The Bloody Ford

Tristifer looked down at the dark river, its fast-moving waters carrying an ominous weight as the parley drew near. He knew that, by the end of the day, the river would be stained red with the blood of many good men, no matter how this meeting turned out. There was no avoiding it.

Robert Baratheon wouldn't back down now, not even if the gods themselves demanded it. His fate had been sealed at the Trident. The Royalists saw it that way, and Tristifer knew he would need to tread carefully in the war's aftermath if he hoped to make it out alive and keep any gains he could secure.

Across the ford, Tristifer could make out Robert—a massive figure on his horse, clad in black armor with a golden surcoat displaying the Baratheon stag. His helmet had antlers, a nod to his house's sigil. Beside him, on the right, stood the older Lord Jon Arryn in a light blue surcoat with the Arryn falcon. To Robert's left was Lord Hoster Tully, his surcoat marked with the silver fish of his house, though muddied from the road.

Their vassals and bannermen stood behind them, waiting, though not too far back, ready to see what this meeting would bring.

Tristifer turned to his own party. To his right was Lord Randyll Tarly, clad in heavy plate with a huntsman engraved across his chest, the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, jutting over his shoulder. On his left rode Prince Oberyn Martell, his usually sharp, lighthearted demeanor replaced by a cold, distant expression. His eyes were fixed on the rebel lords, the men responsible for his uncle Prince Lewyn's death.

Alongside them rode several notable Reach lords—Caswell, Ashford, Vyrwel, and Ambrose, their banners rippling in the wind. From the Crownlands came Lord Brune and Lord Crabb, representing Crackclaw Point. The only Riverlord among them was Lord Tytos Blackwood, who had joined their cause after the agreement Tristifer had brokered. Lord Mathis Rowan had been left behind to oversee the main army, ready to strike if treachery reared its head.

As they neared the riverbank, Prince Oberyn broke the silence, his gaze now fixed firmly on Tristifer. "And how do you intend to conduct this parlay,Lord Hand?" His voice carried a subtle edge, as if testing Tristifer's patience, which was a frequent amusement of his. They were far from friends.

Tristifer remained lost in thought, but before he could respond, Randyll Tarly spoke up from his other flank, his voice firm and uncompromising. "They are traitors. The block and the axe are the only terms we should offer."

As their horses reached the river's edge, Oberyn shot Tarly an irritated glance, but Tristifer signaled for the party to halt, the moment tense. He knew he needed to choose his words carefully. His lords hungered for justice and blood, but there was a delicate balance to maintain. The war might end today, but how it ended would shape the future—and his own survival—far beyond this parlay.

"They won't accept any terms," Tristifer replied diplomatically, his tone steady. "It's folly to expect anything reasonable from them. But what interests me is hearing whattheyhave to say. Robert Baratheon has tasted defeat and may be more cautious now. As for Lord Hoster and Jon, they've seen victory and may be more vulnerable if they underestimate us, even slightly."

Lord Randyll Tarly shook his head. "Lord Jon Arryn won't let foolishness or overconfidence guide him. He's a careful, calculating man. Always has been."

"And Robert Baratheon wouldn't be cautious if the Others themselves charged him," Prince Oberyn added with a smirk, his voice dripping with certainty. "The man's a bull, headstrong and fearless to a fault."

Tristifer nearly let a smile slip, amused by how neatly they had aligned in their skepticism. They were right, of course—it would be foolish to think Jon Arryn rash or Robert Baratheon cautious. But allowing them to see things a little differently, to find common ground, had its uses. He was willing to lose a bit of face before his closest commanders if it brought them together against the true enemies. Small sacrifices now could yield much bigger gains later.

"I appreciate your counsel, my lord, my prince," Tristifer replied calmly, offering a respectful nod. His tone was courteous, but there was no mistaking the underlying resolve. His gaze shifted to the opposite bank, where the rebel lords sat restlessly on their horses, clearly wondering what was delaying the parley.

With a soft click of his tongue, Tristifer urged his horse forward. The charger—a powerful warhorse he had chosen himself from the Red Keep's stables—stepped into the rushing river without hesitation. The water surged around the horse's legs, but it only reached halfway up to its knees. The beast moved through the current with ease, steady and sure-footed, as if the river was no more than a puddle beneath its hooves.

Tristifer watched as the rebel party urged their horses into the river, moving to meet them in the middle. The air between them felt thick with tension, the weight of what was to come pressing down on both sides.

"Lord Tristifer, is it now?" boomed Robert Baratheon, his deep voice carrying easily across the water. The hulking man in black armor gave a grim smile. "Lord Hand to the grandchild of the Mad King—what a rise." They stopped a little over two horse lengths apart, their entourages fanning out around them, the river running between.

Tristifer met his gaze coolly. "Don't expect me to call you king in return, Robert. You'll have to kill an infant and sit the throne for that—and those are two things you'll never do." His words were met with approving chuckles from his lords, a faint ripple of amusement in the charged atmosphere.

Robert's expression hardened, but instead of responding right away, he glanced down at the rushing waters beneath his horse. Tristifer followed his gaze, noticing a flash of silver beneath the surface—was it a fish? He couldn't tell, but whatever Robert was looking at seemed to stir something in him.

"Right where you sit now," Robert said, his voice dropping but losing none of its force, "my warhammer sent Prince Rhaegar flying, along with all his rubies. He spoke words just like yours. And we both know what happened to him—and his army." His eyes locked onto Tristifer, cold and unyielding. "Yet here you are again, with another army, ready to die for a king unfit to wear the crown."

Robert leaned forward slightly, his voice filled with bitter disdain. "Last time it was a madman, now it's a child who can barely stand on his own legs. Who will you raise next? A leper? Maegor the Cruel's rotting corpse?" His rhetorical question hung in the air, sharp and cutting.

"You fight in the name of a rotting house," Robert growled, his voice rising as he addressed Tristifer's party. "Dragons died a century ago, and it's long past time the Targaryens joined them in the dust of history. They are corrupt, tyrannical. Do you really believe this new Aegon will be any different? Summerhall was the gods' attempt to rid the world of them. Now, we'll finish the job, and topple this house of madmen, rapists, and tyrants!"

His eyes moved across Tristifer's lords, pausing on each one as he spoke, the weight of his words meant to stir doubt and guilt. Then, his gaze stopped over Tristifer's left shoulder, and he fixed his stare on one man in particular—Lord Tytos Blackwood.

"Lord Tytos," Robert called, his voice suddenly heavy with betrayal. "You fought under my banner once, to bring down the Targaryens. Yet now you stand beneath the red dragon once again. What of the men who fought and died under your command to overthrow them? Have you no shame, no honor?"

Tristifer had heard enough. "What doyouknow of honor? Ofhisshame?" he called out sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. Robert's head snapped back toward him, a flush of anger creeping into his face.

"You forsake your oaths and break your vows, fighting against your rightful king," Tristifer retorted sharply, sweeping his gaze over the rebel lords, his voice steady. "Who are you to doubt the will of the gods themselves?" His eyes briefly locked with each of the men before him. Lord Jon Arryn's gaze was resolute, calm as ever, while Lord Hoster Tully stared toward Lord Tytos with a glimmer of betrayal in his eyes. As for Robert Baratheon, his face was flushed with fury.

Robert's voice was quieter now but laced with simmering frustration. "We have sworn no oaths to that infant king you prop up like a puppet." He paused, his tone shifting to something more personal, more regretful. "At the tourney, when you earned your knighthood, I thought you were a fine knight. I never would have imagined you'd fall this far."

Tristifer paused, letting the tension hang in the air before speaking again, his voice low and steady. "Thousands more will die today," he said, his eyes fixed on Robert, "because of your broken oaths, your shameless ambition to usurp a throne that was never yours, and your unfeeling heart."

The river flowed steadily beneath them, but the weight of Tristifer's words seemed to stop time. "Tomorrow, this river will run red with their blood. And when your head is on a pike, your lords will wonder why you didn't simply bow your head now. The blood that stains this land—it will be on your hands."

His words echoed between the gathered men, the silence that followed more deafening than the speech itself. Tristifer's gaze swept over the rebel lords again, as if challenging each one to meet his eyes and reckon with the truth of what was coming.

"May the gods grant you the fate you deserve," Tristifer said firmly, his voice carrying a weight of finality. He addressed Robert first, then cast his gaze over the assembled rebel lords. "The fate you all deserve."

With that, he turned his horse with a sharp command, guiding it back toward his own side of the river. As he forded the water, his lords fell in beside him, their expressions resolute and grim. Tristifer led them back toward their lines, the steady rhythm of hooves against the river's edge marking their return.

Tristifer drew a deep breath as they approached their men. The intricacies of diplomacy, politics, and intrigue were now irrelevant. The battlefield demanded something far more primal— tactics, will, and sheer strength. Steel would clash with steel, and blood would flow.

He cast a glance to the west, where his hopes now rested with Addam. He could only hope they had managed to cross the river by now.


Addam gently tugged the reins, slowing his horse to a steady pace. The rising sun at their backs cast long shadows before him and his men, while the chill of the night gave way to the warmth of the day.

The sound of rushing water reached his ears from the right, though the river remained hidden behind a dense thicket of trees separating the Trident from the River Road they'd been following. The night's hard ride had taken its toll on both men and horses, the weariness settling in despite the road being as good as one could hope for under the circumstances.

Addam glanced toward his second-in-command, Ser Emerick Risley. Five years his senior and heir to Lord Risley, Emerick outranked him in station and came highly recommended by Lord Randyll Tarly himself for his skill as a cavalry commander. Tristifer had wanted him in command however, after some negotiation, a compromise had been struck—Addam would lead, with Ser Emerick as his deputy.

He was grateful that, unlike many nobles of higher rank, Ser Emerick had accepted the arrangement with grace. He had served admirably, offering his counsel when needed but never challenging Addam's authority in front of the men.

"Are we nearing the ford, Ser?" Emerick asked, noticing Addam slow his pace and glance his way.

Addam pointed through the thick shrubbery. "We should see it soon, just around this last bend in the road. The ford's a bit deeper than most, which is why it sees less traffic."

Ser Emerick nodded. "Very well." He turned to the men, raising a hand to signal a halt. "Men, Ser Addam says we're nearing the ford. Make sure all your gear is securely fastened to you or your horse—because if anything falls, you'll be swimming to fetch it yourselves. I hear the water's quiterefreshingthis time of morning, and I doubt any of you are eager for a dip in it."

A few chuckles rippled through the ranks at the light-hearted remark, easing the tension of the ride and anxiousness for their destination.

Addam turned his gaze back toward the ford as they resumed their ride. Ser Emerick struck a fine balance between stern disciplinarian and motivator, his moments of humor lifting spirits without undermining authority. A small part of Addam couldn't help but wonder if Tristifer should have given command to Ser Emerick instead, with Addam serving as second.

But those doubts had no place on the battlefield, and Addam knew it. They were fading anyway; while Ser Emerick was an excellent cavalry leader with a strong rapport among the men, Addam had something his counterpart lacked: experience in both strategy and tactics, honed during his time as a gold cloak officer. He had faced down outlaws of every kind—not battles, perhaps, but each skirmish demanded the same tactical precision. The Risley knight had led only his family's household guard, while Addam had commanded scores of men in the continent's largest city.

The balance between Emerick's natural talent and Addam's hard-earned experience reassured him. They were a good team, complementing each other in ways that few commanders could.

As they rounded the bend at a steady pace, Addam suddenly pulled his horse to a halt. The ford came into view, and he squinted at the glints he'd seen through the trees moments earlier. He had dismissed them as tricks of the morning light, but now...

Down the gentle slope leading to the river, Addam's eyes widened as he took in the sight before him—hundreds, perhaps over a thousand riders, making a slow crossing of the ford. No banners flew above them, but Addam had no doubt whose colors they would have borne.

"Rebels!" Ser Emerick exclaimed, his voice sharp with surprise as he spotted the mass of riders below. A murmur rippled through their ranks, passing from one man to the next as the realization spread like wildfire.

Addam's heart pounded with a mix of shock and anticipation. His own force numbered around a thousand, mostly heavy knights and cavalry from the Reach and the southern Crownlands—formidable warriors, equipped for powerful charges designed to shatter lines and sow fear. But they were outnumbered by the rebel force—a motley collection of everything the opposition could muster, from the heavier knights of the Vale to Riverland riders and agile northern cavalry. Addam quickly estimated their numbers at closer to two or three thousand.

Instinct told him to hide in the forest and let the larger force ride past, oblivious to his men's presence. It would have been the safer course, sparing his men and allowing them to continue their mission undetected. But that wasn't an option. Staying hidden would delay them too long, and worse, it would allow this rebel force to reach Tristifer and do exactly what Addam's cavalry had been tasked with—strike from the rear and turn the tide of battle. It seemed the rebels had come with the same idea.

The situation was far from ideal, but something immediately caught Addam's eye. Though the rebels held the advantage in numbers, they were vulnerable—their force was split, stretched thin as they crossed the river. The ford was narrow, and the rideable section allowed only a few riders to cross at a time, slowing their progress significantly.

Addam quickly recognized the opportunity but also the danger. They needed to strike swiftly and decisively, but stealth was critical. Even if they managed to wipe out nearly every rider, a single survivor could still alert the rebel commanders of their presence, unraveling any element of surprise they hoped to maintain. One loose rider could doom Tristifer's forces and allow the rebels time to prepare.

"They are separated" Ser Emerick pointed out though with a look of some frustration. It seemed the man had discovered the predicament that Addam was currently realizing. If they attacked now then they could perform a lot of damage but their element of surprise for the main army would be gone if even one rider on the opposite side was somewhat forward thinking. If they waited until the rebels had all crossed then they would be outnumbered 2 to 1 and very well be defeated.

"We..." Addam began, his mind working quickly to form a plan. It was far from perfect, but it might be their only choice. "If we let them all start crossing—or attack with just a portion of our men—"

Ser Emerick, standing beside him, nodded as he too peered through the last few trees that still concealed them. If the rebels anticipated their presence at all, they hadn't shown any signs. "It could draw them in, make them think we're just a scouting party."

"Exactly," Addam agreed. "They'd assume we've already sent word back to our lines. But if we wait until most of them have begun the crossing, we can hit them hard while they're spread out. The ones in the river will be caught in the middle, focused on us and the battle unfolding here, rather than sending word back to their main force. And if anyone tries to break away, we'll have a better chance of chasing down any messengers before they escape."

Addam paused, letting the plan solidify in his mind. "It's a risk, but the key will be timing—strike too soon, and we'll only alert them; too late, and we lose our chance. If we do it right, we could destroy this force and be in a position to charge the main rebel army with our full strength."

Ser Emerick, lost in thought for a moment, eventually began nodding. "I suppose there aren't many realistic alternatives."

"Then we are in agreement," Addam said, his decision final. He turned his horse to face the restless men behind him. "We wait until they've all started the crossing. Once they're committed, we charge hard and fast—strike the cold, tired rebels that have made the crossing."

Ser Emerick took the opportunity to speak next, his voice filled with confidence. "They may look small from up here, but you'll see how puny they truly are when we're upon them!" he called out, his tone light and laced with jest. The men chuckled softly, careful not to laugh too loudly and give away their position. Now was not the time for careless mistakes.

"Ready yourselves for battle, men," Addam commanded, his voice firm and resolute. "We fight not only for ourselves, but for our brothers and comrades to the east, who are counting on us. We will not fail them." His words carried a finality that settled over the group like a tightening grip, sharpening their focus.

The men, who had been murmuring quietly amongst themselves, grew silent. Their faces, once touched with faint smiles and light-hearted jest, now hardened with anticipation. Each rider checked their gear, adjusted their weapons, and steeled themselves for the fight ahead.

Addam surveyed his force—grim, determined, and resolute. They had the quality, though not all the experience. Many of his riders were veterans of Ashford, the Kingsroad, or the skirmishes near Maidenpool and Darry, but this would be different. A full clash with a larger force, under uncertain conditions.

He glanced down through the trees at the rebel army crossing the ford. There was no clear sign of who commanded them. He could see no banners, no familiar crests. Likely a lord of the Vale or one of the Stormlords, but he was in the dark about which one. His mind ran through the possibilities—someone seasoned, no doubt, leading such a force. They were surely meant for the same purpose as Addam and his men, that made him lean toward a Stormlord.

Considering how many Stormlords had been captured during the Battle on the Kingsroad, there weren't many possibilities. In fact, only three lords came to mind who were still fighting under Robert Baratheon: Lord Fell, Lord Swann, or Lord Caron. Addam could not call himself very familiar with any but if they had survived and rallied under Baratheon after the defeat then they either were quite competent, lucky, or craven.


The horns and trumpets blared in defiance, answering the calls of their counterparts across the river. For over an hour now, archers and skirmishers had been exchanging volleys, a prelude to the inevitable clash since the parley ended.

Tristifer watched the enemy lines closely. He knew Robert Baratheon wasn't one to sit idly; the man was no defensive tactician, and while Tristifer wanted to delay as long as possible to buy time for Addam and his riders—should they be delayed—he also knew he couldn't let the rebels gain the upper hand by crossing the river first.

For Addam's flanking charge to work, the rear of the rebel forces needed to be positioned squarely on the northern riverbank, vulnerable. If the timing was right, the cavalry would strike from behind while the rebel infantry was locked in the chaos of the ford.

When his officers informed him that the rebels had begun advancing toward the river, Tristifer made his decision. "March our infantry," he ordered. "We meet them in the ford. Let's make them fight for every inch."

His lords nodded in agreement, their expressions grim, knowing this was only the beginning.

Tarly would lead the vanguard, as was his strength. Tristifer would join him soon enough, once the clash began. Part of him debated staying with the reserves, overseeing the battle from a distance like a true commander. Yet, as he looked at the assembled lords—Crownlanders, Reachmen, Dornish, and Riverlanders—he knew he couldn't remain behind. He needed to do more than direct; he needed to lead.

This was his first true pitched battle. The realm would soon speak of it in tales and songs—the Crown versus the Stag. Even now, he could feel the weight of history bearing down upon him. Some poet or bard would christen this battle with a name that would echo for generations, but it was the consequences of this day that would shape the future.

Victory or defeat would be remembered long after the banners had fallen. And Tristifer knew, if he was to be part of that legacy, he needed to be in the thick of it, where steel met steel, and men were made legends.

There was no better test of loyalty, no truer measure of where it lay, than in the fire of battle.

Tristifer patted his horse's neck, a powerful Courser bred for war, its muscles tense beneath his gloved hand. A true warhorse, fierce and dependable. He muttered a brief prayer for the beast, though he knew its odds of survival were slim, even slimmer than his own. Still, if the horse carried him through the chaos and bloodshed of an entire battle, it would earn the right to a name—a mark of honor for a creature that had borne him through the storm of steel and death.

Ahead, he watched as the two armies inched closer, the tension in the air thickening with every heartbeat. Archers positioned on the flanks loosed their arrows in a deadly dance, targeting both their opposite numbers and any heavy infantry that might fall within reach of a well-aimed shot. The sharp twang of bowstrings and the whoosh of arrows slicing through the air punctuated the grim silence, each volley a harbinger of the chaos to come.

"May the Warrior grant us strength in arms, and the Father judge us worthy of victory," Tristifer heard Lord Mathis murmur at his side. The Rowan lord had chosen to stay behind, demonstrating a blend of courage and humility. He was no craven; instead, he understood the often-overlooked importance of the rearguard and reserve. Though these roles lacked the glory of the front lines, their significance was undeniable. In the crucible of battle, it was often the unsung heroes who ensured the safety and success of their comrades, a lesson that Tristifer appreciated more than ever in this moment of impending conflict.

"By the Old Gods and the New," Tristifer added, the words barely escaping his lips before the relative silence shattered. The two sides finally collided, and the culmination of two years of war had led to this pivotal moment—a moment that he hoped would restore peace to the Realm once more.

Lord Mathis nodded in acknowledgment, a gesture of respect that Tristifer returned. "I wish you luck, Lord Hand."

"And to you as well, Lord Rowan," Tristifer replied, his voice steady despite the palpable tension in the air. He turned to address the remaining lords and knights not stationed in the reserves. "Stay sharp. We may find ourselves separated. If you become isolated, swing your sword and fight until you see a friendly face again. The Gods do not support usurpers and oath-breakers; let us punish them for daring to defy our rightful king!"

"For our comrades, our families, and our King! Fire and Blood!" Tristifer roared, his voice ringing with fervor. The battle cry echoed back to him, a chorus of defiance as he swung his mount around, clicking his tongue.

The thunderous sound of his horse's hooves soon mingled with the pounding of many others, creating a cacophony that reverberated across the battlefield, an omen of the storm that was about to be unleashed.

The descent to the river felt almost as if Tristifer's horse had taken flight, the ground rushing up beneath them. Soldiers ahead parted swiftly, allowing their lord and his retinue to pass through the crowded ranks and into the shallow waters of the ford.

The splashing of water was barely audible above the clamor of the battle, a roaring symphony of steel and shouts. Tristifer scanned the battlefield as best he could, his eyes quickly taking in the chaos. Some formations held their discipline, fighting in organized ranks even within the river's current, but many had already collapsed into frenzied melees. The battle was unpredictable, the river a graveyard in the making.

To his right, Lord Randyll Tarly drove a wedge of a hundred spearmen into the heart of a group of Stormlander infantry, pushing them back with brutal efficiency. However, it was the left flank that drew his concern. Two rebel lords, Stormlander and Riverlander, had rallied their forces there, their infantry threatening to overwhelm the defenses.

His eyes darted across the field, searching for Robert Baratheon, but the rebel leader was elusive, lost among the tumult. There was no time to dwell on it—his left flank needed immediate reinforcement.

"Lord Franklyn!" Tristifer called out, turning to Lord Fowler. "Take your men and bolster the center where needed. I'll handle the left."

Lord Franklyn Fowler nodded and spurred his horse forward, leading his fellow Dornish lords and several Reacher commanders toward the thick of the fighting.

Tristifer then directed his own contingent toward the left flank, his decision swift and resolute. Riding beside him in gleaming white armor was the imposing figure of Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Behind him rode Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Eustace Brune—seasoned warriors. Brune, despite his age, remained a formidable presence, having delayed Robert Baratheon's forces on the Kingsroad long enough to secure a vital victory. His experience would be invaluable today.

As they neared the left flank, Tristifer's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. The rebels had already pressed dangerously close, but with his reinforcements and the caliber of men at his side, he was determined to turn the tide.

"Hold fast!" Tristifer roared as they thundered forward into the rebel ranks. His cry was echoed by the beleaguered defenders on the left flank, their spirits lifted by the arrival of reinforcements. The renewed vigor rippled through their ranks as they pressed forward once more. Tristifer and his mounted knights slammed into the rebel infantry, the river's current doing little to slow their charge. The shallower water here allowed their warhorses to tear through the enemy lines with devastating speed.

As they crashed into the rebels, Tristifer could see the whites of their eyes—wide with fear and shock as his warhorse barreled through their ranks. Screams mingled with the sounds of metal and splintering shields as men were trampled beneath hooves, their armor crumpling under the immense weight. Before his blade had even swung, his horse had already claimed several lives.

When Tristifer finally raised his sword, it cut through the chaos with lethal precision. Each swing was fueled by the momentum of his charge, his blade slicing through gaps in armor and flesh alike. He felt the jarring impact as it connected with steel and bone, each strike drawing blood. Men crumpled beneath his onslaught, some trying to parry or dodge, but many failed—caught off guard by the ferocity of the mounted attack.

Blood splattered across his face, warm and viscous, a grim reminder of the violence. His horse, undeterred, surged onward, smashing into rebel soldiers who scrambled to avoid the charging beast. Tristifer barely registered the weight of his sword as it cleaved through yet another rebel, the carnage unfolding all around him.

"Bastard!" came the shout from Tristifer's right. He turned quickly, spotting a rebel knight charging toward him. A quick glance confirmed he'd been separated from his men, though the rebel infantry had drifted far enough away, leaving them alone for the moment.

The knight circled him slowly, glaring with open hostility. Tristifer caught the sigil on the man's chest—a crescent moon over spruce trees. Stormlord,he guessed, though he didn't immediately recognize the house.

"You seem to have mistaken me for someone else Ser" Tristifer replied as he ensured none would interrupt the impending duel.

The enemy snorted in anger. "I know exactly who you areSerTristifer Mudd" The knight put quite emphasis on his title and name. Tristifer's mind was searching for any with more personal quarrels with him. Whose was that damn sigil? A Stormlord surely, the man was built like a Stormlander at least, with a great axe in his hands.

"Then it seems you've got me at a disadvantage," Tristifer replied, his voice steady though his heart raced. "And I assure you, you're mistaken—I'm no bastard."

The knight's sneer deepened as his grip tightened on the axe. "I am Lord Glendon Fell," he spat, his eyes flashing with anger, "and I'll bring your head to Lady Sarra as a wedding gift when this rebellion is done. You dare call yourself a knight, let alone Hand of the King?" His voice dripped with disdain.

Recognition flashed across Tristifer's face—Fell, the fool trying to steal his betrothed. "Ah, now I see," he said with a smirk. "You think my future wife would be impressed by a such a gift? Or do you need a little struggle to help you... rise to the occasion?"

Fell charged with a roar, axe raised high in true Stormlander fashion. Tristifer braced himself, raising his shield just in time to meet the blow. The axe lodged deep into the wood, and as Fell struggled to pull it free, Tristifer seized his opportunity. With a sharp yank backward, he threw his opponent off balance. Fell, leaning too far forward, tumbled from his horse with a splash, landing in the shallow water between them.

The force of the pull nearly took Tristifer down too, but the straps on his shield snapped just in time. He guided his horse a few paces away before dismounting, sword in both hands, ready to face Fell on equal footing. The cold water swirled around their ankles, the distant roar of battle barely audible over the pounding in his ears.

"I would have expected you to be less of a brute, judging by Sarra's letters. You seemed almost intimidating in them," Tristifer said, closing the distance to the dripping Stormlander, who glared at him with a fire in his dark eyes. "But perhaps that demeanor is only reserved for the fairer sex?"

"She won't remember your name once I'm done with her," Lord Glendon growled through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge Tristifer's next move.

Tristifer met his glare with silence, instead opting for action. He surged forward, his sword weaving a deadly dance. Fainting to the left, he then struck to the right, catching Fell off guard. The blade slipped effortlessly through the narrow gap left by the man's chainmail coif caused by the fall, finding its mark in the soft flesh beneath.

Fell's body went rigid, his eyes wide with shock, and he crumpled like a puppet with severed strings, lifeless in the shallows of the river.

Tristifer breathed heavily as the corpse slid off his sword with a sickening, slick sound, blood and viscera splattering around the wound.

How satisfying it was to silence that beast. Tristifer might not be particularly close with Lady Sarra yet, but the very thought of that man doing anything to her made him feel ill.

"May the Gods judge you," Tristifer muttered between ragged breaths. He spat down at the lifeless body, watching as the blood seeped from the wound, mingling with the river's current and turning the water a deep crimson.

He took a moment to regain his composure, then glanced up to survey the battle further downriver. Amid the chaos of clashing steel and shouts, he spotted Robert Baratheon, encased in dark armor and wearing his distinctive antlered helmet. The Rebel King was locked in a fierce duel with a figure in striking white armor and a flowing cloak, the sword flashing like lightning against the gigantic war hammer.

Tristifer tore his gaze from the breathtaking duel and turned to his horse. The Courser had drifted a bit during the fight, but while Fell's mount was nowhere in sight, Tristifer's warhorse suddenly trotted back to him, as if sensing its rider's need for it.

The horse had performed admirably so far, and though Tristifer had regrettably few treats for the fine beast, he patted its neck with his gauntlet, earning a pleased snort in return. Swinging back into the saddle, he added with a hint of levity, "If we make it through this, my friend, you won't believe the mountain of apples I'll have waiting for you. I promise, I'm no man to go back on his word! And as the King's Hand, my reach is quite far."

With that, and a click of his tongue, Tristifer and his horse plunged back into the thick of the fight. A wave of unease washed over him as he realized the Rebels had pushed them back, forcing his men clear into the river, and they were now dangerously close to the southern riverbank. If Addam arrived now, the entire charge could be bogged down by the water. The attack needed to be devastating—he could see that even with their numbers, the outcome of this battle hung in the balance as he and his commanders had predicted.

Tristifer knew he had to push the Rebels back before Addam arrived, whenever that might be.


Addam's anxiety grew as he watched the battle unfold. Had Tristifer and the others already been overrun? He doubted it—Tristifer wouldn't break so easily—but the longer they waited, the more the chance of a Royalist defeat grew. It would take them nearly two hours of hard riding to get back to the main fight, and every delay made things worse.

It had taken about half an hour for the last of the rebel horsemen to begin crossing the river. Roughly half of their forces were stuck in the water now, while more continued to arrive on the opposite bank. The disorganized scene before him was somewhat reassuring—officers were riding back and forth trying to get their men into line, while several of the horses struggled to manage the weight of both their riders and equipment in the fast-moving current. The rebels had clearly pulled together every horse they could find, but some of the mounts weren't up to the task.

Addam and his men had taken cover in the woods along the riverbank, only a few hundred yards from the rebels at their closest point. It surprised him that the rebel commander hadn't set up a perimeter or scouted the area properly. Either he was inexperienced, or too focused on getting his men across the river.

Across the clearing where the ford lay, the opposite bank was shrouded in thick forest, hiding the other half of Addam's force under Ser Emerick's command. Risley had suggested splitting their forces, circling around to hit the rebels from both sides when the time came. Addam had thought it a solid plan and sent Risley off with five hundred riders. They should have been in position by now, but there was no way to confirm without giving away their advantage.

It was time to take the gamble. If Risley's men weren't in position, the outcome could be disastrous, but waiting any longer would only let more rebels cross and organize. The enemy was distracted, disorganized, and vulnerable—an opportunity Addam wasn't willing to waste.

Addam turned to the soldier at his side, who held a large Northern war horn. Trumpets were more common outside of the North and the Vale, but Addam had chosen the deep, menacing sound of the horn for its ability to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.

With a steady breath, Addam gave a firm nod. "Blow the signal," he ordered.

The deep, thunderous call of the horn echoed across the clearing and river, reverberating through the air like a storm approaching.

Addam had already raised the lance as his horse surged forward, hooves pounding the ground. The sunlight hit his face as he broke from the shadow of the woods, his men following close behind. Then, from ahead, came the answering call—another horn blast, this time from across the clearing. Glints of steel flashed through the treeline, followed by the unmistakable roar of charging cavalry and the sight of armored knights thundering toward the rebel flank.

Risley and his riders had made it.

In the chaos, the rebel soldiers scrambled, caught completely off guard. Addam could barely make out the frantic shouts of their commanders, trying to restore order amidst the panic. Some of the rebels were already breaking—fleeing back into the river or southward in a desperate attempt to escape the trap between his men and Ser Emerick's. Others stood their ground, hastily trying to form up as best they could.

Addam's focus narrowed. The noise of charging horses faded into the background as he scanned the battlefield for a target. His eyes locked onto a rebel knight, scrambling to ready himself. The knight was likely no more than a hedge knight or a minor landed noble—certainly not a seasoned warrior—but he'd serve well enough for Addam's lance.

The tip of his lance gleamed in the sunlight as his horse surged forward, hooves pounding the earth with a thunderous rhythm.

The rebel knight barely had time to react, turning just in time to see Addam bearing down on him. In that final moment, Addam leaned into the charge, thrusting the lance forward with the extra force he had learned as a boy from his father's master-at-arms. Though those lessons had ended quickly when his father's Lady Wife intervened, the muscle memory remained, etched into him forever.

The lance struck true.

Addam didn't bother looking back to see the result of his strike; he was past the rebel knight in an instant, his horse charging forward at full speed. It didn't matter—the knight was finished. He had bigger concerns now.

As his horse galloped on, Addam quickly drew his sword, just in time to meet the blow of a Northern horseman. The man, clad in light armor, swung a bastard sword in an attempt to skewer him. Addam deflected the strike with a sharp clang of steel, the force of the blow reverberating up his arm as he steadied himself for the next attack.

As their horses slowed and they found themselves side by side, Addam saw his opening. The Northman wavered, thrown off balance by the sudden change in speed. Seizing the moment, Addam swung his blade in a powerful slash. The Northman blocked it, but the force of the blow brought his sword down just enough. Addam swiftly followed up, slashing upward and catching the man's sword arm.

The Northman recognized his error instantly, flinging himself backward in a desperate attempt to avoid the cut. He succeeded, but the sudden movement, combined with his earlier struggle to stay balanced, proved too much. He toppled from his saddle, one leg still caught in the stirrup. His horse panicked, bolting toward the river and dragging the helpless man behind it, disappearing into the churning waters.

Addam assessed the situation and recognized that the Northman was finished. He turned to orient himself, noting that his horse had come to a stop near the riverbank. In the water, rebels were both reinforcing their ranks and scrambling to escape. The cavalry that had just arrived were exhausted from the crossing, and soon they joined their comrades in retreat. However, the sheer number of men overwhelmed the narrow, shallow ford, causing chaos as riders and horses were swept into deeper waters.

It all proved a fantastic ambush, more successful than he could've imagined, though he noticed that a lot of the lain at the feet of Ser Emerick who was leading a more concentrated squad of horsemen and smashing any rebels who tried to form a solid defense. All in all, it was a slaughter.

Addam's gaze then landed on a shouting rebel lord, surely the commander and Lord Bryen Caron himself if he was not mistaken. Marcher Lords were famous for their martial abilities and Addam could see hints of it even in this chaotic situation. The Stormlander was slaying man after man who challenged him and tried to establish some defiance, he knew then what his next focus ought to be.

Kicking the sides of his horse, Addam raised his sword high. "With me! For the Lord Hand!" His call to arms resonated with the knights around him, who rallied instantly to his side. Some looked to him with a mix of uncertainty and determination.

"We ride to break the traitor lord!" Addam declared, thrusting his sword forward to point directly at the Caron Lord. His voice rang out with conviction, igniting a fire in his comrades as they prepared to charge into the fray.

His bold actions caught the eye of Lord Bryen, who was moving to regroup with his men. Rebel horsemen scrambled to shield their lord, but they were quickly overwhelmed and outmatched by Addam's forces.

Without hesitation, Addam pressed on, leading his charge. More of his escort broke off to engage the rebels surrounding Lord Caron, cutting through the disarray and pushing toward their target with fierce determination.

Eventually, the two commanders found themselves facing each other across a parted sea of chaotic fighting. It was like the eye of a storm; in their immediate surroundings, a strange calm enveloped them, contrasting sharply with the turmoil that swirled around. The sounds of battle—clashing steel, shouts of commands, and the cries of the wounded—seemed to fade, leaving only the tense anticipation between them.

"Lord Caron, traitor to his Grace! I demand your surrender now, and you will be given appropriate justice!" Addam declared, his voice laced with challenge. He hoped for an easy capitulation, but he fully anticipated the Lord's defiance. The Marcher Lords were renowned for their stubborn resistance, often refusing to yield even in the face of overwhelming odds. The tension in the air suggested that a duel was likely, and Addam steeled himself for whatever came next.

"Upstart dog, it is you who will surrender! King Robert is lenient to those who heed his mercy!" Lord Caron shot back, though his tone revealed a lack of genuine interest in negotiation. Both men were clearly prepared for a duel.

"Spare your breath, oath breaker," was Addam's curt reply as he dismounted, raising his sword with purpose.

Lord Caron followed suit, dismounting with a brief nod of acknowledgment—more a reflex than a gesture of respect. The air between them crackled with tension, each man ready to fight for his cause.

It was Lord Caron who struck first. Both men wielded their swords with two hands, but Addam had no intention of blocking. To him, that was a last resort—he preferred to conserve energy for a decisive blow instead of wasting it on defense.

Years of running in armor, both in his youth and as a member of the Gold Cloaks, had honed Addam's endurance and conditioning to an impressive level, and he planned to leverage that advantage.

As Caron's finely forged blade swept toward him, Addam sidestepped with minimal effort, already poised to counter.

And counter he did. With a swift pivot, he brought his sword down in a powerful arc aimed at Caron's exposed flank, looking to exploit any opening the rebel lord might leave behind.

The older man demonstrated impressive speed, twisting away from Addam's strike and raising his sword to create an unyielding barrier. Addam's blow struck with force, sending sparks flying upon impact, and he felt the reverberation travel up his arms. Yet, he noted with satisfaction that Caron's arms wavered slightly under the strength of his attack, a sign that his strike hadn't been entirely ineffective.

They returned to their initial stances, circling each other warily. Addam recalled something Tristifer had taught him about dueling experienced swordsmen. Most duelists had both tasted victory and faced defeat in feints, making them highly cautious; a single misstep could spell disaster.

This was why Tristifer had introduced him to the concept of a double feint. With renewed focus, Addam shifted into the offensive, attempting to apply this tactic as he advanced. He feigned a high strike before swiftly dropping low, aiming for Caron's legs, only to pull back at the last moment and pivot to unleash a powerful slash from the opposite direction.

Caron's eyes widened in surprise as Addam's blade suddenly swept upward once more. The movement required a remarkable combination of technique and strength in the wrist and arms, but Addam wielded both with confidence. His well-honed skills allowed him to execute the maneuver fluidly, catching the rebel lord off guard as he avoided the descending blade of Lord Caron who had been working to block his initial feint.

Addam could almost taste victory when Lord Caron showcased why he was no ordinary knight. In a surprising move, Caron dropped to a knee, allowing Addam's blade to sweep harmlessly overhead. While this maneuver saved the lord's neck, it left him off balance and unable to mount a counterattack.

Addam was grateful for the opportunity, but he knew Lord Caron was completely vulnerable now, overextended and exposed. He let his blade continue its momentum, redirecting it toward Caron once more. Though the lord was still kneeling, he raised his sword to intercept Addam's strike.

This time, however, Caron's defense proved insufficient; Addam's force sent the lord's sword flying away, splashing into the river beside them. Addam prepared to deliver the final blow when he was abruptly interrupted.

"I YIELD!" Lord Caron suddenly exclaimed. Addam halted his sword, keeping it poised to strike in case of any treachery.

"I have two young sons at home. I beg you to accept my surrender," Caron pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice.

Addam carefully maneuvered the tip of his sword to rest against the lord's neck, lifting the edge of Caron's armored coif. "I accept your surrender in the name of Lord Tristifer Mudd, Hand of the King to King Aegon the Sixth of his name," he declared, his voice steady and resolute. "May the gods strike down those who would not honor this surrender."

Even while swallowing hard against the sword tip at his neck, the Marcher Lord's pride flared. "I am not Dornish, and I deliver myself into your custody," he asserted, defiance still lingering in his voice.

Addam smirked faintly at the remark before nodding. "Good," he replied. As he looked around, he became acutely aware of the silence that had settled over the battlefield. All around him, the rebels had either been slain or surrendered, weapons scattered on the ground.

Glancing toward the river, he saw Royalists rounding up those who attempted to flee, some being brought back into captivity while others were swept away by the current.

The ambush and ensuing clash had been a resounding success, shattering the morale of the remaining rebels. With their lord defeated and surrendering, it was clear that any lingering resolve had evaporated.

Addam heard the sound of approaching hooves and turned to see Ser Emerick riding up to him. "A fine duel and victory, Ser," Emerick said, a genuine respect shining in his eyes. Beside him, a Royalist soldier led Addam's mount.

"A collective effort—let's not forget that, Ser," Addam replied, glancing at the surrendered rebels, their expressions increasingly conflicted. "We need to be swift. We can't leave without ensuring some watch the captives, but I'm afraid managing this many prisoners will require more men than we can spare."

Ser Emerick's expression turned somber as he grasped the gravity of the situation. "Can we... release them?" he asked, hope fading from his voice.

They both knew the answer. Addam steeled himself as he mounted his horse. "Leave fifty men to guard the lords and knights we've captured. The rest—put them to the sword." His command was met with panicked shouts from the lower-born rebels as his men approached, beginning the grim task.

Some attempted to escape, with a few slipping into the woods, but Addam's men swiftly hunted most down, ensuring they wouldn't have a second chance.

The captured rebel lords and knights looked on in a mix of horror and relief, grateful it was not their own lives being taken. As Lord Caron was brought past to join the other noble captives, Addam caught his gaze. The lord's clear blue eyes held no resentment—only understanding, as if he recognized that he would have done the same had their positions been reversed. Or maybe it was only his conscience lying to him.

Addam broke the contact, gazing toward the river, trying to drown out the screams that echoed around him. Tristifer needed him, and that was what he fought for. May he pay for his crimes in the afterlife.


Tristifer began to truly worry about where Addam and his men were. Nearly two hours had passed since the battle began and his duel with Lord Fell. Though he had made several attempts to engage Robert Baratheon, the endless waves of rebels shielding their king had prevented him from reaching his target.

Alternating between fighting on the frontlines and organizing his forces, Tristifer was now covered in grime, his armor and blade slick with blood. He rode tirelessly across the battlefield, directing reinforcements to where the line was faltering, rallying men to hold their ground. Even the act of staying behind to coordinate was exhausting, but it was necessary to keep his forces intact.

The battle was brutal, with bodies piling up along the riverbank. The ford, once shallow and clear, had long since turned red with blood, the bodies of fallen men drifting downstream in a grisly procession. Lord Mathis and much of the reserve had already been deployed, but new areas requiring reinforcements seemed to appear as quickly as they could patch the old ones.

The weight of the battle pressed down on him, and though his mind raced with the demands of leadership, he couldn't shake the question: Where was Addam?

Tristifer's mind raced with uneasy thoughts. Addam had surely been delayed, but by what? Had the rebels somehow discovered their plan? He had believed the rebel forces facing them matched the numbers their scouts had reported in the past weeks, but perhaps a contingent had slipped away unnoticed? The chilling thought of a second rebel force or a hidden sellsword company lurking nearby crossed his mind—such a development would spell their doom.

The longer Addam and his cavalry remained absent, the more Tristifer feared the battle might tip in the rebels' favor. Even with superior numbers, the enemy's experience was daunting. Many among the rebel ranks were hardened veterans, men who had survived countless battles throughout this war. Their discipline and battlefield cunning might eventually overwhelm his less seasoned soldiers.

As Tristifer rode north along the battle lines, his sharp gaze swept across the chaos. Some sections seemed to waver more than others, but he knew better than to send reinforcements without assessing the full picture. A steady line didn't always mean safety, and a faltering one didn't always require men—it was a delicate balance.

Behind him rode a small retinue of knights and grim-faced Gold Cloaks, their armor streaked with mud and blood, their eyes sharp with vigilance. Ser Gerold Hightower rode beside him, silent, his armor dented and bloodied from his recent clash with Robert Baratheon. The old knight had barely survived the duel, and the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed just how close to death he had come.

Tristifer glanced sideways at him, noting the bruises and dried blood staining the Lord Commander's once-pristine plate. "Ser Gerold, I hope you've enough fight left in you," Tristifer said, attempting to cut through the tension with a thin smile.

Gerold's reply came with a slight nod, his eyes still fixed ahead, cold and resolute. "Always, my lord." His voice was low but steady. He inclined his head toward the battlefield.

Tristifer followed his gaze, his attention drawn to a disturbance along the faltering Crackclaw lines. A rebel knight had broken through, his brutal strikes carving a wedge into the defenses. Banners of House Crabb and Hardy fluttered weakly behind the collapsing troops. The knight leading the charge moved like a tempest, cutting down men with swift, ruthless efficiency.

"I'll handle the knight," Tristifer said, tightening his grip on his reins. "Steady the line and keep an eye out for any further threats."

Just as Tristifer spurred his horse forward, Gerold's gauntleted hand shot out, gripping his arm. "Wait, my lord," he warned, his voice urgent. "That's no common knight."

Tristifer's gaze snapped back to the battlefield. His eyes locked on the rebel knight's sword—its dark, smoky blade gleaming ominously in the din of battle. Valyrian steel.

Gerold's voice turned grim. "Ser Lyn Corbray," he said, his words heavy with warning. "The second son of the late Lord Corbray. He earned his reputation at the First Battle of the Trident, wielding that blade—Lady Forlorn—after his father's death. He's a dangerous foe, my lord."

Tristifer's jaw tightened as he took a second, longer look at the rebel. Corbray moved with a lethal grace, his sword cutting through armor and bone alike with terrifying ease. The shimmering Valyrian steel sliced through the Crackclaw defenders as though they were nothing.

"Lady Forlorn," Tristifer muttered under his breath, recognizing the sword's grim history. His line was buckling under the assault, and hesitation could cost them everything. Corbray was no ordinary knight, but Tristifer had faced death before.

"He's dangerous," Tristifer said, meeting Gerold's eyes. "But I've no choice. Hold the line."

With that, Tristifer urged his horse forward, heart pounding as he charged toward Ser Lyn Corbray, the Valyrian blade gleaming darkly ahead like death incarnate.

The knight noticed Tristifer's approach at once, his sharp gaze locking onto him with an almost predatory awareness. Ser Lyn Corbray was no man to be taken by surprise. As Tristifer dismounted, his boots sinking into the deeper water of the far flank of the battle, a subtle ripple of stillness spread through the chaos. Rebels and royalists alike shifted aside, instinctively giving the two men space, though many continued their bloody work. Some paused entirely, recognizing the imminent duel.

"Ser Lyn Corbray," Tristifer greeted as he strode forward, sword in one hand, shield in the other.

The two men were of similar age, though Tristifer had a slight edge in size and strength—a detail he mentally filed away for the fight to come. Corbray, however, was no weakling. His lean, handsome frame betrayed nothing of the ferocity with which he fought, and the Valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn, in his grasp made him a formidable opponent. Even without that blade, he would be dangerous.

But it was the arrogance in Ser Lyn's eyes that stood out most to Tristifer. The young knight clearly thought himself invincible with the ancient blade in his hand, and that haughty confidence radiated from him like a palpable aura.

Ser Lyn offered no reply to Tristifer's greeting, his silence a deliberate slight. His face remained impassive, his eyes cold and distant, as though the duel was already decided in his favor. The Valeman believed the sword would do his talking for him.

Tristifer squared his shoulders, his jaw tightening. He knew better than to underestimate the man before him, regardless of his arrogance. Valyrian steel or not, Ser Lyn was mortal.

"Very well," Tristifer murmured under his breath, gripping his sword tighter. If the knight wouldn't offer words, then steel would suffice.

Then, with a deliberate air of arrogance, he called out, "I think I'll make a few improvements to that sword when I take it off your corpse. A fine blade, no doubt, but the pommel could use some flair—an emerald, perhaps. And as for the name? Lady Forlorn will need to be retired. I'll think of something more fitting once it's mine."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, echoing over the battlefield.

Ser Lyn's face twisted into an ugly grimace, the smugness wiped away in an instant. Tristifer's taunt had struck deep. The knight's cold, haughty demeanor cracked, revealing raw anger beneath. "You talk too much for a dead man," Ser Lyn spat, his voice dripping with venom. Without waiting for a reply, he spat in the water between them, a show of pure disrespect.

The contempt in Ser Lyn's eyes burned, and for the first time, Tristifer sensed he had truly rattled the man. The knight's grip on Lady Forlorn tightened, the dark blade shimmering in the dull light as if it too had felt the insult.

Tristifer allowed himself a faint smirk. He had wanted a reaction, and now he had one. But he knew better than to underestimate the fury of a knight who wielded Valyrian steel. If anything, the insult had only made the duel more dangerous.

"Let's see how long you keep that confidence," Tristifer said, raising his shield as he advanced.

Even in the knee-deep water, Ser Lyn Corbray moved with terrifying speed, his Valyrian steel blade cutting through the air with deadly precision. Tristifer barely managed to raise his shield in time, the force of the blow sending a shock through his arm as the dark blade crashed against it. The impact nearly knocked him off balance, and it was clear—this was no ordinary duel.

Ser Lyn pressed the attack, his strikes relentless, each swing of Lady Forlorn cutting through the air with deadly grace. Tristifer's shield splintered under the fury of the Valyrian steel, reduced to nothing more than a few cracked planks after only moments of combat. With a frustrated grunt, he let the remnants slip from his arm, the broken wood floating away in the murky river water.

The relentless onslaught, combined with the treacherous footing of the knee-deep river, made every move a battle in itself. Tristifer struggled to defend against Ser Lyn's flashing strikes, each one more ferocious than the last. It was a brutal test of endurance and balance—like a cruel training exercise designed by the gods themselves, only this time, there was no instructor to stop the fight before blood was spilled. This was life or death.

Ser Lyn's smirk grew wider with every step he took. He could see the toll his attack was taking, the way Tristifer faltered under the unyielding barrage. Each strike seemed to drain more of Tristifer's strength, his footing unsteady in the swirling water. Lady Forlorn gleamed darkly in the knight's hand, its sharp edge hungry for a killing blow.

"You're slowing, Mudd," Ser Lyn sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I thought you wanted my sword. You'll get it soon enough—through your heart."

The Valeman's words were a taunt, but Tristifer knew they were more than just that. Ser Lyn truly believed he had already won, and that victory was only a matter of time. The knight's arrogance was palpable, and Tristifer could see it in the way his opponent attacked—faster now, more reckless, as if eager to end the duel with one final, crushing blow.

Tristifer's defense remained steadfast, a fact that caused Ser Lyn's smirk to tighten with growing frustration. The two knights engaged in a relentless dance of blades, Tristifer deflecting strike after strike. His own sword was beginning to dull under the strain of the pristine Valyrian steel, yet he held off the arrogant knight, refusing to break.

A plan started to materialize in his mind. But for it to succeed, Tristifer needed to remain focused and unyielding. The muscles in his arms screamed in protest as another powerful slash struck his blade, reverberating through his body.

Ser Lyn had attempted several feints and flowing combinations, each more intricate than the last, yet Tristifer remained untouched. Each time he considered a counterattack, Ser Lyn was already launching into another aggressive strike, the Valyrian steel glinting ominously as it sliced through the air.

Finally, Tristifer knew there would be no better opportunity for a decisive end. His opponent, overconfident yet visibly frustrated, likely believed he was just a few moves away from victory. Tristifer also understood that if he didn't act soon, his body would inevitably betray him, succumbing to fatigue. This was the moment.

When Ser Lyn's sword rose to meet his, Tristifer shifted his weight to his left leg, preparing for the crucial move. As the two blades clashed once more, he offered no resistance, letting his sword slide against Lady Forlorn. Instead, he focused on spinning away from the lethal intersection of steel, barely avoiding the fatal arc that could have ended his life.

Ser Lyn's eyes widened in surprise, but that was all he managed as Tristifer let his sword slip from his grip, flung backward in the motion. He saw the brief moment of confusion flicker across the Vale knight's face as he instinctively assessed the situation, realizing too late the danger it presented. In that instant, Tristifer lunged forward, closing the distance.

Lady Forlorn swung wide behind him, its deadly arc now well within reach. Ser Lyn, his instincts honed by years of battle, tightened his grip on his sword, focusing on protecting his invaluable heirloom. Tristifer had no intention of going for the prized weapon, but Ser Lyn's momentary distraction proved fatal. Tristifer collided with the knight's chest, knocking the wind from him.

The momentum, confusion, and sheer surprise left Ser Lyn with no chance to resist as they both tumbled backward into the water. The murky depths closed over them, swirling with red as Tristifer's hands shot up to grasp the other man's neck. His grip was unyielding, the same resolve that had fortified his defense now turned into an instrument of desperation. He held the struggling knight beneath the surface, the murky water bubbling violently from Ser Lyn's frantic attempts to break free.

Tristifer's mind was cold and unfeeling as he leaned further down, pushing against Ser Lyn with a determination he had never summoned before. He had never managed to best the knight on fair ground, but Tristifer had always been inventive. Honor had never dictated his actions, and now was no time for it to do so.

In the background, he vaguely registered the chaos around them, the audience to their duel re-engaging in the fight as the rebels attempted to rescue their knight. The Crackclaw men formed an impenetrable wall, effectively blocking anyone from interfering.

Suddenly, Tristifer felt the flat of a blade strike against the armor on his back. Ser Lyn, still clutching Lady Forlorn in a death grip, had found a way to retaliate, albeit with the blunt edge of his sword. The blow was jarring but ultimately ineffectual.

As the moments dragged on, the knight beneath him only grew weaker. At last, Tristifer felt the Valyrian steel sword slip from Ser Lyn's grasp, its death grip finally relinquished. With a swift motion, he seized the blade as it almost floated away in the passing current. There was no time to admire the exquisite craftsmanship; his focus shifted to ensuring Ser Lyn could never challenge him again.

With grim determination, he plunged the shining blade into the murky water, where visibility was nearly nonexistent. He barely caught a glimpse of the shining breastplate before it was pierced, his actions fueled by instinct and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. But the effort took its toll; exhaustion washed over him, and he collapsed into the water, panic gripping him as his mouth filled with the icy liquid.

As darkness threatened to close in around him, strong hands enveloped his shoulders, dragging him upward. Blurrily, Tristifer noticed an older man in white armor pulling Lady Forlorn from the corpse of its former wielder, his expression solemn yet resolute.

"—won by conquest," Gerold Hightower intoned, his voice carrying a weighty solemnity that cut through the haze of water and confusion.

Tristifer gasped as they broke the surface, choking on the remnants of his near-drowning. The cool air filled his lungs, a stark contrast to the cold murk he had just escaped. He coughed violently, sputtering water as his heart raced, the adrenaline of battle still surging through him.

Tristifer slowly turned to look behind him, spotting two Gold Cloaks—loyal men from the western Barracks—who had come to support his limp form. Their familiar faces offered a flicker of reassurance amidst the chaos and exhaustion he was feeling.

Turning back to Gerold Hightower, he saw the seasoned knight extend Lady Forlorn toward him, the blade gleaming even in the dim light of the river. Tristifer's heart raced as he grasped the hilt, feeling the weight of the Valyrian steel in his hand, a tangible reminder of the fierce battle he had just survived.

"My lord, you cannot rest yet, I'm afraid," Gerold Hightower said, his tone a blend of sympathy and stern resolve. "We are still on the attack, and the battle is far from won. The men need to see their King's Hand."

Tristifer tiredly raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield to see the rebels being pushed back to the northern riverbank once again. Sections of their line had clearly collapsed, forcing them to pull back and reinforce. A wave of relief washed over him, though he couldn't quite explain why amidst the chaos, until the shouts and calls erupted from his own men.

Steady in the grip of the two Gold Cloaks, he could only turn his head slightly.

From the west, a sight more magnificent than he could have imagined came into view: a thousand riders—knights and heavy cavalry—charging at full gallop. Though he couldn't discern the specific heraldry or raised banners, he could easily envision the sigils of the Reachmen and Crownlanders: the Red Dragon on black and, finally, the emerald-bejeweled gold crown on brown.

For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he saw Addam at the forefront, his armor glinting in the sunlight, a lance couched with unwavering focus aimed squarely at the rebel host.

Time seemed to slow as the rebels scrambled to pivot and form against this new threat. But Tristifer's men, commanded by Lord Tarly and Prince Oberyn, would not grant them that luxury. Any group that dared to face the approaching cavalry was met with a fierce counterattack, forcing the rebels to choose a flank to resist, their lines buckling under the renewed assault.

The sharks sensed blood in the water, and the rebels knew it. Even before the charge reached them, sections of their ranks began to waver and break, some already fleeing in disarray. A smile spread across Tristifer's face, his heart soaring with elation. It had all been worth it—they had won; he had won.

Amidst the chaos, he spotted a contingent of rebel cavalry led by Lord Hoster Tully, his silver armor shining defiantly as he prepared to countercharge in a desperate bid to shield their forces. It was a suicidal decision, one that Tristifer hoped would be in vain.

Across the battlefield, he also caught sight of Robert Baratheon, clad in dark armor, positioned on the opposite side of the rebel host from the advancing charge. The sight of the formidable king only added to the gravity of the moment, and Tristifer steeled himself for what was to come.

The countercharge led by Lord Tully was enveloped in moments as time snapped back into its furious pace. Within seconds, they disappeared into the chaos, and Tristifer could only watch as the cavalry charge continued unabated into the rebel flank.

Like a tidal wave, the charge sent ranks of rebels staggering backward, their formation shattered by sheer momentum. The frantic blares of desperate horn calls echoed from every corner of the rebel lines, signaling their panic as cohesion dissolved in an instant.

In response, the royalist horns blared for a full charge, and Tristifer's infantry surged forward, driven by the spirit of victory.

Yet, Tristifer found himself relegated to the role of a spectator, standing there with his heart racing, overwhelmed by the gravity of the events unfolding before him. The thrill of triumph coursed through his veins, momentarily overshadowing the exhaustion that had been gnawing at him. Even as his body protested, a sense of purpose surged within him, fueling his spirit amidst the chaos.

"F-fetch my mount," he ordered haltingly, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. He could feel the Gold Cloaks supporting him tense in surprise at his command.

Without hesitation, Hightower reached beyond his line of sight and retrieved the trusty Courser he had ridden since the battle began. Tristifer managed to shakily slide Lady Forlorn into its empty sheath and, with their assistance, climbed onto the mount, determination reigniting within him as he prepared to do anything during his victory.

He quickly reoriented himself as Hightower mounted alongside a small retinue of Gold Cloaks who had been surrounding him. The main rebel army had devolved into a desperate retreat, with comrades trampling one another in their frantic flight. Tristifer's men cut through those who attempted to resist, while those who surrendered were swiftly captured.

As he neared the rear of his army, Lord Randyll Tarly suddenly emerged from the chaos, mounted, and headed directly toward him. "My Lord," he said, urgency in his voice, "Lord Jon Arryn has been captured after surrendering himself and his household guard. Robert Baratheon is offering fierce resistance with a retinue and perhaps two hundred pikemen. I have summoned archers to break their lines, but we are in a stalemate until then." The lord reported without unnecessary embellishment, his expression grave.

"Fine, what news do we have from Addam and his riders? What about Lord Tully's fate?" Tristifer asked, his thoughts shifting to post-war ambitions. He suspected Lord Hoster should be dead after that charge, but he needed confirmation as soon as possible.

Lord Randyll's expression grew even sterner, his already tight lips forming a firm line. "Lord Tully succumbed in the charge; however—" He was abruptly interrupted by a frantic messenger.

"My lords! Robert Baratheon has broken from our lines and is fleeing with a mounted retinue! The pikemen are providing a rearguard for him. Unless we chase now, he will escape!" the messenger shouted as he rode up on an obviously borrowed horse.

Tristifer turned to Lord Tarly. "Tell me your news before I pursue Baratheon."

"It can wait—"

"Tell me!" Tristifer insisted, unwilling to remain in the dark; the news was clearly significant.

Reluctantly, Tarly relented. "Lord Tully was found skewered on the lance of Ser Addam; Addam was found similarly on Tully's."

Time seemed to halt, just as it had during the charge.

Addam was dead.

Any triumph Tristifer had felt turned to dust and sand in his mouth.

He saw Lord Tarly's mouth moving but could not hear the words. The Reach lord looked increasingly frustrated and desperate, obviously shouting at him.

Tristifer felt numb as he forced himself to respond, the sound returning as he replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

"—the only one who can capture him—" Lord Tarly shouted before being interrupted.

"Let him run; he is irrelevant! A beaten, crippled dog!" Tristifer declared, anger flaring within him.

Now Hightower spoke from his flank. "Lord Hand, surely we should end his threat once and for all. If he were to escape—"

"I will not betray my brother!" Silence fell over the group. "Addam has been my closest friend and most loyal supporter since I could not walk. I will not abandon him now, and that is final." Tristifer declared with unyielding resolve. "Set camp and process the captives."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned his horse toward the spot where Lord Tully had countercharged. The gods damn him if he did not see the truth for himself; he owed an unpayable debt to his brother in all but blood, his chosen brother.

Now he could not even attempt to repay that debt; in many ways, it had been his actions that had led to Addam's death. Grief and exhaustion weighed heavily on him, pressing him down in his saddle as if a mountain had settled on his shoulders. Each breath felt like a struggle, and the world around him faded into a blur of chaos and noise, the triumphant cries of victory now tainted with sorrow.

Addam was dead, and nothing would ever be the same again.

End of Chapter

Ambition is never rewarded freely, and we are in the Game of Thrones universe.

I hope you all enjoyed this climactic end to the Robert's Rebellion. Baratheon lives but his armies are no more, His allies are dead like Lord Tully or captured like Lord Arryn, Lannister, and Stark. He is not dead yet though and this will not be the last we hear of him.

Now comes the consequences of Rebellion, the new world in Tristifer's vision or at least in his interests (He can not do whatever he wants). House Mudd now has a Valyrian Steel blade as well.

I hope to see you all for the next chapter and further!