Scene 1: The Stones
Location: The Market Square, Stoney Sept.
Time: 12:15 PM.
The Battle of the Bells began not with a trumpet, but with a cobblestone.
It struck Jon Connington's pauldron with a heavy clack, leaving a dent in the red enamel.
"Monster!" a tanner screamed, swinging a rusted skinning knife at a horse's flank.
Connington backhanded the man with a gauntleted fist, sending him sprawling into the mud.
"Clear the square!" Connington roared, his voice hoarse from smoke and screaming. "Push them back!"
But they couldn't push them back. The burning Sept had ignited something primal in the people of Stoney Sept. They weren't fighting for Robert Baratheon anymore; they were fighting for their town.
Old women threw boiling water from balconies, scalding the Griffin knights in their armor. Apprentices armed with heavy iron tongs dragged squires from their saddles. The narrow streets, designed to keep wind out, now kept the cavalry trapped in a suffocating crush of bodies and smoke.
"My Lord!" a captain shouted, pointing East. "Banners! The Vale!"
Connington spun his horse.
Through the eastern archway, a wedge of heavy cavalry was smashing into the rear of his formation. They wore the sky-blue armor of the Eyrie.
Leading them was a knight in silver plate, his visor up, his face flushed with the glory of the charge. Ser Denys Arryn. The Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. The Darling of the Vale.
"Arryn!" Connington snarled. He recognized the threat instantly. If the Vale vanguard linked up with the mob, he was finished.
"To me!" Connington signaled his elite guard. "Cut the head off!"
He spurred his horse, trampling a beggar who couldn't move fast enough, and drove straight for the Vale commander.
Denys Arryn saw him coming. He was a skilled lance, brave and noble, but he was young. He saw the Hand of the King charging him and saw a chance for immortality.
"For the Falcon!" Denys shouted, lowering his lance.
The two commanders collided in the center of the burning square.
CRASH.
Connington didn't joust. He brawled. He took Denys's lance on his shield, the wood shattering, and swung his sword in a brutal, horizontal arc.
The blade caught Denys in the gorget, ripping the metal. Denys gasped, reeling in his saddle, blood spraying onto his silver armor.
"Die, boy!" Connington screamed, raising his sword for the killing blow. He had him. One more strike and the heir of the Vale would be a corpse.
Denys tried to raise his shield, but his arm was numb. He looked up at the Griffin Lord, his eyes wide with the realization of death.
Connington's blade began to descend.
And then the world exploded.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 18: The Bells Ring
Scene 2: The Hammer
Location: The Market Square, Stoney Sept.
Time: 12:16 PM.
And then the world exploded.
The door of the tanner's shop didn't open. It disintegrated.
A massive shape burst through the splintering wood, moving with a speed that defied its size. It was covered in dried sewage, black soot, and straw. It wore no helmet, its thick black hair wild and matted. It looked less like a man and more like a bear roused from hibernation by fire.
Jon Connington's sword was inches from Denys Arryn's throat when the impact came.
Robert didn't swing his hammer. He used his body as a battering ram. He slammed into the flank of Connington's warhorse with enough force to crack ribs.
The horse screamed, stumbling sideways. Connington's aim was knocked violently off course. His sword struck Denys's shoulder pauldron instead of his neck, sparks flying as the blade skidded harmlessly off the steel.
Denys Arryn, gasping for air, looked up at his savior. He saw a monster covered in shit and glory.
Connington fought to control his mount, wheeling around to face the new threat.
"YOU!" Connington screamed, his eyes wide with a mixture of hatred and disbelief. "You were supposed to be hiding!"
Robert Baratheon didn't say a word. He didn't have his System overlay active. He didn't need it. The rage pulsing through his veins was ancient, primal.
He stepped over a dead Griffin knight, hefting the iron warhammer in both hands. He spun it once, the heavy head making a low, terrifying whoosh in the smoke-filled air.
Connington, desperate to end it, charged. He thrust his sword at Robert's unprotected face.
Robert didn't dodge. He swatted the blade aside with the shaft of his hammer like he was brushing away a fly, then stepped inside Connington's guard.
And swung.
CRACK.
The hammer struck Connington's shield. It wasn't a clean hit; it was a demolition. The Griffin sigil painted on the wood exploded into splinters. The shield buckled inward, and the sound of Connington's forearm snapping was louder than the bells.
Connington shrieked, dropping his sword, his left arm useless.
"Is that it, Jon?" Robert roared, his voice booming across the square. "Is that the best the Dragon has?"
Connington tried to turn his horse, to run, but Robert was already moving.
Robert swung again. A low, sweeping blow aimed at the horse's legs.
CRUNCH.
The warhammer shattered the destrier's knees. The massive animal collapsed headfirst into the mud, throwing Connington violently to the cobblestones.
The Hand of the King lay flat on his back, dazed, his helmet knocked askew. He looked up through the smoke and saw death towering over him.
Robert stood above him, the hammer raised high for the killing blow. His chest heaved. His eyes burned with the fury of a man who had been hunted like an animal for days.
"Do it," Connington whispered, closing his eyes, accepting his fate.
Robert held the hammer aloft. He could end it now. One blow, and the Griffin Roost was masterless.
But he heard the horns blaring outside the city walls. His army. His men. They hadn't abandoned him.
He lowered the hammer slowly, until the head rested on Connington's breastplate, heavy as a tombstone.
"You aren't worth the swing, Jon," Robert growled. He leaned down, his face inches from the terrified Hand. "Run back to your master. Tell him the Stag is out of the woods. Tell him I'm coming for his throne."
Robert stepped back and kicked Connington hard in the ribs. "RUN!"
Connington scrambled backward in the mud, gasping in pain and humiliation. He looked around. His elite guard was being overwhelmed by the Vale knights. The townsfolk were cheering. And the sound of fourteen thousand Stormlanders assaulting the city gates was getting louder.
The trap had sprung, and Connington was inside it.
He didn't wait for a second invitation. He abandoned his horse, abandoned his dignity, and ran for the rear lines, screaming for a fresh mount, desperate to escape the monster he had unleashed in the square.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 18: The Bells Ring
Scene 3: The Relief
Location: The Northern Gate, Stoney Sept.
Time: 12:45 PM.
[Perspective: Eddard Stark]
Eddard Stark did not feel the cold wind on his face. He did not feel the horse foaming beneath him. He felt only the crushing weight of the rumors that had screamed up the Kingsroad.
He is cornered.
Connington has him.
The Stag is trapped.
"Faster!" Ned screamed, his voice cracking. He kicked his exhausted destrier, forcing the beast to sprint the last mile.
Behind him, the eighteen thousand Northmen were strung out along the road, a long grey line of desperate men. But Ned hadn't waited for the infantry. He had taken the heavy horse—the Karstarks, the Boltons, the Umbers—and ridden until the hooves bled.
Ned's heart hammered against his ribs. Not him too, Ned prayed to the Old Gods. You took Father. You took Brandon. You cannot take Robert. If he dies, the war ends today.
He knew the grim truth. They could fight for justice, they could fight for vengeance, but without Robert's blood—the drop of Dragon blood from his grandmother—they had no King. They had no legal alternative to the Mad King. If Robert fell, the Rebellion became nothing more than a doomed criminal conspiracy.
The walls of Stoney Sept loomed ahead. Smoke was pouring from the city, black and thick.
"They're burning it!" the Greatjon roared, riding at Ned's flank. "They're cooking him alive!"
Ned didn't answer. He drew his longsword.
"OPEN THE GATES!" Ned roared as they thundered toward the archway.
But the gates weren't barred. They were smashed open.
And pouring out of them were not refugees, but knights in red and white. Griffin men.
They were running.
Ned pulled his horse up, confused. The Royal Army was in full retreat. They were casting aside shields, dropping lances, fleeing as if the Others themselves were chasing them.
"Cut them down!" the Greatjon shouted, signaling the charge.
But Ned ignored the fleeing soldiers. He drove his spurs into his horse, cutting through the chaotic stream, driving deep into the city. He needed to see. He needed to know.
He rode through streets choked with bodies and debris. He rode past townsfolk who were cheering, banging pots and pans, their faces smeared with soot.
He burst into the Market Square.
He expected to see a pyre. He expected to see Connington standing over a corpse.
Instead, he saw a giant.
Robert Baratheon sat on the steps of a ruined fountain. He was covered in black muck, dried blood, and sewage. His warhammer rested on his knees. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving like a bellows, but he was alive.
Around him lay the wreckage of the Griffin's elite guard.
Ned slid from his horse, his legs nearly giving out. He stumbled through the mud, lifting his visor.
"Robert?" Ned whispered.
The giant looked up. Beneath the filth, teeth flashed white in a grin that was half-madness, half-relief.
"Ned," Robert rasped. He tried to stand, then groaned and sat back down. "Took you long enough. I had to start the party without you."
Ned felt the tears sting his eyes. He grabbed Robert's shoulder, shaking him, needing to feel the solid reality of him.
"I thought..." Ned's voice cracked. "I thought you were dead. The rumors..."
"I was," Robert said, his face sobering. He touched the wound on his side. "Close thing, Ned. Very close."
From the Eastern archway, another horn blew—high and clear.
Jon Arryn rode into the square. The Lord of the Eyrie looked hagard, his silver hair matted with sweat. He had ridden from the Vale with the same desperate speed as Ned, fearing the same outcome.
When Jon saw Robert sitting on the fountain, the old lord let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He slumped in his saddle, the tension of the last month leaving his body all at once.
"He lives," Jon Arryn whispered to the sky. "The Gods are good. The claim holds."
"The claim?" Robert laughed, a harsh, barking sound. He gestured to the burning Sept and the dead knights. "The claim is iron and blood, Jon. Just like you taught me."
Robert finally forced himself to stand. He towered over Ned and Jon, a colossus of filth.
"Connington?" Ned asked, looking around the square.
"Ran," Robert spat. "Ran back to his Dragon Prince."
He looked at his two brothers—the Wolf and the Falcon. The three of them stood together in the smoke. The North was here. The Vale was here. The Stormlands were whole.
Robert Baratheon wiped the slime from his face. The fear of the last few days—the blindness, the hiding, the loneliness—was gone.
"They hunted me," Robert said, his voice hard, echoing off the burnt stones of the Sept. "They cornered me. And they missed."
He hefted his hammer onto his shoulder.
"Now," Robert said, looking toward the horizon where the fleeing Griffins had vanished. "It's my turn to hunt."
The bells of the town began to ring again—not in alarm, but in victory. A thousand different notes clashing in the smoky air.
The Bells rang for war.
[End of Chapter 18]