Scene 1: The Royal Camp
Location: The Royalist Encampment, South of the Trident.
Time: Two days before the Battle.
From the ridge of the Kingsroad, the Royalist army looked like a painting of the Age of Heroes.
Forty thousand men spread across the green fields of the Trident valley. The sun caught the tips of ten thousand spears, turning them into a river of steel. The banners were a riot of color—the red dragons of House Targaryen, the sea-green seahorses of Velaryon, the red crabs of Celtigar, the ploughman of Darry.
It was majestic. It was the might of the Iron Throne made manifest.
But if you rode down from the ridge... if you rode past the silk pavilions of the high lords and into the lines of the common men... the painting dissolved into a nightmare.
Ser Richard Lonmouth, Rhaegar's former squire and one of the few men who truly loved the Prince, walked his horse through the Crownlands sector. He held a scented cloth to his nose.
The smell was atrocious.
The camp was a sprawling, chaotic mess. There were no designated latrine zones. Men relieved themselves in the bushes, behind wagons, or in shallow ditches that overflowed with the morning rain. The ground was a slurry of mud and filth.
Richard saw a group of spearmen from Duskendale sitting in the dirt. They weren't sharpening their weapons. They were too weak.
"Water," one man croaked, reaching out a hand that looked like a bird's claw. "For the love of the Mother, water."
Richard stopped. He uncorked his wineskin.
"Don't drink from the river, lad," Richard warned, tossing the skin to the man. "The horses have fouled it upstream."
The man drank greedily, spilling red wine down his chin. "The river is all we have, my Lord. The wells are dry. The ale is gone."
Richard took the skin back, feeling a heavy knot in his stomach.
We are a dying giant, he thought. We look strong, but our blood is poison.
He rode on, toward the center of the camp.
The contrast was jarring. As he crossed the invisible line that separated the levies from the nobility, the mud turned to manicured grass. The smell of excrement vanished, replaced by the scent of roasting boar and expensive incense.
The Royal Pavilion was buzzing with life.
Inside, the Lords of the Crownlands and the loyalist Riverlords were holding a war council. Or rather, a party.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, was holding court. He was a man of the sea, dressed in teal silk, his fingers dripping with sapphires.
"They say the Usurper is eating hardtack!" Velaryon laughed, slapping his thigh. "Hardtack! Can you imagine? A would-be King who eats like a rat in the hold of a ship!"
The other lords roared with laughter. Lord Ryger poured more wine.
"He plays at being a soldier," Ryger sneered. "He thinks digging ditches makes him a commander. I say we ride him down. One charge of the heavy horse, and his peasant army will break."
"To the charge!" Lord Mooton toasted, raising a goblet that cost more than a levy earned in a lifetime. "To the Dragon!"
Richard Lonmouth walked into the tent. He was covered in the dust of the road. He looked at the feast—the pheasants, the lamprey pies, the towers of fruit—and felt a wave of nausea.
"My Lords," Richard said, his voice cutting through the laughter.
The lords turned. They saw the "Knight of Skulls and Kisses," Rhaegar's friend.
"Ser Richard!" Velaryon beamed. "Come, have a cup. We were just discussing how quickly the Stag will run when he sees our banners."
"He will not run," Richard said quietly.
He walked to the table. He didn't take a cup.
"I was out scouting the ford," Richard reported. "I saw their vanguard."
"And?" Mooton asked, bored. "Did they look terrified?"
"They looked... ready," Richard said.
The lords blinked.
"Ready?" Ryger frowned. "What sort of report is that?"
"Their armor is dull, painted black," Richard said, describing what he had seen through his Myrish lens. "Whatever rust they had, they have scrubbed away. And the camp... it was quiet. Too quiet."
"Quiet because they are few," Velaryon scoffed. "And the fires?"
"Very few cookfires," Richard admitted. "Hardly any smoke rising."
"Ha!" Velaryon slammed his hand on the table. "You see? They don't have the wood, or they don't have the meat to cook. Or perhaps they are so few they don't need many fires. It is a skeleton crew, Richard. A bluff."
Richard shook his head slowly. "Or they are eating cold rations to stay disciplined. I saw them drilling, my Lords. Shield walls. Pike squares. They moved as one. Like a great iron beast."
The lords exchanged glances. For a second, the reality of the war tried to intrude on their fantasy.
Then, Lord Velaryon dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
"Drills are for parade grounds," Velaryon declared. "We have the numbers. We have the Prince. And we have the favor of the Gods."
He picked up a lamprey pie.
"Let Robert have his black armor and his cold tack. Tomorrow, he will die tired and hungry. We will die full and glorious."
The laughter returned. The wine flowed. The lords went back to their game of predicting who would claim the most honors.
Richard Lonmouth turned and walked out.
He stood outside the pavilion, listening to the music of the lutes inside, playing "The Dragon's Dance."
And beneath the music, he heard the sound of the camp.
He heard the coughing. He heard the groaning of men whose bowels were turning to water. He heard the squelch of boots in the shit-filled mud.
He looked up at the Red Dragon banner flapping lazily in the wind.
It looked beautiful against the blue sky.
We are going to lose, Richard realized with a terrifying clarity.
We are dancing on a grave.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 24: The Last Messenger
Scene 2: The Rebel Camp
Location: The Rebel Encampment, North of the Trident.
Time: The same afternoon.
The Rebel camp was not a monastery, but it was no longer a sty.
In the Vale and Riverlands sectors, the old ways still lingered. There were camp followers washing clothes in the stream—downstream from the drinking intake, strictly enforced by Stormlands sergeants. There was the smell of wine, for knights would always be knights, and they needed their courage in a cup. There was the sound of laughter and the strumming of lutes, for men facing death need distraction.
But there was no retching. There were no flies clouding the cookfires. The latrine trenches were deep, covered, and odorless.
But as one crossed into the Stormlands Sector, the atmosphere shifted.
Here, there were no camp followers. There was no wine.
Here, it was the sound of a machine winding up.
Robert Baratheon stood in a muddy field near the riverbank. He wasn't wearing a crown. He wasn't even wearing his full plate. He was in a padded gambeson, stained with sweat and river-clay.
He was holding a pike.
"Again!" Robert roared, his voice cracking like a whip.
In front of him, a square of five hundred Stormlands infantry—men who had survived the retreat from Ashford—slammed their pikes down. They were not knights. They were not highborn. But they moved with a terrifying unity.
"Hold!" Robert shouted, walking the line. He kicked the shaft of a pike held by a burly sergeant. The man didn't budge.
"Good," Robert grunted. He addressed the square, his voice carrying over the wind.
"Rhaegar has the heavy horse!" Robert bellowed. "He has the flower of the Reach and the Crownlands. He thinks he will ride you down like grass!"
He grabbed the pike from the sergeant and planted the butt in the mud, angling the point up at a forty-five-degree angle.
"But a horse is not a dragon! It is a beast! And a beast will not impale itself if you stand firm!"
He looked at his men—his infantry-heavy army. The Rebels had forty thousand men, but barely a third were cavalry. The Vale and the North had brought horsemen, yes, but the Stormlands cavalry had been decimated at Ashford.
"We are the wall!" Robert shouted, his blue eyes blazing. "Let the pretty knights charge. We will catch them on the points!"
Location: The Archery Range.
Time: Moments later.
Robert walked toward the ranges, wiping the mud from his hands.
Eddard Stark was there, leaning against a fence, cleaning the greatsword Ice with an oiled cloth. He watched the Northern archers practicing, his face grim and quiet. Ned was no marksman, but he knew the value of a volley.
"They look nervous," Ned said softly as Robert approached. "They know Rhaegar outnumbers our horse three to one."
"Let them be nervous," Robert said. "Nerves keep a man sharp."
Robert walked to the rack where his personal weapons were kept. He ignored the standard yew bows.
He reached for a massive, recurved bow made of black, twisted material that shimmered like oil in the sun.
The Dragonbone Bow.
He had taken it as a prize years ago, found in the vaults of Storm's End, a relic of a time when the Baratheons were the hand of the Dragon Kings.
"My Lord?" a squire asked, holding out a quiver of heavy war-arrows—thick shafts with bodkin points designed to punch through plate.
Robert nodded. He stepped to the line.
He didn't aim at the standard straw targets set at fifty paces. He turned toward a wooden post set nearly three hundred yards away—a distance that was meant for flight testing, not accuracy.
He drew the string.
The Dragonbone bow didn't creak. It hummed. The draw weight was immense—enough to tear the rotator cuff of a lesser man. But Robert's arms, thick as tree trunks, pulled the string back to his ear without a tremor.
Thwack.
The sound was like a thunderclap. The arrow vanished, a blur of grey fletching.
A second later, there was a dull thud from the distant post. The arrow had buried itself deep in the wood.
The nearby archers—Northmen, Valemen, and Riverlanders alike—stopped. They stared at the distant post. Then they looked at the man who had loosed it.
"Rhaegar thinks war is a song," Robert said, loud enough for the men to hear, lowering the black bow. "He thinks a sharp sword and a pretty breastplate win battles."
He looked at the awe in their faces.
"He forgets that iron breaks silver. And he forgets that a Dragon can bleed."
Location: The Command Tent.
Time: One hour later.
The Lords Paramount were gathered. The atmosphere was professional, though the cultural differences were clear. Jon Arryn sipped watered wine. Ned Stark drank ale. Robert drank the charcoal-filtered water.
Maester Vyman entered, bowing low.
"The Flux report, my Lords."
Hoster Tully leaned forward. "Speak."
"Stabilized," Vyman said. "The new cases have stopped. The men are regaining their strength. We will field forty thousand fit men tomorrow."
"Forty thousand," Lord Blackwood muttered, looking at the map. "Against forty-five thousand Royalists. But the numbers aren't the problem. It's the composition."
He pointed to the red markers of the Royalist army.
"Rhaegar has nearly twenty-five thousand heavy horse. We have... maybe twelve thousand, if we combine the Vale and Northern cavalry. If we meet them in the open field, they will flank us."
"We won't meet them in the open," Robert said, sitting at the head of the table. "We hold the Ford. The mud will slow their charge. Their horses will be tired from the mud."
"And our rear?" Jon Arryn asked, his voice cautious. "We cannot ignore the Lion. Tywin Lannister sits at the Golden Tooth with thirty thousand fresh men. If we engage Rhaegar, and Tywin marches..."
"He won't march," Robert stated flatly.
"You seem very certain," Ned noted. "Tywin was the Mad King's hand for twenty years."
"And Aerys insulted him for twenty years," Robert countered. "I have... reliable intelligence."
He thought of the reports from Siro.
"Tywin is dillydallying," Robert said, using a word that seemed too small for the threat, but fit perfectly. "He is waiting to see who dies first. He won't commit until the river runs red."
Robert stood up. He pointed to the center of the map.
"Our infantry is our strength. My Stormlanders have practiced the pike square. The North has the shield wall. We force Rhaegar to come to us. We make him fight in the water. We make him fight in the mud."
He looked at Hoster Tully.
"Can the Riverlands hold the center?"
Hoster stood. He looked at Robert—not as a rash boy, but as the man who had saved his army from dissolving into liquid filth.
"The Riverlands will hold, Your Grace."
"Good," Robert said. "We don't need to chase them. We don't need to outride them."
He picked up his warhammer, the heavy steel head resting on the table.
"We just need to stand. Rhaegar is arrogant. He believes his prophecy will protect him. He will charge because he thinks he cannot lose."
Robert smiled, a grim, wolfish expression.
"And when he charges... we will be the rock that breaks the wave."
[End of Scene 2]
Chapter 24: The Last Messenger
Scene 3: The Stare
Location: The Northern Bank of the Trident.
Time: The Eve of Battle.
The river was a scar running through the heart of the world.
On the south bank, the fires of the Royalist army stretched like a reflection of the Milky Way. Forty thousand torches, campfires, and lanterns illuminated the silk pavilions of the Reach and the Crownlands. The sound of their camp drifted across the water—the faint strains of music, the neighing of destriers, the confident laughter of men who believed they were on the right side of history.
On the north bank, there was darkness.
Robert Baratheon had ordered a blackout. Only the essential watch fires burned, shielded by earthen berms to hide their numbers. The Rebel army was a sleeping wolf—silent, huddled, and invisible in the gloom.
Robert stood at the water's edge. The Trident rushed past his boots, swollen with the recent rains, churning mud and silt.
Beside him stood Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully. They were fully armored, save for their helmets. The damp air clung to their cloaks.
"He sent a rider," Ned said, his voice quiet, almost lost in the rush of the water. "Under a peace banner."
"Let him come," Robert said. He leaned on his warhammer, the head of the weapon resting in the mud.
A single horseman splashed into the ford from the southern bank. He carried a torch in one hand and a white banner in the other. He rode halfway across the river, stopping where the water reached his horse's belly.
It was Ser Richard Lonmouth. The Knight of Skulls and Kisses. Rhaegar's closest friend.
Robert recognized him instantly. They had drunk together at Harrenhal. They had laughed at the same jokes.
Now, Richard looked at them from across the divide of treason.
"My Lords!" Richard called out. His voice was strong, but tinged with sadness. "I speak for His Grace, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne!"
"Speak then," Jon Arryn called back, his voice cracked with age but steady as stone.
"The Prince offers terms!" Richard shouted. "The realm has bled enough. The Prince wishes to spare the commons the horror of tomorrow."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"Lord Arryn. The Prince offers you a pardon. Lay down your sword, and you may return to the Eyrie as Warden of the East. Your heir will be fostered at court, but your House will remain."
Jon Arryn didn't blink. "I have no heir, Ser Richard. My heir was my nephew, Elbert. And the Mad King strangled him. Tell your Prince that I do not barter with kinslayers."
Richard winced, but pressed on. He turned to Hoster.
"Lord Tully. The Prince knows you were... coerced into this alliance. Lay down your arms, and Riverrun remains yours. Your daughters will be spared."
"My daughters are rebels," Hoster spat, his hand gripping his sword hilt. "And my vanguard lies in the dirt because of your King's madness. No terms."
Richard turned to Ned. His expression softened.
"Lord Stark. The Prince... the Prince regrets the necessity of war. He asks you to think of your sister. Lay down your arms, bend the knee, and he swears by the Ice and Fire that Lyanna will be returned to you. He swears that a Great Council will be called to address the... tragedy of your father and brother."
Ned stiffened. The mention of Lyanna was a knife in his gut. For a second, the quiet Wolf looked ready to step into the water and strangle the messenger.
"A Council?" Ned whispered, his voice trembling with cold rage. "He speaks of a Council while fighting for the Madman? He holds my sister while offering me peace?"
"Tell him," Ned shouted, "that Winter has come for him."
Richard Lonmouth sighed. He looked defeated, though the battle hadn't started.
Finally, he looked at Robert.
He didn't offer a pardon. He didn't offer a title.
"Robert," Richard said, dropping the formal titles. "The Prince says... he says you cannot win. He says the stars are not aligned for the Stag. He asks you to surrender yourself. To face the King's justice alone, so that your men may live."
Robert looked at his old drinking companion.
He didn't roar. He didn't laugh. He didn't curse.
He walked into the water.
He splashed out three paces, the icy current swirling around his greaves. He looked Richard in the eye.
"Richard," Robert said, his voice calm, carrying effortlessly over the river.
"Tell Rhaegar I don't want his pardon. I don't want his justice. And I certainly don't want his mercy."
Robert lifted his warhammer. He pointed the spike toward the southern bank, directly at the glowing red pavilion in the distance.
"Tell him to put on his armor. Tell him to say his prayers. Because I am not coming across this river to talk."
Richard Lonmouth stared at the giant in the water. He nodded once, a gesture of final farewell.
"I will tell him," Richard whispered.
He turned his horse and splashed back toward the light, leaving the Rebels in the dark.
Time: One hour later.
Location: Robert's Personal Fire.
The lords had dispersed to their commands. The camp was settling into the terrified, restless sleep of men who know they might die in the morning.
Robert sat alone by a small fire. He was sharpening a dagger. Shhhk. Shhhk.
But his mind wasn't on the blade.
It was on the Butterfly.
He looked at his hands. They were huge, scarred, powerful. Hands that had reshaped an army.
I have changed everything, Robert thought, staring into the flames.
In the original timeline—the one he remembered from the books and the show—Robert had won. He had killed Rhaegar at the ford.
But that Robert had been desperate. That Robert had been a man of pure fury, fighting with a starving, broken army. He had won by the skin of his teeth, driven by a berserker rage born of hopelessness.
This Robert was different.
He had fixed the supply lines. He had cured the Flux. He had drilled the men. He had created a disciplined machine.
But have I changed too much?
The thought gnawed at him.
By making his army stronger, had he made Rhaegar more cautious?
In the original history, Rhaegar tried to cross the ford because he thought Robert was weak. He thought he could crush the rebellion in one stroke.
But now? Rhaegar's scouts would have told him about the pikes, the lack of sickness, the order.
What if he doesn't cross? Robert wondered, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck.
What if he waits? What if he flanks? What if Tywin Lannister decides that a disciplined Robert is a bigger threat than a Mad King and marches to crush me from behind?
And the personal combat...
The history books said Robert killed Rhaegar with a single blow to the chest.
But that was a chaotic melee, Robert thought. That was a brawl. I am better trained now. I am sober. But Rhaegar... Rhaegar is the Prince that was Promised to himself. Does he have a trick I don't know?
He felt the weight of the timeline pressing down on him. One arrow. One slip in the mud. One moment of hesitation.
If he died tomorrow, the Rebellion died with him. Ned would be executed. Jon Arryn would be executed. Stannis would starve in Storm's End. Lyanna...
Robert closed his eyes.
He had used his knowledge of the future to fix the logistics. He had used modern concepts to save thousands from dysentery.
But he couldn't engineer a duel.
Once the hammers and swords started swinging, the future wasn't written anymore. It was just blood and physics.
I stripped the narrative protection, Robert realized with a jolt of horror. By making this real... by making it logical... I have removed the guarantee.
In a story, the hero wins because the author wants him to.
In reality, the hero dies because he stepped on a caltrop.
"Siro," Robert said, not turning around.
The spy stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed in blackened leather, invisible until he moved.
"My Lord?"
"If I fall tomorrow," Robert said, his voice low. "If the Dragon gets lucky."
"He won't," Siro said.
"If he does," Robert insisted. "You get Ned out. You get him back to the North. You tell him to bend the knee if he has to. But he survives. The Starks must survive."
Siro hesitated. "And the war?"
"The war ends if I die," Robert said simply. "But the North must remember."
He stood up. He sheathed the dagger.
He looked at the river again. The sound of the water was louder now, a roaring beast waiting to be fed.
"The water waits," Robert whispered.
He turned to his tent. He picked up his Dragonbone bow and laid it on his cot next to the warhammer.
He had done everything he could. He had drilled the infantry. He had dug the latrines. He had sharpened the steel.
Now, he just had to be the Warrior.
"Wake me at dawn," Robert told Siro. "And tell the cooks... double rations for breakfast. I want the men to fight on a full belly."
"And you, my Lord?"
"I'll eat when Rhaegar is dead."
[End of Chapter 24]