The Kingsroad

Randyll Tarly was... pleased. As he stood on the bow of the galley, he could not help but feel satisfaction at the efficiency displayed by the Royal Navy. They had arrived in the bay at the exact time they had agreed upon, and the process of rotating ships and boats to embark the army was executed with a swiftness that even he, a man of high standards, found commendable. It was clear to him that the navy was fully committed to the war effort, more so than merely defending Dragonstone.

The journey across Blackwater Bay took no more than two days at sea. On the morning of the third day, they landed on the coast just outside Stokeworth. The disembarkation was as swift as the embarkation, and by the time the sun began its descent, they were already marching into the Northern Crownlands.

The landscape of the Northern Crownlands was a stark contrast to its southern counterpart. The dense woods of the Kingswood, with its brooks and occasional clearings, gave way to rolling hills of pastures, farmland, and orchards. While it was not as vast and fertile as the Reach, it was the closest thing to home that his men had encountered since leaving their own lands. Randyll noticed that morale was high, bolstered by the familiar sight of cultivated lands and the promise of the ambush.

This force was but half of the original host that had ridden north from Storm's End, comprised of lords, knights, and soldiers handpicked by Randyll Tarly himself. He had chosen only the best—those who had proven themselves in battle at Ashford or had shown promise during the Siege of Storm's End.

After years of enduring Lord Mace Tyrell's self-important arrogance and bumbling incompetence, it was a breath of fresh air for Randyll to finally be given the autonomy to conduct his own operation. The Hand, Tristifer Mudd, had implemented a more efficient chain of command, one that Randyll could respect. Mudd handled the overarching strategy, but he allowed Randyll the freedom to tackle challenges and devise tactics on his own. It was a dynamic that suited him perfectly.

Lord Mace, in contrast, had grown increasingly withdrawn as they neared the impending battle. His isolation deepened with every mile they marched closer to confrontation. Randyll could sense the growing unease among Tyrell's loyalists, but he paid it little mind. He was focused on the task at hand.

On the second day of marching from the sea, they passed the seat of House Stokeworth, and by the fourth day, they were on the Kingsroad. With the stakes so high, Randyll wasted no time in sending out a vast network of scouts, both north and south, to gather critical information. These scouts were not just any men; they were his own, seasoned hunters from the lands around Horn Hill. Chosen for their ability to remain undetected, their mission was twofold: to ensure that Robert Baratheon's forces remained unaware of the ambush, and to locate the perfect site for the trap.

It wasn't long before the first scouts returned with news of their proximity to Brindlewood, a small village along the Kingsroad. Randyll immediately decided that the ambush would be set north of this village. Positioning his forces south of Brindlewood posed too great a risk; the villagers, though likely terrified, could not be trusted to keep silent, and there was always the possibility that the Rebels might stop in the village after days on the road. That could not be allowed.

So, he ordered the march to continue past Brindlewood. The shocked faces of the villagers as the army moved through the area were a positive sign, indicating that their presence on the Kingsroad was still a secret—at least for now. It was during this advance that Randyll received the most crucial piece of information: the exact position of the Rebel army.

Robert Baratheon was on a fierce march toward them, only four days away by the scouts' estimation. This left Randyll Tarly with little time to find a more suitable location for his ambush. The vast, open farmlands between Hayford and Sow's Horn were far from ideal. The terrain offered no cover—no forests or hills to conceal his forces. But Randyll was nothing if not pragmatic; he would have to make do with what he had.

He quickly ordered trenches to be dug along both sides of the Kingsroad, about ten yards from the road itself. It was a simple yet effective plan: the trenches would provide cover for his men, allowing them to spring upon the Rebel forces when they least expected it. Randyll and Lord Mace Tyrell had taken over a house in the nearby village as their headquarters. From there, Randyll orchestrated the preparations, receiving a constant stream of reports from his men.

The trenches were completed within two days—a testament to the discipline and determination of his forces. To further disguise them, his men foraged grass, leaves, and other foliage, weaving them into makeshift mats that were carefully laid over the trenches. The cavalry, being too large to conceal in such a manner, was hidden within the village itself, ready to charge out when the moment was right.

On the third day, Randyll inspected the preparations and was pleased with what he saw. The trenches had been expanded, with additional rows behind the first, ensuring that all his men were hidden and ready. Signals were agreed upon, arrows were distributed, and every detail was meticulously planned. Randyll knew that in war, the smallest oversight could lead to disaster, and he was determined to leave nothing to chance.

Lord Mace Tyrell, true to his nature, insisted upon leading the cavalry. Randyll Tarly, though inwardly skeptical of his liege lord's dreams of knightly charges and glorious feats, accepted this without protest. He had already been fortunate enough to oversee most of the preparations for the ambush, and he knew that trying to wrest control of the mounted knights from Mace would only create unnecessary friction.

The scouts reported that Baratheon and his Rebel forces would be passing by close to supper time the following day. As night fell, Randyll took a moment to sit by a roaring campfire. He withdrew Heartsbane, his ancient Valyrian steel sword, and began to oil its blade. The firelight danced along the rippling dark steel, casting ominous shadows as Randyll worked. Tomorrow, the blade would taste blood once more.

Though not a particularly pious man, Randyll always offered a brief prayer to the Warrior before battle. It was a ritual that had served him well over the years, and as he whispered the words for strength and victory, he felt the familiar steely resolve settle over him. He had led men to victory before, and he would do so again. Tomorrow, Robert Baratheon would meet the force of the Reach, and with any luck, the war might be decided then and there.

The night stretched on, quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of men preparing for the battle to come. Randyll knew that dawn would bring the final test of his strategy, and he was ready. The ambush was set, and the stage was prepared. Now, all that remained was to wait for the enemy to walk into it.

Robert Baratheon had worn a near-permanent grimace on his ruggedly handsome features for the past week. The elation he had felt after the Trident—when victory seemed certain and the Iron Throne almost within his grasp—had slowly been replaced by a growing sense of unease. In his mind, he had already pictured himself on the throne, Lady Lyanna Stark by his side, rescued from the clutches of that Targaryen bastard and finally his, as she was always meant to be. The thought of her, with her dark hair and fierce spirit, was the only thing that could momentarily banish the dark clouds that had begun to gather around him.

He told himself that once he had her back, all the tormenting thoughts of what Rhaegar might have done to her would disappear. He would hold her in his arms and never let her go again. Never again would she be in danger, and never again would she know fear. That was the promise he had made to himself, and it was what drove him forward, day after relentless day.

But that elation had begun to fade when news reached him of a Royalist army forming in the east, raised by the lords of Crackclaw Point. The smallfolk fleeing west brought tales of a force that, while not overwhelming in numbers, was substantial enough to pose a serious threat. They were said to be a few thousand strong—enough to harass his rear and complicate his advance. The idea of being caught between two forces, with King's Landing still out of his reach, was enough to chill even Robert's battle-hardened heart.

His plans had to change. King's Landing, and the Iron Throne that awaited him there, could wait under the siege of Lord Tywin Lannister. The cunning lion had joined the cause late, calculating as ever, but his help was welcome. For now, Robert's focus had to shift eastward, toward this new threat. He couldn't afford to ignore it and risk being attacked from behind. The road to the throne would be longer than he had hoped, but he was prepared to fight for every inch of it.

Once he had dealt with this challenge—this last obstacle between him and his crown—he would turn his full fury toward King's Landing. There, he would handle the infant Targaryen who currently held the throne, if only in name. And then, he would see the Tyrells—the "flowers" as he dismissively thought of them—crushed beneath his heel, forced to kneel and beg for his forgiveness. Only then would the war be truly over, and Robert Baratheon would take his place as king, with the lovely Lyanna finally at his side.

Those had been Robert's thoughts as his army left the relative ease of the Kingsroad, venturing eastward past farmlands and woods that grew wilder and more untamed the closer they came to Rook's Rest. The terrain was rougher here, and the challenges mounted as they pressed forward. Information was scarce; the smallfolk they encountered along the Kingsroad had little to offer about the Crackclaw force, only vague warnings and rumors that did little to settle Robert's growing frustration.

Then, at last, his scouts managed to locate the elusive Royalist army. But the victory was bittersweet—too many scouts never returned from their missions, falling victim to the cunning traps and ambushes laid by the Crackclaw lords who knew these lands far better than Robert's men. The survivors brought back precious news, but it was always incomplete, always a step behind the enemy.

Just as Robert's forces closed in on their prey, the damned Royalists began to retreat, slipping away into the dense woods and rough terrain. What followed was a maddening chase, one that seemed destined to drag on indefinitely. The Royalists were relentless in their strategy, sacrificing their rearguard in brutal skirmishes to maintain a constant distance between themselves and Robert's army. It was a ruthless tactic, costing hundreds of lives, yet it was infuriatingly effective. Every time they clashed, the Crackclaw men fought with a fierce determination, refusing to break even as they were cut down or captured.

Robert's closest companions had varied opinions on the enemy's tactics. Ser Barristan Selmy, the once-loyal knight who had turned to Robert's cause, expressed sorrow at the mounting loss of life, seeing it as a tragic waste in the face of an inevitable defeat. The nobility and valor of knights were being squandered in what he viewed as futile resistance.

Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, was more pragmatic. He recognized the tactical wisdom in the Royalists' strategy, suggesting that they were stalling for something—perhaps buying time for reinforcements or waiting for a more opportune moment to strike. However, he also saw it as a poor use of resources, questioning the long-term value of such sacrifices.

Meanwhile, some of Robert's lords dismissed the enemy's actions as mere glory-seeking or desperation. They speculated that Lord Brune, who they had identified as the commanding lord of the smaller Royalist host, was simply trying to make a name for himself through a futile act of defiance. They saw it as a fool's errand, destined to end in his inevitable defeat.

But Robert knew better. He could see the strategy behind it, even if it enraged him. The Crackclaw men weren't just fighting for glory or honor—they were trying to delay him, to keep him from reaching the true battle that lay ahead. And as much as he hated to admit it, they were succeeding.

The only question that remained was whether they were buying time for something more, something that Robert hadn't yet seen coming. That thought gnawed at him, fueling the grim determination that had taken hold of him since the start of this damned chase. One way or another, he would put an end to it. And when he did, there would be no mercy for those who had stood in his way.

The chase continued for a grueling week until one fateful day when a red-cloaked rider galloped into the camp atop an exhausted horse. The sight of him stirred immediate suspicion among Robert's lords, who feared a trick or trap, and the messenger was quickly apprehended. But Robert, his instincts sharpened by battle and experience, ordered the man to speak.

What the man said was almost fantastical, unbelievable—Ser Tristifer Mudd had risen from gold cloak to Hand of the King and Regent of the Infant King. Robert almost dismissed it as madness, until the rider produced a letter sealed with the lion of Lannister, authenticating the information. The seal of Tywin Lannister was undeniable.

For a moment, Robert almost admired the audacity and ambition of the man who had once bested him in that fateful tourney. From melee champion to Hand of the King was a leap few could have predicted, yet Robert had sensed even then that Tristifer Mudd was no ordinary man. He had beaten Robert not just with strength, but with trickery that left him conflicted.

The messenger's tale did not end there. He spoke of a battle, three days after their arrival, where his best friend Ned and a dozen other lords and knights had been captured—victims of feigned betrayal and cunning strategy. The camp erupted in an uproar, Robert's lords either in disbelief or unwilling to accept the news.

When the chaos of reactions subsided, Robert asked the rider why it had taken him so long to deliver such crucial news. The man explained that he had followed the Kingsroad as instructed, but when he failed to find Robert's army, he was forced to rely on whispers and rumors to track them down, losing precious days in the process.

Robert's thoughts, however, were not on the messenger's delays but on the grim reality of the situation. His friend, his brother in all but blood, was in the hands of the Targaryens, just like his sister had been. The thought of Ned suffering the same fate was unbearable, and Robert's resolve hardened like iron. He would not let this stand, not for a moment longer.

Within the day, Robert ordered his men to march, abandoning the pursuit of the damned Crackclaw Lords and their host. They were an irritation, nothing more—an obstacle that could be dealt with later. What mattered now was the rescue of his chosen brother, Eddard Stark, and no force in the Seven Hells would stop him.

The march westward toward the Kingsroad was relentless. Robert drove his men hard, cutting breaks in half and pushing them to start at dawn and set camp only as night fell. It was an exhausting pace, a punishing endeavor that weighed heavily on Robert's conscience. He knew he was pushing his soldiers to their limits, but the urgency of his mission left him no choice. He could not rest, not while his friend was in peril. His duty to Ned overrode all other concerns.

This afternoon found Robert Baratheon riding ahead of his army, his grimace deepening as he traveled behind the vanguard but ahead of the main force. Surrounding him were his trusted companions: Ser Barristan Selmy, the renowned knight whose loyalty Robert greatly valued, and Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, a fierce warrior forged on the Stepstones and sharpened in this Rebellion.

Ahead lay the village of Brindlewood, marking their approach to Hayford—the last stop before King's Landing. The losses among Robert's scouts had been severe, and he was hesitant to send out too many of the remaining few. The ones still able had been dispatched northward to confirm if the Crackclaw army was trailing them. So far, confirmation had eluded him, with additional scouts falling victim to the enemy's traps.

As the army drew nearer to Brindlewood, Robert noted a collective sigh of relief. He had promised his men a brief respite—a half-day's rest in the village to recover their strength before the final push. It was a small concession he felt was necessary for their morale.

Robert, weary from the relentless pursuit, closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the fatigue that had plagued him in recent days. Sleep had been elusive, filled with nightmares of confronting Rhaegar Targaryen. His thoughts drifted briefly to the image of Ned Stark, imprisoned and suffering in a dark dungeon, the Stark features began turning more feminine. But before he could fully dwell on this, shouts of confusion and alarm cut through his reverie.

His eyes flew open just as the grass on either side of the road seemed to rise and shift, revealing a hidden net underneath the ground. From behind the concealment, archers emerged, their arrows already nocked and drawn. The first volley was loosed almost instantly, filling the air with the sounds of pain, surprise, and fear.

"AMBUSH!" Ser Barristan's voice rang out, his sword and shield already in hand. The cry jolted Robert from his stupor. He quickly drew his war hammer from his back, while the Blackfish unsheathed his weapons with practiced efficiency on the opposite side of Barristan.

Robert's mind raced as more enemy lines emerged from the treacherous terrain. Infantry surged out from hidden positions, banners unfurling with every new arrival—golden flowers, red huntsmen, grey towers, red and blue foxes, and countless others. For a moment, disbelief held him in its grip. It was impossible. They were besieging his home. How could they have gotten here?

But the delusion shattered quickly. From the village and beyond, thousands of knights and cavalry appeared, their war cries and trumpets drowning out the cries of pain and fear around him. The sound was overwhelming, the sheer scale of the ambush sinking in.

Robert's instincts took over. There was no time for contemplation about how the Tyrells and the Reach had managed to spring this trap. The numbers might not be overwhelming, but they were concentrated and formidable, while his army was stretched thin and vulnerable. The ambush had effectively flanked his vanguard and main force, with the baggage train and rearguard still far behind.

He pushed aside any thoughts of the unfolding strategy. Survival and counterattack were paramount. The battle had only just begun, and the outcome was still uncertain. Robert gripped his war hammer tightly, his focus narrowing to the immediate fight ahead. There was no room for hesitation—only action.

Robert quickly dispatched riders with orders to consolidate the scattered forces. If they remained spread out as they were, they would be cut down piecemeal. He barked the orders himself, his voice carrying over the chaos. Those closest to him in the vanguard responded swiftly, regrouping as best they could.

But hesitation among some led to disaster. The Reachman infantry, charging with brutal speed, cut down those who lingered. A few skirmishes broke out, but to Robert's surprise, the enemy pulled back after the initial clash. Standing halfway between the trenches and his now-fortified men, Robert hesitated, wondering what they were planning.

His question was answered almost immediately as arrows rained down once more. From behind the retreating infantry, archers emerged, unleashing a deadly barrage from both sides. The volleys were relentless, pinning his forces in place.

Robert's army was heavily composed of infantry, with the majority of his Valeman knights having returned with Jon Arryn, while a significant force remained at Riverrun to defend the wounded Lord Tully and besiege royalist strongholds in the Riverlands—Willow Wood, Darry, Saltpans, Castlewood, and Maidenpool.

The strategy had been to focus on King's Landing, leaving the Riverlander houses to fend for themselves, as most of their men and lords had fallen at the Trident. They were deemed inconsequential.

Robert's infantry hunkered down under the relentless hail of arrows, their armor and shields both a blessing and a curse. The heavy plate protected them from most strikes, but it also tired their arms, and as exhaustion set in, even the smallest lapse in defense allowed an arrow to find its mark. Seasoned veterans, some of the most skilled fighters in the realm, were being felled without ever getting a chance to fight back.

His own archers, less armored and more exposed, were being systematically picked off by the Reachmen. The return fire dwindled as they were struck down, leaving Robert with a shrinking window to turn the tide. He couldn't afford to let this continue. His strength was being whittled away, and soon, even his most experienced warriors would be overwhelmed.

Realizing the urgency, Robert turned to Ser Barristan Selmy, who despite the grim circumstances, remained composed. "Ser Barristan," Robert called out, his voice cutting through the chaos, "we need to launch a countercharge on that side." He pointed to the right flank where the Royalist line was strongest. Ser Barristan nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. Without hesitation, he began rallying the troops, his commands sharp and clear, setting the men into motion.

Next, Robert turned to the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, who stood ready, his expression resolute. "Blackfish, I need you to hold the left flank. Form a rearguard and keep them at bay while we focus on the right. We can't fight on all fronts at once." The Tully knight gave a curt nod and swiftly moved to execute the order, gathering the men he would need to stem the tide on the left.

With his orders given, Robert took a moment to orient himself. Ser Barristan now led a determined line of infantry, their shields locked together as they began their march toward the Royalist line. The countercharge was a desperate gamble, but it was their best chance to break the ambush before they were completely encircled.

As Robert prepared to join Ser Barristan in the countercharge, his heart sank. From both the front and the rear, he saw cavalry flying the golden roses of House Tyrell thundering toward his forces. In the heat of battle, he had seen the cavalry emerge from the village and circle around, but in his focus on breaking the infantry's envelopment, he had underestimated the threat they posed.

Now, heavily armored Reach knights were barreling down the road from both directions, their lances leveled, aiming to smash into his already strained forces. With his men focused on the flanks, they were vulnerable to the devastating charge from the front and rear.

Realizing the imminent danger, Robert acted quickly. He bellowed out commands to those near him, his voice booming over the chaos of the battlefield. "Brace yourselves! Stop those knights! Spears and shields to the front and rear!"

His men, though weary and scattered, responded to the urgency in his voice. Spears were hastily lowered, and shields raised in a desperate attempt to blunt the cavalry's impact. Archers who still had arrows turned their aim toward the charging knights, hoping to pick off a few before they closed the distance.

Just as Robert braced himself for the impact of the cavalry, something unexpected happened. Trumpets blared from the charging knights, causing them to hesitate. Robert's keen eyes quickly caught sight of a large man in ostentatious armor at the head of the charge, pointing directly at him and the small force of men gathered to shield the vanguard. It was Lord Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden himself, and it became clear that the "Fat Flower" sought to take Robert out personally.

The shift was immediate. The cavalry, which had been poised to crash into the flanks of Robert's army, suddenly redirected their charge, aiming straight for Robert and his smaller, more vulnerable group. It was a bold move, but Robert saw it for what it was—a blunder born of ambition and a desire for glory.

Mace Tyrell's decision to target Robert instead of capitalizing on the strategic advantage his cavalry held over the larger force was a critical mistake. If the Reach knights had maintained their original course, they could have devastated the flanks, potentially routing Robert's entire army. But now, they were focusing all their power on a smaller, more concentrated force, one that was prepared to withstand the charge.

Recognizing the opportunity, Robert wasted no time. "Hold your ground!" he roared, his voice carrying over the thunder of hooves.

His men, already weary from the earlier fighting, gripped their spears and shields with renewed determination. The air was thick with tension as the ground shook beneath them, the sound of the charging horses growing deafening.

Robert felt a rare calm settle over him just before the horses slammed into his ranks. His gamble had already begun to pay off. Some of the Reach knights' horses, unnerved by the bristling spears and tightly packed men, faltered, either skewered as they exposed their flanks or slipping in the chaos, causing pile-ups that disrupted the charge behind them.

With a roar, Robert raised his war hammer and swung with brutal efficiency, sending two knights flying from their saddles. The bloodlust surged within him, and for the first time in days, a fierce smile replaced the grimace that had haunted his face. He had played the part of king and commander for too long—now it was time to be the warrior he truly was.

Despite the ferocity of the charge, it wasn't as devastating as it should have been. The knights' sudden shift in target, the disciplined defense, and the fear rippling through the horses all contributed to breaking the momentum. Still, the cost was heavy; many of his men were crushed beneath dying horses or impaled by lances that found their mark. Yet, they held the line, refusing to break.

Robert's eyes narrowed as he noticed the Reach knights making their second mistake. Instead of retreating to regroup for another charge, they wheeled their horses around, preparing to engage in close combat. They dropped their lances in favor of swords and maces, seemingly intent on finishing the fight in a melee.

Robert knew he couldn't let this opportunity slip away. His gaze swept over his scattered forces, and then past the enemy knights, he saw his vanguard still engaged on the flanks. An idea sparked.

"To me! TO THE KING!" Robert bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like a clarion call. His men, hearing their king's command, began to rally toward him, breaking off from the flanks to reinforce his position. The Reach knights, focused on their immediate combat, didn't realize that Robert wasn't just rallying those nearest to him—he was calling the vanguard to his side.

As the Reach knights clashed with his men again, their charge devolving into a brutal melee, Robert had only one target in his sights: Mace Tyrell. The large lord was at the center of the formation, sword raised but keeping a safe distance from the thickest of the fighting. Robert recognized the same fear and hesitation he had seen in Rhaegar Targaryen's eyes at the Trident. When Rhaegar fell, it shattered the Royalist forces' morale and all but secured Robert's victory. The same could happen here.

Robert surged forward, his war hammer crashing down on those foolish enough to stand in his way. Each swing was a statement of his intent, each fallen knight a step closer to Tyrell. The cries of the Reach knights filled the air as they found themselves attacked from behind by Robert's reinforcing vanguard, who had finally closed the distance.

The men protecting Mace Tyrell turned in surprise, realizing too late that the king's rallying cry had not just been for those around him. Panic spread through their ranks as they were caught between Robert's relentless assault and the oncoming vanguard.

Robert didn't hesitate. He plowed through the defenders with single-minded determination, his eyes locked on Mace Tyrell. The lord's confidence wavered, and Robert could see the fear creeping into his eyes.

Just as Robert began to sense victory within his grasp, a surge of shouting and cursing erupted from his vanguard. A fresh force of Reach infantry slammed into them, catching his men off guard. At the head of this relief force, Robert instantly recognized the man wielding a Valyrian greatsword—the blade and the red huntsman on his surcoat unmistakable. It was Lord Randyll Tarly, the one man who had handed Robert his only defeat thus far. Tarly had come to rescue his liege lord, Mace Tyrell, from the trap of his own making.

Robert saw Tarly's strategy at once—sacrificing the men on the flank holding back the Blackfish's rearguard to save Tyrell. The Reachmen might succeed in rescuing their lord, but in doing so, they had lost the crucial momentum. Many of the Reach's finest warriors were now committed to this rescue, leaving the rest of their forces vulnerable.

Robert knew he could forgo the kill of Lord Mace if it meant securing victory on the battlefield. Surveying the chaos around him, he could see his men beginning to push out against both flanks of the ambush. The northern cavalry, more effective than Mace's pinned and bloodied force, was still a threat, but one that could be dealt with once the rest of the Reachmen broke.

As Robert continued to strike down any Reachman foolish enough to challenge him, he kept an eye on the desperate rescue effort. His vanguard, overwhelmed by the sudden and disciplined assault of Tarly's men, began to falter. Soon, they were breaking and fleeing, unable to withstand the relentless pressure. Tarly's infantry pressed forward, passing Lord Mace and his cavalry to form a solid line against Robert's remaining forces.

But Robert's focus wasn't on the retreating vanguard. His eyes were locked on Ser Barristan, the Kingsguard knight in his white cloak, who was carving a relentless path through the enemy. With every swing of his sword, Barristan's men followed, cutting down Reachmen as they pressed deeper into the fray. One by one, the Reachman banners fell, trampled beneath the advance, and Robert could almost taste the victory that was within reach.

Suddenly, the clear, brassy call of a horn split the air—a signal that sent a shiver down Robert's spine. It wasn't a sound of retreat, but something far worse. The battlefield fell into an uneasy pause as both sides tried to decipher its meaning. The truth became apparent as Robert's gaze shifted to the Kingsroad.

Down the road came a fresh host of thousands, their banners unmistakable. The Crackclaw Host had arrived, and this time, they were here to fight. Robert's heart sank as he recognized the very banners he had captured from their sacrificed rearguards. Lord Brune had been willing to endure the cuts to deliver the fatal blow in return.

His men, already exhausted and bloodied, shifted uneasily. Ser Barristan quickly ordered a withdrawal, trying to regroup with the Blackfish's rearguard. But the separation was too great, and before they could pull back, the thunder of hooves filled the air as Northern cavalry charged into the gap, driving a wedge between Barristan's men and the rest of the army. In the chaos, the Crackclaw men poured in, slicing through the division and effectively splitting Robert's forces in two.

Robert's horror deepened as he saw both halves of his army begin to waver under the pressure of the double envelopment. The forms of Brynden Tully and Barristan Selmy were swallowed by the chaotic melee, their fates uncertain in the swirling mass of combatants.

Before he could fully grasp the situation, Randyll Tarly and his men, seizing the moment, surged forward with renewed vigor. The temporary lull in fighting, combined with the shock of the new enemy reinforcements, had left Robert's forces vulnerable. Tarly's charge was like a hammer blow, smashing into Robert's exhausted men and driving them back.

Robert, determined to join the fray and rally his troops, moved to charge into the desperate fight. But before he could reach the front lines, a searing pain erupted in his shoulder. Stunned, he looked down to see the tail feathers of an arrow protruding from a gap in his armor where the shoulder guard had failed to protect him.

The arrow had struck deep, and Robert was only thankful it wasn't near his heart. But the relief was fleeting—his arm hung uselessly at his side, and the thought of raising his war hammer sent waves of excruciating pain through him. His vision began to blur, and he fought desperately to stay conscious, furiously blinking to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.

He saw three of his men fighting fiercely nearby, struggling to secure the reins of three riderless Reachman horses. The chaos of battle raged around them, but the sight faded as the pain overwhelmed him. His men took the reigns of his horse and the last thing Robert saw was the mane of his horse before everything went black, and he slumped in the saddle, unconscious.

Robert groaned as the pain in his arm throbbed with the rattling motion of the cart. His eyes fluttered open to an overcast sky, a stark contrast to the dusk he remembered before blacking out. Something didn't add up. It should have been nightfall.

"My King, do not worry—you are safe now," a voice reassured him. Robert groaned, struggling to sit up, using his uninjured arm for support. His shoulder throbbed with pain, but he noticed the arrow was gone, replaced by a rough bandage that bound the wound.

As Robert's vision cleared, he found himself lying amidst an assortment of supplies in a creaky cart, the jolting of its wheels sending sharp pangs through his injured shoulder with every bump on the road. Glancing around, he spotted three soldiers clad in Baratheon yellow riding alongside him, their expressions grim but determined. One of them was leading the cart with his horse.

"W-what—" Robert began, his mind still foggy, but then a single, urgent thought broke through. "—The battle!"

One of the soldiers shook his head, his expression grim. "The battle was lost, my King. We barely managed to save you from capture before Lord Tarly's men overran your guard."

Robert's heart sank as dread settled in his gut. "What of the main force?" he asked, his voice filled with despair.

Another soldier spoke, his tone heavy with regret. "They broke and routed soon after the envelopment. Many were slaughtered, either in the fighting or as they tried to flee. The Reacher knights hunted them down mercilessly."

"And we escaped?" Robert's voice was thick with disbelief, his mind struggling to grasp how they had managed to slip away when Randyll Tarly and his men had been so close.

"Aye," the soldier replied, glancing back at the road behind them. "We were lucky, my King. The chaos of the rout, with the Reachmen focusing on the larger groups of fleeing soldiers, gave us just enough time to slip away. But it was a close call."

Another soldier added, "We managed to capture three of the Reachmen's horses and grab the reins of yours. We rode them hard, almost to exhaustion, as we fled back to the village and then into the fields to the east. Eventually, we ended up at a small village and keep called Sow's Horn. We traded your horse for a cart to transport your wounded body, my King."

Robert's thoughts raced as he processed the information. "How long has it been?" he asked, glancing around at the unfamiliar surroundings. The Kingsroad was familiar, but nothing else.

The first guard responded, "It has been three days, my King. You were unconscious for most of that time, and you don't seem to remember the rest."

"Three days," Robert muttered, the weight of those lost days pressing down on him. "And where are we now?"

"We're on the Kingsroad, north of Sow's Horn," the guard said. "At this pace, we're about three weeks from Riverrun. It's the safest place to regroup and plan our next move."

Robert's expression hardened. "I need to contact Lord Arryn. The war is lost if the Vale doesn't act."

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. After a moment, the first guard spoke. "We understand, my King, but Castle Darry and Maidenpool are still under Royalist control. The only other castle sworn to you is Harrenhal."

Robert's jaw tightened. The thought of returning to Harrenhal, that cursed castle, was almost unbearable. Yet he knew that delaying communication with Jon Arryn would only hasten their defeat.

"We ride for Harrenhal," he said decisively. "We'll send ravens from there."

The first soldier nodded. "Very well, my King." His gaze shifted to Robert's shoulder. "We had a healer at Sow's Horn extract the arrow and tend to your wound, but he advised rest for several weeks. You should heed his advice."

Robert grunted in acknowledgment, settling back into the cart with as much care as he could manage.

As he was jostled along in the cart, moving farther from the battlefield and the remnants of his once-mighty army, he grappled with the gravity of their situation. The battle had seemed certain—his veteran forces were battle-hardened, confident in their victory, and had expected no further threats before reaching King's Landing.

They had held their ground, demonstrating why they had been victorious in every engagement since Ashford. Yet, they had been blindsided by the Crackclaw army's unexpected appearance. It should have been obvious they would follow, and deep down, Robert had known it, even if he had not voiced it.

The certainty of victory had lulled him into complacency. He had underestimated Mace Tyrell's resolve, presuming the Tyrell would remain as ineffectual as he had been since Ashford. The ambush had shattered their plans, but Robert refused to accept defeat outright. He knew that while this battle was lost, the war was far from over.

Victory at the Trident had shown him what was possible with the right combination of strength and strategy. Jon Arryn's Valemen had secured their earlier triumph, and with the remaining Riverlanders and any potential survivors from this battle, there was still hope for another chance at victory.

The battle might have been lost, and his army scattered, but as the Royalists had demonstrated, the war was not yet decided. Robert's resolve remained unshaken. He had fought too long and sacrificed too much, driven by his memories of Lyanna's face and the promise of vengeance. As long as there was breath in his body, he would not surrender.

Addam sighed as he stripped off the last of his armor, leaving it in a heap in the corner of his chambers. Just a day had passed since their raid on the Lannister camp, and between the wounded and the dead, he had barely found a moment's rest. Every movement now sent a sharp reminder of his exhaustion through his aching body.

Addam had also successfully secured two new Kingsguard knights, both of whom Tristifer had vetted and approved.

The first was Ser Jaremy Rykker, one of the two Targaryen knights who had commanded forces during the Battle of the Gate. Despite some initial hesitation, Ser Jaremy had accepted the appointment. He was a skilled warrior and, most importantly, fiercely loyal to House Targaryen.

The second appointment was Ser Valtris Sunglass, another stalwart Targaryen loyalist. Older than Ser Jaremy and equally proficient with a sword, Ser Valtris was the childless brother of Lord Sunglass. Tristifer had noted that this appointment strengthened the ties between House Targaryen and their key allies among the lords of the Narrow Sea.

The two new Kingsguard knights had been draped in freshly sewn white cloaks by Tristifer himself, since Ser Gerold Hightower was still absent.

As Addam glanced around his chamber, dimly illuminated by flickering candles, he noted its stark, utilitarian nature.

Now Commander of the City Watch, Addam had chosen to stay in these quarters, the same chambers Tristifer had occupied not long ago. Despite Tristifer's offer of chambers in the Tower of the Hand, similar to those extended to Robin, Addam had preferred to remain where he felt most at home. The City Watch had become his new domain, and he embraced the quarters that came with it.

As Addam extinguished the last of the candles, plunging the room into shadow, his thoughts drifted to Tristifer.

His brother in all but blood, Tristifer was the only sibling Addam truly acknowledged, despite knowing of his father's other child. For years, he had longed for the recognition and affection of Ser Roger Hogg, a wish that had never been fulfilled. As time passed, his desire for family found solace in Tristifer and Robin.

Robin had been like a younger brother, full of admiration and youthful energy. Tristifer, being the same age as Addam, had been more than a friend; he had been a true brother through their shared childhood and beyond.

Tristifer had always been the natural leader. Addam, aware of the prejudices against bastards, had willingly stepped back, letting his friend take the lead. He had learned to accept this dynamic, finding solace in the fact that Tristifer treated him with a respect and kinship that transcended his baseborn status. Despite the barriers of birth, Tristifer had seen him as more than his lineage—a rare gift that Addam cherished deeply.

When he was younger, Addam often wondered why Tristifer and his grandsire did not live in a grand castle like other nobles. The answer came during a visit when Tristifer's grandfather, Tristan, shared the history behind their modest home.

The tale of their ancient, nearly-extinct house was like something out of a legend—a story of a king's descendant fighting to reclaim a lost throne. Hearing it, Addam felt a fire ignite within him. It was as though he had stumbled into one of those epic tales.

The tale of their ancient, nearly-extinct house was straight out of a legend—a story of a royal descendant striving to reclaim a lost throne. Hearing it, Addam felt a fire ignite within him. It was as if he had stepped into one of those epic sagas where destiny and honor collided.

From that moment, he vowed to himself and the Seven that he would do everything in his power to restore Tristifer and his family to their rightful place. Over the years, they had been each other's pillars. Addam had supported Tristifer with letters and numbers, while Tristifer had shared his prodigious talent in the art of the sword with him.

In recent years, however, Addam felt that this balance had shifted. Although the past few years had been remarkable, he struggled to match the support he had received from Tristifer. Initially, Tristifer's gifts had come in the form of a share of the Melee winnings, followed by successive promotions beside him. Addam had worked diligently to build loyalty among the men toward Tristifer, but as Tristifer's influence grew, so did Addam's debt.

When Tristifer became Hand of the King, he made Addam his successor as Commander of the Gold Cloaks. The honor was immense, yet Addam felt increasingly indebted and uncertain how he could ever repay such generosity.

That was until the raid. When Addam's men alerted him to Tristifer's isolation and the sight of him lying motionless on the ground, a wave of panic surged through him. He immediately disengaged and led as many men as he could to rescue him. The sight of Tristifer moving and rising to his feet was a profound relief—one that was difficult to put into words.

Addam knew he would sacrifice hundreds of Gold Cloaks to save Tristifer. The depth of his debt was immense; without Tristifer, he would be nothing more than a pale imitation of himself. Tristifer had given him more than opportunity—he had given him purpose and identity.

Tristifer deserved every honor and success he had achieved, after all the sacrifices and relentless work he had put in. House Mudd's restoration was within reach, and Addam eagerly anticipated the day it would be realized. These thoughts lingered in his mind as exhaustion finally overtook him, pulling him into a deep sleep.

End of Chapter

Robert Baratheon's second defeat. The underdog has become the... overdog? Still Robert lives and has more men to draw from.

King's Landing finally has Kingsguard knights again, well except for Ser Jamie in the dungeons. It is beginning to fill with captured enemies now. Gives Tristifer quite a lot of leverage.

Btw is this the only House Mudd Fic on FFN? I tried to find if someone had done it before and could only see that MC Mudd that was very AU.

Goodbye for now.