Repeating History
The sweltering sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving the air heavy with heat. Even for Ser Arthur Dayne, who was no stranger to scorching climates, Skyreach felt particularly unforgiving. The seat of House Fowler, nestled in the Red Mountains and overlooking the Prince's Pass, was an imposing fortress. Its towers seemed to stretch toward the sky, as if trying to live up to their name. Jagged peaks surrounded the castle, casting long shadows that only added to the place's stark atmosphere.
Arthur had never been to Skyreach before, despite its proximity to Starfall. Now, as he stood outside a chamber within its stone walls, he felt a tension unlike any he'd faced in battle. Another scream pierced the air, making him flinch. He had two sisters and had seen enough births to know it was never easy, but hearing it firsthand was different. The Northern Lady inside was one of the toughest people he knew, yet her cries of pain had been echoing for hours.
The Maester had kicked Arthur out of the room at the very start, and he wasn't sure if he was more upset or relieved. Since then, he'd been pacing the hallway, anxiously waiting for any news. The wet nurse had told him it wouldn't be long now. The child of his prince would soon be born, and Arthur could only hope the baby would be healthy.
But with that hope came doubt. Ever since Harrenhal, when Rhaegar began speaking of the Song of Ice and Fire and ancient prophecies, Arthur had felt a growing unease. Rhaegar had always been drawn to books, but in recent years, it was the tales of legends and prophecies that consumed him. The talk of Aegon the Conqueror reborn, of destiny and dragons, had shaken Arthur in ways he never expected.
His loyalty to Rhaegar had never wavered, but now, standing outside the door, listening to the screams of labor and waiting for the cries of a newborn, he couldn't help but wonder where all of this was leading. Rhaegar was dead, and his belief that the infant Aegon was the prince who was promised weighed heavily on Arthur's mind. What if his prince had been wrong?
The thoughts made Arthur's head spin. He had grown up on tales of his Dayne ancestors, particularly the legend of Dawn. The sword, now slung across his back, was said to be forged from a fallen star, its pale blade unlike any other. Yet despite its legendary origins, Arthur had always found it as just a finely crafted sword, not some magical relic.
Arthur was a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the royal family and uphold his vows. His duty was clear: to serve, to guard, and to sacrifice his life if necessary. Prophecies, legends, and fate—these were matters for scholars and dreamers, not for a knight who dealt in the realities of steel and blood.
"Ser?" Arthur's gaze snapped to the now open door where one of the wet nurses stood, her gown stained and worn. The sudden silence in the air hit him, a stark contrast to the agonizing cries that had filled the halls moments before.
He blinked, trying to steady himself. "Lyanna? The child?" His voice was tense, filled with a mix of fear and hope. The wet nurse's expression, exhausted and shadowed with defeat, made his heart sink.
"It was a trying labor for the Lady," she began, her voice heavy. "We cannot say anything for certain yet—" But before she could finish, a sharp, distinct cry pierced the air—the unmistakable wail of a newborn.
Both of them turned toward the sound, shock flickering across the wet nurse's face as she stepped aside. Arthur moved before she could react, his steps quick and purposeful. He might have been a bit rough as he pushed past her, but he didn't care. His focus was solely on the bed where the Maester and other wet nurses gathered.
As Arthur approached, the figures surrounding the bed shifted, creating a narrow path for him to see. His eyes locked onto the tiny, wriggling figure cradled in the Maester's arms, still slick with the remnants of birth. The newborn's skin was flushed, fragile, and yet the cries that filled the room were strong, defiant against the silence that had loomed just moments before.
Lyanna Stark lay pale and drained on the bed, her face turned to the side, her breaths shallow and rapid. Her once fierce gaze was now distant, her body spent from the ordeal. Despite her exhaustion, Arthur could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, a sign that she was still with them.
A new, piercing wail erupted from the bundle, but Arthur did not flinch. Instead, he moved closer, his gaze steady as he stepped beside the Maester. As he looked down into the tiny face of the child, a pair of grey eyes met his, wide with wonder and amazement. The innocence in that gaze struck him, making everything else in the room fade into the background.
"I—It's a boy?" Arthur's voice wavered as he scanned the child, ensuring that everything was as it should be.
The Maester, still holding the infant, gave him a strange look. "Indeed, another son. Is this a problem, Ser?"
Arthur felt a sudden weakness in his knees, a hollowness settling in his chest. He had been a man of reason, of duty, yet he had allowed himself to be drawn into the allure of prophecy. What had he been thinking? He had never considered himself gullible, yet Prince Rhaegar had convinced him—convinced a part of him, at least—that there was truth in those ancient words.
But now, faced with the reality of this newborn boy, the certainty of those prophecies crumbled. This child was supposed to be a girl, the Visenya to stand beside Rhaegar's Aegon. Rhaegar had risked everything for this prophecy—set aside Elia, shattered lives, started a war, all for the promise of a child who would fulfill the Song of Ice and Fire. He had wed Lyanna for this... and now, all of it seemed like a cruel lie.
They had blackmailed the late High Septon himself to make this marriage possible before leaving the capital. Arthur had suspected that Prince Rhaegar might have ordered the man's death soon after, given how conveniently the High Septon had passed away right after their departure. Rhaegar had never confessed such a thing, never even hinted at it, but now Arthur was doubting everything he had once believed.
All the ideals, the loyalty he had clung to for so long, now felt tainted.
"S-Ser A-Arthur?" The weak voice of Lady Lyanna broke through his thoughts.
He turned slowly, his gaze heavy with shock and disbelief, to the woman lying on the bed. The fiery young lady he had first met at Harrenhal—the one who had captivated so many with her strength and spirit—was now a mere shadow of that person. It was hard to reconcile the image of the vibrant northern girl with the exhausted, fragile form before him. Her once lively eyes were dull, her dark hair damp and clinging to her pale face.
Arthur's heart tightened as he looked at her, the weight of everything that had led to this moment pressing down on him. The choices that had been made, the lives that had been upended, and the lies that had been told—all for a prophecy that now seemed hollow. Yet here she was, her strength sapped but still fighting to hang on, calling out to him.
He stepped closer to her side, his voice gentle but strained. "I'm here, my lady."
She smiled weakly, though it was more a shadow of a smile, strained and fading. "I—" Lyanna's voice faltered as her eyes drifted to the Maester and the newborn boy. Her gaze lingered on the child, her expression torn between exhaustion and something deeper, a mother's instinct to protect. "I—You must promise me something," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
Arthur followed her gaze, his eyes settling on the infant. "Anything," he replied, his voice thick with emotion.
In that moment, Arthur felt the weight of all that had transpired press down on him like never before. The honor he had sworn to uphold had been tarnished, his loyalty twisted in the name of prophecy. The lives lost, the choices made—they all led to this fragile, innocent life now lying in the Maester's arms. No amount of action could repay for the damage done, but Lyanna was innocent in all this.
He knew that whatever Lyanna asked of him, he had to do. It was the least he could do after everything that had been sacrificed and lost over a prophecy that now seemed pointless. This was his chance to make things right, even if just a little.
Ser Arthur swayed with the rhythm of the waves as he sat in the small cot. His eyes remained fixed on the precious bundle before him. The child, his charge, lay peacefully amidst the gentle rocking of the boat, unaware of the world outside and the dangers that loomed.
The little prince was just over a moon old, his tiny form cradled securely within the cot. He had been named Jaehaerys, in honor of the Old King—though not the second of that name. The father of late King Aerys, and the infant's great-grandfather, was no man to emulate.
This boy would never be king. The events of the past few years had soured any hope Arthur once held. Things had been grim under Aerys, but back then, Arthur had clung to the belief that Rhaegar's reign could bring a better future. That hope had died with Rhaegar on the Trident. Whatever kind of king Rhaegar might have been, it no longer mattered. A new power now ruled in King's Landing, and the entire realm had shifted.
The half-brother of this child now wore the crown, in name at least. But like Tywin Lannister before him, the true power rested with the Hand. Unlike Tywin's era, however, there was now no single adult Targaryen left to challenge that authority. For years to come, the dynasty would remain powerless. Even during the troubled reign of Aegon III, the Targaryens had powerful loyalists, lords who kept their cause alive alongside the regency council.
But now, the realm was fractured, not by internal struggles within House Targaryen, but by outside challengers. The once unthinkable had happened, with power slipping from the dragon's grasp into the hands of others. And the man who now held that power was someone Arthur only knew through his connection to Prince Rhaegar—a figure who had risen higher than anyone could have anticipated when they had first crossed paths at Harrenhal.
Arthur was a knight, not a lord like his elder brother, but he wasn't entirely ignorant of the Game. He understood enough to see the dangers ahead. Yet, one thing troubled him deeply: he knew little about Tristifer Mudd. Was he a true loyalist to the crown, or just a lucky opportunist who had seized his moment? Arthur had no idea, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
After Lady Lyanna's passing at Skyreach, Arthur had taken the boy and made his way to Starfall. His ancestral home was much the same as when he had left years ago to join the Kingsguard. The towering walls and familiar halls brought a fleeting sense of comfort. His elder brother, now the Lord of Starfall, had grown more reserved since their father's death—an event that had occurred not long after Arthur had donned the white cloak. Despite the distance that time and responsibility had created, his brother greeted him warmly upon his return.
From one of the towers, Arthur's sisters had rushed out, their faces lighting up as they spotted him. They had thrown themselves into his arms, their laughter echoing through the courtyard, a rare sound in these troubled times. But their attention quickly shifted to the infant he carried, their coos and gentle touches easing some of the tension that had weighed on Arthur's shoulders.
For a moment, a thought crept into his mind—what if he simply stayed here? What if he convinced Lord Fowler to say that both Lyanna and the child had died? He could raise the boy here, far from the dangers of King's Landing, surrounded by family who would love and protect him.
But those fleeting hopes evaporated when his brother handed him a letter, the seal unmistakable. It was signed by the Lord Hand and the Lord Commander, ordering Arthur to return to King's Landing with the prince and deliver him to his half-siblings. Duty, once again, called him away from the peace he sought. The future he had briefly imagined dissolved, replaced by the harsh reality of what was required of him.
The next day, they boarded one of his brother's ships, the Falling Star, and set sail. Arthur was relieved to find that the crew were loyal Dayne men, and the captain was someone he trusted—a veteran who had served under his father before his death. This small but reassuring detail provided a sliver of comfort amid his anxieties and fears.
Jaehaerys stirred awake, his grey eyes finding Arthur's almost immediately. The little prince was unusually quiet, as Arthur's sister Ashara had pointed out more than once. He rarely cried, except when hungry, and otherwise stayed silent or babbled softly to himself. Arthur couldn't help the warmth that bloomed in his heart as he looked down at the child. Despite everything, this tiny boy was innocent—precious in a way that made Arthur feel fiercely protective.
Yet, the closer they drew to King's Landing, the heavier Arthur's heart became. He had no idea how the boy would be received. Princess Elia, was one of the kindest souls he had ever known, but kindness alone wouldn't be enough to protect Jaehaerys. If certain factions in the capital wished harm upon the child—possibly a 'bastard' in their eyes—Elia's influence and wishes would not be enough.
Arthur wasn't completely naive; he knew Jaehaerys wouldn't be welcomed by most. The boy was the son of a northern girl and a prince whose actions had sparked a war that devastated the realm. That alone would make him a target.
How would the Hand of the King, Tristifer Mudd, treat him? Would he see the boy as a potential pawn or a threat to his position? Then there was Lord Tyrell—would he view Jaehaerys as a danger to the betrothal of his daughter to King Aegon, a rival claimant that enemies of House Tyrell could rally behind? Even Princess Elia, despite her likely acceptance of the boy, couldn't guarantee his safety. Her brother, Prince Doran, was committed to keeping his nephew on the throne, but would he resort to darker measures to ensure no other Targaryen could challenge Aegon's reign?
The capital was a nest of vipers, each with their own agenda. Arthur knew that within its walls, countless factions would see Jaehaerys either as a pawn to be used or a threat to be eliminated.
The ship had passed Greenstone, and the captain estimated they would reach Blackwater Bay within the week. With each passing day, Arthur felt the sand slipping through the hourglass, the weight of approaching decisions pressing on him.
Jaehaerys' eyes slowly fluttered closed, slipping back into the realm of sleep and dreams. Arthur watched the boy's tiny chest rise and fall in peaceful slumber. The calmness of the moment was a rare gift, and Arthur allowed himself a brief respite from the worries that constantly gnawed at him.
As the minutes passed, the steady rhythm of the ship's movement and the gentle glow of the few lit lamps in the cabin began to lull him. The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon an hour ago, leaving only darkness outside and a quiet stillness within. Finally, Arthur decided it was time to rest as well. He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the exhaustion of days spent on edge wash over him.
Just as Arthur closed his eyes, they snapped open again at the sound of screams, cries, and shouts ringing out from the deck above. In an instant, he was on his feet, moving swiftly toward the sheathed Dawn. The urgency of the situation gripped him as he grabbed the hilt, but before he could take another step, the ship lurched violently, nearly throwing him against the cabin wall. A loud, crashing noise echoed through the hull.
Arthur wasn't a sailor, but he knew enough to recognize the possibilities—either they had run aground or been boarded. The answer came swiftly as the unmistakable clash of steel reached his ears.
They were under attack.
His instincts kicked in. Arthur tightened his grip on his sword and turned his gaze to the now awake boy. There was no time to hesitate. He knew he had to protect the child at all costs, but first, he had to assess the situation and figure out who was attacking them. With a quick, determined breath, he moved toward the door, ready to face whatever threat awaited above.
He opened the door slowly, peering into the corridor. Sailors in blue Dayne tunics rushed past, their movements frantic. As he fully opened the door, a few sailors nearly lunged at him before recognizing who he was. They quickly bowed, apologizing.
Arthur cut them off before they could say more. "You three, defend the boy with your lives if necessary. I trust I need not stress the importance of the prince?"
"We will not allow any to harm him, Ser," one of the men replied immediately, while the other two drew their small swords and moved into the room.
"Barricade the door. I'll knock in a pattern—three quick, two slow, three quick. Understand?" Arthur instructed. The last man nodded and bowed before slipping into the room and closing the door behind him. Arthur heard the sound of furniture being moved as he sprinted toward the stairs, where the clash of steel and shouts of combat grew louder.
Arthur raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst onto the deck. The scene before him was one of utter chaos. His own men, clad in blue Dayne tunics, were locked in fierce combat with dark-cloaked sellswords—mercenaries, he guessed, judging by their grim attire. Fastened to the side of the Falling Star by ropes and planks was a galley flying black banners.
He quickly assessed the balance of power. The enemies fought hard and had the numbers, but the Dayne sailors were holding their own, each man fighting with determination. Arthur's gaze swept across the deck, and he spotted the captain, who was directing a group of defenders, bravely holding back a dozen or more attackers from the quarterdeck.
Arthur charged into the fray, positioning himself opposite the Captain.
"Men with me! For House Dayne and Prince Jaehaerys!" he bellowed, raising Dawn high. The rising moonlight caught the pale blade, casting a shimmering glow as it descended with lethal precision, cleaving through the nearest sellsword.
"The Sword of the Morning!" the sailors shouted back, their voices filled with renewed determination. Energized by Arthur's presence, they surged forward with fresh vigor.
The sellswords, now clearly on the defensive, were forced to retreat step by step. Arthur and his men pressed the attack relentlessly, cutting down anyone who tried to stand their ground. The momentum shifted quickly as the Dayne sailors, driven by the knight's example, pushed the enemy back with unyielding force.
The sellswords were completely caught off guard by Arthur's rallying cry and charge. The battle was over within the hour.
A few of the remaining sellswords surrendered, throwing down their weapons, but most fought until the end—an unusual level of determination for mercenaries in Arthur's experience. The entire attack felt peculiar; these were sellsails, not pirates. The Falling Star was not particularly large and, tellingly, flew purple Dayne banners.
Arthur remembered learning that smaller vessels flying a lord's banner were typically left alone by pirates, as they usually carried little valuable cargo unless the lord himself was on board. And if the lord was present, the ship would be heavily defended. Given the intensity of the attack and the sellswords' unusual persistence, Arthur began to suspect something more sinister at play.
The Captain had executed the captured sellswords after they refused to reveal their employer. Arthur then led a search party through the sellsails' galley, hoping to find clues about who had orchestrated the attack. Just as he was about to give up, one of his men called out.
"Ser, I think I found something."
Arthur turned sharply to see the man on the deck of the galley, while he had been conversing with the lieutenant of the Falling Star about what to do with the captured vessel. The sailor held up a small silver brooch, its details catching the light.
Arthur took the brooch, examining it closely. Etched into the metal was a crown. "It was found in the captain's cabin," the sailor explained. "We also discovered a small chest of golden dragons, presumably the payment."
All the evidence pointed toward a Westerosi lord, and at that moment, Arthur could only think of one who used a crown as his symbol. Had he really believed that a mere band of sellswords could overwhelm him and the ship? If his suspicions were correct, then King's Landing was no longer a viable option. The threat extended beyond just one city—if his assumption was accurate, the entire continent might be a risk.
Arthur had truly not thought Tristifer Mudd to try something like this but the evidence was before him. It appeared like Prince Jaehaerys was at greater threat than he had thought.
Faced with this grim realization, Arthur was left with only one choice: he had to ensure the safety of his charge by seeking refuge elsewhere. Though he had never been to Essos, it seemed he now had no choice.
Arthur turned to the Lieutenant, who was examining the brooch. "We're heading for Lys. My brother has connections there, if I'm not mistaken."
The Lieutenant's eyes widened in surprise but he quickly nodded. "Are you certain, Ser?"
"Inform the Captain. I'll have the men clear out the galley and cut it loose."
"Yes, Ser," the Lieutenant replied, hurrying back to the cog.
Arthur sighed as he looked down at Dawn, the blade still streaked with blood. With a resolute motion, he reached behind and tore off his white cloak.
House Targaryen no longer ruled, and the world he had once sworn to protect had changed beyond recognition. But one duty remained clear in Arthur's mind—his charge. If he never returned to Starfall, it would be a sacrifice worth making if Jaehaerys could be kept safe. This was now his true oath, a vow as unbreakable as the steel in his hand.
The boy wasn't his by blood, but that didn't matter. Arthur couldn't live with himself if he abandoned the child. Jaehaerys was an orphan, but Arthur would ensure that he lived—and that he had a future.
Arthur wiped Dawn clean with the white cloak, the fabric quickly staining red with blood.
Tristifer gazed out across the sprawling cityscape. From the Tower of the Hand atop Aegon's High Hill, the maze of houses, squares, and winding streets appeared as mere miniatures beneath him. In that moment, he understood how easily high lords and kings could forget the smallfolk. From this height, they seemed insignificant, nothing more than ants scurrying about their lives, barely distinguishable from the stone and mortar that surrounded them.
He let these thoughts linger, considering the allure of such power, before shaking his head to dispel the notion. Foolishness. Tristifer was acutely aware of the strength of the smallfolk, of the lines that no ruler could afford to cross.
While he often spoke of his 'noble heritage' to appease the prideful lords, he knew that his rise to power had little to do with bloodlines and everything to do with his own cunning and ambition. The lords might grumble, but they found solace in the idea that his supposed royal lineage made his ascension more palatable for them.
Yet Tristifer had never found solid proof to validate his claims. His grandsire had been utterly convinced of it, and the tale had been passed down from father to son for generations. But in truth, it mattered little to him. Whether the story of his noble blood were true or not, they served his purpose. And was it really so different from the grandiose legends that other noble houses spun to justify their own rule?
His gaze shifted downward to the courtyard below, where servants, soldiers, and knights bustled about, preparing for their imminent departure. It had been nearly a moon since Prince Oberyn had arrived from Storm's End, and the keep had been a hive of activity ever since. Tristifer's eyes lingered on the rotting skull of Stannis Baratheon, still mounted on the walls of the Red Keep—a grim reminder of the Dornish victory.
Renly, Stannis's younger brother, hadn't adjusted well to life as a hostage. Tristifer had crossed paths with the boy a few times, but their interactions were strained and uncomfortable. Renly lacked the fire that defined his brothers—Robert's easy charm and Stannis's iron will were nowhere to be found. Instead, Renly seemed adrift, a boy lost in a world that had suddenly turned hostile.
From what Tristifer had heard, Renly had once been cheerful, full of life before his brother's death cast a long shadow over him. He hoped, for the boy's sake, that he could find a way to move past his grief. Tristifer held no ill will toward Renly; the boy was a victim of circumstance, caught in the crossfire of his brothers' ambitions.
In truth, Tristifer didn't harbor much hatred for Robert Baratheon. It had unsettled him when the Rebel King found refuge in his betrothed's home, but in the end, nothing had come of it, and Sarra remained unharmed—that was all that mattered. He understood his role in this war; he wasn't driven by personal grudges or lofty ideals. Tristifer fought for profit, plain and simple. And profit he had earned. Now, his focus was on securing those hard-won gains.
He was determined to win, and in war, victory demanded ruthlessness. The truth was harsh, but Tristifer accepted it: those who lost rarely escaped unscathed. Mercy was a coin spent sparingly, and he would not squander it without cause.
Now, he turned his gaze north, where the fate of his ambitions would be decided—victory or defeat awaited him there. He had no intention of letting the conflict drag on. What he sought was a decisive battle to end it once and for all.
A knock on the door of his solar pulled him from his thoughts. He turned, curious as to who would seek him at this hour. Addam was busy preparing for the march, organizing the men and supplies. Robin, perhaps? But no, Robin was occupied with familiarizing himself with the Gold Cloaks, ensuring that Lord Mace Tyrell and his men wouldn't seize control of the royal family and the Red Keep in Tristifer's absence.
In recent weeks, Addam had reported the unsettling presence of Tyrell men-at-arms patrolling closer and closer to Maegor's Holdfast and the royal chambers. The Rose Lord, it seemed, had grown tired of merely following orders. Ambition had bloomed within him, and Tristifer knew that Mace Tyrell was no longer content to simply support him—now, he sought his own advantage.
They had yet to speak, despite Lord Mace's attempts to arrange a meeting. Their last opportunity had been interrupted by the arrival of Prince Oberyn, and since then, Tristifer had been consumed by preparations and planning, leaving little time for the Tyrell lord. Not that he was eager to engage with the self-important Mace Tyrell. The man's inflated sense of worth grated on him, and Tristifer had little patience for it.
He recalled Randyll Tarly's blunt assessment of the man's failures. Lord Mace had botched the chance to rout the rebels on the Kingsroad and had let Robert Baratheon slip through his fingers, nearly jeopardizing the entire battle. If not for the timely arrival of Lord Brune and the Crackclaw host, the day might have been lost.
Yet, despite his shortcomings, Mace Tyrell remained the most powerful lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Tristifer could only thank the gods that the Reach was held together by the thinnest of threads. Had the region been more united under Tyrell's banner, Tristifer would have had every reason to fear a coup. The threat lingered, but the delicate balance of power kept it at bay—for now.
Tristifer knew he needed to solidify his position and become a true lord soon, or the tenuous hold he had on power would slip away. His rise had been meteoric, but without a legitimate title, it was fragile. The highborn lords were all too eager to see him fall, and even his allies might take a certain satisfaction in watching the lowborn upstart fail. If he stumbled, it would reassure them that his success was a fluke, a stroke of luck they needn't envy.
Another knock echoed through the room, and Tristifer, momentarily jolted from his thoughts, realized he had neglected to respond.
He approached the door with measured intent, opening it neither too quickly nor too hesitantly, striking a balance between uncouthness and weakness.
When Tristifer opened the door, Princess Elia's presence filled the doorway. Her beauty was undeniable, her bronzed complexion glowing under the light. She looked momentarily puzzled, her delicate eyebrows furrowing slightly, before a warm smile spread across her face.
"Your Grace. How may I assist you?" Tristifer asked courteously, allowing his gaze to briefly flicker past her to see if she had an entourage. He noticed the white cloak of either Ser Valtris or Jaremy stationed at the stairway, but otherwise, she was alone.
She met his eyes with a teasing glint. "Why so formal? I assure you my brother is unaware of this visit. I thought we were past 'Your Grace' by now. Haven't we become friends?" Her tone was light, but there was an elusive spark in her dark eyes that Tristifer couldn't quite identify.
"I was merely maintaining appearances, Elia," he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his own lips. Her smile widened at his words.
"Please, come in. I would not keep you standing out here," Tristifer said, stepping aside to invite her in.
"How noble," Elia teased as she walked into the room.
Tristifer closed the door with a wry smile and followed her inside. "Is something wrong with Aegon or Rhaenys?"
Elia turned to face him, her expression thoughtful. "They're already lamenting your departure. Your visits are always eagerly anticipated by the children."
Tristifer was aware of this. Since his first visit following the Battle of the Gate, he had made a point of spending time with the children. After the assassination attempt and his encounters with Ser Amory Lorch and the Mountain, he had sensed a particular bond with Aegon and Rhaenys.
Aegon had quickly become quite attached to him, while Rhaenys had been more reserved, still haunted by memories of her father. Over time, however, both had come to see him as more than just another lord or noble.
Tristifer wouldn't deny that he had grown fond of the children. He had a need for his own, but in another life, he might have found satisfaction in the connections he had built here. Still, he often felt awkward and out of practice, his days of playful games long gone. His recent years had been dominated by a façade of maturity and seriousness, and interacting with the children required an adjustment he knew amused Elia.
"You're here for something else, aren't you? I've already said my goodbyes to them," Tristifer deduced, watching as Elia nodded, holding his gaze.
She hesitated, her expression conflicted, her teeth worrying her lower lip as if she were weighing something. Finally, she spoke. "The children won't be the only ones missing your presence."
This... was something they had skirted around but never addressed directly. Tristifer couldn't deny that he had noticed the undercurrent between them, but he had assumed they were both content to ignore it—or perhaps repress it.
Her dark eyes were filled with a mix of nervousness, doubt, and something that felt like hope. It made Tristifer's heart ache with conflict.
They both knew the reality of their situation. Elia was ten years his senior, a widow who could no longer bear children. Tristifer's House needed heirs—children bearing his name, not just his affection. Yet, unbidden thoughts and dreams had crossed his mind. For all his plans with Lady Sarra, he was well aware that his feelings for her were more dutiful than passionate. He wasn't sure how she felt, but he knew he needed to secure his line.
This was an impossible dream. Tristifer's entire life had been devoted to his rise, to the rebirth of House Mudd. Without his ambitions, he would never have met Elia, who would have had little reason to notice him. Now, as his aspirations were so close to fruition, to abandon everything for this—
His thoughts were interrupted when Elia's soft lips touched his. The kiss was gentle, filled with emotions he couldn't fully articulate but felt deeply. He reciprocated, but she pulled back with a trace of hesitation, her eyes brimming with both happiness and pain.
A part of him longed to do everything in his power to ease that pain, but another part of him recognized the cost of such a choice.
Their gazes locked, and he knew they both understood the decision he had made, even before he spoke.
"To bring you luck and hopefully ensure your safe return," Elia said softly, her voice heavy with unspoken words.
"Even when I return—" Tristifer's rough voice was cut off as Elia placed a finger gently on his lips.
"I know," she said quietly. "The gods are cruel, but they could not deny me this moment. I will never forget it."
Tristifer remained silent for a moment, then nodded. "Neither will I." He couldn't find the words to express the turmoil within him—regret, steely resolve, and a burgeoning love all tangled together.
Elia offered him one last, sad smile before turning toward the door. She opened it, then paused, glancing back at him. "I will pray for you. If... if you don't return-" she started, her voice catching. She took a deep breath, then walked out, the door closing with a heavy thud behind her.
Left alone, Tristifer was overwhelmed by a wave of emotions. He felt a deep sense of loss and the weight of his decisions pressing down on him. He had sacrificed something precious, causing pain to Elia, and he could only hope that, in the end, all these sacrifices would prove to be worth it.
If it turned out to be a mistake, if he were to come to regret this decision, he couldn't dwell on it. He had set himself on this path, and there was no turning back now.
The stones of the Kingsroad were still stained red, bearing the scars of battle and death. As Tristifer's forces marched past the village of Briarwood, the villagers watched with palpable anxiety. Their apprehension was understandable, given the horrors they had witnessed during the last confrontation. Yet, this time, there would be no battle here; the fighting lay further north.
Tristifer's heart had been heavy since they left King's Landing four days ago, but he managed to keep his mind busy with logistical tasks. Caravans of food followed them from the city, ensuring a steady supply. This way, they could avoid excessive foraging, sparing the local villages from the usual hardships that came with an army on the move.
A letter had arrived from Willow Wood, where Lord Roger Ryger and his castle were under siege by the Rebel forces. According to the besieged lord, the banners of Baratheon, Tully, Arryn, Swann, Caron, Piper, Bracken, and numerous Vale houses flew above the heads of the twenty thousand strong army camped outside his walls.
Lord Ryger had pleaded for aid, but Tristifer and his commanders agreed that sending a reply would be pointless—they were already on the march. Perhaps they could gain a day or two of surprise if their movements went unnoticed by the Rebels. Still, there would be no chance for an ambush. Tristifer knew there were few ways to conceal the march of thirty thousand men, and none of those options were available to him now.
Tristifer rode at the head of the column, flanked by a small group of commanders and nobles. To his right was the severe Lord Randyll Tarly, his grim demeanor unyielding since their departure. Behind them rode Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, reluctantly appointed as Tristifer's personal Kingsguard for the duration of the march. Ser Valtris and Ser Jaremy had been left behind in King's Landing to protect the children and Princess Elia, but it was Elia herself who had insisted that Hightower accompany Tristifer. The Lord Commander had been hesitant to leave the royal family once again, his duty to them weighing heavily on him.
Hightower's apprehension only deepened when the ship carrying Ser Arthur Dayne and Lady Lyanna's son failed to arrive in King's Landing. Tristifer had promptly ordered Lord Velaryon to deploy squadrons of the Royal Navy to scour the southward coasts for the missing vessel, but despite their efforts, no trace of it had been found.
While delays at sea were not uncommon, the ship's complete disappearance gnawed at him. Had it capsized in a storm? Or had something more concerning occurred? The uncertainty weighed heavily on his mind. A wayward Prince of the blood, unaccounted for, was a threat—one that could only spell trouble for the future.
Prince Oberyn and Addam rounded out the group, riding in silence between the long columns of marching men and cavalry. The steady beat of hooves and boots on the road was the only sound as they pressed northward.
Further back, Lord Mathis Rowan led the rearguard, accompanied by a few minor Reach lords, ensuring the army's rear remained secure. The Dornish lords, Lord Franklyn Fowler and Lord Harmen Uller, had finally arrived in King's Landing just before the march. They now commanded the Dornish spears and horse, their units moving in disciplined formations along with the rest of the army.
Tristifer noticed Lord Randyll glancing his way, clearly seeking his attention. He turned to the seasoned commander.
"Two more hours of marching," Randyll stated, his tone direct. "Where do you intend to set up camp?"
Tristifer thought back to the Northern Crownlands, recalling what he could of the terrain and holdings. "The next holding is Butter Hall, but that's still a few days away. Between that and Brindlewood lies Sow's Horn, but with a host this size, it would be impractical to stray from the Kingsroad."
Lord Randyll considered the suggestion with a thoughtful hum. "So, will we simply set up camp in a clearing then?"
Tristifer recalled an inn, not far off. While most of the men would need to camp outside, it could offer some shelter and provisions for the nobles. Plus, it would be a welcome chance to see Elenei again, even if their reunion would be far from simple.
"There's an inn called the Ivy Inn, not too far from here—maybe a little over two hours at our current pace," he said.
Randyll met his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "It would be wise to offer the men a morale boost when we can."
"It is decided then," Tristifer concluded simply.
The inn looked much the same as it had three years ago, though Tristifer noted a few new planks patched into its walls, likely from recent repairs. Otherwise, it was unchanged. The stable had a few horses tied up, but it was far from full. Tristifer and the other lords claimed the remaining stalls for their own mounts.
The army would be arriving shortly, and soon the men would begin setting up camp nearby. Prince Oberyn, along with several Dornish lords, had convinced Tristifer to ride ahead and inform the innkeeper of their arrival. While it was a reasonable pretense, Tristifer doubted the inn wasn't already well aware of the approaching host. In truth, it seemed more an excuse to enjoy a drink and relax while the men handled the work of setting up camp. He had to admit, the idea was tempting, and it had certainly factored into his decision to ride ahead.
Another factor weighed on Tristifer's mind as he stepped into the welcoming hall of the inn—the person now standing before him.
Despite his complicated feelings for Elia, Tristifer couldn't deny the way his heart quickened at the sight of Elenei behind the bar. Her eyes widened in surprise as they locked onto his, the shock clear on her face. He hadn't seen her in years, but it seemed she had not forgotten him yet either.
"Tristif—" she began, cutting herself off as the rest of his noble companions entered the room behind him.
Tristifer turned toward Prince Oberyn, whose raised eyebrow and the glint of amusement in his dark eyes were impossible to miss. While they were far from friends, there had been a begrudging civility between them ever since Elia had persuaded her brother that Tristifer hadn't kept her in the capital against her will. Oberyn's amusement now only added to the tension in the air.
"Find some tables," Tristifer said, his voice steady but firm. "I'd appreciate a moment of privacy."
Oberyn smirked but nodded, leading the others to a corner, though Tristifer could feel their curiosity hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Addam caught his eye and offered a reassuring, if slightly amused, look as well. Tristifer almost rolled his eyes. Thanks.
Turning back to Elenei, the silence between them stretched. Her face, as beautiful as ever, remained guarded, though surprise still lingered in her eyes. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.
"Elenei," he said, cautiously.
He couldn't yet gauge her emotions—whether this reunion would bring warmth or reopen old wounds—but one thing was clear: whatever came next would be far from simple.
Her brow furrowed slightly. "So you do remember me, after all," she said, her gaze flicking briefly toward the lords, where Oberyn's laughter rang out.
"A lot has changed, but I could never forget someone like you," Tristifer said, his voice softer.
Her eyebrows lifted, skepticism lacing her expression. "Oh? Will you bring me roses and whisper sweet words of undying love now?" she asked, her tone edged with sarcasm. "I hear you've earned yourself a few titles. Can finally call you Ser, among others." She made a mocking bow.
Tristifer shifted awkwardly, shaking his head. "I'm afraid not. As much as you're a remarkable woman, it seems the gods had other plans for us."
Elenei's frown deepened, her eyes flashing with anger. "The gods have nothing to do with it, you coward. I opened my heart to you, and you vanished without a word for years, abandoning me with—" She cut herself off abruptly, but the sting of her words lingered.
He caught it, though—the implication behind her outburst. "With what…?" His voice was tense, suspicion gnawing at him. He had an idea, but he wasn't sure if he wanted it confirmed.
Elenei met his gaze, taking a deep breath. "Is it not obvious? We weren't as mindful as we should've been." Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
Tristifer's heart skipped a beat. A child—his child. Out of wedlock, yes, a bastard by the world's standards, but his blood nonetheless. As his mind raced through the implications, something in her voice caught his attention, sharpening his focus.
"A child...?" He stammered, trying to find his footing in the flood of revelations. "What... what is their name?" His words were halting, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her. There was something in her tone—a bitterness that he feared wasn't just directed at him but at their child.
Elenei's expression shifted, a mixture of frustration and hurt simmering just beneath the surface. "His name is… Triston," she said quietly, her voice steady, though her eyes flickered with emotion as they searched his face, waiting to gauge his reaction. "He's nearly three now."
The weight of her words crashed over him. Nearly three. The years that had passed since he last saw her suddenly felt more significant, filled with moments he'd missed, moments he didn't even know existed. He struggled to wrap his mind around it—around the fact that he had a son.
Tristifer's eyes flickered toward the door he remembered leading to her quarters. "And... would I be able to see him?" His voice wavered slightly, and when his gaze returned to Elenei's, it held a hint of desperation. "If I had known—"
She cut him off, her eyes filled with doubt, and the glisten of unshed tears gathered at their corners. "Would you have returned?" Her voice trembled with emotion, but her words were sharp. "You're the Hand of the King now, Tristifer. You live in a world so far removed from mine. We haven't lived in the same realm for a long time."
They both knew the answer to that question. Tristifer could still recall the nights when he'd shared his grand plans and ambitions with her, lying in the quiet of the inn. Elenei had laughed, her eyes filled with a mix of admiration and amusement, humoring his lofty dreams.
Many of those dreams had become reality as he stood before her now, his armor adorned with the ancient crown of House Mudd and the Hand's brooch pinned to his chest, an army under his command. The boy who had once spoken of lofty ambitions had achieved them, yet in doing so, he had drifted further from Elenei than if he had sailed across the Sunset Sea. Everything was different now.
"Let me see him," Tristifer pleaded, his voice low but earnest. "I know I've asked too much of you already, and I've caused you nothing but pain. But grant me this—let me meet him."
He didn't force his demand, and there was no edge of authority in his tone. He wasn't that kind of man, and Elenei wasn't the kind of woman who deserved to be compelled. He would accept her answer, no matter how much it might wound him.
His eyes searched hers, hoping for even the faintest glimmer of understanding, her teary eyes were full of doubt and conflict.
"You haven't caused only pain, Tristifer," Elenei said, her voice trembling with a mixture of emotion. "Triston is a gift beyond what I could have ever imagined, despite the circumstances. You may not have known, though perhaps you should have."
Her laugh, though teary and tinged with bitterness, was a bittersweet balm to his aching heart. "I believe we both have regrets about how everything unfolded, but I won't deny you the chance to meet him."
A wave of relief washed over Tristifer, though he winced slightly at the sadness in her laugh. Hope sparked anew in his heart. "Does he know about me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elenei met his gaze steadily, her eyes filled with a sorrowful truth. "I couldn't bring myself to lie to him. He's often asked why you never came to see him, but..." Her voice faltered, the unspoken pain hanging heavily in the air.
Tristifer's thoughts drifted to the loss of his own parents. He had had the support of his grandfather, uncle, and aunt, but the pain of their absence was still vivid. His son, however, had never met him—not even once. The weight of that realization settled heavily on him. He had harbored resentment toward Addam's father for neglecting him, yet he had never even been present in his own child's life.
"I wish to see him now," Tristifer said with quiet resolve, his gaze sweeping the inn as if searching for some sign of his son. "If you're available, of course."
He had grown accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question among his soldiers, but he reminded himself that this was not a command.
Elenei's gaze flickered briefly past Tristifer before she nodded slightly. "D-Dorea, could you cover for me for a while?"
The woman who had approached responded immediately, "Of course, Elenei." Dorea's eyes flicked to Tristifer, carrying a hint of distrust. Tristifer couldn't recall if she had been there during his last visit, but her cautious demeanor suggested she might remember him.
Without further delay, Elenei moved around the bar and headed toward the living quarters. "Follow me," she instructed, her tone wavering slightly with emotion, though she made an obvious effort to steady herself.
The walk to the living quarters seemed to stretch endlessly, each step feeling both too quick and too slow. Before long, they reached a door. Elenei shot him a look that conveyed a tumult of emotions before she opened it and stepped inside. Tristifer followed, carefully closing the door behind them and turning his gaze back to the room.
"Mommy!" A young voice rang out with excitement. Tristifer's eyes locked onto a boy with Elenei's dark hair, contrasting with his own lighter brown. The boy's blue-green eyes, however, were strikingly familiar, as were the shape of his nose and ears.
The boy, his son, rushed to Elenei, hugging her tightly with the enthusiastic embrace only a three-year-old could muster.
"Darling, there's someone here who wants to meet you," she said softly, gently turning her son toward Tristifer.
Triston's eyes widened as they darted around Tristifer's form. Tristifer felt a surge of anxiousness, his muscles tensing as he stood uncertain of how to proceed.
"That man has my eyes, Mommy," Triston remarked with the blunt honesty only a child could muster.
Elenei looked down at Triston, her voice tender. "His name is Tristifer."
Triston's gaze shot up to his mother and then back to Tristifer within seconds, his curiosity palpable.
Tristifer took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Triston," he said, testing the name on his lips. "I'm your father."
His son stood frozen, blinking in shock with those striking green-blue eyes. "But—" Triston started to say before cutting himself off and rushing forward. Tristifer barely managed to open his arms before his son leaped into them.
Tristifer silently cursed his armor as he adjusted his hold, trying to keep the boy close while accommodating the constraints of his gear.
"Why haven't you been here?" Triston mumbled into his neck, his voice muffled but filled with a child's hurt. "You made Mommy sad."
The words pierced Tristifer's heart. "I'm so sorry," he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. "I'm so sorry, Son."
Triston's breath came in shaky gasps, his small body trembling slightly. "W-will you stay?"
Tristifer knew the reality of his duties and the battle that awaited him, but he also made a decision in that moment. "I will never abandon you," he promised gently. "I will always come back, even if duty takes me away for a time."
His eyes lifted to meet Elenei's over the top of Triston's dark hair. She was openly crying now, her tears a mix of joy, pain, and anxiety. Despite the evident struggle, her eyes shone with a bittersweet happiness.
Triston lifted his head, his gaze filled with curiosity. "Why do you need to leave?" His eyes then fell on the armor Tristifer wore, a glint of excitement showing through. "Are you a knight?"
Tristifer met his son's intense gaze, feeling a pang of recognition. "I am a knight," he replied gently. "Duty requires me to fight and to leave for a while."
Elenei stepped in, her voice steady but soft. "Your father is also the Hand of the King, darling. It means he rules and leads his armies when the king cannot."
Tristifer could see the multitude of questions swirling in his son's eyes, each one eager for an answer. "That's right," he continued, "King Aegon is about your age, so I take on his responsibilities until he grows up and can rule on his own."
"So you're basically the King?" Triston asked, his eyes wide with wonder, clearly a bit overwhelmed and confused by the details.
Tristifer tilted his head thoughtfully. "In some ways, yes, but I'm not the King. To say otherwise would be treasonous."
Elenei cleared her throat. "I believe it's almost time for dinner, Triston."
Triston looked up at her reluctantly, then back at Tristifer. "Listen to your mother, Triston," Tristifer advised gently.
"But what if—" Triston began, only to be cut off by Elenei.
"Your father will be here later and tomorrow as well," she said, her eyes seeking confirmation. Tristifer nodded in agreement.
"I promise to visit you more before I leave," Tristifer said as he gently set Triston down on the ground.
"Alright then..." Triston agreed with a hint of reluctance.
As Tristifer was left alone with Elenei, he spoke quietly. "I'll leave a few gold cloaks here for your protection. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone."
Elenei met his gaze with a look of determination. "We will talk if you return."
"When," Tristifer countered firmly, "not if. Not even the gods themselves could keep me away if I am able to return."
"In battle—" Elenei began, but Tristifer interrupted her.
"Elenei, I promise I will return. When I do, we'll have that conversation."
The weight of his promise settled heavily between them. What had begun as a reunion with an old acquaintance had evolved into something far more profound. He remembered Robin's offhand comment during their ride to meet Lord Mace and Lord Randyll in the Kingswood, joking about siring a child. It seemed that jest had proven all too true.
He resolved to make the most of the precious time he had with his son before their departure the next day. Tristifer decided to postpone their leave to spend a bit more time with Triston. However, duty still beckoned, and he couldn't afford to grant Robert any more time than absolutely necessary. The Seven Kingdoms were in turmoil, and while he longed for peace, it would not come without another battle.
The morning air was chilly, even though they were well into the second year of summer. The sun would soon rise higher, warming the surroundings, but for now, Tristifer shivered slightly as the cold gusts seeped into the joints of his armor.
The Trident appeared far calmer this far downstream, a meandering flow compared to its faster, more turbulent currents up north. Though not still by any means, its gentler pace here seemed almost peaceful. To the east, from where he had ridden, he thought he could see the faint glint of the Bay of Crabs in the distance, or perhaps it was just the horizon shimmering—he couldn't say for sure.
What he could make out, however, was the smaller army approaching from the east along the riverbank. At the front of the column rode a man in light armor the color of burnt orange, flanked by men in similar garb. Above their heads fluttered the golden sun-and-spear on an orange field, the proud banner of Dorne. Interspersed with the Dornish sigils were other familiar standards—a red salmon on white, the sigil of House Mooton, and further along, the golden tree on green for House Rowan.
Behind him, Tristifer knew the dozen banners of his own force stood tall, including the brown plowman of House Darry. It seemed they had successfully relieved both Maidenpool and Castle Darry from their rebel besiegers.
The siege of Castle Darry had been led by Ser Karyl Vance, a knight whose neck and face were marred by a large wine-stain birthmark. Despite being outnumbered, Vance had refused to surrender without a fight. Tristifer's superior force, reinforced by a sally from Lord Raymun Darry, quickly surrounded the rebels. The battle had been fierce but brief, as Tristifer's men closed in, offering the rebels their lives in exchange for Ser Karyl's surrender. Some had resisted the terms and were swiftly cut down, but the majority laid down their arms, accepting defeat rather than death.
Tristifer turned to face the north. In the light of the rising sun he could make out thousands of armored men, banners and tents on the northern bank of the Trident. It was not possible to distinguish the banners but he could imagine the Black stag flying high along with the silver trout and blue falcon.
The two armies—Robert Baratheon's rebels and his own—had camped the previous night on opposite sides of the Trident, with the river itself serving as a final barrier, a deadly obstacle that could spell defeat if not handled with utmost care. The water between them shimmered in the morning light, deceptively calm, yet it held the potential to turn into a graveyard if the crossing was miscalculated.
Tristifer's gaze shifted west, following the barely visible river road that snaked along the Trident. Both he and Addam knew of the ford farther upstream, beyond the infamous Ruby Ford where Rhaegar Targaryen had met his end, and with him, the hope of his army. The ford they had discovered further west had no name, an unremarkable crossing point they'd stumbled upon while traveling from Saltpans to Harrenhal. An old farmer had directed them there, pointing out the hidden path that could now become a crucial advantage, allowing Addam to flank the Rebels and hopefully force them to rout.
This plan hinged on Addam's timing. His cavalry needed to ford the Trident and circle back to the east in perfect synchronization with the battle's unfolding. They had to arrive at just the right moment—too early, and the surprise would be spoiled; too late, and the opportunity for a decisive strike would be lost.
Addam had ridden out the previous night, guiding the cavalry through the shadows toward the lesser-known ford, their movements masked by the darkness. To maintain the illusion that all their forces were intact, Tristifer kept the bulk of the Dornish light cavalry, more suited for scouting and harassment, under the command of Prince Oberyn. This way, the Rebel forces would still see horsemen among the ranks, preventing any suspicions about the absence of their main cavalry.
Despite his outward calm, Tristifer was a knot of nerves. He tried to focus on the practicality of the plan, but hope alone wouldn't see it through. He knew too well that things rarely went as smoothly as one hoped on the battlefield. He had mentally prepared for the possibility of complications—river crossings were always fraught with risk, and timing was everything in this maneuver. Yet, there was no real replacement for the flanking force Addam commanded. Without their surprise attack from the rear, the battle's outcome would be far less certain.
They had the numbers, but so had Rhaegar on that fateful day—and now, fate brought them back to this cursed ford. The Ruby Ford, named for the fallen rubies from the prince's armor when Robert Baratheon struck him down with his warhammer. History seemed to be repeating blood would once again returning to the waters of the Trident.
"Riders approaching from the North!" came the shout from behind him. Tristifer turned to the river once more, spotting the small cavalry force flying a white banner alongside the sigils of Baratheon, Arryn, and Tully. The parlay had arrived.
He glanced at Lord Randyll, standing stoically at his side. "We will take Prince Oberyn to the parlay as well," Tristifer said, his voice calm though his mind raced with the enormity of what lay ahead. "Send a messenger to explain the delay."
"Very well, Lord Hand," Randyll replied with his typical military precision. He barked orders to one of his vassals, who promptly turned to carry out the command. Tristifer's gaze shifted back to the river and the waiting rebel lords on the opposite bank. This was it—everything would be decided today. All he had worked for, all his ambitions, and all he wished to accomplish hung in the balance.
There was something gnawing at Tristifer, a vague unease he couldn't shake. It lurked at the edges of his thoughts, like a shadow just out of sight. He couldn't quite place it—perhaps it was the unsettling notion that history was repeating itself, the same battlefield, the same river, and the same sense of impending fate. Maybe it was the fear that this time would be no different. Or perhaps it was something more tangible, something he had overlooked in the planning. The frustration of not being able to pinpoint the source of his discomfort made it all the more distracting.
He forced his mind to focus on the war plans they had drawn up at Butter Hall. He and Lord Randyll would lead the vanguard, fighting in the thick of the battle. Lord Mathis and Prince Oberyn, capable commanders in their own right, would hold the rearguard and main force, ready to support where needed. The plan had been sound when they'd conceived it, meticulously crafted to adapt to whatever Robert's forces threw at them.
Tristifer could only hope that Addam lived up to expectations, as he had so many times before. His brother in all but blood, leading the critical cavalry flank, held as much of their future in his hands as Tristifer did. The vision of peace seemed so close—he could almost touch it. He would be the Hand of the King, finally bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. And with peace, he would return to King's Landing and reunite with his son, raise him in the capital with all the care his children deserved.
He imagined sitting at the lord's table in Riverrun, his House restored to its former significance, and the ancient ruins of Oldstones rebuilt, his legacy secured. In his mind, it all seemed so clear, the future unfurling before him like a map.
End of Chapter
House Mudd grows, even if it is a bastard, Tristifer is no longer alone in the world again. This has been planned for quite som time now and it was interesting to finally be able to write it. Triston will be more relevant for the sequel of course but I hope to use him a little before the end of this.
The Second Battle of the Trident is here, though Tristifer has a plan to prevent it from simply repeating history. We shall see if Robert is simply doing what works or something else.
Now we are really moving toward the 'epilogue' chapters that will be to set up the sequel after the Rebellion.
Thank you all for reading and hopefully liking the story still. Until next time.