The forests of Mossovy were said to be haunted by shapeshipfters, daemons, and the hunters who slew them—old stories from the Eastern expanse that most travelers scoffed at. But Harrold Gryffindor had never been one for scoffing at old tales. Over the last few weeks, he and his crew had braved the dense canopy, pushing inland from the Shivering Sea. The catamaran, Neptune, lay moored on a distant river, and Harrold's expedition now made camp at the edge of the forest. By day, they scouted the woodlands and listened for any hint of the fabled horrors. By night, they huddled around watch-fires, sharing quiet speculation about shadowy silhouettes glimpsed at the fringes of torchlight.

One evening, the moon was hidden behind scudding clouds, casting the world into deep, murky darkness. Harrold's camp was still. The men had turned in after another fruitless day of searching. Harrold himself sat in his tent, a modest structure of enchanted canvas that gleamed faintly with runic wards repelling insects and predators. He scribbled notes in a pocket journal, describing the terrain and the day's findings, which were disappointingly sparse.

Outside, the nighttime hush weighed heavily. Now and then, a lonely hoot resonated among the knotted trees, but all else was silence.

Suddenly, Harrold's bracelet—the runic communication device—began to faintly glow and pulse. He frowned, immediately aware that such a signal meant urgent news. Setting aside his quill, Harrold tapped the etched swirl on the bracelet to read the message. The runic pattern flickered, urging him to check the linked journal they used for long-form transmissions.

With a muttered incantation, Harrold retrieved the linked journal from his pack. He flipped open to the final blank page, where words began scribbling themselves in luminous script:

Cyric to Harrold: URGENT
Time Received: Late evening

"My lord, grave news. Lyanna has been kidnapped. Ambushed near Harrenhal while traveling to the God's Eye. The Crown Prince, Arthur Dayne, and Oswell Whent carried her off. The two clones assigned to her were murdered in their sleep. One managed to send a final message before he died. A barely surviving guard confirmed everything.

Brandon, who was at Moat Cailin, left hotheadedly for King's Landing, rallying some heirs of the North to demand her return. This is dire. I fear the King's paranoia or the Crown Prince's impulses. Brandon is fueled by rage—he did not wait for counsel.

We await your guidance."

Harrold's eyes darted across the lines, and anger rose in him like a roaring flame. Each sentence hammered at his composure: Lyanna… kidnapped… Crown Prince… clones murdered. The page began to flicker with residual magic as though reflecting Harrold's raging temper. Outside, a breeze swirled, stirring dead leaves around the tent, his wards responding to his emotional surge.

Harrold ground his teeth, reading the last lines about Brandon's rash departure. Of course Brandon would not hesitate—he's always been hotheaded. An immediate sense of doom weighed on Harrold's heart: if Brandon arrived in King's Landing demanding justice, the King's paranoia or Crown Prince's arrogance could spark disaster. Worse still, if Rickard or the other Northmen also rushed in, the entire realm might tip toward war.

Murdering Harrold's clones cut as deeply as any personal assault. They were a part of him, shaped by his magic, loyal beyond measure. The fact that they had died in their sleep—betrayed or overpowered—only inflamed his fury. That the Crown Prince was behind this kidnapping was equally appalling. Harrold had known the Targaryen heir to be reserved but never expected him to stoop to abducting a noble lady, let alone Lyanna Stark, who was betrothed to Harrold. This violated every norm of courtesy and law. He remembered reading of Lyanna's adventures at Harrenhall in the journal fondly but never expected it to result in this situation.

Harrold forced himself to breathe steadily, to keep from letting his anger consume him. Focus, he commanded himself. Anger does no good if it leads to recklessness. Lyanna needs me sane and sharp.

He scribbled a swift reply in the margin of the journal:

Harrold to Cyric:
"Received. Acknowledge Brandon's departure. Urge Rickard to remain calm, do nothing until I return. I'm leaving Mossovy immediately. Prepare the Neptune at once for a swift journey back to Westeros."

With that, he snapped the journal shut, mind spinning with what needed to be done next. If the Crown Prince took Lyanna, could she be in King's Landing? Or possibly spirited away to some unknown location? The only certainty was that war might loom if this wasn't handled carefully.

Stepping out of the tent, Harrold found Clone Elenna and a handful of other companions guarding the perimeter. They blinked in surprise at the tension in his posture.

Elenna touched the rune stone on her belt, alarmed. "My lord, is something amiss?"

Harrold's voice was clipped but controlled. "We're leaving at once, returning to the North—then straight to King's Landing. Pack everything. Summon the rest of the crew."

Elenna read the seriousness in his eyes. "What of Mossovy's rumored shapeshifters and daemons?"

Harrold gave a bitter laugh. "They can keep their secrets. There's a crisis at home. Lyanna was kidnapped." Without another word, he marched deeper into the campsite, rousing the men and magicals from slumber. Within the hour, the expedition was stowing gear, quenching fires, and striking tents. The gloom of Mossovy's forest seemed to press in, as if the land itself recognized the tension of a mission abandoned.

Two days of grueling travel brought them back to the river where Neptune waited. No further exploration, no more hunts for mythical Mossovian beasts. Harrold's mind was singularly set on returning to Westeros. The urgency he felt seemed to seep into every corner of the expedition; they traveled day and night.

At last, the catamaran's dual hulls emerged from the thick morning mist. The skeleton crew left behind to guard her greeted Harrold with surprise but quickly mobilized. Provisions were loaded at breakneck speed, while runes were double-checked to ensure the Neptune could handle the swift voyage across the open sea.

When Harrold gave the order, the Neptune's triple propellers roared to life, the catamaran cutting through the calm waters like an arrow. They set course for Portsmouth first—though he suspected he might only linger briefly to gather reinforcements before heading straight to King's Landing.

Clone Alaric, at the helm, frowned. "We're pushing the runes to near-maximum capacity, my lord. We'll reach Portsmouth in record time, but the wards might need recharging."

Harrold's jaw tightened. "Do it. Time is everything. If Brandon storms into King's Landing with the northern heirs, demanding Lyanna's release…" He let the grim scenario speak for itself. King Aerys's paranoia and the Crown Prince's madness were a lethal combination. War might be a breath away.

As the Neptune accelerated, the deck bristled with anxious energy. Sailors and magicals alike sensed the tension emanating from Harrold. Lyanna, abducted… the clones murdered… even the best illusions of diplomacy could fail in the face of this travesty.

In a private moment near the prow, Harrold glared at the horizon, arms folded. How dare they? he thought. That a Targaryen would seize my betrothed, kill my clones… do they think themselves untouchable? He knew, however, that a direct confrontation with the crown could spark a realm-wide conflict. Rickard had to hold his fury in check. Brandon was less likely to do so, which spelled disaster.

He inhaled deeply, forcing calm. I must solve this with both cunning and might. The Crown Prince has no right to Lyanna. If the King endorses it, it's an act of war. If not, then we have a hostage crisis. The catamaran plowed on, its runes whirring with magical intensity.

Elenna approached quietly, offering a steaming cup of spiced tea. "My lord," she said softly, "you should rest. The journey is long."

Harrold shook his head. "I'll rest once Lyanna is safe and Brandon hasn't doomed himself. For now, I plan. I will not be caught unprepared again."

And so, the catamaran sprinted across the waters with unwavering purpose, carrying Harrold Gryffindor back to a realm on the brink—where betrothals, alliances, and the precarious balance of peace all hung by the slender thread of a kidnapping.

Harrold stood at the stern of the Neptune, the twin hulls slicing effortlessly through gray, choppy waters as the catamaran sped toward Portsmouth. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, mirroring the growing dread in Harrold's heart. A coded flicker in his linked journal interrupted the tense quiet; even before he read the words, he knew it would not be good news.

Stepping into the small chart-room near the catamaran's helm, Harrold snapped open the journal. Greenish runic script flowed onto a blank page.

Myric (King's Landing):
"My lord, Brandon and the other Northern heirs have demanded Crown Prince Rhaegar answer for his crime. The King responded by throwing them into the Black Cells. They are imprisoned below the Red Keep. The city murmurs of rebellion. I await your orders but have not intervened."

Harrold's jaw tightened. His frustration built with each word: Brandon's hotheadedness has landed him in chains, and the King answered with cruelty. Slamming the book closed, Harrold exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. A war seemed ever closer to igniting.

He hastened back on deck, calling for the Neptune to increase speed. We're barely half a day from Portsmouth. I must reach Rickard, then head to King's Landing with all haste.

Late that afternoon, Portsmouth's harbor came into view, its piers brimming with cargo and crews. The Neptune slowed as she approached the docks, the rune-powered propellers churning the water in careful measure. A small reception awaited Harrold, among them Rickard Stark, who looked pale and grim.

As soon as Harrold set foot on the pier, Rickard approached with a quick nod. "We've no time for pleasantries, Harrold. I received word that Brandon and our men are in the Black Cells."

Harrold dipped his head in a curt gesture. "I've read the same. The King moves swiftly to stifle dissent—but we must move swifter to free your son."

Rickard sighed, voice trembling with worry. "I fear what they might do to Brandon… or to the others. The realm's on the edge of madness. My lord, if this escalates—"

Harrold placed a hand on Rickard's arm in reassurance. "We'll discuss it on board the Neptune. Every moment we wait is a moment Brandon remains at that tyrant's mercy."

Within the hour, Rickard and a handful of his trusted guards boarded the catamaran. The lines were cast off, and Neptune once more tore across the sea, bound for King's Landing at breakneck speed.

In the ship's strategic cabin, Harrold spread a map of the Seven Kingdoms across a table, weighing the political fallout with Rickard. Lantern light danced on the polished wood, illuminating their worried faces.

Harrold, voice low: "Brandon's rashness handed the King exactly what he needs to brand the North as traitors. With Lyanna missing, the Crown Prince's guilt is obvious, but the realm might side with the King if he spreads lies of Northern rebellion."

Rickard ran a hand through his hair. "We've no proof beyond witnesses who might vanish in the dungeons. A war seems inevitable now." The old Stark gazed at the map with weary eyes. "How can we stand alone against the Iron Throne? The entire realm's resources would come crashing down on us."

Harrold studied Rickard carefully. "You and I both know the North is vast, but its population is sparse compared to the south. We can't defeat them alone, even with Moat Cailin as a bulwark." He sighed. "War is indeed unavoidable—unless the Crown yields, which is unlikely. Prince Rhaegar is the King's beloved heir. He'll protect him at all costs."

The ship rolled with a mild swell, and Rickard braced himself on the table. "Then we must find allies," he said firmly.

Harrold nodded, tapping the map. "The North, on its own, can hold out for a time, but not forever. You mentioned we might sway the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands?"

Rickard exhaled slowly. "The Vale's current lord, Jon Arryn, was once close to me. He might be willing to stand with us if he's convinced of the Crown's treachery. The Stormlands have Robert Baratheon as heir—another hothead, but if we manage to show him the injustice done to us, he may rally to our cause. As for the Riverlands… well, Hoster Tully always seeks beneficial marriages and trade. He might demand concessions, but given how the North's newfound self-sufficiency impacted his markets, he might leap at a chance to secure favorable terms."

Harrold's gaze lingered on the silhouette of Westeros. "The Vale, Stormlands, and Riverlands allied with the North… that's a formidable coalition indeed. We'd ring the Crown from multiple sides. Even the Reach might hesitate to fight such a union."

Rickard let out a shaky breath, hope flickering in his eyes. "Yes. We still have time to orchestrate these alliances before open conflict ignites. But we must hurry. If the King executes Brandon or if Rhaegar weds Lyanna forcibly…"

Harrold gave a somber nod. "We can't permit that. The realm might break under the strain."

They emerged onto the deck. The sea churned behind Neptune's stern, runes thrumming as they propelled the vessel forward at extraordinary speed. The day had turned stormy, clouds gathering overhead.

Standing near the rail, Rickard looked out at the darkening sky, murmuring, "I never wanted this. I wanted Lyanna safe at Moat Cailin, a peaceful life in the North. Brandon was supposed to be my heir, not a hostage in the Red Keep."

Harrold placed a reassuring hand on Rickard's shoulder. "I know. But we can't reverse what the Crown has done. Only meet it head-on."

Rickard's voice came out in a whisper, "You've done so much for the North already, Harrold. Yet we ask more—risks greater than any fortress you built. I—"

Harrold halted him with a nod. "It's not just the North's fight. They murdered my people, abducted my betrothed. It's personal now. I won't walk away."

A flicker of gratitude in Rickard's eyes preceded a grim acceptance. "Then let us do what must be done."

With the plan set, the Neptune's crew redoubled their efforts, coaxing every knot of speed from the catamaran's triple propellers. No storms or sea serpents emerged to hinder them—only the gathering sense of confrontation waiting in the capital.

Below deck, Harrold prepared messages for his clones scattered throughout Westeros, instructing them to approach key houses quietly. He penned urgent letters sealed with his silver griffin sigil for Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon, and Hoster Tully, hinting that the Crown's recent acts threatened the realm's stability. If conflict grew, their unity might preserve peace or at least ensure they had a chance to stand against royal tyranny.

Rickard paced the corridor, wrestling with paternal fears for Brandon and Lyanna, often pausing to shoot Harrold a haunted look. Even if we rescue Brandon and the other Northmen, if Lyanna is still missing, war may be unstoppable. Harrold recognized it, a silent vow on Rickard's face: no outcome could be acceptable unless Lyanna was safe.

Days passed, each dawn finding the Neptune closer to the coast of the Crownlands. The tension aboard the catamaran thickened, communications from the clones trickling in. Myric's notes indicated the King's paranoia intensifying, while Prince Rhaegar is nowhere to be found. The Red Keep bristled with suspicion, rumor swirling that a war was indeed brewing.

Harrold stood with Rickard on the bow as they spotted the faint silhouette of land. Waves crashed, and gulls circled overhead, ominous in their shrill calls. "We'll anchor near the Blackwater Rush and proceed carefully," Harrold said.

Rickard's jaw tightened. "Once I set foot in King's Landing, I must be ready to face the King's fury if he even suspects an uprising."

Harrold gave the older man a respectful bow of his head. "Whatever the cost, we free Brandon. Then, if they resist, the North stands ready for war—alongside any allies we can secure. The Crown Prince's crime will not go unanswered."

Lightning flickered on the far horizon, an apt reflection of the turmoil in both men's hearts. Out in the watery gloom ahead lay King's Landing, and behind them, a united North thirsted for justice. The causeway and luxurious walls of Moat Cailin felt a thousand miles away now, overshadowed by the capital's looming threat.

Thus the Neptune pressed onward, carrying Harrold Gryffindor and Lord Rickard Stark straight into the storm of royal intrigue—war or peace balanced on a knife's edge, and time running short to save Brandon and to uncover Lyanna's fate.

King's Landing unfurled before the Neptune at dawn, a sprawl of red-roofed buildings climbing up toward the towering Red Keep. Under normal circumstances, any large vessel approaching the capital's waters would find itself scrutinized by the city's harbor authorities. But on this day, the imposing catamaran slipped into Blackwater Bay veiled by powerful Notice-Me-Not wards, its twin hulls slicing through the water like a specter in the gloom.

Harrold Gryffindor stood at the catamaran's prow, his cloak whipping behind him in the brisk morning wind. Rickard Stark stood beside him, the Stark lord's face ashen and drawn. Harrold held a newly received note in his hand, the final straw that torched any hope of resolving matters peacefully: the King had taken Brandon Stark's right hand as punishment.

Harrold's voice was grim as he turned to Rickard. "Your son's maimed, imprisoned with other northern heirs in the black cells. The King has shown his cruelty. If we tried to parley, he'd likely do far worse."

Rickard's eyes flared with silent rage, his hands clenching. "Then negotiation is impossible."

Harrold nodded. "I see no road that doesn't lead to war. But first, we must free Brandon and the others. If the King believed he could so easily carve up the North, he'll find we're not pawns."

A hush fell between them, both men reconciling with the reality. Finally, Rickard cleared his throat. "Tell me your plan."

Harrold exhaled slowly, forcing composure. "You'll not meet the King. The risk is too great. I'll sneak in with twenty of my best people. We'll break Brandon and the heirs out of the black cells. Once they're safe, you'll take them north on the Neptune. I'll remain in King's Landing to find Lyanna."

Anxious lines pulled at Rickard's features, but he acceded with a nod. "If Brandon lost his hand, I dread to think what they've done—or plan to do—to Lyanna."

Harrold murmured in agreement. "We mustn't let that stand."

Under a canopy of Notice-Me-Not wards, the Neptune drifted with eerie silence toward King's Landing's docks. With the wards cloaking the catamaran from prying eyes, no harbor guard rang alarms. Even the usual traffic on the Blackwater Rush overlooked the vessel as though it didn't exist.

Moments after anchoring in a small cove near the city walls, Harrold assembled his strike team: twenty experienced magicals and clones. Rickard stayed behind, fingering the pommel of his sword in frustration, but obedient to Harrold's counsel.

"Await our return," Harrold said quietly. "Keep the wards up. Once we have the prisoners aboard, you'll set sail north with them. Meanwhile, I'll vanish into the city and track down any leads on Lyanna."

Rickard swallowed hard. "The moment Brandon and the others are safe, I'll go… speak with the Vale, the Stormlands, and hopefully the Riverlands. Our only chance is forging alliances."

Harrold placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "They'll listen. We must trust in that."

Under the cover of night, Harrold led his twenty handpicked fighters through the Kings Landing's streets, once again enshrouded by personal Notice-Me-Not illusions. Even so, tension thrummed among them—no infiltration into the Red Keep was without peril, especially the black cells deep beneath it.

Navigating the city's winding streets, they bypassed taverns and guard patrols. A handful of illusions concealed their presence as they slipped into a shadowy courtyard near the Red Keep's eastern foundation. Harrold had spent many hours studying every detail gleaned from his clones stationed in King's Landing, so he guided them confidently through lesser-known sally ports and servants' passages.

At last, they descended into the bowels of the keep, the air growing dank and stale. Torchlight flickered on slimy walls. Distant wails echoed from the black cells—a place of despair. Harrold gestured for silence, tapping runes on his sleeve to cloak their footsteps.

They surprised two guards in a dimly lit corridor. Before the guards could shout, Harrold's magical companions froze them with a hush of spell and muffled illusions. The men were quickly bound and gagged. Doors along these corridors were thick with iron, each sealed with a heavy lock.

Harrold's heart pounded as they moved from cell to cell. In the torchlight, his expression hardened each time he saw cowering wretches or half-starved petty criminals behind bars. Finally, in the deepest corridor, they found Brandon Stark—slumped on a straw pallet, one arm ending in a stub wrapped with dirty bandages.

"Brandon," Harrold hissed, pressing a hand against the iron bars. A clone swiftly used a runic lockpick to pop the door open.

Brandon stirred, blinking in shock. "Harrold… you came," he rasped, voice hoarse from pain and dehydration.

Harrold quickly stepped inside, rummaging for a healing salve. "Hold still," he murmured, gently applying a balm to Brandon's stump. The young Stark grimaced. "Bastards took my hand… for 'treason.'"

Elenna whispered from behind Harrold, "We must hurry. Guards could return anytime."

Brandon roused himself, regaining some defiance. "They took the others—heir Jeffery Mallister from Seagard, and many more. They're scattered in these cells."

Harrold's eyes flicked around the corridor. "We'll find them all." Indeed, one by one, they located the captured heirs, battered but alive. Among them, to Harrold's astonishment, was Jeffery Mallister, the heir of House Mallister in the Riverlands, his face drawn and bruised.

"Lord Gryffindor," Jason said in a shaky voice, "I never thought I'd see rescue. The King's men seized me when I tried speaking out against the Crown Prince's… indiscretion."

Harrold offered a curt nod. "You're safe with us now—quietly. We're extracting you all."

The rescue party moved swiftly. The cramped corridors made illusions more difficult, but Harrold's men stunned or bypassed any guards. More runic lockpicks hissed, freeing bars, until they gathered a ragged group of six or seven heirs, including a battered but unbroken Brandon.

At the final corridor, a guard detail approached, presumably alerted by missing sentries. Elenna raised a hand, conjuring a shimmering barrier that momentarily confused the guards' senses—Notice-Me-Not layered with illusions of an empty corridor. The rescue party slipped past, hearts pounding.

At last, they emerged under the moonlit sky outside the Red Keep's foundation. With each step, Harrold guided them behind illusions or wards, ensuring no mass alarm was sounded. By the time the city watch realized anything was amiss, the freed prisoners and their rescuers had reached the docks.

They boarded a small barge Harrold's clone had commandeered. Poling swiftly down the Blackwater Rush, they approached the cove where the Neptune remained invisible under heavy wards. Though Brandon's arm bled anew, he never complained, determined to see the mission through.

When Harrold's group arrived at the hidden catamaran, Rickard was on deck, eyes wild with anxiety. He let out a broken sound of relief on seeing his son, albeit missing a hand. He rushed forward, gathering Brandon in a gentle embrace. The father's face was etched with sorrow and wrath.

Rickard, voice thick: "Gods, they did this… they'll pay. Brandon, my boy—are you strong enough for travel?"

Brandon nodded, though color drained from his face. "I can travel. But father, where is Lyanna? They—" His voice faltered, tears threatening.

Harrold stepped in gently. "I have no certainty, but I suspect the Crown Prince holds her somewhere. I'll find her. You must go home." He turned to Rickard, expression resolute. "Take Brandon, heir Mallister, and the other heirs. Sail for the North immediately. Gather allies. The Vale, the Stormlands—use the fostering ties with Eddard and Robert. Possibly woo the Riverlands with concessions. We cannot stand alone."

Rickard nodded shakily, his paternal protective streak warring with the necessity of forming alliances. "I'll do it. We'll muster what forces we can. The realm will realize the Crown is in the wrong."

Harrold took a step back, scanning the ragged group of rescued heirs. "Brandon, stay strong. Let them see you, let your missing hand speak of the Crown's brutality. That alone might bring half the lords to our side."

With quiet efficiency, clones and sailors ushered the freed prisoners onto the Neptune. Rickard, one hand still clutching Brandon's shoulder, stared at Harrold. "What of you? If you remain in King's Landing—"

Harrold's lips formed a hard line. "I must. Lyanna's abduction remains unresolved. The King and his son have gone too far. If I can learn where they're hiding her, I will free her or die trying. War might be inevitable, but I won't leave Lyanna to suffer alone."

Rickard gave a slow, solemn bow. "You have my gratitude, Harrold Gryffindor. May the old gods watch over you." His voice grew louder for the others to hear: "When next we meet, it may be on the battlefield, unless the gods grant a miracle."

Harrold nodded, stepping away from the catamaran's boarding plank. "I'll find my own way from here. The Neptune's wards will cloak your journey north. Good luck, Lord Stark."

Shortly after, Rickard Stark ordered the Neptune's departure. Harrold watched from the cove as the catamaran faded into the night, its illusions masking it from the city watch. He stood alone on the deserted quay, cloak fluttering. So it begins, he mused silently, a swirl of anger and resolve fueling him. The King will know the North's fury. But first, I will find Lyanna—and ensure that the Prince pays for his vile deed.

Turning his back to the dark sea, Harrold slipped into an alley and vanished into the labyrinth of King's Landing with illusions dancing about him. War loomed, alliances yet to be forged. And far from the safety of the North, one man walked the shadows, determined to rescue his betrothed from the heart of regal madness.

Gulltown, perched on the edge of the Vale's eastern coast, had long served as the gateway to the richer, protected hinterlands ruled by House Arryn. Its harbor, normally welcoming ships laden with grain or travelers bound for the Vale's mountainous strongholds, now bristled with tension. Men-at-arms hurried along the quay. Guards with Arryn and Grafton sigils eyed one another warily from makeshift barricades. High overhead, gulls wheeled in restless circles, as if sensing the conflict about to unfold.

In the bay approached the Neptune, the sleek catamaran that had carried Lord Rickard Stark from the tumult in King's Landing. Accompanying him were Harrold Gryffindor's legionnaires—grim-faced men whose stoic demeanor betrayed months of training and the swirling rumors of war. As the Neptune glided into the harbor, its runic wards faded, revealing a sight that startled both loyalists and rebels alike.

Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, stood on the eastern ridge overseeing Gulltown. His banners flapped in the breeze—the moon-and-falcon raised high to signal open revolt against the Iron Throne. Beside him, Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon surveyed the city's defenses. Smoke rose from pockets near the wharf, where scuffles had already broken out.

Jon's steward approached, breathing heavily. "My lord, Marq Grafton has declared for the king. He's seized half the town and barred our entry from the docks. Loyalists from neighboring houses have come to bolster him."

Jon Arryn's expression hardened. "Then the time for parley is past. We free Gulltown from the Crown's grip, or else we lose our best chance to supply the Vale in the coming war." He turned to Robert. "The port is crucial for both of us, my lord. If the crown holds it, we're as good as choked."

Robert Baratheon, young and broad-shouldered, grunted agreement. "Let Grafton try. This town won't remain loyal to a mad king for long, not with us on the field." He spun to Eddard. "Ned, you take the left flank with Arryn's men. I'll go center. Let Lord Stark and Gryffindor's men handle the rest from the sea."

Meanwhile, the Neptune eased beside a battered stone jetty at the eastern section of the harbor. Rickard Stark, wearing leathers embossed with the direwolf of House Stark, stepped onto the dock. Behind him stood a contingent of Harrold's legionnaires, each armed with runic-forged weapons. Their presence drew stares from local Vale spearmen.

A man in Arryn's livery ran up, saluting. "My lord Stark, Lord Arryn is pressing the attack from the north side. Grafton loyalists hold the southern docks. They've barricaded the main approach to the city square."

Rickard nodded. "Then we strike from here, dividing their focus. Where is Robert?"

"Leading the main assault with Lord Arryn and your son Eddard, my lord."

A flicker of relief crossed Rickard's face at hearing Eddard's name involved. At least one of my sons is safe for the moment. "Good. Then we'll make sure Grafton's men don't turn the tide. Rally the men; we attack by sea and move into the docks from behind."

Jon Arryn, Robert, and Eddard led their forces toward Gulltown's northern gate. Grafton's men, dug in behind hastily erected defenses, rained arrows upon the attackers. Yet the loyalist defense began to falter as they realized an assault now came from the harbor side as well.

Down by the pier, Rickard commanded the legionnaires with quiet authority. Sensing the advantage of the smaller "gun boats" and the vantage from the water, he sent a half-dozen men aboard one such vessel. The craft's runic scorpions spat flaming bolts into Grafton's barricades, scattering defenders who never expected an attack from behind. The legionnaires then leaped ashore, bridging the gap with ladders and short causeways.

The defenders reeled under the dual pressure—Arryn's upright banners and Robert's roaring war cries at the city gate, plus the unstoppable wave of heavily armed men seizing the docks. Marq Grafton tried mustering a rally near the central square, but panic rippled among the loyalists as the gates gave way and the sea-based legionnaires closed in.

Robert Baratheon broke through a half-barricaded street, warhammer in hand, his broad frame unstoppable. Lord Grafton emerged from the swirling chaos, sword raised high. "Traitors! All of you shall hang for defying the King!" he roared.

Robert smirked, blood pumping with the thrill of battle. "The king called for Ned's and my heads. He'll get none but yours instead." With that, he lunged forward.

Grafton swung his blade in a fierce arc, but Robert caught it on the haft of his hammer, then knocked the man's sword aside with brute strength. A second blow smashed into Grafton's chest, denting armor and sending him to his knees. Robert didn't hesitate, driving the hammer home. Marq Grafton collapsed in a broken heap, rallying cry dying in his throat.

The scattered Grafton loyalists, seeing their lord fall, dropped weapons or fled. Cries of surrender echoed through the street.

Within an hour, Gulltown belonged to the rebels. Near the docks, Rickard oversaw the last pockets of resistance being subdued. Jon Arryn arrived shortly after, crossing paths with Rickard in the newly secured harbor.

Jon lifted a hand in greeting. "Your landing forced them to fight on two fronts. We owe you a debt, Lord Stark."

Rickard inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Harrold Gryffindor's men deserve credit. The sea assault shattered their lines. But how fares the city?"

Jon gestured at the broken barricades, the swirl of loyalist prisoners. "It's ours. Robert finished Lord Grafton. The crown's hold on the Vale is done."

Nearby, Robert himself appeared, wiping sweat from his brow. Blood spattered his mail. "Gulltown is secure. We'll need to root out any lingering loyalists, but they've lost their leader."

Robert Baratheon stood at the head of a long table. "Now we part ways, my lords," he declared. "Storm's End must be rallied. My brother Stannis is too young, but we have supporters in the Stormlands who'll heed my call. Thank Lord Gryffindor for giving me one of his ships to make the passage swiftly."

Jon Arryn agreed, "Then the Vale stands with the North, the Stormlands. Together, we're stronger than the king realizes."

Eddard shot his father a questioning look. "And Harrold? Will he also head north ?"

Rickard's expression turned grim. "No. He remained in King's Landing. Harrold aims to find Lyanna before this war claims her life."

Jon's face darkened at the mention of Lyanna's kidnapping. "Rhaegar's cruelty brings doom upon House Targaryen. So be it."

They emerged from the building into the midday sun. The battered city bustled with troops reorganizing, loyalist prisoners under guard, and the wounded receiving aid. Robert strode to the docks, where a swift, rune-enhanced gun boat awaited him. Rickard accompanied him, sharing a final handshake.

Robert, gripping Rickard's wrist: "We'll meet again in the field, Lord Stark. Until then, gather your forces. We'll show the King that we kneel to no tyrant."

Rickard nodded curtly. "The North will rise. And the Vale, the Stormlands, perhaps even the Riverlands… We'll forge alliances Harrold recommended. The King won't defeat a united front."

The thunder of hooves heralded Eddard's approach. He clasped Robert's shoulder. "Stay safe, old friend. We'll link up soon enough, with swords bared."

With that, Robert boarded the gun boat, its small crew of Harrold's legionnaires powering the scorpion-runic engines. It glided off, vanishing swiftly beyond Gulltown's harbor.

As the triumphant rebels took stock of their victory, Rickard Stark gazed over the city's battered ramparts. The thousand emotions surging through him—anger, worry for Brandon and Lyanna, relief at Eddard's survival—settled into a quiet determination.

His mind echoed Harrold's counsel: If the Riverlands can be won, the crown might be cornered. Memories of Moat Cailin's unstoppable walls and Harrold's wonders reminded him they had a chance at forging a new order. But first, alliances had to be cemented.

Eddard joined him, scanning the horizon where Robert's boat disappeared. "You'll head to Riverrun, Father?"

Rickard nodded. "Yes, we must speak with Hoster Tully. Harrold said the Tullys might respond well to concessions. I'll do whatever it takes to bring them to our cause."

Nodding in agreement, Eddard's gaze shifted eastward, where dark clouds hovered over the sea. "And Harrold… may the gods protect him in King's Landing."

Rickard placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder, channeling a father's unwavering resolve. "Yes. He's risking everything. We must do the same—for our family and for the North. Let the war come if it must. We'll be ready."

With the storm of war gathering, Gulltown's victory stood as a first step toward a broader conflict that would shape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms—one that Harrold Gryffindor, Rickard, Eddard, Jon Arryn, and Robert Baratheon would see through to the bitter end.

AN – If you recognize anything, they don't belong to me. Please note that I am using AI to help me write the story. If the words, dialogue feel little off, that's the reason. I simply do not have the time, energy or the talent to write without AI. If I did, I would publish my own book. I am writing because it makes me happy and hope you will find it interesting. If not, there are plenty of other talented writers and many amazing stories to read.