The Rains of Storm's End

Sarra picked idly at her food as they broke their fast, the loud voice of Robert Baratheon fading into the background as she stared listlessly at the cold ham and bread on her plate. The weight of the past week hung heavily on her shoulders, and the once-familiar comfort of Harrenhal had been replaced by an anxious tension that seemed to seep into every corner of the castle.

A nudge at her side startled her, and she looked up to see her mother's disapproving stare. Sarra instinctively straightened, a reflex born from years of trying to avoid that very look. It was a habit ingrained in her from childhood, where every misstep or slouch had been met with her mother's quiet, yet cutting, displeasure.

She glanced around the table, hoping no one else had noticed her lapse. Her brother, seated on her other side, gave her a sympathetic look, but she ignored it. Her focus drifted past her father, who sat in somber silence, to where Robert Baratheon held court with his lords, his booming voice filling the hall.

In the week since the Rebel King's arrival at Harrenhal, the castle had transformed from a place of sorrow and somber reflection to one of restless anxiety. Though Robert had acknowledged the loss of three Whent family members at the Trident, it seemed to matter little in the face of his demands for more support in the ongoing struggle.

Her father had tried to reason with him, explaining that their current levies and men-at-arms were crucial to hold the vast fortress, which could be taken with far fewer forces than it should require. But Robert remained insistent, unmoved by such arguments. Just a day after his arrival, the first of the Stormlords had appeared.

Lord Gulian Swann had reaffirmed his unwavering loyalty to Robert, recounting his narrow escape with a few hundred men. The once-vibrant grounds that had hosted the tourney now bore the grim presence of a military encampment, with tents and soldiers replacing the laughter and festivities.

It had been at Lord Gulian's suggestion that Robert take her youngest brother as a squire, a gesture meant to ensure House Whent's representation and allegiance to the Rebel cause. Her parents, though clearly reluctant, had been powerless to refuse, especially when two more Stormlords arrived the next day with nearly two thousand men between them. The Marcher Lord Bryen Caron, a towering and formidable figure, made it clear that any hint of 'treason' would be met with swift and brutal retribution. He had bluntly stated that should her family fail to contribute to the cause, he would not hesitate to put the castle—and everyone within it—to the sword.

And finally, there was Lord Glendon Fell, known as Silveraxe—a younger man who had originally fought for the Royalists under his father's command. When the Royalist Stormlords were defeated at the Battles at Summerhall, Lord Fell was killed in the fighting, and the then Ser Glendon had swiftly switched cloaks, aligning himself with the Rebels. This act of opportunism did not particularly concern Sarra, but the man's newfound interest in her did.

As she glanced up from her plate, her eyes met Lord Glendon's across the hall. His gaze lingered on her, a small smile playing on his lips—one laced with amusement and something far less innocent. The attention made her skin crawl, a shiver she had to consciously suppress as she looked away.

Sarra was only thankful that her parents had already conceded to making Symond Robert Baratheon's squire. Otherwise, she dreaded to think what alternative Lord Glendon might have suggested. His interest in her was unmistakable, and the thought of what that could mean filled her with a deep, unsettling dread.

"Lady Sarra, is it not?" Robert Baratheon's booming voice cut through the din of the hall. Her heart sank as she realized that now the entire table's attention, especially the Stormlords', was fixed on her. A quick glance at her parents did nothing to calm her nerves—her mother's face was stony, while her father's wide eyes betrayed his apprehension.

"Yes, it is, my L—King," Sarra corrected herself quickly, nodding toward Robert. She remembered him from the tourney; though he was still as handsome as she recalled, there was a bitterness in him now, an unpleasant glint in his eyes that had not been there before. It was clear that his defeat still gnawed at him.

"I remember you from the—" Robert began, but his words trailed off, the mood in the hall suddenly tense as the Stormlords around him grimaced. "—I did wonder if you had any betrothals arranged?" This time, his gaze shifted to include her parents.

Before her father could respond, her mother spoke up, her voice calm but firm. "I am afraid that we have already negotiated with Lord Piper for his heir, Marq."

Sarra struggled to mask her surprise at her mother's bald-faced lie. If she hadn't known of Lord Clement and his son Marq, she might have almost believed the betrothal had been arranged without her knowledge.

Robert raised an eyebrow. "Oh, Lord Piper..." He trailed off, clearly struggling to recall the name. But before he could dwell on it, Lord Bryen Caron, unfortunately, seemed to have a better memory.

"Lord Clement?" Lord Caron asked, his tone sharp. When her mother nodded, though hesitantly, the Marcher Lord's eyes narrowed with obvious distrust. Sarra's stomach churned as the man leaned forward slightly, a calculating glint in his gaze. "Is his son not six namedays old?"

The lie seemed poised to unravel, but her mother didn't miss a beat. "We wish to be tied to loyal Riverlords," she replied smoothly. "And with Lord Darry and Lord Ryger's betrayal, there are unfortunately few suitable options left."

Robert seemed satisfied with this explanation, nodding slowly. Lord Glendon Fell remained emotionless, while Lord Bryen still looked unconvinced, his eyes flicking suspiciously between Sarra and her mother.

Just as Sarra braced herself for more probing questions, they were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a breathless Baratheon man-at-arms. "My King, apologies for the interruption, but a host has been spotted on the horizon, bearing Tully banners."

Sarra's attention snapped to Robert Baratheon, who leaped from his chair with such force that the wooden seat nearly toppled over.

"Finally, Lord Hoster has arrived. We strike our tents and ride to join Lord Jon immediately," Robert declared, his voice echoing through the hall. The Stormlords rose with him, as did her parents, all moving with a renewed sense of urgency.

"My King—" her father began, only to be cut off by Robert's brisk command.

"Come, boy. I'll need my armor now." Robert strode toward the door without a second glance, and after a moment's hesitation, her brother scrambled to follow, casting a quick, anxious look back at Sarra and their parents.

Her parents hurried after Robert, accompanied by Lords Caron and Swann. Sarra, still seated, found herself momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in atmosphere.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a voice from across the table.

"I recall you dancing with Tristifer Mudd," Lord Glendon Fell sneered, spitting out Tristifer's name as though it were poison on his tongue. "Your mother wasn't lying about a betrothal—just who it was with." His eyes gleamed with something dark as he leaned back in his chair, twirling a dagger between his fingers with a lazy, practiced ease.

A chill ran down Sarra's spine. She kept her silence, her thoughts racing as she calculated how quickly she could call for the guards if the situation escalated. Despite the fear, she couldn't help the flicker of happiness at the idea that her suspicions about a betrothal to Tristifer might have been true.

Lord Glendon didn't miss the fleeting expression, and his smirk deepened, clearly taking her reaction as confirmation of what he already suspected.

"Don't worry," Glendon continued, his smirk growing more arrogant. "I'll free you from that obligation, whether in battle or when we take King's Landing." His voice dripped with malice as he rose from his seat, the dagger still spinning in his hand.

"Wherever that traitorous cockroach hides," Lord Glendon concluded, his voice a low, menacing rumble. He lingered for a moment, his gaze locking onto hers as he rose to his feet. The dagger he'd been twirling came to a stop, the blade glinting in the dim light of the hall. "When we wed, I'll want you clad in green."

With a final, arrogant smirk, Lord Fell turned and strode out of the hall, leaving her seated in stunned silence. The hall seemed to close in around her, the air thick with a sense of impending doom.

She didn't truly exhale until several minutes had passed, her breath coming in hurried, shallow gasps as her heart raced with fear.

Sarra felt paralyzed, unsure of what to do. Why was Lord Fell so confident in their victory? Hadn't the momentum shifted? Did the rebels have some devious trick they planned to spring on the royalists, or was it just empty bravado?

Maybe... maybe she should warn Tristifer. The thought brought a small measure of clarity, a sense of purpose amidst the chaos swirling in her mind. It seemed prudent, not only for his sake but to ease the pressure that had been building up inside her ever since Robert Baratheon and his Stormlords had arrived.

Tytos Blackwood paced the length of his new quarters, a surprisingly comfortable prison cell. The accommodations exceeded his expectations, and he attributed this unexpected luxury to the man holding him captive—a man he hadn't seen in years but one he remembered vividly.

The idea of Ser Tristifer Mudd as Hand of the King was as unfathomable as Lord Mace Tyrell abandoning the siege of Storm's End to ambush them. Yet both had come to pass.

He remembered the tourney, where he had seen Tristifer as a minor figure, someone to perhaps curry favor with for future gains in the Riverlands. The notion that Tristifer might one day overshadow him had been inconceivable. But now, Tytos found himself grappling with a dramatic reversal of fortune.

Tristifer had outmaneuvered them all. Initially, the camp had dismissed the news of the knight's rise as a desperate joke, with the Targaryens allegedly thrusting the Hand's pin onto the nearest available cloak. Many of those who had laughed likely met their end on the Kingsroad, felled by Reachman arrows or crushed beneath Tyrell cavalry.

Lord Tywin Lannister, once ridiculed for his late arrival and defeat at Tristifer's hands at King's Landing, had perhaps made the wisest choice by lowering his banners and surrendering when he recognized the situation had turned hopeless. It had kept him his head and life—something that many of those who mocked him did not possess any longer.

Tytos had narrowly survived the battle himself. He had not joined in the mocking, mostly led by the Stormlanders. Instead, he had been shocked but not entirely surprised. He knew of Tristifer's capabilities—a far cry from the insignificant knight many had dismissed him as.

The Blackfish's rearguard had been slaughtered to a man when the Crackclaw Host arrived, sacrificing their lives for the rest of the army. Some Stormlords and their men had fled into the fields, only to be pursued by Reachman cavalry. A few had escaped, but Tytos and his closest men had laid down their arms to Mathis Rowan's forces. Lord Rowan, to his credit, had ensured that those who surrendered were spared and treated with a measure of decency.

As Tytos was led in chains past the thousands of bodies now strewn across the battlefield, he found himself grateful that he had persuaded Edwyn to remain at Raventree Hall to care for Alysanne and Jammos. The thought of losing any of them was unbearable, never mind his wife or newborn son.

Tytos halted his pacing, suppressing a shiver as that unsettling thought crossed his mind. A knock at the door mercifully interrupted his dark musings.

"Enter," Tytos commanded with a touch of authority. Despite his captivity, he was still a lord and would not allow himself to appear meek or defeated.

The door opened, revealing the very man Tytos had expected.

Ser Tristifer Mudd was still recognizable, but much had changed. He now wore a resplendent brown doublet with golden embroidery, a crown of gold stitched over his chest adorned with emeralds—a reflection of his house's sigil. A flowing burgundy cloak, lined with fur and fastened with a gilded brooch depicting a clenched hand, completed his attire. His dark leather boots were polished to a shine.

The golden brooch especially caught Tytos' eye. Any lingering doubts he might have had about Tristifer's position as Hand of the King were dispelled at that moment.

"Lord Hand, I suppose," Tytos finally greeted him. Tristifer's green-blue eyes betrayed little as he strode into the room with a measured, confident step.

"Indeed, Lord Tytos, though I recall we once agreed to forego titles in private. I hope this war hasn't soured our friendship?" Tristifer hinted with a small, teasing grin and a raised eyebrow.

Tytos was caught off guard by the ease with which Tristifer seemed willing to overlook the sides they had taken in the conflict. It either spoke to the depth of Tristifer's regard for their friendship or suggested he had ulterior motives. The guarded look in Tristifer's eyes made Tytos lean toward the latter.

"Very well, Tristifer. We did make that promise," Tytos replied, probing for a clearer understanding of his former friend's intentions. "Though if you would drop the mask you wear, I would appreciate it."

Tristifer tilted his head slightly, amusement and mirth flickering in his eyes. "I suppose you would catch that. While we are not the closest of friends, I do not consider you a mere acquaintance, Tytos."

"I suppose we are not" Tytos conceded, they had gotten along well that was true. "Yet we are not in the same circumstances as we were in once," He said as he gestured to the room around him.

Tristifer followed his gaze, nodding slightly. "No, we are not. But it doesn't have to remain this way."

Tytos recognized an offer when he heard one. "Oh?"

"Indeed. All I ask is for your cooperation and support in my future endeavors," Tristifer replied, his gaze locking onto Tytos with intent.

Tytos narrowed his eyes, wary of what those 'endeavors' might entail. "And what might those be?"

"House Tully's time as Lords of the Riverlands will come to an end with this rebellion. They have overreached, presenting a unique opportunity for someone to exploit their greed and misfortune." Tristifer's tone was measured but carried the weight of a man who had thought long and hard about this.

Tytos blinked, struggling to process what Tristifer was suggesting. Was he truly planning to usurp House Tully, the lords of Riverrun since... the fall of Tristifer IV? The irony was not lost on him—the idea that Tristifer, a descendant and namesake of the ancient Mudds, might seek to resurrect his house by ending the Tullys' reign. It was almost poetic.

"Lord Hoster is said to be leading the remaining Riverlords into the next battle," Tristifer continued, his voice firm with resolve. "I will ensure that House Tully is reduced to a boy lord and his two sisters. Edmure will foster under me, while his sisters will renounce any claims of theirs and their future children before the realm in King's Landing. I'll hold Riverrun until Oldstones is rebuilt and fit to be the seat of House Mudd once more. Then, House Mudd will hold both castles in perpetuity."

The certainty in Tristifer's voice was so absolute that, for a moment, Tytos almost believed it was already a reality.

"This will happen," Tristifer stated, his tone brooking no argument. "What I ask of you, Tytos, is your support. Stand with me when the other Riverlords protest or rise against me, however bold they might feel."

Tytos blinked again, incredulous. "You think I alone can help you keep Riverrun and secure the Riverlands?" There was disbelief in his voice, bordering on concern. Had Tristifer lost his senses? Was this some delusion born of power?

Tristifer shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Of course not, my friend. I'm already in talks with Lord Whent about a marriage to his daughter. Lords Ryger, Darry, and Mooton are Targaryen loyalists—they will be grateful when I break the sieges pinning them down. And even if they're not, they'll follow the commands of the Crown."

"You are the Crown," Tytos pointed out, glancing at the gleaming brooch on Tristifer's chest.

Tristifer's grin widened, revealing a hint of the boy he once was. "Precisely."

Tytos remained silent for a few moments, his mind turning over the implications of Tristifer's offer, searching for any potential pitfalls. Finally, he spoke. "And what do I stand to gain from this alliance?"

Tristifer's eyes gleamed, sensing the shift in the conversation. "Now you're asking the right questions." He paused, then regarded Tytos with a calculating gaze. "First, you'll be released immediately. I imagine even these quarters, comfortable as they are, hold little appeal for a man of your station. My uncle might have endured this for years without complaint, but nobles have different priorities," he added, the remark carrying an edge.

Tytos dismissed the barb with a slight nod. "And?"

"You'll have my favor as Lord Paramount. More importantly, I foresee that Lord Bracken, feeling slighted by your rise, will eventually overstep. When that time comes, would you not wish to be the first Blackwood to hold dominion over Stone Hedge?"

The thought struck deep. The rivalry between Blackwood and Bracken was as old as the hills, and the idea of finally bringing Stone Hedge under his house's control was tantalizing. The vision of his brother or son ruling over those lands filled him with a satisfaction he was almost embarrassed to admit.

"You would alienate one of your more prominent lords to aid me? House Bracken is more popular in the Riverlands than Blackwood. Their allies wouldn't stand idly by. Our forces are evenly matched, and their cavalry is renowned for a reason." Tytos found himself almost defending his rival as if testing Tristifer's resolve.

Tristifer's lips curled into a faint smile, recognizing the irony. "House Tully survived as Lords Paramount by maintaining a careful balance—they made sure not to draw the ire of any of their vassals, but neither did they inspire love. I intend to do as my ancestors did, fostering loyalty among my vassals and dealing with those who stand in my way."

Tytos considered this approach. It was risky, but it could pay off by creating a core of fiercely loyal followers. Still, there was the danger of alienating too many powerful houses. It could easily blow up in Tristifer's face.

"It won't be as simple as just revoking their holdings. Even I would rise up against such tyrannical actions," Tytos warned, his expression serious.

"Of course. If I saw the King revoke Lord Lannister's lands without just cause, I would do the same," Tristifer replied smoothly. "But opportunities will arise, and when they do, I will act decisively. I won't be as merciful as I must be in the immediate aftermath of this war."

Tytos could see the sense in that. Tristifer's rise from an unlanded knight to Lord Paramount would already be seen as an extraordinary move. He'd have to tread carefully in the short term, but the long game was clearly in his mind.

His eyes narrowed at Tristifer's final words. "You expect someone will rise against you, then?"

Tristifer shrugged, his expression unreadable. "These are hypotheticals for now, but I must consider every possibility. So, have you made your decision? I can't talk here indefinitely."

Tytos grew thoughtful, weighing his options. What choice did he really have? Tristifer seemed poised for victory; the Rebels' forces were weakened, and the numbers were on the Royalist side. It was a gamble, but the odds seemed in his favor. And if Tristifer fell, Tytos could always claim he'd been forced into compliance or paid his ransom.

After a few long moments, Tytos finally nodded. "Very well. I'll support you as Lord Paramount, but I want your word that Stone Hedge will belong to House Blackwood."

Tristifer's face brightened with satisfaction. "I am a man of my word, Tytos, and I promise you that within my lifetime, Stone Hedge will be under Blackwood control." They clasped hands, sealing the agreement.

"My lord," Tytos said, his voice carrying the weight of the commitment he had just made. As their hands parted, he couldn't help but imagine a future where House Bracken lay broken, their lands under Blackwood rule—a future where this handshake was remembered as the moment that turned the tide.

Prince Oberyn sat astride his fierce Sand Steed with an ease that belied the countless hours of practice he had endured in his youth to perfect the appearance of effortlessness. Oberyn was well aware of the fortune bestowed upon him—his striking looks and his well-formed body were assets he never took for granted.

His elder brother, Doran, was ten years his senior, and unlike many other second sons, Oberyn had never once considered challenging him for the title of Prince of Dorne. He loved Doran and believed that his brother was well-suited to lead their homeland. Doran embodied the opportunistic and calculating nature of Dorne, traits that Oberyn respected but did not share. Instead, he had chosen to represent Dorne's passion, fiery spirit, and untamed heart.

The two brothers complemented each other's strengths and weaknesses when they sought the same goal. However, it was unfortunate that they so rarely agreed on what that goal should be.

When Doran had forbidden Oberyn from leading their ten thousand men north to fight alongside their uncle, Oberyn had been furious. But when the news reached them of the defeat at the Trident and the death of Uncle Lewyn, his emotions were conflicted. He believed that, had he been there, things might have gone differently. Yet a small part of him was also relieved that he had not been involved.

Instead, Oberyn had been stationed at Yronwood with the remaining army, ready to confront any force—Royalist or Rebel—that might attempt to invade Dorne through the Boneway. When a letter arrived from Doran, explaining the appointment of the new Hand of the King and the order signed by their sister, Oberyn's feelings were mixed. He was pleased at the prospect of finally marching into action but enraged that this new Hand dared to wield their sister's captivity in King's Landing as a threat.

The fact that the new Hand was Ser Tristifer, the melee champion at Harrenhal, only deepened Oberyn's disdain. He had tried to provoke the younger man, hoping to strip away his facade of humility, which Oberyn found insufferably false. But his attempts had been thwarted, by his sister ironically enough, who had grown tired of that evening's tension.

Reluctantly, Oberyn had to concede that Tristifer's strategy was sound. It promised the action he craved and, from a tactical standpoint, was wise. His time at the Citadel had provided him with a solid foundation in strategy and the study of historical military campaigns. Although he knew he would always be more of a warrior than a strategist, Oberyn was not one to discount the knowledge he possessed.

At Blackhaven, they rendezvoused with Lord Franklyn Fowler and Lady Blackmont's husband, both of whom had defended the Prince's Pass to Dorne from Lord Fowler's seat at Skyreach. It was there that Oberyn encountered an astonishing revelation.

On the third day of their march up the Prince's Pass, Lord Fowler and his men had stumbled upon a tower that Fowler claimed had always been abandoned in previous years. To their surprise, it was now inhabited. Inside, they found three Kingsguard knights and a heavily pregnant Lady Lyanna Stark. The so-called 'abducted' lady who had ignited this entire war was revealed to be Prince Rhaegar's second wife. The sheer disrespect to his sister, Elia, almost made Oberyn want to seek out Rhaegar's body and kill him again, if such a thing were possible.

Lady Lyanna was sent to Skyreach under the escort of a hundred Fowler men and Ser Arthur Dayne, who insisted on remaining close to her. Meanwhile, the two other Kingsguard, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent, joined the Fowler and Blackmont host to march on Storm's End. They planned to return to King's Landing and the young king after hearing of King Aerys' death and the new Hand's actions.

Oberyn found their decision somewhat foolish. Why choose to protect the child after they had already abandoned the boy for over a year? However, he did not prevent them from continuing with their plans. Both knights were formidable warriors, and their presence could prove valuable in the assault.

The rest of the journey through the lands of the Marcher Lords—historically the greatest obstacle to any Dornish host attempting to take this very path—was uneventful by comparison. Blackhaven, seat of House Dondarrion, and Harvest Hall, stronghold of House Selmy, both castles where many a Martell and Dornish warrior before him had fought and lost their lives against the Durrandons, Baratheons, and Targaryens, were now nearly deserted. Each held only a paltry garrison, with no force capable of challenging their advance.

Oberyn had felt a temptation to exploit this weakness, if only as a nod to the history of failed Dornish forays into the Stormlands. However, he knew that doing so would delay their progress for little tangible gain. The true prize lay ahead—the fall of Storm's End. Taking the ancient stronghold would be a triumph akin to claiming the maidenhood of a woman, something never before accomplished by anyone before. That was a victory worth pursuing.

The castle was as formidable as its reputation, its massive walls standing defiantly against the encroaching darkness of the storm clouds gathering over the glittering bay to the east. Oberyn could only hope those clouds were not headed in their direction. He had never witnessed a Stormlands storm before, and while the experience might be intriguing, he had no desire to endure one during an assault.

As they approached, the plains before the castle unfolded, revealing a sprawling expanse of tents and fluttering banners. The red and black of the Targaryen dragon was unmistakable, boldly proclaiming the allegiance of the assembled forces. Yet what caught Oberyn's eye were the banners emblazoned with green apples—the sigil of House Fossoway. He couldn't recall which seat this particular branch of the family held, only that the other branch bore red apples on their banners.

From the camp, a small party of riders made their way toward them. At the head of the group was presumably the Fossoway lord himself. Oberyn halted his mount and raised a hand in greeting as they approached within speaking distance.

He knew that one branch of House Fossoway were the original lords, while the other branch were landed knights. If this green-appled Fossoway was leading the army, he wondered about the distinction.

"Lord Fossoway," Oberyn greeted with a charismatic smile, hoping to clarify any potential misconceptions about the man's rank.

"Ser Jon Fossoway, at your service, Prince Oberyn?" the powerfully built knight responded firmly.

Gods damn it.

"Indeed, you command this siege and the men?" Oberyn asked, his gaze shifting beyond Ser Jon to the encampment.

Ser Jon nodded. "I do. I understand you and your men are here to reinforce me as we prepare to storm the castle?"

Oberyn caught the underlying question in the knight's words: Will you follow my lead?

"We only wish to see the Targaryen and Martell banners flying from those walls, Ser," Oberyn replied diplomatically. "If you have a plan, we shall support it."

"Good," Ser Jon Fossoway said with a faint smile. He turned his gaze toward the darkening clouds. "I want to assault the castle before that storm arrives. If we wait, the rains will turn the ground to mud, making it impossible to launch a coordinated attack."

He then turned back to Oberyn. Oberyn glanced to his sides and saw that his brother's bannermen had joined him: Lord Franklyn Fowler, Lord Harmen Uller, Lord Dagos Manwoody, and Lord Quentyn Qorgyle. Each of these men was a capable warrior, though their skills varied. Lord Dagos, in particular, was renowned for his deadly prowess—a man even Oberyn would approach with caution.

None of the lords seemed to object to the plan. Oberyn turned back to Ser Jon. "It seems sensible, but do we have any idea how soon the storm will arrive?"

Ser Jon's expression grew slightly apprehensive. He turned to one of his companions, an Ambrose knight marked by red ants on a yellow surcoat. The knight shrugged, and Ser Jon shook his head as he turned back. "It appears the storm is still some distance away. We'll launch the assault as soon as your men have set up camp and armed themselves."

Oberyn nodded. "I suppose only the gods can truly predict the weather."

"Or a Stormlander," came a muttered remark from one of the lords by his side. Oberyn couldn't pinpoint who spoke, but he agreed. If anyone could predict the fickle nature of these land's weather, it would be the Stormlanders themselves. Such speculation was moot, however.

Within the hour, they had set up their tents, secured their supplies, and readied their arms and ladders. The air was charged with anticipation as trumpets sounded the advance.

Oberyn moved with the ladder bearers, Ser Oswell Whent in his white cloak at his side. He could see that the clouds were closing in faster now and thought he glimpsed a flash of lightning in the distance. Shaking off the distraction, he focused on the task at hand, raising his shield in one hand and gripping his spear in the other.

Oberyn knew it would be unwise to approach the walls without his shield, even though it didn't match his preference for the spear. The shield was a smart precaution against arrows. Once he was on the walls, he could cast it aside and focus on using his spear to its full potential.

All denizens of Storm's End could recognize the signs if they had lived within its ancient walls for any length of time. Stannis Baratheon had learned them from his father, who had inherited them from his forebears. The humid tang in the air, the escalating fury of waves smashing against the bay, the subtle shift in the wind—all pointed to the approach of one of the infamous storms that had earned the castle its name.

Standing upon the colossal battlements that had weathered countless storms and repelled numerous assaults, Stannis gazed out over the churning waters. The skies above were a tumult of overcast clouds, dark and brooding. The storm seemed distant, but Stannis knew better than to trust appearances. Far too many Stormlanders throughout history had met their end underestimating the ferocity of such gales, and the speed they moved.

He turned his gaze westward, where the sight that greeted him was more infuriating than any storm. The plains, where he had once learned to ride, were now a chaotic expanse of tents, campfires, and flapping banners. The familiar greens and blues of the Reachlords had been joined by new colors—orange, yellow, and red—blending together in a defiant patchwork that stained the landscape like a festering wound.

The Stormlands' greatest enemies, united in a bitter irony, had come to besiege the heart of his ancestral lands. For centuries before the Conquest, the Stormlands, Reach, and Dorne had been locked in a relentless cycle of conflict, the old enmities as much a part of the landscape as the hills and rivers. Yet now, the banner of the Conqueror flew above both his enemies, as they closed in on Storm's End.

Stannis had realized the tide was turning when Lord Mace Tyrell withdrew with all but five thousand men. For over a year, Storm's End had withstood the Tyrell siege and the Redwyne blockade—first through sheer determination and loyalty to his brother Robert, then by consuming the horses, cats, and rats that shared the castle with them. Their salvation had come in the form of a smuggler, who risked everything to slip through the Redwyne fleet, delivering a shipload of onions and salted fish that had kept them alive.

Before the smuggler's arrival, desperation had nearly driven the garrison to collapse. Ser Gawen Wylde, the castle's master-at-arms, along with three knights, had been caught trying to defect. In his fury, Stannis had intended to launch the traitors toward their besiegers by catapult, but Maester Cressen had intervened, urging restraint. He warned that they might yet need those men if their food supply dwindled to nothing.

Reluctantly, Stannis heeded the advice and confined the four men in the dungeons. Yet the dire scarcity of provisions meant they could not spare even a morsel for the prisoners. Ser Gawen had already succumbed to malnutrition, a grim harbinger of what awaited the rest if relief did not come.

Stannis had rationed and re-rationed, stretching their meager supplies to the breaking point, but the siege dragged on, relentless as the storms battering the castle walls. Now, however, it seemed the siege would soon conclude, one way or another.

His men were weak from malnutrition, even with the critical supplies brought by Davos, the smuggler. They had to consume the provisions sparingly, for too much at once would only lead to sickness, leaving them weaker than before.

The garrison was fierce and driven, but Stannis knew the odds were stacked against them. The besiegers' ranks had swelled with the arrival of the Martells and their Dornish forces. When Lord Mace Tyrell and the bulk of the Reach host had inexplicably abandoned the siege, Stannis had briefly considered a sally. Yet with their numbers only a fraction of the besiegers'—barely a tenth—and of those, perhaps half truly fit for combat, such a move would have hastened the fall of Storm's End.

The new commander, Ser Jon Fossoway, was no fool either. Early in the siege, when their strength had been more substantial, Stannis had led a small raid when Lord Mace led the Reachlords, hoping to disrupt the enemy lines. The effort had yielded little damage and cost the lives of too many good men, quelling any thoughts of a repeat attempt.

Now, as the thousands of besiegers marched toward his ancestral home, they did so with an unnerving determination. They seemed unfazed by the approaching storm, as if oblivious to the fury that nature was about to unleash—which they probably were when he thought about it.

Stannis couldn't see a way to turn the approaching storm to his advantage. Stormlanders were adept at reading the signs of an impending tempest, but that knowledge only served to tell them when to seek shelter. Now, as their besiegers prepared to assault the walls, his men would be forced to stand exposed, battling both the elements and the enemy.

As the attackers closed in beneath the walls, his men began rushing past him, a flurry of activity as they prepared for the onslaught. Stannis had sacrificed every piece of furniture he could spare to heat cauldrons of sand and dirt in the castle's courtyards, a desperate measure for desperate times.

Now, those cauldrons were finally being put to use. His men hurried past, bearing the heavy, heated metal between them with wooden poles, their faces grim but determined.

Over the clamor of rushing men, Stannis heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping against stone as the besiegers raised their ladders to the crenellations. He risked a quick glance over the side, only to curse himself as an arrow whizzed past, sent in his direction. It wasn't close to striking him, but he cursed his foolishness regardless. There was no room for such carelessness—not now, not with everything hanging in the balance.

"Ladders here!" his men shouted from various points along the battlements.

In response, the awaiting soldiers rushed to the threatened sections, hoisting the heated cauldrons. At the command of their nearby men, they tipped them over the merlons, sending the scalding sand and dirt cascading down onto the ladders below.

Stannis couldn't see the results, but the screams of agony and terror from the men climbing the ladders told him enough. Yet even as he listened, he noticed some of his men continuing to pour the precious mixture over the sides, heedless of the rapidly diminishing supply.

"Raise the cauldrons! Don't waste it all now!" Stannis barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. The men quickly obeyed, but he knew it was already too late to recover what had been lost. Every resource was precious, and they could ill afford such waste.

He glanced over at the nearest cauldron and saw that it was already half empty. They hadn't been able to fill them to the top, constrained by both the weight and the time required to heat the contents to a satisfactory temperature. Now, seeing the dwindling supply, Stannis felt a surge of frustration.

"Ladders!" The cry rang out again, louder and more urgent. The besiegers had not given up, as Stannis had expected. He knew it was only a matter of time before they successfully scaled the walls—this was a battle of attrition, and the enemy had the upper hand.

His men hurried to tip the cauldrons once more, and the air was soon filled with the familiar, haunting mix of agonized screams. But this time, Stannis also heard two heavy crashes and a string of curses. Snapping his gaze in that direction, he saw two cauldrons toppling over the edge, still half-full.

Fury surged within him, but he held it in check. If they weren't so desperate for every man capable of wielding a sword, he would have had their heads himself. Instead, he allowed the nearest soldiers to berate the offenders before barking at them to refocus on the battle. There was no time for mistakes, no margin for error—every second, every drop of their dwindling resources, mattered.

"Throw stones and anything else you can find instead!" Stannis ordered the men who had lost their cauldrons. That had always been the plan once the cauldrons were empty, but it made his blood boil that they had wasted the precious mixture so early.

Now, only four cauldrons remained, and he could see the strain in his men as they rushed from ladder to ladder, their exhaustion growing with each trip. He ordered fresh men to take over, but the labor was grueling, and even the replacements soon began to tire.

Another cauldron toppled over the side, and Stannis watched in frustration as the last of the cauldrons were emptied. With no more liquid to hurl, he ordered his men to cast the empty cauldrons over the battlements as well.

Nearly an hour had passed since the first ladders had reached the walls, and now Stannis felt the first drop of rain hit his nose. The storm had arrived, and they had exhausted their resources. They had thrown everything they could find: stones, barrels, and even the blacksmith's anvil, which four men had heaved over with a mighty effort. Every piece of furniture that could be spared had been used as a projectile.

The first raindrop was soon joined by another, and then another, until the drizzle became a steady, relentless pour. Stannis looked up, seeing the dark, menacing skies just off the coast. He could even discern the advancing wall of rain as it closed in. Within the next five minutes, the torrential downpour engulfed them, turning the battlefield into a drenched and chaotic scene.

The attackers had finally managed to scale the ladders, and the initial resistance of Stannis's men had been overwhelmed. The Reachmen and Dornish began establishing footholds on the battlements as the rain poured down almost oppressively, making the wooden ladders increasingly treacherous.

A few climbers lost their grip and slipped from the ladders, their screams abruptly cut off as they plunged to the ground below. One entire ladder, now slick with rain and mud, toppled, sending a score of men crashing down.

Stannis's own forces were not spared from the chaos. He watched as at least five of his men either lost their footing or were pushed over the edge, falling into the courtyard below. The storm was no ally to either side; it only deepened the turmoil of the battle.

Stannis had managed to cut down a few men-at-arms with his sword, but he knew his own weakness and malnutrition were taking their toll. The attackers, well-fed and provisioned, had a significant advantage. Even if the numbers had been equal, the attackers' full stomachs alone would have given them a crucial edge.

Most of the attackers so far had been ordinary men-at-arms and minor knights, eager for the glory of being the first to breach the castle. But two figures stood out amidst the chaos. One, wielding a spear with a mastery that suggested he was born to it, cut through Stannis's men with deadly precision. This was presumably Prince Oberyn Martell himself. Stannis cursed their lack of arrows; the Dornish Prince was a tantalizing target as he danced through the fray in his light armor, his spear an extension of his lethal grace.

The other figure, however, was faring far worse. Clad in the white cloak of the Kingsguard and encased in heavy armor, Ser Oswell Whent, if Stannis guessed correctly, was struggling against the slick, treacherous stones. The knight cut down any who dared challenge him, but Stannis held back a few men, waiting for the moment when the knight would lose his footing.

Fate was on their side. The heavily armored knight finally slipped on the wet stone. Though he managed to avoid falling off either side, he was left prone, struggling to regain his balance.

"NOW! OURS IS THE FURY!" Stannis roared, rallying his men to charge at the fallen knight. The white-cloaked figure fought valiantly, fending off a few of Stannis's men and deflecting some blows with his plate armor. But it was Stannis himself who seized the moment. With grim determination, he forced his sword between the knight's cuirass and helmet.

Through the narrow eye-slits of Ser Oswell's helm, Stannis saw first surprise, then the light slowly fade from the knight's brown eyes.

The man's death throes were soon accompanied by another grim sight—one of Stannis's men skewered by Prince Oberyn's spear. From the direction of the attack, Stannis realized that the spear had been aimed at him. He couldn't afford to dwell on this for long. As the spear was withdrawn, Stannis scrambled back, leaving his sword embedded in Ser Oswell's neck.

Within moments, half a dozen men had positioned themselves between Stannis and the fierce Dornish Prince. Though the attackers were cut down almost as quickly as they arrived, their sacrifice bought Stannis precious moments to fall back.

The battlements were now swarming with assailants. His own forces had dwindled to around a hundred. Stannis, surrounded by a small cadre of loyal men, shouted, "Men, follow me! We withdraw to the keep proper!" He led them cautiously toward the wooden stairs descending into the courtyard below.

At the top of the stairs, five men made a last stand, fending off the pursuing Reach men-at-arms. One of Stannis's men slipped and fell with a scream, but the remaining defenders continued their fight without hesitation.

As Stannis and his remaining men descended into the courtyard, he glanced back at the battlements. His remaining forces fought valiantly but were few against the overwhelming numbers of their attackers. He watched in grim silence as more of his men were pushed off the walls, meeting their end below.

In that moment, Stannis knew the castle was lost. He had sensed its doom with the arrival of the Dornish earlier in the day, but now it was sealed. As he faced the overwhelming tide of enemies, he couldn't help but wonder how his elder brother Robert would react.

Robert would undoubtedly rage and rave, as was his nature. But would there be more to his reaction? Stannis pondered whether Robert would feel any sorrow for the fate of his true brothers. The bond between them had grown distant since the death of their parents, and Stannis knew they had never been particularly close.

Would Robert be proud of Stannis for holding the castle for so long, defying their enemies in his name? Or would he curse his name for ultimately failing to withstand the onslaught? These were the thoughts of a younger brother, grappling with the weight of impending defeat. Yet, despite knowing them to be a distraction and irrelevant, Stannis couldn't help but dwell on them.

"My Lord," one of his men called out urgently. Stannis turned to see the man pointing to the stairs. The last of their defenders had fallen, and the assaulters were now pouring down the stairs like a relentless flood, much like the unyielding rain cascading over the castle.

Storm's End had been built to defy the fury of the storm, but now it seemed destined to fall to the storm's might for the first time. Perhaps it was the legendary Storm God having the final say against Stannis's Durrandon heritage, an ironic twist of fate that the very storm they had withstood so long would now bring their end.

His men looked to him with weary, questioning eyes. What were their next steps?

"To the keep," Stannis commanded, his voice resolute despite the grim circumstances. "We fight them for every inch. Let them know that House Baratheon did not fall meekly at Storm's End." The remaining men moved quickly towards the keep, pushing open the great oaken doors. Once inside, they shut and barred the doors, knowing they wouldn't hold indefinitely but hoping they would buy a little more time.

As Stannis' thoughts wandered to the maester's drum tower where Maester Cressen and his youngest brother, Renly, were taking refuge, his thoughts grew heavy. The fate of the castle's inhabitants now rested in the hands of Ser Jon Fossoway or Prince Oberyn Martell.

He hesitated as the first blows struck the barred doors. Was he willing to sacrifice his only true family for the sake of stubborn defiance? Renly was innocent, yet if Stannis held out, they could withstand the attackers for no more than a day—assuming they didn't breach the keep today.

Was this defiance worth the lives of every remaining soul in the castle? Stannis had been driven by duty to his elder brother, but that duty had already failed. Was he so desperate for a hint of Robert's approval that he would doom his younger brother in the process?

Stannis knew that even if he surrendered, the besiegers might still kill Renly. But there was at least a chance of sparing him—a chance that would vanish if he continued to resist. In memory of his late mother, who would be heartbroken to lose all her sons, Stannis felt the weight of his decision more than ever.

"Open the porthole," Stannis ordered sharply, his eyes locked onto one of his men. The remaining ten looked at him with confusion, their weariness etched on their faces.

He met their questioning gazes with a steely resolve. "You heard me correctly," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

"Are you sure, my Lord?" one of the men asked, casting a glance at his comrades.

Was it truly so surprising that Stannis would seek terms? They were a mere ten against thousands; the battle was lost. "Of course I'm sure. Now open the damn hatch!" Stannis's voice was fierce, a final display of authority. He would not have his orders questioned after all they had endured.

The men hesitated, and Stannis, his frustration mounting, pushed past them to slide open the hatch himself. He peered out, seeing the enemy forces halting at the sight of him.

"I seek terms, fetch your lord" Stannis declared firmly. The silence that followed was heavy before he heard the sound of men scrambling away. He quickly slid the hatch nearly closed, leaving just a sliver open to prevent anyone from looking in.

Turning back to his men, he saw two already leaning wearily against the walls, their fighting spirit seemingly drained. "You have been the most loyal servants of House Baratheon," he said with deep respect. "And you have my eternal gratitude. Now, that service is at an end. I do not expect to live through this, nor do I expect any of you to."

One of the men looked bewildered. "Then why not fight on, take at least one more of those bastards with us?" he asked, frustration evident in his voice.

Stannis gave him a stern look, his tone steady but firm. "My brother Renly is still a boy. The battle is lost, but I won't condemn him to death if there's any way to prevent it." He shook his head, his resolve unshaken despite the grim circumstances.

The men fell silent, their frustration giving way to a heavy, uncertain quiet. A knock echoed on the door, breaking the stillness. Stannis slid the hatch open once more. Through the narrow slit, he saw Ser Jon Fossoway standing alongside Prince Oberyn.

"You seek terms?" Ser Jon Fossoway's voice was authoritative, cutting through the tension.

Stannis cast a final, regretful glance at his men before nodding. "I do."

For the first time in history, Storm's End had fallen to a foreign assault. This defeat would be Stannis's legacy, and he could only hope that it would, in some way, be worth the cost.

"You said you wanted to talk about something?" Addam asked as he stepped into Tristifer's solar, closing the door behind him.

The chamber was dimly lit, its high stone walls bearing the weight of history through tapestries that told the tale of House Mudd's rise and fall. One tapestry depicted a crowned Mudd, a dozen lords kneeling in submission before him. Another showed the grim execution of King Roland II Arryn by the legendary Tristifer IV, while a third captured the tragic fall of Tristifer IV and the brief reign of his successor, Tristifer V.

A large hearth crackled on one side, casting a warm, flickering glow that danced across the room. Above the hearth hung the banner of House Mudd. The central table, cluttered with maps, scrolls, and tomes, showed glimpses of Tristifer's diligent work. Tristifer sat behind it in a carved, high-backed chair, looking up with a welcoming smile as Addam entered.

"Yes, take a seat," Tristifer gestured to the chair nearest to Addam.

Addam settled into the chair, feeling the warmth of the hearth on his back as Tristifer slid a letter across the table toward him. He hesitated for a moment, recognizing the handwriting before he began to skim through it. As his eyes moved over the words, he paused when the letter turned more personal. It seemed Tristifer had indeed left an impression on Lady Sarra Whent.

After a moment, Addam set the letter down and met Tristifer's gaze. "Robert Baratheon and his lords are confident," Addam said, noting the way Tristifer sat, his fingers steepled together as he considered the news.

"Indeed, the great Lord Glendon Fell intends to marry my betrothed." Tristifer quipped, though his eyes betrayed a hardness beneath the jest.

"The 'Silveraxe' himself," Addam replied with a smile he could barely contain, though it quickly faded into a more serious expression. "Still, it would be foolish to let your guard down. Greater warriors than you have been felled by lesser men than a lord, no matter how skilled they might be."

Tristifer's expression softened slightly as he nodded. "I'm well aware," he said quietly. "But for now, let's focus on the Dornish. Prince Oberyn should be arriving soon, and I need you with me when we greet him."

Addam held his friend's gaze and gave a nod of agreement. They both rose from their seats and departed the solar. As they passed the door, Tristifer gave a nod to one of the guards stationed there.

Descending the Tower, they made their way into the courtyard, where a small retinue of guards joined them.

"Lord Hand!" a voice called out. Tristifer and Addam turned toward the sound. Standing by the entrance to the Red Keep was the portly figure of Lord Mace Tyrell.

Tristifer's eye twitched momentarily but was quickly replaced by a polite smile as he approached the Lord of the Reach. "Lord Tyrell," he said smoothly, "what brings you here today?"

Lord Mace shifted slightly, his smile strained. "I was hoping we could speak in private," he said, casting a cautious glance around. "There are certain matters that need addressing, but they're best not discussed here."

Tristifer paused for a moment, then glanced toward the Royal stables where horses were being readied. "I'm afraid I must attend to Prince Oberyn's arrival now," he said. "We'll need to schedule this discussion for another time."

Lord Mace blinked and followed Tristifer's gaze toward the stables. "Ah, I see, Lord Hand. I won't keep you any longer, then."

With brief farewells, Tristifer and Addam made their way to the stables. As Lord Mace turned back toward the Keep, Addam leaned closer to Tristifer and murmured, "He didn't seem like he was looking to discuss anything pleasant."

Tristifer glanced at him and nodded. "No, he did not." After a moment, his friend added, "Speculating now will only create unnecessary worry. Let's focus on the Dornish instead."

The ride was mostly silent as they descended from the Red Keep and traveled along the Hook.

The Dornish would be arriving from the south, needing to be ferried across the Rush to the River Gate. As they crossed Fishmonger's Square, they attracted many curious glances from merchants and fishers. Addam could hear snippets of conversation about Tristifer as the crowd buzzed with gossip.

They soon passed through the open portcullis of the River Gate. It had been over a moon since such an opportunity had been possible, but with the siege finally lifted, some gates were now open to allow travel once again. Although heavily guarded, the gate permitted the smallfolk to enter and leave the city freely before nightfall.

At the docks and wharfs, fishermen who had ventured into the bay that morning were returning, and the smell of fish and sea life filled the air, permeating the entire area.

Across the Rush, Addam spotted a sizable cavalry force. It appeared that Prince Oberyn had brought only his cavalry to make swift time to King's Landing.

At the piers, gold cloaks were busy organizing barges, fishing boats, and any other vessels available to ferry the men and horses across. The Blackwater Rush, known for its strong current, was particularly swift at its mouth, making the transportation a careful operation.

Tristifer, Addam, and the guards watched as the boats began their crossings. The first boat returned carrying about half a dozen men, and Addam noticed a grim trophy on a pike held by one of the boat's occupants. As the barge drew closer, he could see that the head was likely Stannis Baratheon's, the defending commander from the Siege of Storm's End and Robert Baratheon's brother.

When the vessel bumped into the docks, Prince Oberyn was the first to leap off, clad in his distinctive armor. He was accompanied by Lord Commander Gerold Hightower and two other noble lords. The rest of the entourage consisted of men-at-arms, including the man carrying the pike with the trophy.

"Ser Tristifer, what a welcoming sight," Prince Oberyn said, his handsome face adorned with a polite but insincere smile. Addam noted how the Dornish prince pointedly ignored Tristifer's position as Lord Hand and Regent.

"Prince Oberyn, congratulations on the Storming of Storm's End," Tristifer replied with practiced diplomacy.

"Witty," Oberyn remarked flatly, then gestured behind him. "Stannis Baratheon, or what's left of him." He pointed to the decaying head on a pike—its eyes plucked out by scavengers, making the sight grotesque. Then he turned to a smaller boy with the same black hair and blue eyes as Robert Baratheon, guarded by two men-at-arms. "And Renly Baratheon."

Before Tristifer could respond, Oberyn's gaze shifted past them toward the Red Keep. "I would like to see my sister now, if you don't mind. Does your hostage receive such privileges?"

Addam saw Tristifer nearly roll his eyes. "The Queen Mother is not a hostage," he replied, his tone measured. "You don't need my 'permission,' I assure you."

Once, that might have been true, but no longer. While Tristifer could benefit from Queen Elia and her children's presence, they were no longer hostages in the way they had been under Aerys.

Oberyn didn't respond, brushing past them with a dismissive air. Renly Baratheon was taken with him, the boy casting a fearful glance up at Tristifer and Addam before being led away. All but one of Oberyn's entourage followed, leaving Addam with a lingering sense of sorrow for Robert Baratheon's youngest brother.

The lone figure remaining was Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, known as the White Bull. His sharp, wrinkled eyes locked onto Tristifer. "You are now Lord Hand," he began, raising a hand to halt Tristifer's response. "Prince Rhaegar trusted you, and according to rumors, it is you I should thank for the continued safety of the Royal Family."

Tristifer raised an eyebrow. "If I'm not mistaken, those are your charges. Yet no white cloaks were seen in the city, except for a dirtied cloak found in the Black Cells."

Lord Commander Gerold Hightower remained steadfast. "Prince Rhaegar entrusted me and my brothers with the protection of another part of the family."

Tristifer glanced at Addam, his curiosity piqued. "And who might that be?"

"The Prince's second wife, the pregnant Princess Lyanna," Gerold replied.

Addam and Tristifer exchanged a look of disbelief and surprise.

"Lyanna... Stark?" Addam finally managed to ask, his voice barely concealing his shock.

The elder Kingsguard gave Addam a brief, expressionless glance, acknowledging him for the first time, but said nothing. He supposed there were not a lot of possible Lyannas but still.

"Where is the... Princess now?" Tristifer asked.

"At Skyreach, Lord Fowler's seat," Gerold replied, "along with Ser Arthur Dayne."

Tristifer grew pensive, absorbing the weight of the information before asking, "And what of Ser Oswell?"

Hightower's expression darkened. "He fell during the assault on Storm's End."

Tristifer and Addam bowed their heads in respect. "He was a good knight of the Kingsguard," Tristifer said solemnly.

They stood in silence for a few moments, honoring the fallen knight. Then, the Lord Commander looked intently at Tristifer. "He was indeed a fine member of the Kingsguard. Speaking of, I've heard you've... appointed new members?"

Addam detected the subtle undertone in the older man's voice. Though the Lord Commander had been absent from the capital for over a year, his authority and pride in the Kingsguard were evident.

"Indeed," Tristifer replied firmly. "Ser Jaremy Rykker and Ser Valtris Sunglass were chosen after proving their loyalty during the siege."

The Lord Commander remained silent for a moment, glancing at Addam before turning his gaze back to Tristifer. "I will wish to evaluate these men, but that need not be your concern."

As Tristifer began to reply, the Kingsguard interrupted him. "Even with Ser Arthur, Ser Valtris, Ser Jaremy, and myself, the ranks of the Kingsguard are not yet full. Ser Jaime was a skilled warrior, but he was no true Knight of the Kingsguard. His execution must be imminent, I assume?"

"Ser Jaime will be pardoned for his crimes and released to his father," Tristifer revealed.

The Lord Commander's shock was palpable, his face growing red with anger. "You would allow the greatest stain upon my order's history to live? After he murdered the man he was sworn to protect with his life?"

Tristifer tilted his head slightly. "This is about more than your order's history. King Aerys was no good king, and that will be our justification. I understand your oath, but I have need of Jaime in negotiations with his father. I would rather spare one disgraced knight than lose thousands in a war with Lord Tywin and the Westerlands."

As the Lord Commander opened his mouth to protest, Tristifer raised a hand, stopping him. "This is not up for discussion. Promises have been made. Now, I want to hear your thoughts on Ser Barristan. He fought for Baratheon after his capture at the Trident, but he has been one of the Kingsguard's greatest members for over two decades and is regarded as a successor to Ser Duncan the Tall himself."

The Lord Commander seemed to deflate slightly, his expression a mix of anger and sorrow.

Addam thought back to the stories he had heard as a child about Ser Barristan the Bold—how the knight had dueled Maelys the Monstrous during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Ser Barristan was more than just a knight; he was a living legend, and now they were to decide his fate.

"My brother has erred and broken his oath to his king," Ser Gerold said quietly, a note of sorrow in his voice. "I... I would speak with him, and if Ser Jaime is to live..."

Tristifer nodded, understanding the weight of the moment. "You will have the chance to meet with him. A strong and fully staffed Kingsguard is one of my priorities. With your ranks dwindling, I felt it necessary to appoint at least two new knights. I would value your input on the remaining appointments."

The Lord Commander considered this, then nodded. "Very well, Lord Hand. I will send for you once I have returned to the White Sword Tower," he said, his tone formal but respectful. With a final nod, he turned and departed.

Addam watched the knight's departure, then turned back to Tristifer.

"Storm's End has fallen. Robert's brothers are dead or captured," Addam summarized, the weight of recent events pressing down on him.

Tristifer nodded, a hint of weariness creeping into his expression. "Indeed, and now we learn of another wife—Prince Rhaegar's pregnant wife, hidden away in Dorne."

Addam paused, considering the weight of their conversation. "But what does it change, really? Is this just another potential heir... another pretender?"

Tristifer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease the tension there. "I'm not sure. Eddard Stark would be relieved to know his sister's alive, and that she was never kidnapped as we were led to believe." His voice trailed off, lost in thought.

Addam nodded, then another thought struck him. "But what of Robert Baratheon? If he learns of this, he'll be furious. Could that be something we could use against him?"

Tristifer shrugged, a wary look in his eyes. "Perhaps, though I doubt rage would be a weakness for Robert. If anything, it only makes him more dangerous."

He glanced out toward the bay, watching as seagulls circled above. "And then there's the matter of Dragonstone. Another prince, another Queen, and no news since they were sent there."

Tristifer sighed deeply, his gaze following the seagulls as they drifted over the water. "Aye," he muttered, almost to himself. "We're bloody surrounded by them."

End of Chapter

We are nearing the last battle as Robert Baratheon marches from Harrenhal, Tristifer politicks and negotiates with his good friend Tytos Blackwood, and Storm's End falls.

Stannis Baratheon's deal seems to work and his gamble worked as well. We shall see what will become of Renly in the future...

As of now, the story is 25 chapters long so only six left after this. The last chapters will mostly work as an epilogue and set up the sequel that will be set in 298-300 and further like the cannon books.

Until next time.