Commander of Gold
The title of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell ignited a cold fury within him, coupled with a profound sense of shame. It was an honor he should never have had to assume; by rights, he might have been lord of a lesser holdfast like the Stoney Shore or Moat Cailin, but never the Warden of the North. Yet, fate, twisted by the Targaryens since the ill-omened Tourney at Harrenhal, seemed determined to inflict further wounds upon his house.
His father and brother were dead, murdered by a deranged king driven by incestuous desires. His sister had been abducted, and if what Robert claimed was true, subjected to unspeakable horrors. The thought was a blade to Ned's heart, fueling a silent vow to rescue Lyanna or die trying.
As Eddard Stark adjusted his position in the saddle, he glanced at the man riding beside him, Lord Hoster Tully, whose auburn hair was a stark contrast to his grim expression. Lady Catelyn Tully, once betrothed to his brother Brandon and now pledged to Eddard himself, represented yet another burden of duty he had inherited undeservedly.
The suggestion of taking his brother's place at Lady Catelyn's side had initially ignited Eddard's anger. He saw it as a slight to Brandon's memory, a move that was both callous and dishonorable. Yet, it was Jon Arryn who eventually swayed him, pointing out the practicality of such a union for the Lord of Winterfell and the plight of Lady Catelyn, who risked being forever shadowed by her association with Brandon. Reluctantly, Eddard had conceded, embracing duty over desire, a path all too familiar in the stark landscape of his life.
Eddard's sense of duty was ingrained, a Stark trait he clung to, even more so after his family's tragedy. Now, as Lord of Winterfell, that duty guided him through his grief and anger. It was a heavy burden, but he was determined not to fail his family, whether they were with him or not.
Surveying the assembled northern lords, Eddard felt the weight of their expectations. Lords Umber, Karstark, and Glover, once mere figures in the background of his youth, now looked to him for leadership. Their respect was a mantle he had inherited alongside his title, one forged in the shared fire of anger for the injustices committed by the Mad King.
With the host was also Ser Denys Arryn, a reminder that the Starks were not the only family to suffer at the hands of Aerys Targaryen. Ser Denys' cousin, Ser Elbert, had met a grim fate similar to Eddard's brother, igniting the Vale's wrath. The execution of these noble sons, following Lord Jon Arryn's defiance of the king's unjust demands, had set the realm ablaze.
Eddard remembered both Arryns fondly, despite the age gap that had separated them. Ser Elbert's death added another layer to his sorrow, yet it was a sorrow shared by many in their coalition. Ser Denys, once the jovial 'Darling of the Vale,' now bore a somber countenance, his usual smile replaced by a steely resolve.
Behind them, the formidable force of Rivermen, Valemen, and Northmen marched in unity, a collective stand against Targaryen rule. The knights from the Vale, distinguished by their striking blue armor, led the way, followed closely by the infantry from the Riverlands and the North, clad in simpler hues but equally determined, armed with spears and swords freshly forged in the Vale.
This coalition, bolstered by levies from all three regions and a number of freeriders who had joined along the way, amassed a total strength of 30,000 men. The Northmen, forming the bulk of this force, granted Ned a significant degree of influence, though he seldom sought to wield it. The alliance thankfully suffered little from the internal strife that often plagued such diverse gatherings of men in the past.
Eddard's hand rested on the hilt of his sword as they approached the crest of the final hill, beyond which lay Stoney Sept, still a league or two distant but soon to be within their sight.
The intelligence they had was that Robert, after the disheartening defeat at Ashford, had found refuge within the walls of this Riverlands town, wounded but shielded by those sympathetic to his cause. This information had spread not just among the rebels but had also reached King's Landing, catching the attention of the Hand of the King, Jon Connington. A staunch supporter of Prince Rhaegar, Connington's loyalty was unshakeable, leading him to personally command the royal forces that had mustered in the capital barely a moon past. By the rebels' reckoning, this force was formidable, though it fell short of their own numbers.
This had been a cause for muted celebration at their last war council. Yet, Eddard held his joy in check. While the numerical upper hand was theirs, he knew well that battles were not decided by numbers alone. Courage, after all, often faltered in the face of mortality.
As they crested the hill, Eddard's keen grey eyes surveyed the landscape before him. The town of Stoney Sept, which might have seemed peaceful in another life, now loomed ominously, swathed in the stark contrast of black and red banners marking the presence of Targaryen forces. A contingent of royal troops was positioned between the rebels and the town—a clear sign their advance hadn't gone unnoticed. With 30,000 men marching openly, stealth had been an impossible luxury.
"My riders will scatter them swiftly," Ser Denys declared, cutting through the tense air. Eddard and Lord Hoster exchanged a quick glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them, before Lord Hoster nodded to the Arryn knight.
"The Knights of the Vale shall lead," Lord Hoster decided, his voice carrying the weight of his experience. "Beware the enemy's forward units. Our primary goal is to find and secure Lord Robert before Connington can lay hands on him. If he captures Lord Baratheon, our task becomes significantly harder," he cautioned, the gravity of the situation clear in his tone.
Ser Denys accepted the charge with a solemn nod, though a flicker of determination shone in his eyes. "Just make sure you don't fall too far behind," he quipped with a lightness that belied the gravity of the moment. "It wouldn't be fair for the Vale to claim all the glory."
Eddard, ever the stoic, offered a terse nod in response. "We'll be right behind you. Just ensure Robert remains free until then."
With that, Ser Denys turned his horse, gathering a group of Vale lords nearby, preparing to lead the charge.
"Remember, Eddard, our spars at the Eyrie should leave you with no doubt of my prowess," Ser Denys called back, a hint of jest in his voice as he rode off to join his men.
Eddard remained silent, watching him go. He respected Ser Denys' skill with the blade, yet he knew well that personal prowess offered no guarantees in the chaos of battle. History was littered with tales of valiant warriors cut down by the simplest of soldiers. Today, they would all be tested, and Eddard could only hope they were ready.
"What are your orders, my Lord?" boomed the deep voice of Greatjon Umber, his stature imposing as ever. With his father, Lord Brandon bedridden, it fell to Greatjon, the heir to House Umber, to lead their men into battle. Even mounted beside him, Eddard couldn't help but marvel at the sheer size of the man, wondering how recent that famed Umber giant blood was in the Umber line.
Eddard's attention then turned to the other Northern lords assembled with him. Lord Halys Hornwood stood resolutely, his alliance with Lord Wyman Manderly evident in their close proximity. Eddard recalled his father's mixed feelings about their union years back, a rare instance of Northern politicking. Lord Wyman, known for his shrewdness, stood out not just for his considerable girth but also for his political acumen, always walking the line of ambition without overstepping.
Lord Rickard Karstark, a kinsman to House Stark, exuded a quiet intensity, his eyes betraying the weight of his responsibilities. And then there was Lord Roose Bolton, his demeanor inscrutable, his gaze devoid of emotion—a stark contrast to the fervor of the other lords present.
Lord Wyman Manderly strongly advocated the inclusion of Lord Halys among House Stark's key councilors. The absence of significant figures from Houses Glover, Dustin, and Ryswell prompted the suggestion to fill their absence with Lord Hornwood. Eddard saw merit in this reasoning. He recognized Lord Wyman's intent to ensure a sympathetic voice in the council, yet he also understood that wartime was not the occasion for disputes over council composition. While Lord Halys might not have been a master strategist, his insightful contributions had proven valuable, making Eddard appreciative of his presence.
Eddard addressed his gathered vassals, the air punctuated by the restless sounds of their horses. Nearby, Vale lords and their commanders barked orders, readying their forces.
"Ser Denys will spearhead our efforts with his cavalry, rushing into the town to secure Robert before the Royalists can," Eddard outlined, his vassals nodding in agreement, their confidence buoyed by their superior numbers and high morale. "We'll leave our supplies here under a small guard, then proceed in battle formation to support our vanguard as swiftly as possible."
Turning his focus to logistics and strategy, Eddard continued, "Lord Wyman, you'll command the rearguard. Keep vigilant for any approaching forces—Baratheon, Tyrell, or Lannister—and report any movement immediately."
"Understood, my Lord," Lord Wyman responded, his reply marked by a deferential tone. Eddard acknowledged him with a nod, satisfied with Manderly's compliance.
"Leave a contingent of no more than a thousand men, Lord Manderly," Eddard specified as Lord Wyman took his leave from the hasty council. He then addressed the rest. "We will not face a pitched battle, and since we'll be spread out in the town, maintain strict control over your men. Absolutely no looting—these are Lord Tully's lands. Anyone found breaking this command will be hung."
"I hope to see all of you return in victory," Eddard stated, his eyes moving deliberately among the assembled lords, imbuing his words with earnest hope. Their faces mirrored back a blend of respect and resolve, each silently committing to stand firm in the face of the impending battle. As Eddard's gaze met Lord Roose Bolton's pallid stare, a chill brushed against his resolve, reminding him of the bygone days of strife between their houses. He was silently grateful those times of open conflict were behind them.
"The Gods are with us in our vengeance, let us kill some sister fuckers!" Greatjon Umber's voice once again boomed. His words ignited a fervor among the assembled lords and warriors. A resounding cheer erupted. With spirits lifted and determination burning bright, they dispersed, each man turning to his preparations, preparing for the battle ahead.
Eddard's gaze followed the Vale cavalry, a blur of blue disappearing into the distance toward the Stoney Sept, leaving behind a trail of swirling dust. As they vanished, he steeled himself for the impending battle, memories of past swordplay lessons and tactical strategies flickering through his mind. Yet, he knew all too well that the chaos of battle would render much of his preparation irrelevant, relying instead on instinct and the muscle memory ingrained from years of training.
The clash between the charging cavalry and the defending Targaryen forces sent a palpable surge of tension coursing through him. Even at a distance, he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, a testament to the gravity of the impending battle.
His Northmen stood resolute, a disciplined and unified force unlike the Rivermen, whose allegiance seemed scattered among their individual lords, each with their own agenda under the loose banner of House Tully. Eddard had strategically placed his most powerful lords to command his forces, ensuring cohesion and loyalty. Though each lord retained loyalty to their respective houses, there was an absence of antagonism among them, unlike the discord he observed among the Riverlords.
As he observed the fiery exchange between the red-clad Blackwoods and the yellow-cloaked Brackens, Eddard couldn't ignore the stark contrast between their discord and the unity of his own forces. Despite the simmering tensions and grievances over his family's troubles, his men stood united, fueled by a shared sense of outrage at what they perceived as a stain on the North's honor. The prospect of seeking revenge and justice stirred an unyielding determination within them.
To Eddard's knowledge, House Stark had not ventured south and fought since the Young Dragon's Conquest of Dorne over a century ago, the northern nobility refusing to be entangled in the south's deadly and treacherous uprisings and political plays. Yet, the fervent support and unwavering loyalty of the Northmen in response to his family's adversity touched him deeply, humbling him in unexpected ways.
Determined to reciprocate this loyalty and support, Eddard resolved to do everything in his power to repay their faith and ensure that justice was served, not just for his family, but for the honor of the North.
Anticipation hummed through their ranks, a sharp contrast to their usual raucousness. Though known for their wild spirit, Northmen had forged a formidable unity, especially in times of hardship, be it on the battlefield or huddling together for warmth in the unforgiving grip of winter.
The mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension grew as the distant sounds of battle and bells tolling reached them. His lords dispersed with their contingents, pouring into the town to overwhelm the Targaryens quickly. The initial confrontation had been fierce, the Vale knights breaking through the royalist line, leaving a trail of casualties from both sides in their wake.
The vanguard, though formidable, couldn't prevail against the Royalists alone. As Eddard guided his men between the houses of the Stoney Sept, he witnessed Vale contingents being pushed back by a disciplined hedgehog formation of Targaryen spears.
Among them, knights led by a Waynwood, if Eddard's memory served him right, cheered at the sight of Northern banners. The Royalists paused as the knights made way for Eddard's infantry to engage the Targaryen spearmen. Clashes of steel, cries, and battle roars erupted as the two forces collided.
Eddard rode alongside the Waynwood knight, their swords flashing as they maneuvered around the chaotic melee to strike the spearmen from the flank. Eddard's blade found its mark with deadly precision, inflicting grievous wounds upon the lightly armored opponents caught between two forces. The Targaryen spears soon began avoiding him and his blade, breaking formation only to get cut down by his infantry.
The Targaryen spearmen soon broke ranks, fleeing back into the town. Some Vale Knights moved to pursue, but Eddard gestured for restraint through the Waynwood knight. The battle was far from over, and straying too far from the infantry would risk exposing the cavalry.
As they pressed further into the town, the prominent sept after which it was named after loomed larger in the distance. The sounds of fighting echoed from the rooftops around them, mingling with the worried gazes of smallfolk peering from windows.
Suddenly, a commotion echoed from a narrow alleyway leading to the town square. Eddard wheeled his horse around to see a lone rider, garbed in the purple colors of Belmore, racing toward them. His urgency was evident, and Eddard knew this news was vital.
"My Lord!" the rider shouted as he drew nearer. "Ser Denys has fallen to Lord Connington's hand. We need reinforcements at the town square at once."
Eddard's command cut through the tension, uniting the men of the North and the Vale with a single, determined purpose. "To the town square! We rally to our allies' side."
A resounding cheer erupted among the men, their spirits lifted by the call to action. They swiftly began advancing, some jogging forward while others urged their horses into a trot. The rider from Belmore fell in line with the other Vale Knights, his urgent message propelling them onward.
Turning to the Waynwood Knight, whom he recognized as the highest-ranking noble among the contingent of knights, Eddard sought clarity on the chain of command in the absence of Ser Denys.
"Who would assume command in Ser Denys's absence, Ser...?" Eddard inquired, emphasizing the need for a clear successor to prevent confusion or disarray.
"I am Ser Morton Waynwood, my Lord," the knight replied, his voice shaky because of the situation's urgency. "In Ser Denys' absence, I believe either Lord Yohn Royce or Lord Benedar Belmore would be the natural choices. Given the rider and circumstances, I would lean toward Lord Benedar, although Lord Yohn's military experience is substantial as you may know."
"Very well, Ser Morton. Let's hope the gods are with us today," Eddard said, his tone appreciative of the knight's input. With a nod of mutual respect, Ser Morton kicked his horse into a quicker pace to catch up with the vanguard, while Eddard turned his focus back to the task at hand. The skirmish they had just left was merely the opening act; the true test awaited them in the heart of the town.
The Sept towered over them as they emerged into the expansive cobbled square, now a tapestry of chaos and carnage. Without hesitation, Eddard directed his men, dispersing them into strategic units to engage the densest clusters of Targaryen fighters.
With a select group by his side, Eddard navigated through the tumult towards a fiercely contested area, marked by the fluttering banners of House Tully. Among the fray, a figure adorned with the unmistakable sigil of a griffin fought valiantly. Nearby, a figure in silver-scaled armor lay prone, the auburn hair identifying the fallen warrior as Lord Tully.
Eddard and his forces pushed forward toward Lord Connington and the injured Lord Tully, moving quickly through the chaos. Catching Connington's attention, who then quickly glanced at Lord Tully before signaling a retreat. The sound of horns filled the air as the Targaryen troops started pulling back, moving away from the fight under their commander's orders.
Eddard, now mere yards from Connington, found his advance stymied by the thickening crowd of retreating enemies. His pragmatic part weighed the merits of pursuing a beaten foe against the immediate need to attend to Lord Hoster Tully.
The sight of Connington mounting a horse and fleeing the square with his remaining men cemented Eddard's decision. The Targaryen rearguard formed a stalwart shield wall, halting the Stark and Tully forces, a final stand to ensure their lord's escape. Despite the losses among the Targaryen defenders, it was clear Lord Connington would manage to escape.
Resigning to the turn of events, Eddard shifted his focus to the wounded Lord Tully, understanding that the day's battle, while not ending in the capture of the King's Hand, had nonetheless tilted the war's momentum. It did not seem like Connington ever got his hands on Robert, so Eddard would hope that the Baratheon either had managed to escape the town or would get out of his hiding spot now.
Eddard directed his gaze toward Lord Hoster, who lay motionless, shielded by his loyal men-at-arms. The Tully soldiers respectfully made way for Eddard as he neared. "Take him to the sept," he instructed firmly. "We'll call for healers to attend to him immediately."
Acknowledging his order, the Tully soldiers nodded and carefully began to move their lord to the safety of the sept, following Eddard's directive with urgency.
In the aftermath, with both Lord Tully and Ser Denys out of the picture, command of the allied forces naturally fell to Eddard. He was contemplating his next steps when a familiar voice cut through the noise.
Amidst the enthusiastic cheers of victory, a familiar voice called out, drawing Eddard's attention. "Ned!" It was Robert, making his way toward him, his figure bearing the scars of combat, blood staining his tunic.
Without hesitation, Eddard dismounted, meeting his friend. Robert's grip on his war hammer was slick with blood, evidence of the fierce struggle.
"We've struck a blow against the Targaryens today, Ned," Robert declared, gesturing to the carnage surrounding them. "Lord Tarly caught me at Ashford, but this," he motioned broadly, "has turned the tide back in our favor."
"You're wounded, Robert. You should see a maester immediately," Eddard urged, his concern palpable as he surveyed Robert's torn attire and injuries.
Robert waved off Eddard's concern with a hearty laugh. "I'll be fine, Ned. A maester can tend to me later. Most of this blood isn't mine anyway," he said nonchalantly, though a hint of discomfort flickered across his features as he adjusted his grip on the hammer.
"Those damned Targaryen dogs will think twice now before trying to meet us in battle now" Robert continued a large smile shining from the young lord's now unruly beard, usually quite well maintained it was obvious that Robert had not been in the best situation after Ashford.
Eddard regarded his friend skeptically but ultimately relented, trusting that if Robert's injuries were severe, he would have already collapsed.
Turning his attention to the pressing matter at hand, Eddard cut straight to the chase. "What news from the Stormlands, Robert?"
Robert's playful demeanor softened as he rolled his eyes in jest. "Always the serious one, Stark. You Northerners have little patience for the art of banter," he quipped before adopting a more somber tone. "I managed to escape from Ashford despite my wounds, escorted here by a loyal contingent of my men-at-arms. Fortunately, our losses were not as dire as they could have been."
Robert puffed his chest a little. "Although our host may lack cohesion, many lords still hold sizable forces ready to answer my call. I've already received word from Lord Dondarrion and Lord Estermont that they are en route to join us, eager to rally to our cause. Unfortunately, they were too distant and too few to engage with Connington and the Targaryens here."
Eddard nods hesitantly as he muddles over the information. The defeat at Ashford wasn't ideal for their cause but it was nothing close to decisive and with many Stormlords still in command it seemed like the situation would be salvageable, in time though.
"Then, pressing our luck now would be folly," Eddard observed as they made their way toward the sept, where the remaining lords and knights seemed to have congregated. "We should pull back to Riverrun. With Jon without heirs that we know of, he needs to strategize his next move. Do you have confidence in Storm's End's defenses?
Robert appeared genuinely taken aback by the question. "Against Mace Tyrell? I'd sooner torch Storm's End myself than see it fall to him. My brothers would sooner eat the castle's dirt than let Tyrell breach its walls."
"How long could they hold then?" Eddard inquired, his concern evident. He knew it mattered little if Robert was determined to defend the castle if he wasn't present, and he feared he knew little about the capabilities of the other Baratheon brothers.
Robert's expression tightened with discomfort. "I can't recall precisely, but under optimal conditions, we could sustain a defense for over a year with the castle fully stocked."
Eddard arched an eyebrow. "Considering we've just emerged from winter, it's reasonable to assume the stocks are not at their peak?"
Robert shook his head firmly. "They should hold out for over half a year at least. If my Castellan didn't see fit to inform me of any dire circumstances when I was there, then it's unlikely the situation is as grave as it seems." Despite Robert's attempt to reassure them both, Eddard couldn't shake the sense of unease. Lord Tyrell's encirclement of Storm's End likely left little room for optimism.
Acknowledging Lord Mace Tyrell's weakness in martial matters, Eddard turned his attention to a more concerning figure. "But what about Lord Tarly? Your garrison numbers what, a mere two to three hundred men?"
Robert's laughter boomed in response. "As if Mace Tyrell would ever grant Lord Tarly such authority! The day that happens is the day the White Walkers march on King's Landing!" Eddard remained solemn as Robert continued, "Unless the Mad King himself intervenes, I don't foresee our situation changing."
Eddard hoped fervently that Robert's confidence wasn't misplaced. The fall of Storm's End and the capture of Robert's brothers would be a devastating blow to their cause. Though he doubted Robert would hastily seek peace, the loss would undoubtedly weaken their position significantly.
The capital's sky hung in unending grey, mirroring the subdued mood of its people. But amidst it all, the smallfolk hadn't lost hope or faith in their protectors. Tristifer and his mounted men moved through the crowds, earning nods of respect and shouted greetings.
Robin kept Tristifer informed about public opinion in the Capitol, and his intel proved spot on. Tristifer's knack for breaking down criminal rings in the northern parts of the city had earned him and his crew admiration.
Despite being just a Captain, Tristifer had managed to carve out a significant role for himself. He and his men were given the freedom to chase criminals wherever they lurked, often stepping on the toes of other Captains. This stirred up mixed feelings among his peers.
Some of the newly appointed Captains appreciated the assistance, recognizing Tristifer's men as experienced and efficient in their operations. Ironically, these were often the very Captains handpicked by their Commander. However, among the seasoned veterans whom Ser Arnell had failed to replace, there was less enthusiasm. Pride clouded their judgment, struggling to comprehend why they should cede the limelight to Tristifer.
In a way, their criticism held merit, though it was tinged with envy and bruised egos. Under Tristifer's direct jurisdiction, his name and reputation had become nearly household knowledge. While he might not have been on the lips of oblivious lords in the Red Keep, the influential players were well aware of his rise.
This reputation led to the current situation where a Captain had requested assistance from the square beneath the Great Sept. A runner had been dispatched to Tristifer, reporting that disgruntled smallfolk had begun rioting against the gold cloaks stationed there, painting a picture of a volatile situation.
Tristifer observed the mass of moving smallfolk as they neared the square. Though it didn't appear completely out of control, tempers were clearly on the rise.
His second-in-command brought his horse closer, asking, "How shall we proceed, Captain?"
Tristifer's Lieutenant, a man by the name of Bryen, had caught Addam's attention and passed Robin's thorough background checks. Despite some murmurs of discontent about his rapid rise to prominence, Bryen proved himself capable and fiercely loyal. Tristifer suspected that Bryen's loyalty ran deeper than mere allegiance to his title of Captain.
Tristifer slowed his mount to a halt as they emerged onto the road leading to the square. Surveying the area, his gaze settled on the stairs ascending to the Great Sept. High ground would be crucial for both maintaining awareness and, in the worst-case scenario, securing a strategic advantage in combat.
Most of the smallfolk clustered in the heart of the great square, with a few attempting to ascend the steps toward Baelor's Sept. Tristifer easily spotted the gold cloaks amidst the sea of red, blue, and green tunics, their distinct cloaks making them stand out. Scattered in small groups, some appeared overwhelmed, brandishing cudgels at any who ventured too close.
Tristifer gestured towards the isolated gold cloaks, though he was certain his second-in-command had already noticed them. The groups of guards looked like patches in a quilt, surrounded by a throng of smallfolk.
"Take a few dozen men and lead those groups up to the stairs leading to Baelor's. I'll station myself there and wait," Tristifer commanded, briefly halting his lieutenant as a thought struck him. "Oh, and try to locate Captain Rhysling. It would be ill-fitting if he met his end at the hands of discontented smallfolk."
"Of course, Captain," the lieutenant replied, a smirk fleeting across his face before vanishing. "You five, stay. The rest, follow me!" he directed, before guiding his men into the dispersing crowd.
Tristifer's remaining five men flanked him as they ascended the steps, navigating around the throng and issuing commands to clear their path.
As they reached the top, Tristifer surveyed the assembly below. He immediately spotted his mounted men leading a contingent of gold cloaks towards him. Though the guards still seemed unsettled, there was a palpable sense of relief at the sight of reinforcements, and they appeared to have regained some semblance of discipline.
Bryen's horse gracefully ascended the steps, bringing him alongside Tristifer as the men they had 'rescued' formed a protective barrier at the foot of the stairs, lining up in two-man-deep rows to shield the entire width of the ascent.
With a subtle nod of his head, Bryen indicated towards a gold cloak clad in black officer's armor, adorned with the four golden disks denoting the rank of Captain.
"Captain Rhysling for you, Ser," Bryen announced as the young Captain approached. Rhysling appeared slight and inexperienced, with a small mustache as his only defining feature, typical of many of Ser Arnell's recent appointees. Tristifer had conducted his due diligence on the other Captains of the watch, but the name Rhysling had never crossed his path until now.
Apparently hailing from a vassal house of the Fossoways of Cider Hall, House Rhysling's significance had eluded Tristifer's attention. He cared little for the politics of the minor lords of the Reach, and why Ser Arnell Merryweather had chosen a member of that house as a Captain remained a mystery to him.
Reynard Rhysling's face, whether from fatigue or embarrassment, was flushed with relief as he bowed deeply to Tristifer.
"Oh, Captain Mudd, the Father has answered my prayers. I shudder to think what would have happened if not for your timely arrival," the man exclaimed dramatically, his mustache twitching.
Tristifer managed to maintain a stern expression, though he shot a lightning-quick glance toward Bryen, who seemed torn between amusement and a desire to teach the pathetic Captain a lesson.
"Well, Captain Rhysling, your runner is to thank for this. I simply arrived as soon as I could," Tristifer replied, cutting short the Reachman's dramatic display. "We'll have our mounted men split the crowd and then walk in with the foot, either dispersing the smallfolk or apprehending the troublemakers."
Bryen nodded in agreement, and though Captain Rhysling looked as if he wanted to protest, a sharp look from Tristifer dissuaded him.
"Ensure that the arresting gold cloaks are not disturbed, and lead the prisoners up to the Sept. Make use of Baelor's dungeons until further notice," Tristifer instructed, not waiting for a response as he turned his horse away from the two officers.
Bryen promptly set about carrying out the orders. Tristifer observed as his mounted gold cloaks began to separate and isolate groups of smallfolk, swiftly joined by Captain Rhysling's men. The majority of the smallfolk chose to retreat as soon as the gold cloaks approached, though some tested the resolve of his men with defiant protests. The screams of the apprehended agitated a few in the main crowd, but his mounted men adeptly maintained separation.
Only a fool would attempt to slip past the blockade, as the mounts were not averse to trampling anyone who made them nervous. After all, the horses had been specifically trained to handle such volatile situations.
The process continued for another hour or two, with Tristifer silently observing as smallfolk troublemakers were led past him into the sept, where the Septons, albeit hesitant, directed his men to the dungeons with the captives.
The situation finally came to a close as two hundred gold cloaks reinforced them from the Red Keep. Tristifer showed none of the irritation he felt at the reinforcements' tardiness as he thanked the officers leading them. These lieutenants were directly under Ser Arnell Merryweather and evidently his confidants, given their competence.
Tristifer could speculate why Ser Arnell hadn't led them himself. It seemed that any attention drawn to the Merryweather commander was unfavorable, especially after the cleansing of Merryweather men in the capital following the Hand's exile. Ser Arnell remained in his position due to the upheaval after Lord Connington's defeat at the Stoney Sept and subsequent exile. It appeared that the King's new Hand, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, had other priorities than sorting out the mess in the gold cloaks' leadership.
Or perhaps the Hand wasn't even aware of it. From what Tristifer had gathered, Lord Qarlton was not a decisive man, more akin to a craven cockroach. He had, after all, managed to survive as King Aerys' Master of Coin for years. Alongside him stood Lord Symond Staunton, another apparent yes-man in the King's court. Both were simple crownlords, and it was evident that the two leeches had simply attached themselves to the most powerful person in the area, namely the King.
Merryweather's lieutenants soon interrupted his thoughts, beginning to coordinate the transfer of the arrested protesters to the Red Keep's dungeons. Tristifer kept his interaction with them as brief as possible, delegating the mundane task to their capable hands.
Just as Tristifer was about to locate Bryen and depart for his own barracks, he spotted a mounted Targaryen soldier approaching him with great haste from the direction of the Red Keep. Bryen materialized at Tristifer's side as the rider arrived.
"Captain Mudd?" the rider asked, and Tristifer nodded in affirmation. In turn, the rider nodded. "Prince Rhaegar requests your presence at the Red Keep as soon as it is convenient."
Tristifer made a feeble attempt to hide his surprise as the rider's words registered in his mind. Prince Rhaegar had returned? Tristifer had nearly forgotten that his 'patron' was even involved in any capacity amidst the chaos of war. While he had never believed any rumors of the Prince's demise, he had assumed that Rhaegar had fled with his Stark girl to Essos to begin anew or something of the like.
"I see," Tristifer replied simply, sharing a look with Bryen, who appeared just as surprised as him. After a moment, he shook his head. "Very well, Bryen, take the men back to the barracks. I will join the Prince immediately."
Bryen's professionalism took over as he nodded in acquiescence and turned his mount towards their men, who were waiting patiently to the side as the regular gold cloaks passed back and forth.
Tristifer turned back towards the rider and gestured towards the descending steps and square. "Lead the way." The Targaryen soldier nodded, turning his horse around with a tug of the reins, and began the descent. Tristifer followed, though his thoughts were consumed by other matters.
Namely, the return of Prince Rhaegar. King Aerys posed a great disadvantage to the war effort, almost an adversary in his own right due to his instability. Tristifer was aware of past plots that had sought to replace Aerys with either Prince Rhaegar or, more recently, the infant Prince Aegon.
While Rhaegar's return would undoubtedly bolster the Loyalist side, Tristifer couldn't shake the feeling that it might be too little, too late. In Aegon's case, who would act as regent? Lord Chelsted was unsuitable, and Princess Elia lacked the military leadership necessary for such a role. However, Prince Rhaegar could be a saving grace.
Most felt the winds shifting in the Rebels' favor, even if they hadn't capitalized on their victory at the Stoney Sept yet. The Loyalists still held numerical superiority, but that relied on the Dornish, who remained entrenched in Dorne, the Reach, which seemed content with a prolonged siege at Storm's End, and the Crownlords, who had suffered heavy losses at the Stoney Sept.
As they ascended Aegon's High Hill, with the Red Keep standing proudly at its summit and Blackwater Bay behind it, Tristifer's gaze lingered on the seven great drum towers rising above the tall curtain walls. Further back, he spied the square fortress of Maegor's Holdfast, the castle's most defensible structure.
They soon passed through the open gates that led through the initial curtain walls, with the gold cloaks on guard simply giving them a nod in greeting as they entered. Dismounting from their horses, they handed the reins to a couple of stablehands who had rushed to greet them.
The rider then led Tristifer past a sprawling courtyard and into the central keep. They navigated through the pale red corridors, with servants stopping to curtsy as they made their way. Finally, they arrived at a decorated oak door, guarded by a white-cloaked knight standing sentinel.
Tristifer recognized Ser Oswell Whent from the tourney that now felt like a distant memory. The knight nodded in greeting towards Tristifer but remained otherwise silent as he rapped his knuckles upon the door. A faint "Enter" sounded from within, and Ser Oswell opened the door.
The handsome visage of Prince Rhaegar greeted Tristifer as he entered the solar, noticing absentmindedly that the rider slipped out of sight before the Kingsguard knight closed the door.
The Prince rose to his feet, nodding in greeting with a warm smile and a glint in his violet Valyrian eyes. "Ser Tristifer, time and again you have impressed, and most deservedly been rewarded for it."
Tristifer maintained a level gaze on the Prince. The notion of fleeing with a girl only to return months later amidst a rebellion they may have instigated didn't sit well with him. He doubted Rhaegar could offer any satisfactory explanation, not that he would even ask. Attempting to seize both lady and kingdom seemed uncharacteristically greedy and foolish for the Prince.
Tristifer's once-held view of Rhaegar as a complete antithesis to his father had faded since the final joust at Harrenhal. However, it remained a fact that the Prince was still infinitely more stable than his father, even considering Rhaegar's escapades with Lyanna Stark. As the war raged on, such nuances mattered less and less. Rhaegar still commanded much admiration from many nobles, and there was hope that he would manage to turn the tide of the war in their favor.
Tristifer returned the greeting with a brief bow as he approached the desk, and they both settled into their respective seats. Prince Rhaegar continued with a gracious smile. "I am aware, however, that your rise has encountered a final obstacle, and that corruption has stood in your way."
Pausing for a moment, Rhaegar's expression grew slightly more serious. "I intend to rectify this. Your impressive service has allowed me to do so without arousing serious suspicion from either my father or his loyal courtiers." It was clear that this would be the most courteous adjective the Prince could spare for his father's lackeys; Rhaegar had a way with words, though Tristifer knew he wouldn't have been as kind.
"With immediate effect, I revoke Ser Arnell Merryweather's position as Commander of the City Watch and in turn appoint you, Ser Tristifer, as Commander," Rhaegar declared. Tristifer nodded gratefully. It came as no great surprise, as Ser Arnell had been on his way out for some time now. Nevertheless, it was a gratifying moment to finally reach the top of the gold cloaks after all the hard work that had been put into it, although it hadn't even been two years.
"There is no reason to waste resources upon the man and I anticipate that you will wipe away any power structure he has in place and remake it in your image." Rhaegar then stated with a pointed look. It was obvious that Rhaegar had at least been updated upon the state of the gold cloaks under Merryweather's leadership.
"I appreciate the honor you have bestowed upon me my Prince and promise to make the position my own as you say" Tristifer replied with a humble expression upon his features.
Prince Rhaegar studied him for a moment before nodding. "I have total confidence that you will exceed any expectations I could set." The Targaryen then smiled once more. "This has been a productive talk, I shall handle Ser Arnell and let you settle into the Commander's chambers here at the Red Keep at your pace, have a fine evening Ser Tristifer."
Tristifer stood and, with a modest bow, swiftly turned on his heel to leave the prince's presence.
As he passed through the door, Ser Oswell gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Tristifer was on the verge of being consumed by his plans for the City Watch when he noticed Ser Jaime Lannister rounding the corner from a nearby corridor. Close behind the Lannister knight was a hunched figure in oversized robes; despite his poor condition, the identity of King Aerys was unmistakable. The bandages peeking out from the large, open sleeves of his robes only accentuated his frailty.
Trailing the king was Prince Lewyn Martell, his posture sharp in contrast.
Ser Jaime was the only one who seemed to take note of Tristifer, giving him a searching look before moving on. Tristifer paid little attention to the dismissive Lannister, his gaze instead critically following the king as he passed.
Tristifer couldn't help but reflect on the king's deteriorating condition. A king's death usually spelled disaster for a wartime effort, but King Aerys seemed to be an exception to the rule. His passing might very well be a relief to the realm, Tristifer mused, given the king's increasingly unstable rule.
Tristifer resolved that the Mad King's reign had to end for the Royalists to stand any chance of prevailing in the rebellion. His alliances were shaky at best; the Tyrells were influenced heavily by Prince Rhaegar, and Dorne's ties were through marriage to the prince. It was doubtful the crownlords would prefer the erratic rule of the father over the son.
For his part, Tristifer felt the weight of his situation. Though he might like to believe he could navigate the turmoil and emerge in a better position, he recognized this hinged largely on a Royalist victory. Should the rebels win, they would unlikely look kindly on him if he turned cloak now. Rationalizing his position as being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time would do little to sway their judgment.
Tristifer understood clearly that he could no longer afford to remain passive and cautious if he hoped to gain anything from this war. The conflict seemed to be drawing toward an inevitable conclusion, and he was unsure if the Royalists could withstand another defeat. The need for decisive leadership was urgent. Yet, despite the bleak outlook, the Royalist lords showed no signs of surrendering to the rebels—a glimmer of hope in an otherwise dire situation. After all, the Targaryen dynasty had been a cornerstone of the Seven Kingdoms for nearly three centuries, and its legacy was not easily dismissed.
For now, however, Tristifer would concentrate on reorganizing the gold cloaks. Commanding a well-equipped and armored force in the continent's largest and most influential city was a formidable asset, one that held significant power even amidst the chaos engulfing the realm outside King's Landing's towering curtain walls. House Mudd would not fade into obscurity, merely a footnote in some senile Archmaester's history tome.
End of Chapter
Thank you for reading, it has been a little while since the last update. The story has been on my mind even if I haven't had the time to work much on it. This chapter was not the easiest to write as it is the quiet before the storm but I hope that the Battle at the Stoney Sept was interesting, especially from Eddard's POV. I am afraid that I won't be able to write much still for at least a month and some weeks but I will write when I can.
Review anything that catches your mind, until next time.