Harrold spent countless nights in the low taverns of King's Landing, mind-probing ruffians and discreetly reading the thoughts of guards—anything to uncover where Lyanna might be. Yet the Crown Prince was careful not to leave any clues leaving Harrold with little more than dead ends.
By chance, however, he finally stumbled on a lead: a half-drunken footman who had once served in the Red Keep and recalled overhearing a furtive conversation between the Crown Prince and Ser Arthur Dayne. The two had mentioned an abandoned tower in Dorne, nestled north of Kingsgrave—a remote place seldom visited and ideal for hiding a noble hostage.
Seizing this scant clue, Harrold set out southward. Weeks passed in a harrowing blur of dusty roads and scorching desert passes. Each day brought new inquiries and further efforts at mind-reading as he doggedly pushed away the dread that he might be too late. The lonely tower between the Vulture's Roost and Kingsgrave was the only glimmer of hope he possessed, and he clung to it with fierce determination.
Another scorching day faded into a red-gold sunset over Dorne's rugged landscape, painting the jagged mountains in crimson shadows. Harrold Gryffindor, however, felt none of the beauty—only the ache of frustration and weariness. For weeks, he had scoured the Seven Kingdoms, from King's Landing to the southern deserts, following fleeting clues about Lyanna Stark's whereabouts. Every step of the way, the world's eccentric magic confounded him, reminding him that he was not in his old reality. His spells—cunning, advanced in his previous life—worked poorly here, and the Point Me spell refused to yield any result.
He silently cursed himself for not insisting that Lyanna wear a tracking bracelet—one of the runic devices that allowed him to locate his people across land or sea. Without it, her trail was maddeningly elusive.
At dusk one evening, after a final stretch of barren foothills, Harrold crested a rocky rise and saw it: a lonely tower, half-shadowed against a blood-red sky. It stood alone, squat and stark, its stones bleached by the relentless Dornish sun. A perfect place to keep a hostage unseen.
As he drew closer, his magic senses tingled. The wards set around the tower were faint—classic Targaryen regalia, some old runic heraldry. Through the gloom, he made out three figures standing guard outside: knights in white cloaks. The Kingsguard.
"So here's where you've hidden her," Harrold muttered under his breath, cold fury boiling in his veins. Months of fruitless searching ended here, yet he realized the significance of the defenders: Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and the Lord Commander Gerold Hightower—legends all, sworn to protect the Crown Prince. For them to stand vigil meant Rhaegar Targaryen himself planned this carefully.
Harrold approached the tower under the cover of illusions, every nerve tight with the urgency of reaching Lyanna. There, on the threshold, stood three Kingsguard—Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower—gleaming white cloaks marking them as royal protectors. Harrold felt no time to parlay or spar; Lyanna was within, and each heartbeat counted.
He emerged from his illusions with ruthless speed, raising both hands in a blur of magical energy. Three cutting curses shot forth in perfect unison, each streaking toward its target in a wicked arc of light. The Kingsguard barely had time to register their deaths: Dayne went down first with a hollow gasp; Whent's sword arm dropped uselessly mid-lunge; Hightower, in the midst of drawing steel, never finished the motion. In an instant, all three collapsed to the ground, cloaks staining crimson against the dust.
Harrold spared not a second glance. Their demise, swift and merciless, was the price for standing between him and Lyanna. He pushed past the still bodies, each step propelled by grim resolve.
The tower door, simple oak reinforced with iron, succumbed swiftly to Harrold's ward-dispelling runes. Inside, the air smelled stale—dusty with disuse. He climbed a spiral staircase, passing rooms with scattered possessions that hinted at a hurried habitation. Eventually, he reached a chamber at the top of the tower, its window barred to keep out the searing Dornish sun.
There, Lyanna Stark stood, pale but unbroken. Beside her was a woman servant, eyes wide with alarm at the sudden intrusion. Lyanna froze for a heartbeat, then recognition lit her features.
"Harrold!" her voice trembled, relief and fear mingling.
Harrold stepped forward, chest tight. "Lyanna, I'm here. I'm sorry it took so long."
She rushed to him, her expression twisted with myriad emotions. Then, almost reflexively, she pressed a hand to her abdomen. "Harrold, I— I'm pregnant." The words trembled, each syllable a bombshell.
It took a moment for Harrold to absorb, his anger flaring anew at the Crown Prince's vile act. Yet he forced calm for her sake. "Then we'll see you protected," he said softly. "All of you. I'll not let them use you as a pawn or harm you further."
Lyanna stared into his eyes, tears brimming. "I feared… my father, Brandon, the North—how they'd react. But you… you can help?"
Harrold nodded, his tone firm. "I can. The North has seen too many horrors already. You'll come with me, out of harm's way."
The servant, a young woman with haunted eyes, timidly bowed. "My lady refused to eat some days, terrified of the child's future. I tried to help."
Harrold gave her a gentle nod. "You did well. Both of you will leave this place. The North is in chaos—war looms. But I have a safe haven."
Harrold led them swiftly down the stairs, stepping over the fallen Kingsguard with a grim finality. Lyanna flinched at the sight, but her resolve never wavered. She must realize the old ways are gone. Westeros stands at the brink, and the towers of law have crumbled.
He takes the Dawn, the legendary sword of the Daynes and then he moved the bodies inside the tower and seals it, incase anyone want to fins the bones of the fallen.
Outside, dusk had settled. The desert wind whipped at their cloaks as they hurried to the waiting horses. Harrold conjured illusions to cloak their departure, wanting no watchful eyes reporting back to the Crown. They rode through the Princes Pass, winding through dusty canyons and tall spires of sandstone, ever mindful of the potential pursuit.
Yet Harrold was done running. If they hunted him, he would face them with fury. Lyanna needed freedom.
Days later, they emerged from the pass onto the southern coast of Dorne, where a modest sailboat awaited them—a small craft Harrold had arranged through discreet contacts in the region. The local fisherman who captained it hardly glanced at Lyanna's condition, more interested in the coin Harrold offered to sail them to a secluded cove where a larger Orsus vessel anchored out of sight.
Lyanna, worn from the grueling journey, breathed relief when she saw the deck of the Orsus ship. "And once we reach Orsus, I'll be hidden? My child… protected?"
Harrold's gentle hand steadied her. "Yes. Orsus stands beyond the knowledge of this realm's watchers. You'll have comfort, healers, and all I can provide. My people will shield you. Even the King's eyes can't pierce our wards there."
She managed a shaky smile, glancing at the servant who hovered protectively. "Thank you… for everything."
Onboard, Harrold's loyal crew whisked Lyanna and her companion to a private cabin. He gave instructions to his cloned officers: "Sail at once to Orsus. Keep her hidden and safe. Provide the best healers. Not a word of this is to leave Orsus."
The clones bowed, eyes solemn. They understood the magnitude—Lyanna's pregnancy could shake the realm. "We'll protect her with our lives, my lord."
Harrold took a final moment to kneel by Lyanna's side in the small cabin. "I must go. Brandon and your father, Rickard, are forging alliances to free the North from the King. This war can't end until the Crown answers for what it's done. But rest easy. You're safe now."
Tears glistened in her eyes, but she squeezed his hand. "Stay safe…."
He managed a reassuring smile. "I've no plan to die yet." With that, he rose, leaving her in the care of his trusted men. Another ship waited for him. Time to join the rebellion's main force in the Riverlands.
Harrold boarded the smaller craft at dawn, when the Orsus ship weighed anchor for the hidden island. The sails caught the southern wind, pushing him nearer to the Riverlands with each passing hour. Beneath the deck, runic engines quietly thrummed, cutting travel time drastically. He would meet with Rickard again, perhaps within days. This alliance of North, Vale, Stormlands—and maybe the Riverlands—formed a formidable coalition. When we stand together, the Iron Throne will quake.
Yet, deep in Harrold's mind, a single consolation glowed: Lyanna, safe in Orsus. Her child—whatever lineage it carried—would not become another pawn for the Iron Throne. He had done what he must. Now came the war for Westeros, the final chapter in a saga that began the moment a Targaryen prince abducted a Stark girl and turned the realm upside down.
Hoisting sails, Harrold set his jaw, resolved. The next stop: the Riverlands, where the rebel armies gathered. With luck and cunning, the war might be short—and justice swift.
Riverrun stood tall on the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, its red-and-blue Tully banners dancing in the warm afternoon breeze. Lords and knights, assembled for urgent negotiations, paced the fortress's courtyard with tense faces. Rumor had it that Harrold Gryffindor had arrived—bearing news both dire and desperately sought. Yet, as he crossed the drawbridge into Hoster Tully's seat, he found the Riverlands far from welcoming.
Harrold strode beneath Riverrun's portcullis wearing a measured calm, but the guards who admitted him did so stiffly. The corridors inside felt uncomfortably cool for such a mild day. He caught murmured phrases: sorcerer-lord, North's ally, did not help our harvest sales. Those whispers revealed the resentment some Tully bannermen held for the new Northern self-sufficiency, which had crippled the Riverlands' traditional grain trade.
He was guided to a spacious hall, where Rickard Stark—tense and grim—waited alongside Jon Arryn. The three rebels in this rising war eyed one another wordlessly, the gravity of the times thick in the air. Also present were Eddard Stark and a handful of Tully retainers.
In public, Harrold gave a short, defeated speech: He had found no sign of Lyanna Stark anywhere. The crowd heard him without interruption, but a subdued wave of disappointment rippled through the gathering.
Hoster Tully himself emerged from behind a table, arms folded. "If the Crown Prince hides your betrothed so thoroughly, Lord Gryffindor, what can you do next?"
Harrold offered a cool nod. "We have no choice but to proceed with alliances and readiness for war. The Targaryens have forced our hand. I will force the whereabout of Lyanna from the dying breath of the prince if I have to."
Only later, behind closed doors, did Harrold pull Rickard aside into a secluded antechamber. The older Stark's brow knitted in frustration. "You truly found nothing of Lyanna?" he asked, voice hoarse with desperation.
Harrold locked the door with a subtle flick of runic power and drew closer, lowering his voice. "I said that in public, but it was only half a truth. I did find her, Rickard— and she's pregnant."
Rickard went pale, clutching the back of a wooden chair. "Pregnant? Gods. So the rumors… is it the Crown Prince's child?"
Harrold's eyes glinted with regret. "Aye, it must be. She told me enough to confirm that. But her location had to remain hidden. If the Crown discovered me there, both she and I might not have escaped. I spirited her away, out of Westeros entirely, to a safe place under wards no one will breach. She insisted, for the baby's sake—and until we can bring down the Crown's wrath."
Rickard sagged with relief and heartbreak all at once. "At least she's alive. But by the old gods… a child of Rhaegar Targaryen?" His voice shook.
Harrold's jaw tightened. "It complicates matters. Her child is half Targaryen, half Stark. But first let us focus on winning this war. Then we decide the child's future."
Rickard pressed a hand to his forehead, pain etched on his features. "Thank you, Harrold. I—I don't know how to repay you."
Harrold placed a steady hand on Rickard's arm. "Protect me from the Tully's anger while we strike an alliance. That'll do for now."
With the burden of Lyanna's secret shared, Rickard wiped at his eyes. Then, mustering composure, they left to tackle the negotiations that might tip the war's balance.
A short while later, a solemn hush settled over Riverrun's great hall. Long tables had been arranged, bearing maps of the Riverlands and the North, along with fresh parchment for scribing any agreements. Lord Hoster Tully sat in the seat of honor, flanked by Catelyn and Lysa, his daughters. Behind them stood Tully bannermen, stern-faced men who wore the sign of a silver trout on their tunics.
Opposite them stood Rickard Stark, flanked by Eddard. Jon Arryn observed from one side, his arms folded. Harrold remained near Rickard, though the watchers' eyes lingered on him warily.
Hoster began with a clipped tone: "My lords, you come seeking the Riverlands' support in this war against the Crown. But you must understand, my region has lost coin and commerce since the North ceased buying our surplus grains. Why should we bleed for your rebellion when your new self-sufficiency has harmed our people's purses?"
Rickard opened his mouth to speak, but Harrold stepped in, voice smooth. "We do not deny that trade has changed. However, the North is prepared to meet you halfway. If you ally with us, we'll restore some of the old grain purchases—fifty percent of the previous amounts. And we'll pay, though at a slightly discounted rate, ensuring both sides benefit."
Hoster's eyes narrowed. "Fifty percent? Discounted? I expected more. Our region depends on your custom."
A murmur rippled among the Tully bannermen. Rickard held his ground. "It's the best we can manage, my lord. We cannot sacrifice the North's internal progress, but we won't turn our backs on you. Better partial trade than none. Together, we can defeat the King and reorder the realm to our mutual advantage."
Jon Arryn put in a quiet word: "The Vale stands with the Starks. Imagine a united front of Vale, North, and Riverlands. Add Robert Baratheon's Stormlands, and the King cannot prevail."
Hoster considered, lips thinned in discontent. Finally, he inclined his head. "Fifty percent, at a discount, might suffice to placate my bannermen. But I have another demand: a marriage alliance. Let us bind our houses in a way that cannot be undone by political whim."
Harrold caught the flicker of regret in Rickard's eyes. The Tullys had long desired a union with House Stark. This was the price of alliance.
Hoster pointed to his elder daughter, Catelyn. "She's of marrying age. Brandon Stark is the logical choice, a future Warden of the North."
Rickard sighed. "I respect your reasoning, Lord Tully, but Brandon is already betrothed—to Lady Dustin of the Rills. A vow sworn before the gods. I cannot break that promise."
A stirring of disapproval spread among the Tully side. Hoster's face darkened, but after a moment, he turned to the younger daughter, Lysa. "Then… is Eddard also spoken for?"
Rickard cast a brief look at Ned, who braced himself in silent acceptance. "No. Eddard remains unbound. If you desire it, we can arrange a match with your daughter." He paused, noticing how Hoster's gaze remained fixed on Catelyn. "Or perhaps your older daughter with Eddard. Whichever you prefer."
A hush fell. Hoster's eyes flicked between his daughters. At last, he exhaled. "Catelyn is older; let her be wedded first. Eddard can take her hand. That leaves Lysa for another alliance I intend to forge—Elbert Arryn, yes? The heir to Lord Arryn."
Jon Arryn gave an approving nod. "Elbert is indeed my heir. That would unite the Vale and the Riverlands. Combined with Eddard and Catelyn, we form a strong four-way bond: the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and soon the Stormlands once Robert commits."
The final details were hammered out swiftly: Eddard would wed Catelyn, Lysa would wed Elbert Arryn. Brandon's prior betrothal remained intact. Thus the Tullys sealed an alliance that strengthened all four rebel factions.
By dusk, the parties drafted formal accords. Hoster demanded one last clarifying point about the grain agreement: "My lords, we need a timeframe and a guaranteed price. We'll not sign if the North can break terms upon victory."
Harrold addressed this with confidence. "We will inscribe it in the agreement. Fifty percent of your old exports sold at a discount. The North pledges to maintain it for no less than ten years, or until both parties mutually agree to revise it. I also vow the North has no intention of cutting you out again. War or no war, we stand to benefit from stable trade."
Reluctantly satisfied, Hoster Tully nodded. "Then let our scribes write it thus." He rose from the table, the tension in his broad shoulders easing. "With that, I declare the Riverlands stand with the Vale, the North, and the Stormlands—united in rebellion against a king who has exceeded his rightful powers."
A smattering of applause arose from Tully's bannermen, while Rickard finally permitted a small, grateful smile. Even Eddard, standing near the dais, exhaled relief at concluding such a crucial alliance.
After the official negotiations ended, Rickard and Harrold stepped into an alcove by the hearth. The older lord studied Harrold carefully. "We owe much to you, forging this settlement even after their frosty reception. Without your trade solutions, Tully might have refused."
Harrold inclined his head. "We need them as much as they need us. I only regret the half-truth I told about Lyanna. But for now, that's best."
Rickard sighed. "Yes. At least I know she's safe, far from Rhaegar's clutches. Her child… We'll deal with that after the war. Thank you for all you've done, truly."
Harrold placed a hand on Rickard's shoulder. "We'll buy from the Riverlands again, and in turn, we'll stop purchasing from the Reach. If we have surplus, we can sell it to Essos. That eases Tully's worry. Let them watch us expand into new markets. The war chest will grow large enough to sustain us."
They parted ways, each a swirl of purpose in their step.
Within days, word spread that two Tully daughters would be wed in Riverrun's sept, an event meant to celebrate the new alliances. The hall was decorated in fresh garlands of river flowers, their fragrance mingling with the tension of looming conflict.
Catelyn Tully to Eddard Stark: She wore a flowing gown of pale blue, lined with subtle Tully red. Eddard stood solemn but resolute, exchanging vows in front of a modest gathering of lords from the rebel factions.
Lysa Tully to Elbert Arryn: Slightly more anxious, Lysa nonetheless followed her father's will. Elbert, heir to the Vale, looked determined to make this union the bedrock of their cause.
Both couples exchanged words of duty and promise, forging a bond that symbolized the unity of Vale, Riverlands, and North. Harrold attended quietly, offering a respectful bow to each bride and groom as they departed the sept with a shower of petals.
The celebratory feast took place in Riverrun's great hall that evening, though the festivities were tinged with the weight of war. Rickard was proud to see Eddard stepping up, yet sorrowful for the absent Brandon, imprisoned and maimed, and Lyanna, hidden away with an unborn child.
Harrold mingled politely, aware that hearts remained heavy. They toasted alliances but cast wary eyes at the horizon. Everyone sensed the wedding was less about love and more about forging a coalition strong enough to challenge the Iron Throne.
Stony Sept, a modest town nestled in the Riverlands, had never sought to become the epicenter of war. Its quiet cobbled streets and humble rooftops could scarcely imagine the fury that would soon descend upon them. Yet, in the turbulent months of rebellion against the Iron Throne, destiny chose Stony Sept to host one of the most decisive engagements of the war—a conflict that would later be named the Battle of the Bells.
Following his string of battles, Robert Baratheon had won a victory at Summerhall but then suffered a painful defeat at Ashford. With his forces partially scattered, Robert led his remaining men northward into the Riverlands, chased by royalist armies. Upon reaching Stony Sept, Robert nursed his wounded pride and battered men, hoping for a chance to regroup.
Meanwhile, the grand coalition of rebel forces took shape: Jon Arryn labored to raise the full might of the Vale, Hoster Tully gathered the Riverlands' banners, and the Northern army—led by Lord Rickard Stark and aided by Harrold Gryffindor—moved south to offer Robert a lifeline. The Crown, seeing the threat, appointed Jon Connington as the King's new Hand, tasking him with quelling the rebellion. Learning that Robert Baratheon hid somewhere in Stony Sept, Connington marched swiftly north with a royal host.
Harrold Gryffindor, traveling alongside the main Northern column, had been forging alliances in the Riverlands. Upon learning of Robert's plight at Stony Sept, they realized the importance of swift action: if Robert fell, the entire rebellion could crumble. Lord Rickard, grim and intent on vengeance for his children, approved a rapid advance.
Jon Connington, the newly appointed Hand, approached Stony Sept from the south with a royalist army. Pennants bearing the golden dragon of House Targaryen snapped in the morning breeze. Connington had staked his reputation on capturing Robert. He announced to the townsfolk: "Turn over the traitor, and be spared. Harbor him, and you share his fate." Fearsome men in Targaryen livery stationed themselves at gates and thoroughfares.
But the townspeople refused to yield. Even threatened with sword and flame, they offered no trace of Robert. Enraged, Connington readied an assault, planning to tear down the city if needed. He posted squads in every major street, beginning house-to-house searches, hoping to corner the rebel leader.
Before Connington could fully scour the city, word reached him that Northern banners and allied forces approached from the west. Scouts reported glimpses of the direwolf standard and the silver griffin, known to belong to Harrold Gryffindor's legionnaires. The Royalists moved quickly, blocking roads and preparing barricades.
Some townsfolk, loyal to Robert's cause, rang the bell towers of Stony Sept at the first sign of the Northern army's arrival. The clang reverberated through every street, each toll echoing with urgency. Thus, the "Battle of the Bells" began in earnest, a signal to rebel forces that the moment to strike had come—and a warning to Connington that he faced a two-front engagement: local resistance plus an approaching host.
Chaos erupted. Loyalist Targaryen troops scoured the city blocks, half-expecting a timid crowd but instead meeting armed smallfolk leading Northern soldiers down alleyways. Shots rang from crossbowmen perched on rooftops. The old cobbled lanes turned into a labyrinth, advantage shifting to those who knew every corner.
Harrold led a detachment of his legionnaires through the southwestern quadrant of town. He advanced swiftly, wielding his rune-enforced battle staff with lethal precision. A single blow from it could shatter a man's shield or knock down a door. Whenever Targaryen loyalists attempted a barricade, Harrold's magic scattered them.
Denys Arryn, a cousin to Lord Jon Arryn, fought beside Harrold's group. At one point, a squad of heavily armored loyalists surrounded Denys in a narrow courtyard. Harrold, sensing the ambush, advanced, staff swirling in arcs of glowing runes. He cut through the first loyalist with a thunderous crack to the chest, sending him crashing into two others. Denys used the opening to break free, rejoining Harrold's line.
On the far side of Stony Sept's central square, Jon Connington realized the tide was turning against him. Rebel forces poured in from multiple directions. The city's defensive towers rang with the frenzied tolling of bells. Connington spotted Northern soldiers, Vale volunteers, and smallfolk forming a pincer around his position.
Refusing to retreat, he led his personal guard in a bold charge. Their armor glimmered with Targaryen sigils as they pressed deeper into the city, aiming to strike the rebellious hearts and perhaps capture Robert at last.
Down a winding lane, Harrold had just saved Denys Arryn from encirclement. Suddenly, Connington and his guard emerged from the other end, swords raised.
Connington barked, "You—sorcerer! Surrender or die. This city belongs to the King."
Harrold's eyes hardened, recalling how the King and his minions had wronged the North and stolen Lyanna. "Not while I stand," he replied quietly. "You've chosen your side. Let me show you ours."
In a heartbeat, Connington lunged. Harrold met him head-on, staff swirling with runic brilliance. Sparks flew when Connington's sword clashed against the staff's tip, but the runic enhancements turned the steel aside, staggering Connington backward. With supernatural speed, Harrold struck a second blow—a thunderous overhead swing that crashed into Connington's guard, fracturing armor and bone.
Fury blazing in his eyes, Connington pivoted for a killing thrust. Harrold parried, channeling potent magic through the staff. A final, heavy hit connected with Connington's helm, splitting it open. The newly appointed Hand of the King dropped to the ground, life extinguished in a second.
Denys Arryn, battered and bloodstained, looked on in astonishment. "You saved me, and put an end to him. The realm owes you, Lord Gryffindor."
Harrold gave a curt nod. "He left us no choice."
Sporadic fighting continued around them. Up a side alley, Robert Baratheon emerged, hammer in hand, accompanied by a group of battered knights. He had been hidden by sympathetic townsfolk until the moment was right. Taking one glance at Connington's lifeless form, Robert's grin was feral. "The man dared to chase me all the way here, only to meet his end by your staff. I see the rebels have a new champion."
His hearty laughter carried across the street, even as loyalist survivors fled or surrendered. Within minutes, the rebel victory was sealed—the Targaryen side's morale collapsed with Connington's death. The unstoppable wave of rebels and city residents forced the last pockets of loyalists to yield or run.
In the late afternoon, the bells of Stony Sept finally ceased their clamor, their tolling replaced by the hush of exhaustion. Northmen, Vale lords, and local militias tended the wounded, stacked arms, and claimed vantage points over the subdued city.
Harrold, bracing himself on his staff, surveyed the battered plaza. Bodies of loyalist soldiers lay among shattered barricades. Denys Arryn gave him a weary salute. "We owe this victory largely to your timely intervention."
Rickard Stark arrived soon after, pushing through a throng of grim-faced soldiers. Relief flickered over his features at seeing Harrold unhurt. "We've done it," Rickard breathed. "Connington's men are broken. Robert's safe, Denys Arryn is safe, and the city stands with us. Another blow to the Crown."
Robert Baratheon, blood-splattered but grinning from ear to ear, wove between the victorious men. He clasped Harrold's wrist in camaraderie. "My thanks, Harrold. Our stand here might have ended in disaster had you not arrived. The bells will ring in the realm's memory of how we turned the tide—the Battle of the Bells, they'll call it, a great victory for the rebellion."
Harrold nodded, heart still pounding from the combat. "Let them call it what they will. We're one step closer to dethroning the mad King." He cast a glance at Rickard, recalling Lyanna's fate and Brandon's captivity. We must press on, he told himself. Every victory matters, but the war is far from finished.
As dusk settled, the rebels took stock of their spoils. Armour, wagons of supplies from Connington's camp, and valuable intelligence about the Crown's strategies all fell into their hands. Town elders, seeing the outcome, welcomed Robert as a liberator, praising him for sparing them from the King's retribution.
Eddard Stark, battered from fighting in the lanes, joined the others in the central square. "We march onward, I suppose?"
Robert clapped a hand on Ned's shoulder. "Aye, friend. We gather the rest of our forces. If the Crown dispatches another host, we'll be ready."
Harrold tapped his staff on a loose cobblestone, letting the runes' glow fade. The stench of sweat and iron filled the air, but also the tang of cautious optimism. "We move on—there's a war to win. The bells of Stony Sept have rung in our favor today. Let them ring again when the King finally falls."
And so, in the aftermath of bloodied streets and battered houses, the Battle of the Bells ended—a triumphant chapter for the rebels. Harrold Gryffindor, Rickard Stark, and Robert Baratheon had proven that the Targaryen hold on Westeros was not unassailable, and that even a small town's defiance could turn the course of a war. The night's silence, heavy with the memories of battle, set the stage for the next steps in the rising rebellion—one step nearer to the final clash that would decide the fate of the Iron Throne.
Riverrun wore the mantle of war. Once a vibrant castle hosting grand feasts and lively tournaments, it now echoed with the bootsteps of soldiers and the hushed murmurs of worried lords. The combined forces of the rebel coalition—Northmen, Rivermen, Vale knights, and Baratheon loyalists—had converged here in the wake of their triumph at Stony Sept. Though the victory had ignited a surge of hope, the shadow of the Iron Throne's immense might still loomed, and every man knew that the greatest battles were yet to come.
Beneath Riverrun's high, vaulted ceiling, a long oak table stood in the great hall, its surface strewn with maps of Westeros. Torchlight danced upon the worried faces of the high lords and their attendants. Harrold Gryffindor quietly conferred with Rickard Stark near one corner, while Hoster Tully conversed with Jon Arryn at another.
Robert Baratheon, broad and imposing, took a seat at the table's head as if the seat were a throne. The hush that fell once he settled spoke volumes—this rebellion had grown beyond a mere response to Targaryen cruelty. It had become a bid for the Iron Throne itself.
Robert surveyed the room. "My lords, we've come far and bled much. The King hides behind the walls of the Red Keep, while the Crown Prince scurries wherever he pleases, snatching good women and vanishing. But we still face giant armies—Dorne sending ten thousand, the Reach with a hundred thousand men, and the Lannisters not yet declaring for either side. Let's put our heads together. We must map our path to final victory."
Jon Arryn placed a finger on the map. "Dorne's men will replenish the Royal forces lost at the battle of the bells. The Tyrells, with their monstrous host of a hundred thousand, remain the greatest threat. Two-thirds of that host is laying siege to Storm's End. The Redwyne fleet blocks the waters of Shipbreaker Bay, hoping to starve out anyone inside. Robert's castle holds, but not indefinitely."
Robert winced at the mention of Storm's End. "My brothers hold the fortress. Stannis is too stubborn to yield, but they can't survive forever against a sea blockade. If we can't relieve them, Storm's End might fall."
Rickard, his voice strained, leaned in. "And if Storm's End falls, the Tyrells will turn their entire force on us. We cannot match a hundred thousand men in open field, especially with the Crown's other loyalists. Unless we pull them away."
It was then that Harrold Gryffindor interjected, a measured calm in his tone. "My lords, as you know, I have a small navy. Our ships are second to none in terms of speed, defense and offence. I can deal with the Redwyne fleet, break their blockade, or at least reduce it enough to grant relief to Storm's End. Moreover, I propose we strike the Mander from the sea. My people can hit the Reach's back—burn storehouses, castles, and disrupt their supply lines. We'll force the Tyrells to draw back troops from Storm's End to defend their homeland."
A ripple of surprise passed among them. Lord Tully stroked his chin. "You'd risk heading into the very heart of the Reach's power? That's bold."
Harrold nodded. "It is. But it will give us an edge. If the Tyrells sense their precious fields and castles threatened, they'll recall some portion of those hundred thousand men. If we cut that army in half, the rebels can handle what remains in a more balanced fight."
Jon Arryn drummed his fingers on the map near the Westerlands, where a golden lion sigil glimmered. "And the Lannisters remain silent. Tywin Lannister has mustered an army, but to what end, no one can say."
Hoster Tully, glancing at Harrold, grimaced. "It's entirely possible he waits to see which way the wind blows, so he can pledge to the winning side. Or demands some monstrous price for his support."
Robert's face darkened. "Let him sit. For all his cunning, I'd rather he not tip the scales for the Targaryens. If he sides with us, well enough—but we cannot count on it. We must plan as though the West might come at our backs."
Harrold grimaced. "Better if the Lannisters remain neutral. We have enough on our plates."
The conversation turned more direct. Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "We cannot pretend that removing the Targaryens is the sole goal. The realm needs a replacement. My lords, I propose that upon victory, Robert Baratheon be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. Who stands opposed?"
Silence reigned as eyes flickered around the table. Rickard set his jaw, then inclined his head. "Robert is well-liked by the common folk, has a claim through Targaryen blood via his grandmother. The North supports him—provided our demands are met."
Robert arched an eyebrow, but Jon Arryn gestured for Rickard to speak.
Rickard nodded to Harrold, who took the floor. "Should Robert ascend the throne, the North requires some restitution. The Targaryens took the New Gift from House Stark long ago. We want it returned, fully recognized under Stark governance. Additionally, any future disputes over commerce or land between the North and crown shall be mediated fairly. We are not beggars at the table. We are your strongest allies."
A hush fell. Robert frowned briefly but then offered a wry smile. "Fair demands. If I wear the crown, you'll have the New Gift back. Let it be known the Starks rightfully claim that land." He pounded a fist on the table, signaling agreement.
Relief flickered across Rickard's face. "We also expect the North's self-sufficiency to be respected, with no undue taxes or constraints. We've grown beyond relying on southern wheat alone."
Robert nodded. "Agreed. We will unify the realm, not chain it. Consider the North free to develop as it sees fit, so long as it stands loyal to the crown I hope to wear."
With that, the war council hammered out the next steps. They recognized the monstrous threat that 100,000 Tyrell soldiers posed. Storm's End's blockade must be broken, or the loyal Baratheons within would starve. Meanwhile, Dorne's arrival with ten thousand men gave the royalists another lever. The Crown Prince's whereabouts remained unknown, but once he emerged, the Crown might attempt a decisive blow.
Harrold repeated his plan: "One of my cousins will take the ships down the coast. They'll do what they can to harass the Redwyne fleet. They will find an opening and smash them. Simultaneously, I will lead a landing party up the Mander that can devastate the Reach's farmland. They'll be forced to pull men from Storm's End if they want to keep their breadbasket intact."
Jon Arryn pointed to the map near King's Landing. "While the Tyrells scramble, the North, Vale and Riverlands can threaten the Crown from the north. With the Tyrell army split, some of the Rebel Stormlanders can join us."
Harrold nodded in agreement. "Since I am defeating the largest navy of the realm and attacking the heart of the Reach, I need to be rewarded for my effort if I succeed."
Robert narrowed his eyes. "What are you expecting in return?"
"There are few smaller islands south of Arbor. I want them to be given to us to be able to use as ports. This will punish the Reach and you will have a loyal lord closer to the powerful lords of the Reach. If they start any trouble, my people can be there to control them."
After some discussions, Robert agreed, assuming Harrold succeed in breaking the blockade and making the reach Army retreat back to protect their lands.
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.