Scene 1: The Cost of Business
Location: The Southern Bank of the Ruby Ford.
Time: The Afternoon of the Victory (Day 1).
The silence was the loudest part.
Hours ago, this riverbank had been a cacophony of screaming men, dying horses, and clashing steel. Now, the only sounds were the rush of the Trident, the cawing of crows descending for the feast, and the low, murmuring work of the burial details.
The water was still pink. It would be for days.
Robert Baratheon walked the field. He had removed his greathelm, letting the cool breeze dry the sweat and blood matted in his black hair. He carried his warhammer loosely in one hand, using it as a walking stick as he navigated the carpet of corpses.
He wasn't looking at faces. He was looking at the Hud.
The System was active, overlaying the grim reality of the battlefield with the cold, blue text of a post-action report.
Fourteen percent, Robert thought, staring at a pile of Stormlands pikemen who had died holding the line against the charge. Six thousand men.
In a video game, 14% casualties against a superior force was a brilliant score. An S-Rank achievement.
But, it was six thousand letters that had to be written to widows, atleast in his old world. Here, those families would now struggle for livelihood.
"Your Grace."
The voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the ambient noise like a razor.
Robert turned. Roose Bolton stood there. The Lord of the Dreadfort was unbloodied, his pale eyes inspecting the carnage with a mild, clinical curiosity.
Behind him, two Northmen were dragging a body wrapped in a sodden, mud-stained cloak. They dumped it at Robert's feet.
A hand flopped out. It was pale, manicured, and adorned with rings.
Robert looked down. Rhaegar Targaryen.
The Prince looked smaller in death. His chest was a ruin of caved-in black steel. His face, washed clean by the river, was frozen in a mask of final, terrifying realization. The rubies were gone, scavenged by the river or the soldiers.
"The Last Dragon," Bolton murmured. "A handsome corpse."
"He's just a corpse, Roose," Robert grunted.
"The men are... spirited," Bolton said, his voice smooth. "They wish to see the head. I have a man who knows how to strip the flesh and tar the skull. We could mount it on a spear. March it to King's Landing. It would send a powerful message to Aerys."
Robert looked at Bolton. He saw the cruelty there, the ancient, flaying instinct of the North.
"No," Robert said.
Bolton blinked, his pale eyes narrowing slightly. "It is customary. To show the enemy is dead."
"Rhaegar wasn't a enemy or a demon to them," Robert said, looking at the dead Prince. "To half the realm, he was a hero. A tragic figure. If I put his head on a spike, I make him a martyr. I make him a saint who died for a prophecy or his right."
Robert pointed to a stack of driftwood being gathered by the river.
"Build a pyre. Burn him."
"Burn him?" Bolton asked. "Like a commoner?"
"Like a Targaryen," Robert corrected. "They like fire, don't they? Give him to the flame. No ceremony. No songs. Just wood and oil."
He looked Bolton in the eye.
"Martyrs are dangerous, Roose. Ash is just ash."
Bolton held the stare for a second, then bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace. Ash it is."
As Bolton drifted away like a bad smell, a commotion erupted near the water's edge.
"Hold him down!" a voice roared. "Traitorous dog!"
Robert strode toward the noise. A circle of Rebel soldiers had formed around a figure lying in the mud.
Lord Rickard Karstark was standing over the fallen man, his sword drawn. The Lord of Karhold was covered in gore, his beard matted with it.
"He killed my brother!" Karstark shouted, pointing his blade at the man on the ground. "He cut down Torrhen! I want his head!"
Robert pushed through the circle. "Stand down, Rickard!"
He looked at the man in the mud.
It was Ser Barristan Selmy.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was a wreck. His white armor was shattered on the left side where Robert's hammer had caught him. His breath was coming in ragged, wet gasps—pink froth bubbling on his lips. His face was grey, his eyes unfocused.
But he was alive.
Robert's vision flickered. The System scanned the broken old man.
Legendary, Robert thought. The only man in Westeros who is universally respected.
"He is a Kingsguard," Karstark spat. "He swore to protect the Mad King. He killed good men today. Let me finish him."
Karstark raised his sword.
"Drop the steel, Rickard," Robert said. His voice was low, dangerous.
"He is an enemy!"
"He was doing his job!" Robert stepped between Karstark and Selmy. "He stood between his Prince and a warhammer. That isn't malice, Rickard. That is duty."
Robert knelt in the mud beside Selmy. The old knight's eyes fluttered open. He looked at Robert, but there was no recognition, only pain.
"Vyman!" Robert bellowed, turning his head toward the command tents. "Get Maester Vyman here! Now!"
"You would waste a Maester on him?" Karstark asked, incredulous. "Throw him to the camp butchers. Or let him die."
"I said get Vyman," Robert ordered the nearest squire. "I want him stabilized. I want poppy for the pain and bindings for the ribs."
Jon Arryn appeared at Robert's elbow. The old falcon looked tired, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He saw Karstark's anger. He saw the broken Kingsguard.
"Robert," Jon murmured, pulling him slightly aside. "Rickard has a point. Selmy killed a dozen of our best. Saving him... it might sit ill with the Lords who lost sons today."
Robert stood up. He towered over his foster father. He wiped his bloody hands on a rag.
"Look at the map, Jon," Robert said, gesturing vaguely to the south. "We have won the battle. We haven't won the war. King's Landing is still held by a madman. The Reach is still besieging Storm's End. Tywin Lannister is still sitting on the fence."
He pointed at the gasping form of Barristan Selmy.
"If I kill him, I satisfy Rickard Karstark for a day. But if I save him? If Barristan the Bold bends the knee to me?"
Robert looked at the gathered soldiers.
"Then I prove that I am not just a killer. I prove that I am a King who honors valor, even in his enemies."
He turned back to Jon, his blue eyes hard and pragmatic.
"I don't need dead heroes, Jon. I need living legends to guard my back."
Jon Arryn looked at his foster son, seeing the calculation behind the mercy. He nodded slowly. "I will handle Karstark."
As evening fell, the camp began to change.
The adrenaline of survival was giving way to the euphoria of victory. The Royalist baggage train had been captured, and it was laden with casks of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red.
A Stormlands captain approached Robert. "Your Grace? The men... they found the wine wagons. Shall I secure them? Maintain the dry protocol?"
Robert looked at his army. They were covered in mud and blood. They were exhausted. They had stood against the Charge of the Dragon and held the line.
"No," Robert said softly. "They earned it. Open the casks. Let them drink. Let them sing."
"And for you, Your Grace?" The captain held out a silver goblet taken from a dead Royalist lord, filled to the brim with dark red wine.
Robert looked at the cup. He smelled the rich, fruity aroma. His throat was parched. His body ached from the fight with Rhaegar. The old Robert—the Robert of the books—would have drowned himself in that cup tonight. He would have drunk until he couldn't remember the sound of Rhaegar's ribs cracking.
Robert shook his head.
"Water," Robert said. "Charcoal-filtered."
The captain blinked. "Water? On the night of your greatest victory?"
"Someone has to stay awake, Captain," Robert said, taking a canteen from his belt. "The King watches so the army can sleep."
He took a swig of the tasteless, flat water.
Around him, the soldiers watched. They saw their lords getting drunk. They saw the knights toasting. But they saw their King standing sober, his hammer in hand, watching the southern horizon.
A ripple of respect went through the ranks, more potent than any speech.
He is one of us, the men thought. But he is better than us.
Robert watched the bonfire where Rhaegar's body was beginning to burn.
"Drink up, lads," Robert whispered to the night. "Tomorrow, we march into the Lion's den."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 27: The Red Water
Scene 2: The Sober Feast
Location: Robert's Personal Tent (The Trident).
Time: Day 3 Post-Victory (Deep Night).
The Rebel camp was no longer a military machine. It was a carnival.
The victory at the Trident had broken the dam of discipline. For three days, the army had celebrated. The loot from the Royalist baggage train—casks of Arbor Gold, salted pork, wheels of cheese—had been distributed. The songs were loud, bawdy, and endless. They sang of the Hammer and the Dragon. They sang of the "Iron Wall."
Inside his private tent, Robert Baratheon sat alone.
The flaps were tied shut, muffling the roar of the drunken army outside. A single oil lamp burned on the table, casting long, flickering shadows against the canvas.
Robert wasn't celebrating. He was staring at the map of King's Landing.
He took a sip from his goblet. It was filled with lukewarm charcoal-filtered water.
His mind went back to the night before the battle. The night before he killed Rhaegar. That was when Siro had first whispered the nightmare to him.
Flashback:
"The pots are placed, My Lord," Siro had whispered in the dark. "The Pyromancers are everywhere. Beneath the Great Sept of Baelor. Beneath the Dragonpit. The cellars of Flea Bottom. The Red Keep itself. Aerys isn't planning a defense. He is sitting on a powder keg."
I thought I had time, Robert thought, his grip tightening on the goblet in the present. I thought I could march slowly, let Aerys sweat, and on one night silently go in and eliminate him.
The tent flap didn't open. It simply moved, and Siro was there.
The spy looked like a wraith. His leather armor was coated in the dust of three different provinces. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked from wind and dehydration. He didn't bow. He stumbled to the table and grabbed the pitcher of water, drinking straight from the clay rim.
Robert watched him, his muscles tensing.
"You look like death, Siro," Robert said quietly. "I sent you west to watch the Lion. Tell me he is still sitting on his rock."
Siro wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. He leaned over the table, his breath raspy.
"He moved, My Lord."
Robert felt a cold spike in his gut. "Moved where? To the Trident?"
"No," Siro rasped. "He crossed the Gold Road four days ago. He is force-marching southeast. Fifteen thousand men. Mostly heavy horse. No baggage train. He is killing horses to make speed."
Robert stood up slowly. The chair scraped loudly against the floorboards.
"He's racing for the capital," Robert whispered. "He knows Rhaegar is dead. He wants to be the first one through the gates."
"He wants to prove his loyalty," Siro confirmed. "He wants to present you with a prize."
Robert looked at the map. He looked at the distance between the Westerlands army and the city. Then he looked at his own position.
The math was simple. The math was terrifying.
"He beats us there by a week," Robert said, his voice dropping to a horror-struck whisper.
He looked at Siro.
"You remember what you told me? The night before the Ford?"
Siro nodded grimly. "The Wildfire."
"Think about it, Siro," Robert said, his eyes wide.
Robert stabbed his finger onto the map, right on the location of the Lion's Gate.
"If Tywin Lannister shows up? His former friend? And then if that 'former' friend betrays him? The man he fears more than anyone?"
"Aerys will panic," Siro realized.
"It won't just be panic," Robert said. "It will be total annihilation."
Robert paced the small tent, the caged energy of a terrified general radiating off him.
"Tywin will try to sack the city to prove he's on my side. He'll start killing the Gold Cloaks. And the moment the first Lannister kills Goldcloaks..."
"Aerys lights the fuse," Siro finished.
"He burns it all," Robert said. "He burns the city. He burns the Iron Throne."
Robert stopped pacing. He stared at the tent wall, but he was seeing the green flames.
"Five hundred thousand people," Robert whispered. "Gone. Ash."
In the original timeline, Tywin sacked the city, and Jaime killed Aerys just before the order could be carried out. It was a matter of minutes.
But here? If Tywin arrived a week before Robert... if the sack was more brutal... if Aerys was more paranoid because of the prompt defeat of Rhaegar...
There was no guarantee Jaime Lannister would act in time. There was no guarantee the Pyromancers wouldn't trigger the caches early. Aerys would destroy the legacy of the Targaryens rather than let the Lion swallow it.
"We have a week," Robert said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "We have a week before the Lion accidentally triggers the apocalypse."
"You cannot stop him," Siro warned. "He is ahead of us. And our army is drunk."
"I can catch him," Robert said.
He turned to the spy.
"Get ready, Siro. You've done well."
"And you, my Lord?"
"I have to go wake the Starks," Robert said, grabbing his warhammer. "I have to tell Jon Arryn that the victory party is over."
He strode toward the tent flap. Outside, the soldiers were singing a song about the Maiden Fair. They were happy. They thought the war was won.
Robert looked south, toward the invisible threat of the Lion.
You won't burn my city, Tywin, Robert thought, his jaw setting. And Aerys, I won't allow you to kill half a million souls to prove a point.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 27: The Red Water
Scene 3: The Split
Location: The Command Tent (The Trident).
Time: One Hour Later.
The Lords Paramount arrived in various states of dress and sobriety.
Hoster Tully looked annoyed, wearing a fur robe over his tunic, his eyes bleary from wine. Jon Arryn looked alert but weary. Ned Stark looked as he always did—solemn, awake, and dressed in grey.
They stood around the map table, where the oil lamp flickered violently in the draft.
"We march tonight," Robert said. He didn't offer them seats. He didn't offer them wine.
Hoster blinked. "Tonight? Robert, have you lost your wits? It is the Wolf's Hour. The men are drunk. The wounded are still being triaged."
"The men can sleep when they're dead," Robert snapped. "And the wounded stay here."
He pointed to the map, tracing the red line of the Gold Road.
"Tywin Lannister is not at the Golden Tooth. He is force-marching on the capital. He is five days away. We are two weeks away."
The news sobered Hoster instantly. "The Lion moved?"
"He moved," Robert confirmed. "And he is moving fast."
"To do what?" Ned asked, stepping closer to the map. "Does he mean to join us?"
"We don't know," Robert lied smoothly. He couldn't tell them about the Sack or the Wildfire yet. "Tywin has been silent for the entire war. Now that Rhaegar is dead, he might be rushing to King's Landing to reinforce Aerys. He might think the Mad King is his best bet for power if he saves him from us."
"If Tywin adds fifteen thousand men to the city garrison..." Jon Arryn trailed off, his face grim.
"Then we face a siege that lasts years," Robert finished. "Or, he might try to take the city himself. And we don't know what Aerys will do if he sees a Lannister army at his gates. The Mad King is unpredictable. He might do something... drastic."
Robert looked at the gathered lords.
"I cannot leave the capital's fate to a coin flip between a Lion and a Madman. I am taking the vanguard. Five hundred of the best horse. Stormlands outriders, Northern heavy horse, Vale knights. No baggage. No armor for the mounts. We ride until the horses foam, switch them, and ride again."
"Five hundred?" Hoster scoffed. "Against fifteen thousand Lannisters? Or the City Watch? You'll be swallowed whole."
"I don't need to fight an army," Robert said. "I need to get into the city before the gates close. I need to secure the Red Keep."
Jon Arryn stepped forward. He placed a hand on the table, looking at his foster son with deep concern.
"Robert," Jon said gently. "Robert, you are the King. Or you will be, once we reach the city. You represent the stability of the realm. You shouldn't be riding vanguard. If you are captured... if you fall..."
Jon gestured to Ned.
"Let Ned go. He is young. He is fast. The Northmen ride hard."
Robert looked at Ned. He saw the grey eyes, full of duty and rigid moral codes. He saw the man who believed in justice, in fair trials, in honor.
Robert knew what was waiting in King's Landing. Pyromancers in the cellars. Aerys on the throne. Tywin at the gates. It was going to be a bloodbath, and it would require choices that would haunt a man like Eddard Stark forever.
He can't know about the sewers yet, Robert thought. He can't know I might have to kill people just on suspicion of holding a torch.
"No," Robert said, his voice hard. "Ned is too honorable for what comes next."
Ned frowned slightly, stinging at the rebuke, but he didn't argue. He sensed the darkness in Robert's tone—the knowledge that the end of this war would not be as clean as the beginning.
"Then I will come," Jon Arryn insisted. "If it is Tywin we are dealing with, you need a statesman. You need a Hand to negotiate with him, to remind him of his oaths."
Robert shook his head. He put a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder. The affection there was real, but so was the dismissal.
"I don't need a diplomat, Jon. I don't need talk. I need speed."
He tightened his grip.
"You bring the army. Bring them orderly. Bring the infantry. Secure the peace behind me."
Robert released him and turned to the tent flap.
"I will secure the city."
He didn't wait for permission. He walked out into the night.
Outside, the five hundred men were already assembling. They were a grim collection—the hardest riders, the men who hadn't drunk the wine. Siro was there, checking the saddle girth on a fresh gelding.
Robert mounted his massive black destrier. The horse snorted, sensing the tension.
"We ride for the Capital!" Robert roared, his voice cutting through the distant sounds of the victory party. "Do not stop for food! Do not stop for sleep! If a horse dies, steal another! If a man falls, leave him!"
He kicked his spurs into the horse's flanks.
The vanguard thundered out of the camp, leaving the safety of the Trident behind. They rode into the dark, racing against a Lion and a Madman, with the fate of half a million souls resting on their speed.
[End of Chapter 27]