The Lion's Folly
"My lord, the Lannister men are being roused for battle," one of Eddard's guards announced from the tent opening.
"Very well, Hugo, I will not be long" Eddard replied, waiting for the guard to close the flap.
Eddard Stark, seated in his spartan tent, took a moment to absorb the news. The loyalty of his men, both those who had served his father and the eager new recruits seeking justice for their liege's family, was a source of strength for him. Their unwavering dedication was evident, and even his good father, Lord Hoster Tully, had taken notice. Lord Hoster was a polite man, but beneath his courteous facade lay a discerning nature. Genuine praise from him was rare, making his compliment on the Stark household guard particularly meaningful.
Eddard's thoughts drifted to his wife, Catelyn. They had been married for less than a year. Though their union had been born of duty rather than love, and further complicated by his sense of guilt over marrying his brother's intended, he found himself growing increasingly fond of her. She was a vision, both strong and graceful, and he appreciated her more with each passing day.
It was no fault of hers that she had been his brother's betrothed, and he had promised himself not to hold this over her. His genuine affection only deepened upon learning she was with child. He probably would not see the birth of their child, and could only hope this son or daughter would grow up knowing their father.
The thought that House Stark now consisted only of him and Benjen gnawed at Eddard. If he were to die, it would leave his younger brother and the unborn child alone in this cruel world. He clung to the hope that Lyanna was alive somewhere, perhaps in Dorne, as Ser Barristan had hinted. The knight had mentioned that three of his Kingsguard brothers were with Ned's sister, suggesting that Lady Ashara, still in contact with her brother, might know more.
The prospect of that conversation filled him with dread, but he would endure anything to bring his sister home. However, such thoughts were a luxury he couldn't afford now. The impending siege loomed large in his mind. He had fought at both the Stoney Sept and the Trident, but never had he participated in a siege.
While songs were made for battles, few bothered to do the same for sieges. This was because sieges were often very droll affairs, depending on the hastiness of the sides. Lord Tyrell had managed to drag out the siege of Storm's End for over a year. Eddard could not imagine the glory-hungry Reach knights he had seen at Harrenhal being satisfied with that. It did not seem that Lord Mace was wont to change this, however, happily starving Robert's younger brothers and household.
This siege, however, might be different if Lord Tywin and his brother Kevan were correct about their underhanded deal. An assault was, of course, the complete antithesis of a slow, starving siege.
Eddard steeled himself, rising from his chair. It was no longer time for thought and brooding; it was a time for action. He had a duty to fulfill for his king, Robert, and then to his family. He picked up his sword belt, which had been leaning against the table leg. It had been wise of his father to leave Ice at Winterfell; Eddard did not think he could wield it yet, and he was doubly thankful that the Targaryens had not been able to steal anything more from his family.
He secured the belt around his waist, feeling the familiar weight of his sword and ensuring his dagger was secure on his other side. Taking a brief moment to ensure that nothing important was left behind in his modest tent, he walked toward the tent flap.
The siege camp outside the walls of King's Landing was a miserable place. The city's stench regularly wafted into their camp, even from a distance. Ned wrinkled his nose as he stepped out of the tent.
Eddard and his Northmen, who had arrived three days earlier, were camped on the flank of the main Lannister camp near the bay. Lord Tywin had offered Ned a tent next to his own large red pavilion, but Ned had turned it down, preferring to sleep among his men. He wanted to be close to them, both for their morale and for his own peace of mind.
The recent duplicity of the Lannisters, pretending neutrality to gain entrance to King's Landing through deceit, had made Ned wary. If Tywin was willing to betray his friend and king, whom he had served as Hand, then Ned would not trust him until he proved faithful to their cause.
Two other nobles were camped at the outskirts of the Lannister host in addition to Eddard and his Northmen. These were Ser Gregor Clegane, called the Mountain, a name he lived up to both in size and brutality, and Ser Amory Lorch, a piglike knight with a high-pitched voice and cruel, beady eyes. The presence of these two, supposedly defenders of the innocent, made Eddard doubt the entire institution of knighthood. It certainly didn't align with the lessons he had learned at the Eyrie from Lord Jon Arryn himself.
The northern camp was bustling with activity. Soldiers sharpened swords, mended armor, and tended to the horses. Eddard had chosen riders for his quick journey to King's Landing after their scouts had heard word of the Lannister host on its way down the Gold Road.
Northern cavalry was unlike the heavily armored knights of the Reach or the Vale. They were mostly made up of light cavalry hailing from the Rills and House Ryswell, adept at swift movements and guerilla tactics. While there was cavalry from every major vassal of his, they numbered in the hundreds at most, often serving as personal guards for their lords. The great exception to this was the Manderly knights. These knights, whether landed or hedge, were heavily armored, reflecting the Reachman heritage of House Manderly, which had influenced their military composition.
"My lord," a voice called out, and Eddard turned to see Lord Howland Reed arriving at his side. Eddard had gained a deep appreciation for the crannogman, who was as diligent and loyal as he was unassuming. The fact that Lyanna had considered Howland a friend only heightened Ned's respect for him.
"Howland, leave your courtesies for the court. You were... are a dear friend of my sister," Ned responded.
The smaller man nodded a little hesitantly. "Very well, Ned. I wanted to inform you that Lord Tywin and his lords are on the western side of camp."
"Thank you, Howland. I will make my way there promptly," Eddard replied. "Could you gather our lords and follow? I fear that battle will be inevitable today regardless of whether Ser Tristifer upholds his deal."
"Of course, it will be done," Howland said, turning to carry out the task.
Eddard watched him go for a moment before turning and making his way to his mount. A few Stark guardsmen, along with a close personal guard of noble sons who had joined him in battle at the Trident, were already gathered around his horse, mounted and ready.
This noble guard consisted of Theo Wull of the mountain clans, Martyn Cassel, and Ser Mark Ryswell. Eddard swung his leg across the saddle and nodded to Theo Wull and Martyn Cassel, who were on his left flank. They returned the silent greeting as he clicked his tongue, prompting his horse to move. His proud banners flapped calmly in the morning breeze, the direwolf of House Stark glaring resolutely as they entered the Lannister camp.
Grey, black, and white tents gave way to a vibrant array of red, gold, blue, and yellow as Eddard entered the heart of the Lannister camp. The Andals had always been more flamboyant with their colors, contrasting sharply with the North's more subdued and practical hues.
Banners flew across the camp, displaying everything from the Golden Lion of Lannister to the boar of House Crakehall and the unicorn of House Brax. Why this Westerland house had chosen an animal only found on Skagos, Eddard could not fathom. He wasn't even aware that the Southerners knew of Skagos' existence in reality, never mind its unique animal.
Dozens of other banners soon blended together as his mind wandered from the now mostly empty tents, their inhabitants already risen and engaged elsewhere. His focus was on one specific knight, who had risen higher than any lowborn knight since... well, since a Stark had last been involved in matters at King's Landing, excluding recent events.
The rise of Ser Tristifer Mudd, first as Commander of the City Watch and then, mere moons later, as Hand of the King, had seemed absurd when Eddard first learned of it upon his arrival at the siege camp. However, he had no choice but to believe the claim when all he asked corroborated it.
That the melee champion of that godsforsaken tourney had risen so far, and then, according to the Lannisters, intended to betray the very infant king he served, was almost unbelievable. While Ned had never considered the Mudd knight a paragon of virtue and chivalry, he had at least thought him firm in his beliefs and the furthest from a craven of any sort.
He had even grappled with Robert himself in a brief wrestling duel during that very melee. Yet, war reveals a man's true self, and in this case, the impossible odds faced by the young knight had brought out a side of Ser Tristifer that Ned had not seen last they met.
The royalists' last army was still at Storm's End, according to the most recent war councils after the Trident. From what little Eddard had learned of the Tyrell lord there, it was possible that he would simply stay put, regardless of the capital's plight. Lord Tywin had countless scouts on the other side of the Blackwater Rush, ready to inform them of any Tyrell approach from the south.
They were doubly fortunate that the royal fleet, the Targaryens' greatest asset now, would be foolish to attempt to pick up the Tyrells in Shipbreaker Bay. The fates of Lord and Lady Baratheon were the last reminders of this, devastating as it had been to Eddard's friend.
Eddard would not consider the war won, though. They were close, but they had suffered great losses at the Trident. Additionally, Lord Jon Arryn had returned to the Vale with a majority of his lords and men due to reports of unprecedented attacks by the mountain clans around the Gates of the Moon, Runestone, Redfort, and Strongsong. These reports had been delivered at war councils in the aftermath of the Trident.
Robert, like Eddard himself, considered the Vale a second home, having not been spared from clashes with the mountain clans in their youth. This history meant that Lord Jon almost had to restrain Robert's desire to send men to crush the mountain clans immediately. The more experienced and wise Valelord reminded Robert that the war was not yet won and that the clans were likely to disappear at the first signs of any large resistance, like the cowardly raiders they were.
This was a great loss to the rebel host. While all agreed that Eddard's Northmen had prevented a collapse of the loyalist forces that day, it was also widely recognized that the Knights of the Vale had been instrumental in winning the day at the Trident with their relentless charges and fierce fighting against the Targaryens.
If they failed to take King's Landing this day, Eddard would endeavor for them to wait for the arrival of Robert and the rest of the rebel army. He missed the rest of his men still with Robert under the command of Lord Roose Bolton and Lord Wyman Manderly. While he trusted both men with command, he had reservations about their effectiveness in a fight for differing reasons.
The Manderly lord was obvious to all as no fighting soul, not to mention his large stomach. He had only headed his army as a show of continued loyalty toward House Stark in these dark times. This gesture was greatly appreciated by Eddard, who let Manderly handle logistics and the organization of his men.
Lord Roose Bolton, meanwhile, had always been loyal and competent, never challenging him. However, Eddard greatly preferred a furious Greatjon Umber to the unfeeling grey eyes of Lord Roose. Bolton's silence in the company of their fellow countrymen was unnerving.
Eddard knew he could not shun or disrespect one of his lords simply because he was unnerved by him. He found that giving the Bolton lord more responsibilities in command was a good compromise, putting Lord Roose out of his sight while hopefully not disrespecting the lord either.
Unfortunately, the main force would take its time traveling down the Kingsroad, burdened with many prisoners and exhausted men, horses, and supplies after the decisive battle.
Eddard wasn't blind to Lord Tywin's need for something to show Robert and reward him for his neutrality in this war either.
Such flimsy loyalty, revealed only at the last possible moment, would not look good for anyone—least of all the previous Hand of the Mad King. Eddard would play along with one attempt, considering the allure of an open gate into the city. The sooner King's Landing fell, the sooner he could attempt to find his sister and bring her back to Winterfell where she belonged.
Starks were not meant for the South. Cregan Stark had known it in his time, and Eddard's own father and brother had fallen victim to its perils. His sister was lost almost as far south as one could go if Ser Barristan was to be believed. Oh, how he wished this deal would work.
"Stark," Eddard heard from his side, turning in his saddle toward the noise. Theo Wull was a towering warrior, cousin to Hugo Wull, the Clan Chief of House Wull. Though Theo neared the Mountain in size, his demeanor couldn't have been more different. His voice was baritone and gruff, but he was one of the most faithful and loyal men Eddard knew.
"We are here," Theo informed him bluntly. Eddard blinked, refocusing his gaze to see the red cloak of Lord Tywin at the end of a rough, trodden path of upturned mud. Surrounding Tywin were tens of lords and knights, the strength of the Westerlands nobility.
"Right," Eddard replied, mentally chiding himself for his lapse in attention. He needed to stay sharp. He noticed Ser Mark Ryswell looking at him hesitantly as he glanced around at his guards.
"Ser Mark, Theo, Martyn, and two guards will follow me to Lord Tywin. The rest will wait here for the other lords," Eddard instructed, his gaze intent on his men as two guardsmen guided their horses forward to join him and his companions.
The smaller force soon made their way forward, their horses stepping through the mud, stomping any grass further into the brown and black mixture. As his party navigated between the Westerlands knights and eventually minor lords, more and more of them parted, creating a path toward the imposing figure of Lord Tywin and his closest commanders.
Among them were Lord Roland Crakehall, Lord Damon Marbrand, and Ser Kevan Lannister. The towering presence of Ser Gregor Clegane and the hunched, yellow-cloaked form of Ser Harys Swyft flanked them on either side.
Lord Tywin turned his white courser as Eddard arrived within talking range. "Lord Stark, well met," the Lannister nodded in greeting with cold courtesy. Ser Kevan, positioned on his brother's right hand, nodded silently as well. Both brothers were clad in high-quality armor, meticulously polished, with great woolen crimson cloaks draped over their shoulders. The only distinguishing feature between their apparel was the glinting rubies adorning Lord Tywin's pommel at his waist.
Aside from the jewelry, Lord Tywin's bald head and bushy side whiskers set him apart from the younger, short-haired Ser Kevan. Additionally, Tywin's cold, pale green eyes contrasted with Kevan's more vibrant green eyes, which held a deeper color.
Lords Crakehall and Marbrand observed Eddard's approach silently, offering no courtesy, while Ser Gregor and Ser Harys regarded them with open hostility and disdain, respectively.
Eddard couldn't help but notice the piss-colored cloak worn by Ser Harys, and it seemed apt in his mind as he briefly glanced at the knight's attire. Among Tywin's council, he found it difficult to justify Ser Harys' presence. He didn't believe Tywin Lannister to be fond of small-minded lickspittles, but perhaps it was a display of power in some fashion. Tywin was undoubtedly proud, and it might have pleased him to have lesser vassals groveling for favor at his side.
He pushed aside those thoughts as he returned Lord Tywin's nod of greeting. "I thank you, Lord Lannister. I see you have roused your men," Eddard stated simply, his gaze finally shifting past Tywin to take in the formation of Lannister footmen arrayed between their small tents and the looming city walls. To the right, the glint of armor from hundreds of knights and thousands of cavalry caught his eye.
Lord Tywin grunted. "The gate was opened a small time ago and fighting has been heard. Now we are only waiting for the last stipulation."
Eddard looked past Tywin toward the city. Indeed, he could discern that the portcullis was raised, and he saw both a white and a red banner flying over the gatehouse. Though details were not visible from this distance, he knew it wasn't the black banner of House Targaryen.
As Eddard heard mutterings around him, he noticed a horse carrying a slouched figure cloaked in grey emerging from the gate and slowly making its way toward them. The rider's identity was indiscernible from this distance, but the strongest suspect was obvious. It seemed Ser Tristifer had fulfilled his part of the deal.
Ser Kevan seemed to share Eddard's suspicion as he swiftly turned to one of the trumpeters standing ready. "Signal the cavalry to advance and send a rider to order the men to protect that rider," the Lannister knight commanded, directing the trumpeter and a runner respectively.
As a series of blasts sounded from the trumpet, Eddard witnessed something more disconcerting: two darker-cloaked riders emerged from the tunnel in full gallop. The Lannister cavalry had just started moving when the riders swiftly approached the grey-cloaked man. Lord Tywin and he watched silently as they arrived on both flanks of Ser Jaime, and one figure reached over to take hold of the horse's reins.
They were still half a mile from the Lannister cavalry when, after securing the reins, the riders swiftly wheeled around and headed back toward the city.
This turn of events prompted shouts of dismay and outrage among the lords.
Ser Harys' horse stepped forward a step with the man's chest inflating self-importantly. "I am sure my good son's riders will catch—"
Eddard saw Lord Tywin twitch, his hand gathering into a fist before interrupting his vassal. "I want a full assault on that gate by our foot. You already have your orders," Tywin commanded, his voice strained. "Pull back the damned cavalry as well. They won't catch up before the gate."
Immediately, the lords and commanders sprang into action. Trumpets blared and orders were barked as horses rushed past and down toward the foot. Below, the majority of the Lannister men began their march. Eddard noted a fifth of them left standing as a reserve, numbering around the same as the cavalry, making the assault force around eight thousand strong if he estimated correctly.
Eddard guided his horse up to Lord Tywin's left side, joining Ser Harys, the Mountain, and Ser Kevan as the only nobles of note remaining. Ser Harys seemed a lot more demure now, and the fact that he was Ser Kevan's good father finally revealed why he was even there.
Lord Tywin revealed little now. From their first meeting, Eddard had noticed that the Lannister lord never disclosed his thoughts without intention, except perhaps now. Even the great Lion would feel something at the near-return of his son, he supposed. Yet, now all emotions were once again hidden behind a calculating and cold mask.
"It may still be a trap," Eddard eventually commented. There was something that had been bothering him about this whole situation. He hoped with all his heart that this plan would succeed, but he could not ignore the possibility of trickery.
For a moment, Tywin seemed not to have heard him, given the man's lack of reaction. But after a few moments, the Lannister lord turned to him slowly.
"It could be," Tywin agreed, though his eyes quickly shifted back to the thousands of men under the crimson banners of his house, advancing steadily toward the gatehouse. "My most elite men and lords will stand in reserve outside the walls," Tywin added.
Eddard wondered if any assault would be successful without support from the more elite forces. Levies and other footmen were not the most reliable in any fight.
"Well, either we commit, or we simply sacrifice those men in a bloody fight that they very well may not win," Eddard countered. He did not like the Lannister's seeming indifference.
Lord Tywin's face remained unchanged as he answered coldly, "Then they will soften the ground for our reserves to win. We have reinforcements in the form of both our... King and Lord Arryn."
"You may lose four-fifths of your army if they are not reinforced. I struggle to see how that is a favorable trade," Eddard replied, baffled by Lord Lannister's apparent apathy towards his own men.
"Ser Tristifer surely commands men who will fight, and these are city watchmen. Even if they outnumber us, they lack the equipment to match my troops in individual combat," Tywin declared decisively.
Frowning, Eddard was interrupted by the approaching sound of riders. Turning, he saw his assembled lords arriving with a sizable cavalry behind them. With a final glance at Tywin, who remained unmoved, Eddard wheeled his horse to join his lords.
"My lord, we are ready," Howland announced as he, Greatjon Umber, Lord Halys Hornwood, and Lord Rickard Karstark rode to meet him a few feet before the gathered cavalry.
Greatjon Umber sat atop a great lumbering warhorse, both rider and steed clad in chainmail. The Umber heir's gigantic greatsword stuck out behind his back, the leather handle showing signs of extensive use. The sword was larger than even Ice. If Eddard hadn't witnessed Greatjon overpower countless foes at the banks of the Trident only weeks ago, he would have struggled to believe such a weapon could be wielded at all.
Greatjon, however, was no ordinary human, at least when he was fighting. The only reassurance Eddard had was the knowledge that Greatjon was under his banner. If there was one thing that matched Greatjon's size, it was his loyalty to his house since his father and brother's deaths.
"Thank you, Howland," Eddard said, nodding gratefully to his sister's friend before addressing his lords. "The Lannister infantry is storming the open gate now. Lord Tywin plans to soften any resistance for further attacks if the initial assault fails." Even Greatjon looked uncomfortable with this tactic.
The North and their lords fought alongside their men, sharing in both death and triumph.
Eddard raised a hand, halting any burgeoning discussion. "It is Lord Lannister's prerogative, but may my ancestors strike me down if we simply sit behind." There was a loud cheer from his lords and some of the front-row soldiers who heard his pledge.
Still, Eddard knew it was prudent to let the battle develop a little. He was no green boy foolishly riding onto a spear, and he intended to act wisely.
"Circumstances are such that we will wait for further orders. We all fight under the Stag banner now, and we cannot afford infighting. I will convene with Lord Tywin again and see how the situation develops." While some, like Lord Halys, appreciated this logical stance, Eddard saw men like Greatjon and Lord Rickard frowning, eager to join the battle. They would have to endure these pre-battle nerves for now.
The North were not mindless barbarians, as many ignorant highborn in the South might envision, but they were deeply emotionally driven people. During winter, inaction, hesitation, and doubt were killers of their own, as sure as starvation and the cold.
Eddard had managed to cultivate a two-sided respect with his lords and commanders, which made them hold their tongues in the face of his orders.
He turned his horse once again and began the short ride back to Lord Tywin, who was now in a quiet discussion with his younger brother, Ser Kevan. Though he did not wish to intrude, he urged his horse forward upon seeing a lone red-cloaked rider making his way up the hill from the city.
A sea of red banners and men continued to stream into the city through the large open gate. The shadows cast by the gate and the large walls obscured the courtyard on the other side, making it impossible to see what was happening immediately within.
It seemed one of the lords sent in command wished to inform them. The rider quickly revealed himself to be a young man clad in a red surcoat with a golden lion fastened over his breast.
The youth seemed quite nervous, though Eddard concluded that it was likely due to the present company. It was not every day a commoner played a significant role in any battle, especially for such an infamous lord as Lord Tywin.
The two Lannister brothers noticed the rider's presence, and Lord Tywin gestured for the rider to deliver his message.
The youth took a breath before bowing in his saddle. "M-milords, the gatehouse is being held by Ser Tristifer's men. However, a force of Targaryen men-at-arms is holding us back from advancing into the city at every road and alley from the Gods' Gate." The messenger seemed to gain more confidence as he spoke. "Lord Crakehall is requesting better-armed men to drive out the Targaryen loyalists as they are holding fiercely, as said."
Lord Tywin looked down upon the rider in thought before his pale green eyes drifted past to the restless cavalry standing in reserve.
"No. The cavalry stays. We have the numbers, and they cannot hold eternally—"
"I will reinforce and break through, Lord Tywin," Eddard declared. "My men are ready and eager to fight. Letting the war drag on due to excessive caution will only increase casualties. We will take the city today and the Keep tomorrow if it remains resistant." He had learned from both winter and his brief time as a lord that temporary pain had to be endured for lasting good.
In winter, greybeards walked into the snows, sacrificing themselves for an easier season for their families. In times of war, soldiers fought and sacrificed to protect their kin in the same way. This was their charge and fate, and Eddard would be right beside them. Deep within, Eddard wished the war would end today.
"Boy, do you know if Ser Tristifer commands all the gold cloaks or only a faction?" Eddard asked the messenger.
The rider seemed startled and remained silent his eyes darting from the ground to his grey ones. "Milord... Ser Tristifer only commands a faction of the gold cloaks. The ones defending the gatehouse"
Eddard raised an eyebrow. "So any gold cloak outside the gatehouse and courtyard are Targaryen loyalists? I thought Ser Tristifer was the Lord Hand"
The youth finally looks up into his eyes steadily. "The captains of the other barracks were envious of Ser Tristifer's... initiative and jumped at the chance to fight against him."
"Very well, you have my gratitude," Eddard says slowly before fishing a gold dragon from one of the saddles of his horse and throwing it to the rider.
Lord Tywin met his gaze, calculating as always. The Lord did not say anything, leaving Eddard to his own resolve. As the rider departed toward the city, Eddard turned and rode back to his men.
Greatjon and Lord Rickard were the first to move towards him, but soon all the commanders had gathered around.
"Will we ride?" Greatjon's booming voice asked.
"We shall," Eddard stated simply before turning to Lord Rickard. The two lords were his best commanders, both in eagerness and strategy. "Lord Rickard, I want you to stay here with the rest of the forces. I will ride with only half of our men initially, as it will not be practical to move more through the gate at once. Do not consider yourself beholden to Lannister; you speak with my voice and are answerable only to King Robert or Lord Arryn themselves."
"I will not hide—" the temperamental lord began, but Eddard interrupted him.
"I am your liege lord. If I were to fall today, I want you to return to Riverrun and protect whatever child my wife may bear, before returning him or her north to Winterfell. These last few years have been cruel to the North, but we are not dead and defeated. Saving the future of the North is as much an honor as fighting by my side here, I assure you."
This seemed to cool the man's emotions, and the proud lord soon bowed his head in submission. "If such a tragedy were to occur, then I would be honored to protect the next generation of Starks. I pray to all the gods for your survival, but I will bear the duty and follow your will if not."
Eddard nodded, appreciating the gravity of Rickard's commitment. He turned back to the assembled lords. "Prepare your men. We ride to reinforce the gatehouse and break through the Targaryen lines."
With determined nods, the lords dispersed to command their men. Eddard ensured all were ready before lightly kicking the sides of his horse, urging the mount forward. His cavalry soon followed, and seven hundred of his force rode with him, first past Lord Tywin and his lords, and then past the heavy knights and cavalry of the West.
The massive curtain walls loomed larger as he and his men, now more compact, rode with increasing speed toward the gatehouse.
As they neared the tail of the snake-like column of Lannister infantry still outside the gate, Eddard noticed the stone depictions that gave the gate its name. Intricate carvings of the Seven adorned the large archway, casting shadows in the light of the rising sun. It was quite late in the morning now, and any precipitation had long evaporated in the increasing heat of the day.
Suddenly appearing from the shadowed gate was a new rider. This one briefly glanced over at Eddard and his men with some confusion if he wasn't mistaken before riding past in haste.
Eddard let the rider stay in his mind for a moment before he turned his attention back to the great gate and the now-parting Lannister soldiers. Looking further into the tunnel, however, he saw it was little space for men let alone his horses.
Being mounted both had its advantages and cons, in this scenario, he eventually decided against them.
"We dismount here and move in to reinforce!" Eddard barked to his men as he slipped from his saddle drawing his sword and turning to his men. They soon followed and he left a score of men to handle the many horses as he led the others into the gatehouse.
If they were to fight through alleys, it would be difficult to use their horses effectively. It would be unfortunate to lose such fine steeds when they could not be used to their full potential.
Eddard had heard the sounds of battle for some time, but the noise became louder and more guttural as he and his men entered the gate. They made their way along one of the walls, squeezing past parting Lannisters who watched them silently. Along the wall and through the murder holes, Eddard saw no one.
Wasn't the gatehouse meant to be held by gold cloaks? Sunlight grew stronger as they emerged from the thick walls of the city. Now Eddard could hear the clash of metal, the screams of the wounded and dying, and the unmistakable stench of death.
He made his way through, and the sunlight blinded him for a few moments before the chaotic and desperate fight revealed itself to him. Dead and wounded littered the dusty courtyard, both cloaked in gold and red. While red-cloaked Lannisters held the courtyard, they must have lost control of the gatehouse, for there was clear fighting at both entrances.
On the opposite side of the courtyard, five lines of Lannisters blocked each road into the city, though the passages were far better fortified than previously reported. Makeshift barricades made of everything from wagons to ale barrels and mismatched planks provided significant defense.
Eddard spotted Lord Roland Crakehall noticing his arrival and making his way over. The large Westerlander seemed both thankful and confused by their arrival.
"You were fast. My messenger only just left," the lord stated as they met. "I assume that Lord Tywin will be following?"
"Only just left?" Eddard echoed in confusion. It had surely been quite some time since the first rider had left with Crakehall's messages. "What do you mean just now?"
Lord Roland's hesitant smile fell into confusion as well. "The rider I sent out was to call for Lord Tywin and inform him that Ser Tristifer never turned cloak and that we desperately need to capture the gatehouse."
"Your first rider said that Ser Tristifer held the gatehouse for us. That it was under our control," Eddard said slowly.
Lord Roland's eyes widened in realization.
"Gods be good," Lord Halys muttered behind him as they all reached the same conclusion.
In his peripheral vision, Eddard noticed dark figures emerging atop the roofs of the surrounding houses, clearly holding drawn bows and loaded crossbows. At the first twang of a released arrow, Eddard hears screams both from the courtyard and from every road and alley around.
"Ambush!" Eddard shouted, raising his sword high. "Defensive positions! Shields up!"
His men responded swiftly, raising their shields and forming a tight defensive circle. Arrows and bolts rained down, clattering off the raised shields or finding unfortunate gaps. The Lannisters in the courtyard were caught off guard, their ranks thrown into disarray as the hidden Targaryen loyalists attacked from above.
A loud groaning of metal and then horrified screams came from behind. Eddard already suspected what had happened before he whipped his head around and saw the portcullis closed, a dozen Westerlanders unfortunate enough to have been directly under it as it dropped.
The sounds of panic, pain, and terror became a dull roar in his ears as he watched the scene unfold almost dispassionately. It was such an obvious trap in hindsight, he thought. It had been too good to be true. So had the Stoney Sept been. Now it seemed his luck had been spent, the gods no longer merciful.
Eddard saw the Lannisters outside the gates at first desperately trying to lift the great iron portcullis and help their trapped comrades. Then when heated sand was dropped from above scream in pain and retreat from the gate, arrows, stones and heated sand forcing them to flee.
Arrows and crossbow bolts rained down from the rooftops upon clusters of Lannister and Stark men still in the courtyard. Their side was helpless but to cower under their shields and endure the hail. They were surely a thousand men strong or more but with no way to retaliate their numbers were useless.
This action would not work for long, either. Fresh gold-cloaked men suddenly flooded from the barricades, slaughtering the now exhausted Lannisters who had been fighting for nearly an hour to break through.
Lord Roland had been barking orders for order and discipline when a bolt pierced his side, sending him from his mount. The Crakehall still lived, shouting in pain from the ground beside Eddard.
Eddard turned to his lords. Lord Halys looked resigned, raising his shield but leaving his sword limp in his hand. Greatjon, as expected, had charged toward the flood of gold cloaks and black-cloaked Targaryen men-at-arms. He was soon surrounded by ten foes, still fighting bravely, Eddard lost sight of him soon enough.
Three deep horn blasts suddenly woke Eddard from his shocked state. The order for retreat, with northern horns, he noted. He turned and bumped into something. Looking down, he saw his blade lying on the sandy ground, he had not even felt it slip from his grip.
He and his men were surrounded by an intimidating wall of spears by the gold cloaks before he could even think of picking up his sword.
He had led his men to this fate, this impossible situation. His guards and lords formed a human shield around him, but he knew they all understood it was a lost cause. Their way of retreat was closed, even if they could escape this envelopment.
Other groups of Lannisters and a second group of his Starks were similarly enveloped by hundreds of gold-cloaked men.
"Drop your steel, be reasonable, and you will not lose your lives," a voice he recognized suddenly echoed around the courtyard.
Eddard turned to look toward the voice.
Ser Tristifer Mudd had truly grown into a man now. The melee victor now wore fine plate armor with a surcoat depicting the golden Mudd crown. Over his shoulder, was a golden cape in the fashion of the gold cloaks, presumably to symbolize his past as Commander of the City Watch. The man's sword was still sheathed.
Seconds grew by in the now almost silent courtyard, interrupted only by moans and groans of pain. The first sword falling to the dusty ground echoed across the courtyard for a moment before it was soon joined by many others.
Eddard's northmen, however, remained resolute, raising their arms and weapons in response to the capitulation of their red-cloaked allies. It would only leave them dead to a man, and he would not leave them to death if he could help it.
"Ser Tristifer, will you swear on all gods old and new that my men will be unharmed if they surrender?" Eddard asked in a stronger voice than he thought himself capable of. Tristifer turned to him and smiled lightly.
"I vow that you and your men will remain unharmed if you all surrender here and now on the gods old and new," Tristifer proclaimed in turn. Eddard closed his eyes for a moment. As Lord Stark, he had led more Northmen to their deaths than any predecessor in decades. Not even the Mad King had caused so many Northern deaths as he.
"As Lord Stark of Winterfell, drop your arms. Your loyalty warms my heart, but I do not wish it to be punished with your lives." His men hesitated for a moment before hundreds of swords, axes, spears, and other weapons crashed to the ground.
"I am pleased by all of your cooperation. This war is not something any of us wanted or even started. I will be the one to end it, however, in one way or another," Ser Tristifer stated loudly.
"Restrain them all and have the nobles held in Maegor's Holdfast," Ser Tristifer then ordered. The gold cloaks soon began dividing the groups and restraining tens of men together in long ropes before marching them away.
Lord Eddard Stark did not resist as his hands were fastened together and two gold cloaks held onto each of his arms, for he had failed. Ser Tristifer had won today, and it would remain to be seen if Eddard could see the end of this war after all.
As Eddard was led away, he cast a final glance at the fallen and the wounded, a heavy weight settling in his chest. It did not seem like Ser Tristifer wished them dead yet, which gave him a flicker of hope. Ser Tristifer had become acquainted with Eddard's sister; perhaps he would be willing to return her to Winterfell. It was the only thing he could hope for now.
Ser Tristifer Mudd surveyed the aftermath of the ambush with grim satisfaction. The trap had been flawlessly executed, a feat that could only have been surpassed by capturing Lord Tywin himself. As it stood, the result was nearly as impressive: Lord Roland Crakehall, a dozen Westerlander knights and minor lords, and most valuable of all, Lord Eddard Stark along with nearly all his commanding lords. Even the formidable Greatjon Umber, though gravely injured, was among the captives. Hornwood and Reed completed the list.
Tristifer allowed himself a moment of amusement. With the Lord of the Neck and the Stark of Winterfell in his custody, he held the keys to the North. Ironically, he had little reason to act on it for now. The Andal kings whom his forefathers had fought could only have dreamed of this, and now Tristifer held it in his palm.
He shook himself from those thoughts after a moment. This ambush had only succeeded through a series of perfectly laid plans, both cultivated by him and bolstered by luck.
Tristifer had laborers work tirelessly through the night in the days leading up to the meeting, building sturdy barricades to ensure there were no alternative routes but those five. They installed ladders on the opposite side of the houses, allowing archers to wait and then climb onto the roofs for the ambush.
Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Jaremy Rykker had been convinced to lead the Targaryen household guard tasked with holding the barricades until the ambush. The two knights, some of the few left at King's Landing after both the Bells and the Trident, were no friends of his but were fierce loyalists and acknowledged his position as Lord Regent and Hand. They performed admirably, both knights and men-at-arms, managing to hold out against the Lannister assault.
Hundreds of smallfolk with pieces of metal had been brought in to create the sounds of battle and struggle, initially creating the illusion of a mutiny. They were replaced by his armed watchmen when the first Lannisters appeared at the gate. The watchmen had been ordered to lose ground into the alleys, luring the Lannisters further until they met the barricades and were replaced by the Targaryen men-at-arms.
And, of course, his two ultimate deceptions: the cloaked 'Jaime Lannister' and the messenger. Both had been the same Red Keep stable hand, chosen personally by Tristifer for his ability to ride a horse and his desperate desire to provide for his family. Living in Flea Bottom, the stable hand was already lucky to work for the Targaryens at the Red Keep and had jumped at the chance to earn a thousand gold dragons from Tristifer's Harrenhal winnings.
It seemed the Lannister soldiers had thought the man a scout as he was let out from the King's Gate by the Blackwater Rush and then sent north past the Gate of the Gods to the Lannister camp. The man had known he would be the first messenger and free to tell his lies to the Lion of Lannister for as long as the white banner flew from atop the gatehouse. Which it had, resulting in the greatest victory for the Royalists yet and a very wealthy stable hand.
Tristifer hoped the man would spend it wisely. The coins were now his, and he could retire from his job and live comfortably for decades if he was frugal.
"Lord Hand!" Tristifer turned to one of Addam's lieutenants, the one who had held the gatehouse itself.
"Lieutenant Edwell, you have done the Crown and me a great service. I understand that all assaults upon the gatehouse were repelled?"
The lieutenant shook his head firmly. "They pushed us back up the stairs almost to the pulleys of the portcullis, but with the help of its operators, we eventually drove them back after a bloody fight out into the courtyard."
"Then you have earned my gratitude—" Tristifer started, only to be interrupted by the lieutenant.
"My apologies, milord, but the archers on the wall wish to inform you that the horses of the Northmen still remain by the walls, defended by a score of Northmen. They seem too few to move the large number and are unwilling to abandon them. The Lannister infantry were driven off by our archers when they retook their positions on the wall after the ambush, but there is a force of Northmen on its way down the hill now, presumably whatever force Lord Stark left at the siege camp."
Hundreds of horses with a minor force defending them were too tempting, as the capital was short of good warhorses. Tristifer had feared he would need to import horses, but now hundreds stood just outside his walls.
"Send out a few hundred guardsmen to capture these mounts. And send a rider to retrieve Lord Stark. I wish for him to be brought up on the wall. Any Northern force will either be hesitant or entirely unwilling to sacrifice their lord, even for such a number of horses. Let them know what will happen if they do not let our men capture the horses, though do not kill him regardless—simply bluff." Tristifer ordered as he looked toward the gatehouse. "Have it done. You speak with my voice now."
The man rushed off, barking orders to his serjeants and watchmen.
Tristifer did not care about the lieutenant's interruption but was irritated that the archers' information came second to the reporting of battles won. Hopefully, the plan would still be successful. Seven hundred bred and trained warhorses, even light cavalry as the Northmen had, were a gift from the gods. He had faith they would succeed or inform him if not.
Tristifer mounted his horse and began his ride back to the Red Keep, now accompanied by his personal household guard. This unit comprised his original five guards, who had been with him since before Harrenhal, along with fifteen additional guards financed by the crown through his office as Hand. The justification for this expenditure was simple: he controlled both sides of the deal.
These twenty guards now either served as his personal guard or protected the Tower of the Hand, where he now resided. It struck him that this was his first permanent home since leaving Sow's Horn.
For three years, he had lived in tents, inns, or barracks. The chambers of the Commander of the Watch were functional but spartan, as each new commander decorated the space with their own personal effects.
The Tower of the Hand, meanwhile, was a true part of the Red Keep and was decorated as such. Tapestries from previous Hands and the Targaryens graced most rooms. His sleeping chamber possessed the most comfortable bed he had ever lain in and was further adorned with numerous chairs and sofas.
His personal chambers even had two vanities. He had never seen one before, but from the moment he did, the arrogance of his many predecessors seemed less surprising.
There was also a fireplace, almost always lit and maintained by the servants. Tristifer had only dreamt of personal servants until joining the Gold Cloaks, where junior watchmen followed orders from their senior officers. Now, however, he had personal servants maintaining his tower and answering to him. In theory, they were on his payroll, though in reality, this too was financed by the crown. After all, who would stop him?
Now, with the Lions bloodied, the North decapitated, and the Stag absent, Tristifer could not help but truly consider victory and a future after the war. He envisioned himself as Hand, holding a keep, perhaps with a wife and children. Maybe he could even see Oldstones rebuilt.
He had never seen the ancestral lands of House Mudd apart from maps. He imagined a ruined keep atop a hill with the Green Fork flowing past slowly. He hoped that he would see it someday.
This victory still depended on the actions of one lord, however. If he would finally move his arse from the feasts outside of Storm's End or not. The Tyrells had not responded to Tristifer's last missive and continued to starve the Baratheon castle. Now, with this victory, Tristifer hoped to lure the Fat Rose from the capture of Storm's End to the even greater glory of saving King's Landing.
As Tristifer and his men traveled the familiar road from his old Gold Cloak post to the Red Keep, they were passed by a mounted Gold Cloak at full gallop. Soon after, they passed Lord Eddard Stark being escorted back to the gate. The defeated lord had his head lowered and did not notice Tristifer's presence.
Around them, smallfolk hurled insults at the Lord of Winterfell or praised Tristifer and his victory. News of the ambush and its success had already spread far from the gate.
It would be expensive for the Targaryens to have the Tyrells and the Reach save them, but that was a price they would have to endure if they wished to remain rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. The throne would be won by Tristifer's and Tyrell's hands.
This was something Tristifer had realized and now had the time to act upon. The future king and his sister were young and impressionable. If he did not wish to end like Lord Unwin Peake, he would need to build some relationships. Once again, there was a young king named Aegon and an ambitious Hand. This time, it was the sixth Aegon, not the third, but Tristifer did not wish to repeat that history.
That was his thought as he finally arrived at the Red Keep after an hour of riding. A rider informed him, as he dismounted in the keep's courtyard, that the capture of the horses had been successful. Lord Karstark, who had led the Northern rescue force, had been forced to retreat at the sight of his captured liege lord and a hail of arrows from the walls.
The score of Northmen defending the horses had been more resistant but were badly outnumbered and soon killed to the last man before the Gold Cloaks brought the horses into the city. The horses would be stabled where possible in both Gold Cloak barracks and the manses of absent lords until they were needed.
Tristifer thanked the rider before entering the Red Keep. His first stop was the rookery. He had appointed one of Pycelle's aides, Maester Allard, as interim Grand Maester until a new one could be sent by the Citadel. Tristifer had Robin and his spies investigate Maester Allard's background to ensure his trustworthiness. They found that Allard was a new arrival at the outbreak of the war, sent to care for the ravens, and was largely unaffiliated with the disgraced Pycelle.
This had been sufficient for Tristifer to make the appointment.
Maester Allard opened his chambers immediately and was as courteous as ever. Tristifer instructed him to send a new message to Lord Tyrell, detailing the recent victory and reiterating promises of the Master of Coin position and a betrothal between the King and Tyrell's daughter. He also asked that the message urge Tyrell to march north to meet where the Kingsroad crossed the Wendwater. Leaving a force under someone like Ser Jon Fossoway at Storm's End to maintain the siege.
Maester Allard nodded as Tristifer finished and promised to have the message delivered immediately.
Satisfied, Tristifer left the rookery and made his way to Maegor's Holdfast and then the royal chambers. Servants and guards alike paid him their respects with courtesies and bows, but none interrupted his walk, and he soon found himself outside the chambers of Princess Elia and her children.
Queen Mother Elia, he corrected himself as he knocked on the door. Only two regular Targaryen guards stood outside the chambers, a stark reminder of the depleted Kingsguard. Two were dead, one had been captured, another arrested, and the last three had been missing for a year. He hoped they at least lived, lest he be forced to rebuild the knightly order from the ground up. That would be a daunting task and likely beyond his expertise. After all, who was truly worthy to appoint knights that became so legendary? Almost all boys in the Seven Kingdoms dreamt at least once of joining the famed order.
The door opened hesitantly, startling Tristifer from his thoughts.
Even the frailty of her body did not diminish the beauty of Elia Martell. Exotic though her features might be, there was no denying her allure.
Her dark eyes, shifting distrustfully from him to the two household guards flanking the door, held a beauty of their own.
"Your Grace," Tristifer began, bowing respectfully. "May I have a word?"
"What can I do for the Lord Hand?" the Dornish woman replied.
Tristifer let his face settle into an easy smile, hiding his more selfish intentions for the moment. "If you let me enter, I will explain."
The Queen Mother opened the door a little more but still stood blocking it, a gesture that, while symbolic, would do little to prevent his entry if he truly wished to force his way in. The gods were cruel to give her a body that did not match her soul and spirit. Perhaps a stronger physique might have allowed this woman to prevent her late husband's foolish actions and avoided this war entirely.
"I gather from your attitude that the ambush was successful," Elia said, her tone laced with a touch of sarcasm.
"As sharp as ever, both in tongue and mind," Tristifer responded, his smile widening slightly. He had heard only of Elia's kindness and gentleness during his time at Harrenhal, but it seemed she possessed a bit of Dornish fire as well. "Though I would feel more comfortable discussing the details sitting."
Elia hesitated for a moment before stepping back, her eyes betraying a hint of reluctance. She said nothing as he nodded in thanks and entered the chambers. The door clicked shut behind him.
Tristifer's gaze was drawn to young Rhaenys, who stood protectively in front of a crib. The little girl's resemblance to her mother was striking—olive skin, dark hair, and black eyes that mirrored Elia's.
"A pleasure to meet you personally, Princess Rhaenys," Tristifer said, offering a courteous bow.
The girl's eyes flickered between him and her mother, but she remained silent. Elia, maintaining her distance, glanced pointedly at her daughter. "This is Ser Tristifer Mudd, Aegon's regent and Hand, as I have told you. Say hello."
Rhaenys hesitated before mumbling, "... Hello," still standing guard-like in front of the crib.
Tristifer turned to Elia. "Would it be possible to greet young Aegon as well?"
Elia met his gaze for a few long moments, her expression inscrutable. "If he is awake," she finally said.
Tristifer nodded and began to walk toward the crib. Rhaenys continued to stand resolutely, her small figure unwavering as if to shield her brother from any intrusion.
"I wish your brother no harm, Princess," Tristifer said gently. "May I pass?"
The girl looked up at him with a gaze reminiscent of her mother's, clearly scrutinizing him for any sign of deception. "Only if you promise not to hurt him," she demanded, her tone as serious as her little face was adorable.
Tristifer hid his amusement behind a mask of solemnity and nodded gravely. "I vow upon the gods that I will not harm your brother or you, not now or ever."
The solemnity of his promise seemed to satisfy the young princess. She stepped aside, still standing close to the crib, her eyes never leaving him. Tristifer approached slowly, mindful of the delicate balance he wished to maintain.
Peering into the crib, he was met by the alert gaze of the infant king. Little Aegon had inherited his father's striking Valyrian features—purple eyes and a head of silver hair, though it was short and soft.
Tristifer extended a cautious hand toward the baby. The boy's lilac eyes followed the movement, and after a moment of curious contemplation, he reached out and grasped Tristifer's finger with his tiny, firm grip. Tristifer smiled genuinely as he watched the child's curiosity and innocence.
After a moment, Tristifer withdrew his hand from the crib, prompting the infant Aegon to release his tiny grasp. He first turned to Rhaenys, who, having replaced her initial distrust with curiosity, watched him with renewed interest. Then he glanced at Elia, whose conflicted expression quickly vanished behind an emotionless mask.
"You wished to talk about the battle, did you not, my lord?" Elia inquired, her tone softer than when he first arrived. Perhaps she had discerned his deeper motivations? While he didn't believe it would be of major concern, he preferred not to spell it out explicitly in case she took issue with it.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Tristifer replied, as he moved toward a pair of chairs in her chambers. He gestured for her to join him, and Elia took a seat with a slight nod. Rhaenys remained near the crib, her gaze flicking between the adults with cautious curiosity.
Tristifer began to recount the details of the ambush and the subsequent victory. As he described the deceptions, and the decisive triumph, Elia's eyes widened with each new revelation. The mention of captured hostages seemed to spark a glimmer of hope in her dark eyes, a flicker that Tristifer caught despite her efforts to remain composed.
For they had won, and the ashes of hope had gained a flicker of life. The cause was not dead yet and it seemed Tristifer had finally convinced Elia that he may not be entirely a lost cause. For now the winds had shifted yet again, there was a brief lull, a moment where one could ask themselves what way the winds would blow next.
End of Chapter
And finally this chapter ends. It took its time for it was the most significant for Tristifer and the war yet, and this made it a lot harder in turn to write. I believe that this turned out quite well however and I hope you all enjoy it as well.
This has been the longest chapter yet over 9500 words now, but that is because I did not want to split the chapter in two. Usually my chapters are from 5K to around 7K and expect the next one to be around that size. Maybe you enjoyed 10K words of this Mudd restoration and in that case this was for you.
Until next time, maybe the Fat Flower will finally move his great behind? We shall see.