The Dog's Demise
Elia sighed as she dismissed the wet nurses from her chambers. She had eaten her supper with only her children for company, as there were none in the Keep with whom she wished to share a meal. There hadn't been for quite some time, first under the oppressive reign of her good-father King Aerys, and now in these times of war.
Her friends and handmaidens had been dismissed by King Aerys at the outbreak of the conflict. As they were all Dornish, he feared them spies of her brother and ordered them away from the capital. Even her dearest friend Ashara had been forced to depart the Keep, despite her brother Arthur serving as a Kingsguard. There was no rationale behind King Aerys in his latter years, and with her husband absent, that left her at His Grace's mercy and whims. Her handmaidens had been replaced by a rotating cast of servants, none present long enough to build any connection.
She was only grateful that the King found her weak and disgusting due to her Dornish appearance, for she feared what could have happened had his interests turned toward her. That, however, was not something to even consider; it did not happen, and now he was dead.
While she was relieved by the news of the King's demise, it simply changed the holders of her golden cell. Ser Tristifer was in no way like the late King, but he was pragmatic and recognized that she was what kept her brothers in this war.
If she were home in Dorne, not necessarily even with her children, then she agreed that Dorne and Doran would likely be neutral. While Dornish blood had been spilled at the Trident, that still was no guarantee that Doran would insist upon continued Dornish action. Oberyn, of course, would be a different case, passionate as he was, but he was not the Prince of Dorne.
So she was again trapped in this gilded cage. She could only hope for the Hand to succeed, for this would hopefully allow her to see her brothers, even if she still needed to raise her children here. Her son had been proclaimed king, and now he was the name that the Royalists fought for, his throne they sought to keep.
Her thoughts were interrupted as her dear daughter tugged on the sleeve of her dress.
"Mama, where is Ser Tristifer?" Hadn't that shocked her when Tristifer had visited her children after the Battle at the Gate of the Gods. This had been no anomaly either, as the Hand made sure to visit the three every day he could between his many council meetings, war councils, petitions, and other duties of the King's Hand before his departure.
Elia had guessed that it was some kind of stunt to familiarize himself with her children, though she did not know his endgame. Did he intend to supplant their father? Cultivate trust with the King from infanthood?
Did this knight, with a house that had been thought extinct or at least vanished, think he would be Hand or a person of importance at Aegon's majority? Whatever game he was playing, it certainly worked to build a connection with her son, who had seemed upset and sad in the Hand's week-long absence.
Elia had not thought Rhaenys similarly affected. While Aegon might forget his true father in time, she knew that her daughter had not forgotten her love and adoration for her father, even after his absence and then death. She had apparently been mistaken, and she was not sure how she felt about it.
Elia hesitated for a moment more as she looked down at her daughter's dark, curious eyes. "Ser Tristifer is meeting with very important lords to end this war, you see. As he is the Lord Hand and Regent, he has to rule in Aegon's stead."
Rhaenys scrunched her nose cutely. "I still do not understand how he is a King. I thought they fought with swords and wore crowns. He is a babe and cannot even walk!"
While her daughter had a child's naivete, it was no childish question, and it had been something Elia had asked herself. How could Aegon be King, with no one but Ser Tristifer to teach him the ways of ruling? This was not to say that Tristifer had not performed admirably as Hand, for there had not been such a competent and diligent Hand since the man who was now besieging the very walls of this city.
Still, not since Aegon III had a king been so unprepared for the duties of the crown, nor as young. Considering Tristifer's current loyalty within the Gold Cloaks, there was no alternative to him in the case that they actually won. Thus, any speculation was moot, as only time and fate would tell.
As Elia was about to respond to her daughter's question, she was interrupted by muffled screams and the dull thuds of a struggle just outside her chambers. Instincts she didn't know she possessed took over in an instant. She grabbed Rhaenys's arm, and in almost the same motion, turned back toward Aegon's crib.
The door burst open with a deafening crash, groaning against its hinges before slamming into the stone walls. Rhaenys screamed in fear, but Elia did not look back. Her only focus was on ensuring she kept her daughter close. As they passed the crib, she scooped Aegon up in one swift motion, holding him tightly against her.
With nowhere else to go, she pressed forward toward the furthest corner of the room, where Rhaenys' small bed stood. Desperation fueled her as she turned, placing herself as a shield between her children and whatever danger was now in the room. She kept Rhaenys behind her, Aegon held firmly at her side, her heart pounding as she braced for what was to come.
Elia was met with the terrifying sight of a gigantic man clad in plate armor, visible beneath a great black surcoat, likely an attempt to disguise his identity. Yet, anyone who had seen the Mountain would recognize him instantly. He was smeared with dark splotches of blood, some of it fresh and glistening under the dim light.
The other assailant barely registered in Elia's mind, small as he was in comparison to the giant beside him. Clad in a cloak, he was a dirty, disheveled man, yet his posture and the fierce glint of the dagger in his hand suggested nobility. His cloak, too, was stained with blood—fresh, not yet dried.
Elia's mind was in shock, unable to fully comprehend the danger as the two assailants advanced on her and her children. But before they could close the distance, the door burst open again, this time flooding the room with five gold-cloaked soldiers, led by a man she recognized on a much more personal level. The Lord Hand, Ser Tristifer, unarmored and clad only in a simple brown doublet, entered the room with sword in hand.
The Mountain spun around with a quickness that belied his massive size, already raising his sword to engage the gold cloaks. Elia's breath caught in her throat as the giant moved with deadly intent, his blade flashing in the low light.
But she could not focus on the brutal clash that was about to unfold, for the other assailant dismissed the arriving guards with a sneer and turned back to her and the children, his dagger now raised threateningly.
Elia managed only three retreating steps before Rhaenys squeaked in fear, and they hit the cold, unyielding stone wall behind them.
The ugly man smiled cruelly, his eyes gleaming with malice. "I had many plans," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom, "though it seems they've been spoiled. But I won't leave empty-handed."
Elia had already guessed this was at Lannister's behest, considering the Mountain's presence. Desperation clawed at her, and she forced herself to speak. "I can pay, Ser. Double—just let us live," she pleaded, her voice trembling with fear.
The man simply tilted his head with a smirk, his expression twisted with cruel amusement. "I'm afraid the pay was much more than gold," he said, his tone mocking. "And for you, doubling that payment would be pointless." His words confirmed her worst fears, and her heart pounded harder as bile rose in her throat. His gaze drifted downward, past her legs, settling on her daughter.
The man was only a few feet away now, the stench of him filling the air as Elia crouched down against the wall, tears finally welling in her eyes. She knew, deep down, that it would be hopeless to sacrifice herself, for these men would never show mercy to her children. Still, every instinct in her body screamed to protect them.
She barely managed to close her eyes when she heard a startled choke from in front of her. Her eyes snapped open, and she was met with the shocking sight of a steel sword's tip mere feet from her face, piercing through the chest of the now-stunned assassin.
The blade lingered for a few heartbeats before retreating, and the man crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, lifeless and limp. Elia stared at the body for a moment, disbelief flooding her senses.
But then, her gaze lifted, and she beheld the most wonderful sight she could have imagined at that moment. Tristifer stood before her, his bloodied blade at his side, panting lightly, his face twisted in disgust at the carnage. Relief washed over her like a wave, and she nearly collapsed in gratitude.
As Elia opened her mouth to exclaim her thanks to her savior, the words caught in her throat. Her eyes widened in horror, and instead of words of relief, a terrified scream tore from her lips.
Past Tristifer's form, the gigantic Mountain loomed, his monstrous silhouette darkening the chamber as he lifted his sword with lethal intent. The once-pristine floor was now a gruesome scene, strewn with the lifeless bodies of gold cloaks—her would-be rescuers—reduced to a single man. This beast, barely recognizable as human, had proven too much for even five seasoned soldiers.
Elia's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the Mountain's greatsword begin its deadly descent, aimed squarely at Tristifer's head. She braced herself for the inevitable, her breath catching in her throat, ready to witness the horrifying moment when the man who had risked everything for her would fall.
But in a flash of desperate agility, Tristifer dropped into a roll.
The massive blade whooshed past, slicing the air with such force that Elia felt the gust from where she stood, her hair whipping around her face. Her pulse quickened, but a glimmer of hope sparked within her as the sword missed its mark, passing harmlessly over the now-prone Tristifer.
Tristifer didn't waste a second. In one fluid motion, he was back on his feet, positioning himself between Elia and the towering Mountain. His stance was solid, his sword ready, though the difference in their sizes was almost laughable, if it had not been such a terrifying situation.
The Mountain grunted in irritation, his eyes narrowing behind his visor as they locked onto Tristifer. For Elia, the moment stretched endlessly, each heartbeat echoing in her ears. The tension was suffocating, the silence of the chamber punctuated only by the distant sound of crackling torches.
Then, with a sudden burst of speed, Tristifer sprang forward.
He feinted toward the Mountain's face, aiming for the narrow eye slits in the hulking knight's helmet, but it was a ruse. In the same breath, he pivoted, slashing his sword in a deadly arc toward the giant's knee joint—one of the few places not protected by the thick plate armor.
But the Mountain was quicker than he appeared. With a subtle shift, he sidestepped the blow, and Tristifer's blade scraped harmlessly against steel instead of flesh.
Tristifer's boots skidded on the stone floor as he found himself behind the Mountain, his momentum carrying him further than intended. But before he could regain his footing, the giant had already turned with a speed that defied his massive size again.
In one fluid motion, the Mountain raised his sword and brought it down toward Tristifer. Elia gasped, her eyes widening in terror, but Tristifer rolled away just in time. The greatsword smashed into the ground, sending shards of stone flying.
But the Mountain wasn't done. In a feat of brute strength, he shifted his swing mid-motion, the sword arcing toward Tristifer as he rolled. The edge of the blade passed just inches from him, so close that Elia could almost didn't see if it touched him or not.
Tristifer scrambled backward, a flicker of desperation in his movements, but what struck Elia was the remarkable absence of fear in his green-blue eyes. Those eyes—his most distinguishing feature when unmasked—offered a rare window into his true mind.
What Elia saw there now was not panic, but focus. Strength. A calculating resolve. The man who stood before one of the Realm's most fearsome warriors was younger than she, yet he faced the towering brute with an unwavering confidence that defied reason. Elia and her children had grown silent, the room heavy with tension, though a fleeting thought crossed her mind—could they possibly slip past the duel and make it to the door on the far side of the room?
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Tristifer spoke, his voice laced with a cocky bravado that made her question his sanity. "It's harder when your quarries are moving, eh?"
Elia's heart skipped a beat, her attention snapping back to the fight. Had he lost his mind? The Mountain's eyes blazed with fury at the taunt, his massive frame vibrating with barely restrained violence. But Tristifer's eyes remained as sharp and calculating as ever. What was his game?
"Just die, foolish boy," the Mountain grunted, his voice a gravelly growl that sent chills down Elia's spine. His anger was palpable, the air around him seeming to thrum with the force of his rage. Tristifer bent slightly forward, lowering his sword in a mockery of a knightly duel's opening stance, his posture deceptively relaxed.
The Mountain, with a snarl of contempt, obliged him. He swung his greatsword again, this time with a low, sweeping arc that left no room for evasion. The blade cut through the air with lethal precision, its reach encompassing the width of the room. There would be no rolling away, no dodging to the side—Tristifer was nearly backed against the wall, and with the sword's reach, escape seemed impossible.
Elia had already resigned herself to the worst, her mind conjuring the horrifying image of Tristifer's lifeless body falling before her eyes. The thought alone was unbearable, but just as despair began to take hold, something utterly unexpected happened—Tristifer, bracing his legs with a visible determination, suddenly leapt over the massive steel blade.
Gasps filled the chamber. Elia's heart skipped a beat, and Rhaenys let out a small squeak of surprise. Even the Mountain seemed momentarily stunned, his massive sword continuing its arc unchecked, embedding itself deep into the red sandstone wall with a resounding crash.
For the first time, the Mountain was caught off-guard. Seizing the moment, Tristifer lunged at his towering foe, forcing the brute to abandon his sword, now lodged uselessly in the wall. Clegane tried to react, but for once, he wasn't fast enough. Tristifer's blade struck the Mountain's plate cuirass with a force that would have sent any ordinary man crumpling to the ground.
But the Mountain was no ordinary man. The blow, though solid, only made the giant stagger. Tristifer hissed in pain as he pulled back, his hands trembling from the impact that had reverberated through his sword. The momentary retreat gave the Mountain just enough time to draw his dagger—a fearsome weapon, its size closer to that of a short sword in Elia's untrained eyes.
In the Mountain's enormous hands, the dagger looked both fearsome and slightly ridiculous, like a toy in the grasp of a giant. But there was nothing amusing about the way Clegane moved; without hesitation, he charged at Tristifer with the brute force of a charging bull.
Tristifer's eyes widened, surprise flashing across his face as the Mountain barreled toward him. But in a display of quick thinking, Tristifer feinted left, then dodged to the right at the last possible second. The Mountain, unable to halt his momentum, surged past his intended target, leaving himself vulnerable.
It was the opportunity Tristifer needed. With a swift, precise strike, he slashed at the giant's left leg, the blade biting into the unarmored flesh just above the ankle. Blood welled up from the wound, and the Mountain roared, a mixture of pain and fury echoing through the chamber. He turned to face Tristifer, his massive form still imposing despite the injury.
But Elia could see the truth—the wound, while not deep enough to cripple, had drawn blood and caused the Mountain to falter. If only she had a weapon, she thought desperately as she watched the scene unfold, her heart hammering in her chest.
Elia's eyes caught the dark handle of the greatsword still embedded in the wall behind Tristifer, who positioned himself carefully to block the Mountain's access to it. But before anything more could unfold between them, a new noise echoed through the chamber, this time filling her with a wave of relief.
From the entrance, a score of guards clad in the black and red of House Targaryen marched in, their spears and shields forming an impenetrable shield wall. Behind them, a group of ten gold cloaks with bows at the ready entered, their arrows resting on the bow strings and soon aimed squarely at the Mountain.
Clegane, like a cornered animal, turned to face the new threat, his eyes wild with defiance.
"Make this easy, Clegane," Tristifer said, his voice calm yet edged with warning. "There is only one outcome now—you failed your master."
The Mountain's only response was to raise his dagger, a final gesture of defiance.
Elia instinctively pushed her children further behind her, curling into the corner to shield them as the gold cloak archers drew their arrows. A moment later, the chamber was filled with the hiss of arrows slicing through the air as they loosed volley after volley at the massive warrior.
The Mountain was isolated, with nothing but his thick armor to protect him. He dropped to one knee, trying in vain to shield his face with his hands. Most of the arrows clinked harmlessly against his formidable plate, glancing off in useless arcs. But some found their mark, slipping through the narrow gaps in his armor by sheer chance. With each passing second, more arrows rained down upon him, embedding in his flesh and causing his once-mighty frame to tremble.
But the Mountain was not one to yield easily. With a roar of primal fury, he surged to his feet, arrows jutting out from every part of his body, making him resemble a gigantic, grotesque porcupine. The archers' eyes widened in disbelief as he began his final charge, their ranks breaking in panic as he thundered toward them.
Yet the Targaryen shield wall held firm. The disciplined guards stepped forward, their spears poised to meet the oncoming beast. While the Mountain could have withstood a spear or two, the combined force of a dozen was too much, even for his thick plate armor. His own momentum, coupled with the weight of his armor and his blind rage, became his undoing. He crashed into the line of spears, the sheer force of his charge driving the blades deep into his body.
The Mountain staggered, breaking the spearheads off their poles as he fell, a look of confused rage still etched on his face. With a final, shuddering breath, the giant of a man collapsed in front of the shield wall, his massive form finally brought down. And so, the dog of Lannister died, charging mindlessly to the end, still obeying his master's last command.
Elia felt as if she had run miles, her heart pounding in her chest and her breaths coming in shallow gasps. She slumped slightly, her children trembling behind her, though she wasn't sure if it was from fear or the overwhelming relief that the nightmare was over.
As the dust settled and the room grew eerily quiet, she noticed Tristifer approaching. He moved slowly, his body exhausted from the ordeal. His mask was gone, leaving his face exposed, and in his green-blue eyes, she saw a mixture of concern and genuine relief.
"It would have been a great tragedy if something had befallen you and your children, my Queen," Tristifer said, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Not only for the realm and House Targaryen..." His voice trailed off as his gaze fell to where her children lay huddled, still terrified, behind the black skirts of her mourning gown. When his eyes met hers again, they were darker, filled with an emotion that made Elia's heart skip—a look she feared she recognized all too well.
The silence between them stretched on, thick with unspoken words, until Rhaenys, her small face pale but determined, hesitantly shuffled to her feet. Fear lingered in her eyes, so like her own, but there was also a glint of hope. The little princess took a tentative step forward, then another, before stumbling into Tristifer's arms.
Elia can't help but feel a little amusement at the Hand's actions and obvious shock. To think he could fearlessly stand up to and duel the Mountain within a moment, and then be left unsure at the actions of a small girl was both amusing and a little adorable.
At her feet, Elia felt Aegon stirring, his small hands grasping at her skirts as he tried to stand. She watched as her son shakily rose to his feet, determination etched on his young face. He managed a few unsteady steps toward Tristifer before Elia swooped him up in her arms, catching him just as he began to teeter.
This action drew the attention of Tristifer away from the now lightly snoring princess in his arms, before their gazes met each other.
"Has he ever...?" Tristifer began hesitantly, his voice trailing off as he looked at Aegon in her arms, the disbelief clear in his eyes.
Elia slowly shook her head, her own emotions swirling as they both turned their attention to the child. Aegon, sensing the focus on him, looked up with wide, innocent eyes, his small hand reaching out toward Tristifer.
Tristifer, still holding Rhaenys gently, stepped closer to Elia, his movements careful and deliberate. "I—I'm afraid I have matters to attend to, especially in the aftermath of this," he said softly. With a tenderness that belied his earlier ferocity, he laid the now sleeping princess back in her bed, the very place where, not long ago, they had all huddled in fear.
As Tristifer turned to leave, Aegon reached out again, his small hand grasping for the man who had just saved them. Tristifer paused, his eyes flickering up to meet Elia's once more. With a faint smile, he lowered his hand, allowing the boy to clutch his finger in his tiny grasp. Aegon's face lit up with a wide, innocent smile, the moment filled with a pure, unspoken connection.
The exchange lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When Tristifer finally withdrew his hand, the warmth of the moment lingered in the room. Bowing to them silently, he turned and marched out of the chamber, his steps slightly uneven, though Elia hoped it was only due to exhaustion.
As the door closed behind him, Elia's thoughts drifted back to the Tristifer she had once known—the young man at Harrenhal, skilled in the melee and well-spoken, who she had defended against her brother's jests. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that he would one day be the reason for her and her children's survival.
This was not something she would ever forget, nor a debt she could ever hope to repay. For what price could be set on the lives of her two precious children? As she held Aegon close, and glanced at Rhaenys sleeping peacefully, the weight of that gratitude settled deep within her heart.
Tristifer clenched his teeth, trying to mask his limp as the door behind him shut with a final, echoing thud. Each step forward was a reminder of the battle's toll, his joints aching and his muscles protesting with every movement. It had been a long time since he had faced such a grueling fight; recent skirmishes with petty criminals had done little to prepare him for a confrontation with the Mountain.
His gaze was lowered in exhaustion, but the sound of shifting feet ahead made him look up. Lining both sides of the corridor were gold cloaks, their ranks disciplined and their posture impeccable. These weren't just any guards—they were men from his old western barracks, soldiers he had personally recruited and trained not long ago.
As he passed, the men stood in perfect formation, saluting him. Despite the pain gnawing at his body, Tristifer straightened, unwilling to show weakness in front of those who looked to him as a leader. He returned the salutes with a steady hand, his expression a mix of determination and respect. These men owed their positions to him, many drawn from the poorest districts of King's Landing, including Flea Bottom. Under his command, the gold cloaks had risen in prestige, seen as heroes defending the city from both internal and external threats.
"Lord Hand," a familiar voice called out, and Tristifer saw Bryen step forward from the formation, his officer's armor gleaming in the torchlight.
"Captain," Tristifer acknowledged with a nod, his eyes briefly scanning the line of guards.
"There were assaults on the Gate of the Gods, Iron Gate, Dragon Gate, and Old Gate," Bryen began, his tone steady and measured. "Presumably to divert our attention from the assassination attempt. All attacks were repelled, but there were losses on both sides. I'll send the butcher's bill to you and the Commander once the numbers are confirmed."
Tristifer listened intently, his mind racing despite his exhaustion. The four gates under attack were all on the northern side of the city, facing the main Lannister siege camp. The timing was suspicious. Had the enemy learned of his absence? Or was it mere coincidence?
The journey back from Wendwater Bridge had been uneventful, save for the Tarly scouts Tristifer had brought along to coordinate with the Royal Fleet at Bywater. After introducing the Reachmen to the local fishermen eager to assist, Tristifer and his men boarded a small, nondescript fishing vessel. They sailed through the following day, arriving at King's Landing by twilight.
As they traveled from the harbor to the Red Keep, Tristifer and his men noticed something unusual in the low moonlight: two figures scaling the wall of the Red Keep. The intruders were on the ocean side of Aegon's Hill, where the Keep stood, visible only to those at the harbor or along the narrow path leading from it.
Without their horses—left at Bywater for the Royal Fleet to retrieve—Tristifer had no choice but to commandeer mounts from a passing merchant. He compensated the man and took one of the horses, riding swiftly toward the Keep while instructing Robin and the guards to gather reinforcements.
Tristifer knew time was against him, so he quickly rallied the gold cloaks he encountered on his way to the Red Keep. His instincts told him where the attackers would strike, and those instincts were confirmed when he passed pair after pair of slain Targaryen guards. When he finally reached the royal chambers, there was no time for hesitation—he acted purely on instinct and the unshakable resolve that he could not let the King and his family die.
"Yes, thank you," Tristifer replied, snapping out of his memories. The adrenaline from his fight with the Mountain still pulsed through him, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. "I want an investigation launched immediately. The motive is clear, but I need to know how in the Seven Hells the Mountain managed to sneak his way into the Red Keep in a city swarming with our men. Find out who helped him and how they did it."
As Tristifer spoke, he noticed the men around him shifting uneasily, exchanging nervous glances. Even Bryen, typically unflappable, seemed somewhat rattled. "So, you did fight the Mountain?" the captain mumbled, his tone carrying a hint of disbelief. "We only heard rumors..."
Tristifer's eyes narrowed as he scanned the faces of the gold cloaks gathered around him. They all wore the same expression—a blend of awe and disbelief. It struck him then just how incredible the story must sound. The tale of his encounter with the Mountain would surely be recounted in the histories for years to come. That realization brought him a measure of satisfaction, though his mind was already drifting toward the next opportunity to elevate himself.
He had proven himself in so many ways—an accomplished tourney fighter, a leader of men, a commander, and now, in this battle, a true knight. The taste of further advancement was almost palpable. He was already addressed as "my Lord" and wielded more power than any other man in the realm. But there was still one thing missing: land to pass on to his sons, to restore House Mudd to its former greatness, and beyond.
His thoughts wandered to a castle where two rivers met, home to a wounded lord who clung to power through alliances of blood, oaths, and marriage. That lord's position was tenuous at best, reliant more on others than on his own strength. A lordship that might be ripe for the taking, especially in the wake of a Royalist victory. It was something worth considering more deeply.
Tristifer's attention returned to the men around him. They now stood as disciplined as ever, perhaps mistaking his momentary inattention for a silent reprimand.
"Indeed, I held off the Mountain until reinforcements could arrive," Tristifer said, his voice resonating through the corridor as he addressed the men before him. "I won't dare call myself his slayer, for I doubt I had much more fight left in me without their timely arrival." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them. "The King and his family live, and that is what truly matters. The Lion has been thwarted once again. His dogs lay slain, and our walls stand firm."
Tristifer then turned, meeting the eyes of every man in the corridor. "And that last point is thanks to all of you." He had finally realized why they seemed so downtrodden—they felt they had failed him, that they hadn't been there to stand with him in his moment of life and death. "I do not hold it against any of you that it was not you who came to my aid in those chambers. For what would it have mattered if I survived, only for the Lannisters to overrun our walls?"
He saw some of them straighten, pride beginning to replace the doubt in their eyes. "We are the greatest challenge Lord Tywin has faced, the fiercest force to stand against his ambitions and whims. Ordinary men and watchmen would have fought bravely but would have failed. But I have forged you, honed you into a force none can defeat while we defend what we hold dear."
The men responded by slamming the butts of their spears against the stone ground in unison. Tristifer nodded, a smile tugging at his lips, the aches in his body momentarily forgotten in the face of their loyalty. In this moment, he felt invincible, buoyed by the admiration and love of his men. If he had twice as many soldiers with half this loyalty, he felt he could have crushed the rebels single-handedly. It was a heady feeling, this intoxication of power and devotion, and for a brief moment, he couldn't imagine how he could ever lose.
Robin still wasn't used to the fact that Tristifer was now the Hand of the King. As he approached the Tower of the Hand, he hesitated, feeling a twinge of discomfort. The guards stationed at the entrance acknowledged him with a respectful nod, a reminder of the new status Tristifer's position had afforded him. At Tristifer's insistence, Robin now had chambers within the Tower, a significant upgrade from the inn where he had been living.
He hadn't minded the inn; his expenses were easily covered through the secrets and information he brokered with merchants, artisans, and knights in the capital. His network of informants, composed of whores from now almost every brothel in King's Landing, kept him well-informed.
It was an unfortunate necessity that in certain circles, it had become an open secret: if you wanted to know something, you contacted Daeryssa, Robin's liaison. For a price, she may provide the information you sought, though who exactly was behind her remained unknown to most.
Robin knew the association wasn't without its risks. While Daeryssa's role provided some cover, it wouldn't take much for those with the right resources and determination to uncover the truth. Yet, in this dangerous game, Robin had found a sense of purpose. The constant flow of information, the delicate balance of power, and the exchange of secrets—it was all fascinating, even addictive.
The cut of a whisper or a letter could be a thousand times deeper than that of a sword or dagger. Secrets were dangerous in their own way, wielding power not just through the effort to keep them hidden, but through the unpredictable reactions they provoked when revealed.
Robin ascended the stairs, soon arriving at the door of the dining room. The guards, Mern and Raymond, opened the doors for him, revealing the scene within.
The room, though smaller than many in the Tower, was no less luxurious. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by a handful of high-backed chairs upholstered in rich red velvet. On the far side, doors leading to a balcony stood open, offering a view of Blackwater Bay glittering in the midday sun. The walls were adorned with tapestries and art depicting scenes from Hugor of the Hill to the burning of Harrenhal and the reign of Jaehaerys I and Alysanne.
At the head of the table sat Tristifer, a small smile playing on his lips as he looked at Robin. To his right was Addam, who also turned his gaze toward Robin as he entered. Along the walls, a few servants stood ready with food and drink for the luncheon.
"Ah, Robin, welcome," Tristifer greeted him, gesturing to the seat at his left. Robin nodded in acknowledgment before taking his place.
"I was the one who wanted this gathering; it would've been awkward if I didn't show," Robin replied, a hint of humor in his voice. He looked at his cousin with curiosity. "Though I have to say, I didn't expect it to happen so soon."
Addam, too, glanced at Tristifer, clearly curious about the timing. It had been more than a year since they had shared a true meal like this without some underlying agenda or formal meeting.
Tristifer paused, thoughtful for a moment. "I realized yesterday that it would be foolish to wait. We are at war, and death follows not long after for many in these times."
Robin couldn't help but agree. Though he was not a martial man, nor involved with the gold cloaks like Tristifer and Addam, the casualties endured just to defend the city turned his stomach. It might have been the closeness of it all, the immediacy, but the weight of war felt heavier now than ever.
They had been at war for years now. Battles had been fought at Ashford, the Bells, and the Trident. Thousands had died, but it wasn't until the Lannisters arrived to besiege the city that Robin truly understood the horrors of war. The siege had only lasted weeks, yet it struck deeper than the two years of previous conflict.
All three men sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their thoughts heavy in the room. Finally, Tristifer broke the quiet, turning to the servants. "Could we have the meal now?" The servants sprang into action, bringing forth an array of meats, cheeses, and vegetables, placing them on the table between the men. Flagons of various wines were also laid out, and once everything was set, the servants quietly withdrew from the room.
Robin surveyed the spread before him. It was a feast that, a year ago, he couldn't have imagined seeing in a single setting. The rich aromas filled the room, and he had to resist the urge to drool slightly. While this abundance had become almost normal since Tristifer became Hand, the sheer volume and quality of the food still amazed him.
His thoughts drifted to his father and ancestors, wondering what they would make of this lavish display. His father would surely scoff, viewing it as excessive, yet Robin knew that, given the chance, his father would sacrifice much for such an opportunity. Robin had made peace with this, accepting that his triumphs and failures would be his own, not his father's.
As they began to eat, the tension in the room slowly eased. The conversation shifted to lighter topics, and soon, Robin and Addam were playfully teasing Tristifer.
"It seems our dear Tristifer is at a crossroads," Robin quipped with a grin, his tone teasing. "Dornish or Riverlander? Sun or Bat?"
Addam, catching on, chuckled and added, "Indeed, woe is him, to be so burdened with such difficult choices." There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he spoke, clearly enjoying the opportunity to poke fun at their cousin.
Tristifer shook his head slowly, a glimmer of amusement in his striking eyes as he pushed his empty plate away and took a sip of wine. "You attack me with none to show yourselves. Jealousy is an ugly beast."
Robin feigned a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest in mock dismay. "Well, not all of us can be Hand of the King, rescuing princesses and slaying monsters."
Addam snorted in response, his grin widening. "Robin is so desperate, look what he's resorted to," he said, his tone teasing as he gestured toward him. Then, with a mock pleading expression, he turned to Tristifer. "You must bless him, or I fear his girls will bleed his purses dry."
"True, Robin may not have much of a leg to stand on," Tristifer admitted, a grin tugging at his lips. "But one cannot deny the divine blessings his girls have been granted. That much must be said."
Addam laughed, the sound ringing out in the small room. "Robin may not have a leg to stand on, aye, but neither do his girls, tired as they are!"
Robin rolled his eyes at the cheap jest, but a snort of laughter escaped Tristifer as he caught the double meaning. Before Robin could fire back with a retort, their luncheon was interrupted by a firm knock on the doors.
Tristifer immediately sobered, his posture straightening as he exchanged a quick look with him and Addam. With a curt nod, he bid the knocker to enter. The doors swung open, and the mood in the room shifted as Addam and Robin composed themselves, the lighthearted teasing evaporating in an instant.
A gold cloak officer stepped into the room, his demeanor serious as he approached the other end of the table. He bowed respectfully, his eyes meeting Tristifer's as he awaited permission to speak.
Tristifer's gaze was sharp as he addressed the gold cloak who had entered. "Lieutenant, what news do you bear?"
The Lieutenant straightened, his expression composed but his tone respectful. "My Lord Hand, Commander," he greeted, nodding to Tristifer and Addam. "Captain Bryen has uncovered the method of the assassins' entry into the City. A Lieutenant stationed at the Iron Gate was apprehended while attempting to flee. Multiple stuffed purses of gold were found hidden in his quarters. He's currently being held in the gate's cells."
Tristifer rose from his seat, Addam following suit. "Do we know the name of this Lieutenant? And how exactly were the assassins allowed through the gate? Surely, there was more than one officer on duty."
The Lieutenant, ever the professional, hesitated only slightly, though Robin noticed the brief flicker of discomfort. "The Lieutenant's name is Janos, my Lord. Investigations revealed that the Captain was off duty that night. Janos convinced the other officers on duty to leave their posts, persuading them to visit a nearby brothel or inn."
Addam's face hardened, his anger barely contained. "Those fools left him in charge of the gate? Alone?"
The Lieutenant nodded. "Yes, Ser. He convinced them that if an attack came, they'd hear it in time to return and defend the gate. It appears they believed him."
Addam's temper flared. "I want every one of those men disciplined by the day's end. The Captain can vouch for them afterward if he wishes, but they should consider themselves fortunate if they aren't hanged for treason."
Robin glanced at Tristifer, expecting him to temper Addam's wrath. His cousin seemed lost in thought for a moment, his eyes distant, but then he blinked slowly and turned to Addam with a measured tone.
"We'll wait until tomorrow," Tristifer said calmly. "Let cooler heads prevail. They were negligent, without a doubt, but we must be consistent in our judgment. Allow the Captain to vouch for them, and let the men explain themselves. Justice, not rashness, must guide us."
Addam, though still visibly angered, inclined his head in acknowledgment. Tristifer then turned his gaze to Robin, a hint of something calculating in his eyes.
"Robin, I want you to accompany us when we visit this opportunist," Tristifer said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Robin was taken aback by the request but nodded and rose to his feet. Tristifer, Addam, and Robin left the room together, the Lieutenant trailing a few steps behind.
The ride from the Tower of the Hand to the Iron Gate passed quickly in Robin's mind, the journey down from the Red Keep and winding below Aegon's Hill merging into a blur of motion. The Iron Gate, the furthest from the Red Keep when taking the main roads, seemed both distant and strangely close as their horses' hooves clattered against the cobblestones.
None of the three spoke, each lost in his own thoughts. Tristifer rode at the front, his expression set in a mask of steely determination. Addam, still bristling with the remnants of his earlier anger, had settled into a tense, focused silence. Robin followed behind them.
The city around them was alive with its usual clamor, but something darker now threaded through the noise—a palpable tension in the air. The recent Lannister attack and the subsequent news of the assassination attempt had spread like wildfire, casting a shadow over King's Landing.
Robin listened as the two men in front of him began to converse, their voices cutting through the clatter of hooves on cobblestone.
"Addam, I want you to start searching for a few suitable additions to the Kingsguard," Tristifer said suddenly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Preferably from the Crownlands, or even better, men who are already in the city—proficient fighters and loyal to the Targaryens."
Robin raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the request.
"You want me to find potential Kingsguard knights?" Addam replied, a note of disbelief in his voice. The task was an honor, one few would expect to be entrusted with.
"Precisely," Tristifer affirmed. "I trust you can identify one or two who are worthy. The Red Keep has been without its complement of white cloaks for too long, and yesterday's events made that glaringly clear. They may not have defeated the assassins outright, but a Kingsguard or two could have held them off for some time."
Addam nodded slowly, his initial surprise giving way to acceptance. "Very well," he said, his voice quieter now. "And you want them to be Targaryen loyalists, no question?"
Tristifer shook his head. "Yes, for now, we stick with true Targaryen loyalists. I don't want any comparisons drawn with those damned Merryweathers just yet."
The Iron Gate came into view, its looming presence casting long shadows over the courtyard. Robin observed as a formation of gold cloaks stood at attention, their faces a mix of apprehension and determination. Captain Bryen, mounted and stern, was positioned beside the kneeling forms of several officers. Another man, clad in similar apparel, had just dropped to one knee, his face ashen with fear or guilt as Tristifer and Addam rode into the courtyard.
Robin held back, choosing to stay in the background but still within earshot. He caught the words of the kneeling Captain, who looked utterly defeated. "A thousand apologies, my Lords. If I had known..."
Tristifer raised a hand, silencing the Captain before he could continue. Though Robin couldn't see his cousin's face, he imagined the expression was cold and unforgiving.
"Spare your excuses," Tristifer said curtly. "I will deal with this in due time. Now, show me to the prisoner."
A tense silence fell over the courtyard, and the kneeling Captain seemed to shrink under Tristifer's scrutiny, his complexion growing even paler as the moments dragged on. Tristifer's gaze swept across the gathered men, searching for answers, but the Captain of the Gate refused to meet his eyes, his own gaze fixed on the dusty ground.
The silence was finally broken by Captain Bryen, who cleared his throat and drew the attention of everyone present. "I am afraid the prisoner is dead, my Lord."
"Dead?" Tristifer's voice echoed with disbelief. "Was he not alive an hour ago?"
Bryen's expression darkened as he continued, "I believe he was silenced, my Lord. Several of my men noted signs of poison. He was found in his cell just as we were preparing to bring him to you. The guard posted outside claimed he heard some choking sounds but did not investigate further."
A heavy pause followed as Tristifer processed the news, his eyes narrowing in thought. The revelation hung in the air, thickening the already tense atmosphere.
Addam, sensing his cousin's turmoil, spoke up. "Did he say anything before he died? Anything at all?"
Bryen glanced down at the kneeling captain, his expression marked with clear distaste. "I arrived a little later, my Lords," he began, his voice tinged with reluctance. "But I learned that the prisoner was quite belligerent until he was placed in his cell. It wasn't until he was told that his stash of coin had been found that he broke down. He started weeping and babbling about the... Black Dragon. My Lords, that is all I know."
Robin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. In Westeros, for the last century or more, the mention of the Black Dragon had only one implication.
The Blackfyres had not set foot on Westeros proper since the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion five decades ago. It was widely believed that the last of the Blackfyres had been slain by Ser Barristan on the Stepstones two decades past. This was the house that had once come closest to toppling the Targaryens from the throne—until now, of course.
It seemed the Blackfyres had finally learned some subtlety after five failed rebellions of varying bloodshed—if this corrupt gold cloak officer was to be believed, of course.
Tristifer's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing at Bryen. "You're absolutely certain that's what he said?"
Bryen hesitated, shifting uneasily. "These are second-hand reports, my Lord, but those who told me were insistent. None in the realm would miss the implication."
Addam shook his head, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Then it's a hoax or a distraction. There are no Blackfyres left. We have a clear enemy outside our gates, and they were the ones behind this attempt. I refuse to believe that Lord Tywin is some puppet of a damned Blackfyre. He fought on the Stepstones himself, and his family paid in blood during that war."
"It's very strange," Tristifer mused, his brow furrowed in thought. "The most obvious suspect for this traitor's collusion would be Lord Tywin. The Lannisters reaped the benefits and launched their attack on the city at the perfect moment to divert attention from the assassination attempt."
The situation was indeed puzzling. Lord Tywin was renowned for his ruthless cunning, but he was also known for his brazen displays of power in the aftermath of his schemes. When he engaged in such trickery, he made sure his enemies knew exactly who was behind it. His methods were typically more deadly and decisive than the mere misdirection like this.
It seemed the mystery would persist for now, as the only man who might have known more lay dead in his cell. The question remained: were there other, undisclosed players in this conflict yet to be revealed?
The gears and pulleys of the gate had been oiled the day before, reducing their creak. Tristifer and Addam's raiding party mounted the captured northern horses, their armor cushioned with cloth to prevent the clinking of metal.
As the hour of the Wolf approached, they rode toward the King's Gate, four hundred riders strong. Half of them, under Tristifer's command, carried torches in their non-dominant hands, while the other half, under Addam, bore shields. Even in the flickering light of the torches, the riders were difficult to distinguish.
Tristifer's group was tasked with raiding and setting fire to as much of the camp and siege equipment as possible, sowing chaos wherever they went. Addam's men, meanwhile, would flank the Lannisters as they responded to the initial attack, using the confusion to strike at any vulnerable targets.
Turning to address his men, Tristifer was joined by Addam, and their presence commanded immediate attention.
"Today we will determine the victor of this war," Tristifer began, his voice resonating through the courtyard. "Not through the outcome of this raid alone, but through the strength of our allies and their struggle. While the Lions focus on our torches and blades, they will be blind to everything else."
"You are the greatest force of soldiers in the Seven Kingdoms, this is no empty boast I assure you" It wasn't but neither were they the greatest force of soldiers in the Realm, he imagined the men that had fought at Ashford, Stoney Sept, and Trident were getting quite hardened but he needn't say this.
"I know this" Tristifer continued turning to Addam he gestured to their Commander. "Ser Addam knows this and so do all of you, you proved this at the Gate of the Gods when you bloodied the Lion and decapitated the Wolf, and. Tonight men, you will prove this to the Realm!" There was a cheer but still it was more to fire up their own blood than genuine belief.
"These Lannister dogs thought they could march to our home, spread the legs of our women, open our purses, and set fire to our homes! LETS SHOW THEM HOW WRONG THEY FUCKING ARE!" This enflamed their cheers and it was a positive roar as he turned his horse and gestured for the portcullis to be raised.
With a final, commanding gesture, Tristifer signaled for the portcullis to be raised. The once-energetic chatter fell to silence as the riders surged out into the moonless night. They rode toward the western woodland that bordered the city's walls—an area not heavily forested but sufficient to obscure their approach for a crucial moment.
The cool wind brushed against his skin as Tristifer watched Addam signal and lead his men into the shadows. They vanished almost immediately, slipping out of the torchlight's reach.
Without the illumination of their torches, navigation would be nearly impossible. While Addam's men would be waiting to flank, it was crucial for Tristifer's group to advance and engage the camp first. Until they made contact and created chaos, the delay in Addam's men flanking could cause complications. Thus, Addam's force would hold back until Tristifer's attack was underway.
The woodlands around Tristifer gradually gave way to open plains and farmlands stretching across the northern side of King's Landing. He constantly reassured himself of his position by the faint, distant lights to his right.
He had even set up a makeshift beacon in the Red Keep, a crude parody of a lighthouse. Though not easily recognizable, the light, filtered through colored glass, changed hue as they approached the Lannister camp. When they had first ridden out of the Western King's Gate, the light had been a solid red. As they traveled north and east, it shifted to green, confirming that they were on the correct path.
It was an expensive endeavor, perhaps even redundant, but capturing the Lannisters' attention was crucial to prevent them from reinforcing Robert Baratheon as he faced an ambush by Lord Tarly and the Reachmen. Tristifer had received a runner's report yesterday detailing the anticipated timing of Lord Tarly's clash, and he had meticulously followed that timeline.
While the battle at the gate and the Lannisters' subsequent losses had been significant, they were overshadowed by the potential impact of capturing or killing Robert Baratheon. The war might not have begun with the Stormlord as its central figure, but his proclamation as King had made him a pivotal target. Once he claimed the throne, there was no turning back.
The war might very well be over if Robert Baratheon were captured now. It remained to be seen, of course, but Tristifer couldn't easily identify a natural successor if that were to happen.
As he approached, the Lannister camp came into view. There was movement within, though it was difficult to tell whether it was soldiers scrambling in response to their approach or merely the usual activity in the dim light of the campfires.
He paused for a moment, allowing his force to gather around him. In his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of dark figures riding just beyond the reach of his men's torchlight. There was no turning back now. As he turned in his saddle, he saw the determined faces of his men, their resolve mirrored in their eyes. With a nod, he raised his sword high, letting it catch the flickering light for a brief moment before urging his horse into a gallop.
A thunderous battle cry erupted from behind him, the roar of charging horses growing louder. Swords were drawn, and the tension in the air snapped as the camp ahead exploded into chaos. Desperate screams and barked orders echoed through the night as they closed in, the element of surprise still intact. They hadn't been discovered until now, Tristifer realized, as he plunged into the field of tents and campfires, the flames reflecting off steel as his men descended upon the unsuspecting camp.
Groups of unarmored men hastily gathered whatever they could find—utensils, fire stokers, and a motley assortment of weapons. But their meager defenses were no match for Tristifer's men, armed with castle-forged steel that cut through the desperate defenders with ruthless efficiency. The screams of fear quickly turned to cries of pain and suffering as they tore through the camp. Torches were flung onto tents, the dry fabric catching fire almost instantly, adding to the growing chaos.
Men with longer spears moved among Tristifer's ranks, methodically breaking apart any clusters of Lannisters who tried to mount a defense through sheer numbers. Tristifer himself focused on his own targets, letting his sword sing as it cleaved through flesh and bone. Even in the dim light, he could see the dark splotches of blood soaking the earth beneath him as more and more Lannisters fell.
As the flames from the burning tents spread, the camp became increasingly illuminated, revealing cowering men attempting to hide behind anything they could find. Tristifer offered them no mercy, cutting them down as he rode past. It was a grim task, but he couldn't afford to leave any Lannisters in a position to regroup or reinforce Robert Baratheon if he called for aid. The brutal efficiency of his assault was the only way to ensure that the enemy would remain broken and unable to retaliate.
Tristifer's attention was drawn to a group of marching soldiers, rallied from deeper within the camp and ready to repel the invaders. Just as they began to form up, his plan sprang into action. From the darkness, dozens of riders emerged, ambushing the marching relief force. The Lannisters were caught completely off guard, and Tristifer watched with satisfaction as the commanding knights were cut down before they could even issue a single order.
A triumphant cheer erupted from behind him as his men witnessed the flawless execution of the plan. The sight of the ambush reinvigorated them, and they surged forward, driving deeper into the camp. Tristifer followed, his horse weaving through the chaos. He passed the bodies of the fallen knights from the first relief force, recognizing them even through the blood and grime. Two bore the sigils of House Serrett, and the third was a knight of House Prester. Their lifeless eyes stared up at him, faces frozen in expressions of shock and disbelief, their deaths as sudden as the attack that had felled them.
He had no time to dwell on the fallen knights, for battle was no place for distraction. A sharp hiss cut through the air—a passing arrow, a deadly reminder of the chaos around him. Without wasting a moment, Tristifer ducked low on his horse, instinctively reaching for the kite shield hanging from his saddle. He quickly positioned it in front of him, the shield's broad surface providing almost complete protection as he prepared for the next onslaught.
Two more arrows thudded into the wood of his shield, the glinting arrowheads briefly visible before a third struck true. Tristifer was thrown from his horse as the arrow found its mark—not in him, but in his mount. He didn't see the impact, but the speed at which the horse collapsed told him the arrow must have struck deep in its chest or neck.
Even as he fell, his mind raced. He knew he had to avoid being trapped beneath the horse's weight. Instinct took over, and he twisted his body, pushing himself away from the falling animal. He hit the ground hard but clear of the thrashing beast, the noise of battle roaring around him as he prepared to get back on his feet.
Orienting himself quickly, Tristifer spotted his blade lying just two feet to his right. Beyond it, the chaotic melee between the gold cloaks and Westerlanders raged on, steel clashing and men shouting in the dim light.
But his attention was drawn to the archers who had brought down his horse. Two of them were staring in his direction, clearly trying to determine whether he was still alive. Their eyes strained in the low light, searching for any sign of movement from his prone form.
Tristifer made a split-second decision and remained completely still, playing dead as the archers scrutinized his prone form. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to breathe shallowly, resisting the urge to move. After what felt like an eternity, the archers finally turned their attention to other targets, assuming their job was done.
He had no time for relief, though. As he lay there, he noticed the steady march of approaching figures emerging from the darkness. The flickering light revealed their banners and surcoats—white suns, chained giants, moose, and direwolves.
At the head of the advancing group, Tristifer spotted a stern, bearded man adorned with the white Karstark sun on his cuirass. The Northmen numbered around two hundred—an equal match for his own riders, who were painfully distant as he lay in the dirt. To make matters worse, Lord Karstark seemed to be looking directly at him.
Realizing that playing dead was no longer an option, Tristifer abandoned the ruse and scrambled toward his blade. He grasped it with one hand and hoisted his shield with the other, though he was uncertain what he could achieve against such odds.
The Northmen advanced with the unyielding, relentless pace of winter itself. Tristifer was sure that Lord Karstark would be far from pleased with his capture of the liege lord, and he braced himself for the confrontation that loomed.
Just then, for the second time, riders burst from the shadows. This time, Tristifer recognized the lead rider: Addam, his brother in all but blood, charging directly toward him. Addam's men split into two groups—one to engage and hold off the Northmen, while the other surrounded Tristifer, offering him a crucial chance to regroup.
The clash was brutal as riders charged into the disciplined Northmen. Unlike the surprised Westerlanders, these Northmen fought with cold efficiency. Riders were wrenched from their horses and swallowed by the relentless force of the Northmen, their screams cut short and lost in the chaos.
Amid the fray, Addam appeared beside Tristifer, prompting him to look up. A gold cloak leaped from his horse and handed the reins to Tristifer with an urgent, imploring look.
Tristifer, momentarily stunned, felt a surge of adrenaline and anticipation transform into relief and surprise.
"Tristifer! Take the horse, they can't hold out much longer!" Addam's voice cut through the cacophony. After a moment of stunned hesitation, Tristifer shook himself out of his daze, seized the reins, and swung himself into the saddle.
The scene around him was chaos incarnate: burning tents, panicked horses and men, and the clash of gold cloaks with Lannisters and Northmen. Addam's men, who had valiantly held the Northmen at bay, were being whittled down. Many horses lay dead or riderless, their mens numbers dwindling rapidly.
"Sound the retreat!" Tristifer shouted over the din of battle. Addam nodded, turning to one of his riders.
"Sound the retreat!" Addam bellowed. The rider snatched a northern horn from his saddle and blew three long, piercing blasts. Tristifer watched as his men disengaged from the Lannisters, the retreat orchestrated with precision. Addam and his surrounding riders formed a protective shield around him.
As he turned in his saddle, Tristifer saw Lannister knights cutting down any gold cloaks who failed to retreat. Among the melee, he noticed a large force of men encircling an older figure. His balding head, side whiskers, and piercing green eyes were unmistakable—Lord Tywin Lannister with further reinforcements.
The enemy forces became distant blips as they distanced themselves, and Tristifer ensured no one followed before turning his attention back to the approaching city. Dawn was near, the night retreating as the first light of morning began to break. The massive walls of the city loomed ahead, their archers visible atop.
Tristifer was reassured to see that none of the archers on the walls were aiming their arrows at them. A large drum beat out, signaling the raising of the portcullis as they approached the gate.
This was not a victory as clear-cut as the Battle of the Gate. As he led his men through the gate and back into the city, he noted with concern the noticeably reduced numbers. It seemed that nearly half of their force had not returned. Whether they were still missing or had perished in the chaos remained uncertain.
But as he had emphasized before the battle, the true significance of this clash lay not in its immediate outcome but in its broader implications for the war. The real decisive factor would be the fate of Robert Baratheon and the Reach. However, he could be certain that the Lannisters and Northmen now besieging the city would be unable to reinforce the remaining rebels for several days.
Ideally, those days would not be necessary. If the runner's reports were accurate, the fate of the war was unfolding leagues to the north. For the first time since he had become Hand, Tristifer found himself placing his full trust in others—the actions of Lord Tarly and the Tyrells. He offered a silent prayer to the gods, hoping they would guide and favor them in this critical moment.
End of Chapter
There we have yet another chapter finished, I hope you all enjoyed it. Next chapter we shall see if Tristifer's trust is well placed or if Mace Tyrell will do Mace Tyrell things...
Until next time!