristifer said firmly. "Instead, I wanted to discuss the war and our future." He paused, meeting Tywin's unyielding gaze. "You were unfortunate; your gambit was undone by a combination of my luck and your misfortune. I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge your drive and grasping actions."

Tywin's expression did not soften, but he did raise an eyebrow at the term. "Grasping?" he echoed, disbelief evident in his voice.

"Indeed," Tristifer replied with a wry smile. "Your ambition is almost as unapologetic as mine, though admittedly, I've been more successful. It might look different when one of the Realm's greatest lords pursues it, but I recognize it for what it is. Let's not pretend your entry into this war was by mere happenstance."

Tywin's gaze hardened, but a flicker of irritation crossed his face. He rolled his eyes slightly, his patience wearing thin. "You wished to discuss the future, not engage in childish banter. I am more interested in substance than in your attempts at provocation."

Tristifer's smile remained, though his tone took on a sharper edge. "Very well, Lord Tywin." He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air. "You are aware that you will not face execution. But perhaps it will surprise you to learn that Ser Jaime will not be executed either?"

Tywin's previously impassive face showed the first signs of reaction when Tristifer mentioned Jaime. "He will still wear the white cloak after committing regicide?" Tywin's voice was tinged with disbelief, his stoic demeanor cracking just enough to reveal his concern.

"No," Tristifer clarified, "Ser Jaime will lose his white cloak, but he will be pardoned in exchange for your cooperation, reparations, and concessions."

Tywin's eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with a glint of interest. The notion of Jaime's future was clearly a significant factor in his considerations.

Tristifer, having studied Tywin's priorities, was keenly aware that the Lannister patriarch's greatest concern was his legacy. This legacy was threatened by the Kingsguard vow binding Jaime Lannister and the presence of his son Tyrion, whom Tywin openly despised. Tristifer recognized that while he could weaken Tywin's position, outright destruction was not possible. Instead, compromise and negotiation were crucial to achieving a stable resolution.

"I am sure the terms will be generous," Tywin commented, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Tristifer tilted his head slightly, unfazed. "That remains to be seen, Lord Tywin. It will depend on your cooperation and will be finalized at the end of this Rebellion."

Tywin fell silent, clearly lost in thought. Tristifer took this as his cue to rise from his seat. "It has been a pleasure, Lord Tywin. I will not detain you further."

As Tristifer departed, he could almost feel Tywin's unspoken apprehension about what further demands might be forthcoming, particularly concerning Ser Jaime. Though Tywin remained outwardly silent, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension as Tristifer left the room.

Tristifer knew Tywin might be bracing for a harsher blow, perhaps fearing that he would exact a brutal punishment on Jaime—maybe even maiming or castrating him out of spite to deny Tywin an heir. He had other plans in mind, however. Tristifer was confident that his own terms would be more than satisfactory for his own goals.

To Tristifer, Ser Jaime's fate was inconsequential; his only focus was leveraging the Lannisters to secure control over the keys and resources of the Westerlands. Jaime's life mattered little to him beyond the fact that he had betrayed a corrupt and tyrannical king. For Tywin, however, the stakes were far higher. In the end, Tywin would regain his prized heir, but Tristifer was determined to ensure it came at a considerable cost.

End of Chapter

And so ends the Siege of King's Landing. Lord Tywin is not stupid and when he sees a Reach Host come from the North with dozens of captured Rebel lords he lays his banners down. Maybe the Sieges in Cannon Robert's Rebellion have swapped outcomes I wonder...?

First Sarra Whent POV as well, will she be a sound marriage at the expense of Tristifer's feelings for Elia? Love is the Death of Duty after all.

Also, a council scene that hopefully outlines the current situation. A little more dynamic now that Lord Mace has arrived.

Finally an exchange between Tristifer and Tywin, hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, initial peace deal points are being hinted at, we shall see how the Realm ends up with Tristifer distributing the punishment and prizes of the war.

I have fixed a small error in Ch. 14 where a review pointed out correctly that Baelor and Garth Hightower were called nephews of Lord Mace instead of goodbrothers. This is now fixed along with a little tidying on certain sentences. I am grateful for people pointing small mistakes like that out because my mind is already spinning at the proofreading so when things slip by, then I appreciate it when you point it out.

Oof, four chapters in a week. Injured my leg during training so now I have the time to write till my hands are cramping. Do not expect this to continue for too much longer. This Story does not have too many chapters left according to my plans, but while I wish to finish it within 2024 that is no promise. A sequel is already planned and some ideas have been written but don't expect it to be too soon either.

I am rambling, Toodles.