The Crackclaw Point was a land that seemed permanently trapped in misery.
Cold winds blew endlessly across the narrow peninsula, carrying with them the scent of salt and damp earth. Rain fell often—sometimes in a steady drizzle, sometimes in sudden bursts—but even on days without rain, the sky remained overcast and gray. The sun rarely showed itself, and when it did, it offered little warmth.
Even the simplest task—like building a fire—became a challenge. Dry wood was scarce, and most of what could be gathered was soaked through with moisture.
Yet despite this bleak environment, an army moved steadily through the desolate land.
Golden quartered banners fluttered atop long bamboo poles, their bright color cutting sharply against the dull gray of the sky. To the men marching beneath them, those banners were more than symbols—they were reassurance.
For Mortimer Boggs and Raymun Darry, they represented purpose.
And vengeance.
At the front rode several hundred elite cavalrymen clad in black scale armor, their horses snorting clouds of vapor into the cold air. Behind them marched infantry armed with long spears. Their armor varied—leather, chainmail, and a select few in lamellar—but each man carried himself with the hardened discipline of a seasoned warrior.
Among their weapons were the feared triple crossbows of Myr—deadly and precise, and kept as a closely guarded secret.
This was no ordinary force.
It was a regrouped elite.
"I survived a lost war," Mortimer Boggs murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I did not die with the Silver Prince at the Trident. That must mean the gods still have use for me."
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
"I will avenge him… even if I must cut down every Lannister in the realm."
Much had changed since those days.
King Robert was dead.
Jon Arryn was dead.
Eddard Stark was likely dead.
And yet, the House Lannister endured.
Boggs lifted his gaze.
"What is our objective?" he asked.
Though he commanded both cavalry and infantry—the fierce crabfeeder men who had long survived the harshness of this land—he knew that clarity of purpose was vital.
Around him stood men like Clebb, Bren, Hardy, Payne—fighters shaped by hardship and hardened by war. Their loyalty was unquestionable, but their thirst for blood burned hot.
The answer came not from a single voice—but from hundreds.
"Revenge!"
"Revenge!"
"Kill the Lannisters!"
"Kill!"
The cry echoed across the barren land like thunder.
Boggs raised his sword high.
"Advance."
The army responded instantly, longspears rising in unison like a forest of steel.
They had lost before.
But they had never forgotten.
Their route was far from ordinary.
Rather than take the main roads, Ser Boros—who had spent years hiding within the Claw Peninsula—chose a path few knew.
A path along the coastline of Crackclaw Bay.
It was narrow, winding, and nearly invisible. Even the most detailed maps of knights failed to mark it.
Unlike the interior, this region lacked dense forests and treacherous swamps. Instead, it was a desolate stretch of sand dunes, salt marshes, and low, damp land stretching endlessly beneath a pale blue-gray sky.
The path itself seemed alive—appearing and disappearing among tall grass, tidal pools, and shifting sands.
Without a guide, it was certain death.
The ground was treacherously soft, threatening to swallow horses and men alike. Scouts were sent ahead, probing the earth with poles to ensure safe passage.
For leagues, there were no trees.
Only sea.
Only sky.
Only sand.
And yet, the army pressed on.
Their destination: Maidenpool.
As they marched, Mortimer Boggs found his thoughts drifting.
"How should I face him…?" he wondered.
He remembered fighting beside Ser Myrse Mouton—a brave knight who had died for the Silver Prince.
But Myrse's younger brother…
William Mouton.
A man Boggs considered weak.
Cowardly.
Soft.
"William may lack courage," Raymun Darry said, as if reading his thoughts, "but don't underestimate his mind."
Darry himself had abandoned his family seat to hide on the peninsula. The war had made survival uncertain, and caution had been necessary.
Boggs gave a short nod.
"We take Maidenpool," he said firmly. "Then we hand it over to the Vale."
The march continued in eerie silence.
The Claw Peninsula offered little resistance—but also little life.
They crossed shallow streams where frogs croaked and crickets chirped. Seabirds glided overhead, while sandpipers darted across the dunes. Occasionally, a fox would dart through the grass, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.
Eventually, as they neared Maidenpool, signs of human life emerged.
Fishermen.
Quiet, wary people who lived in isolation.
Some dwelled in mud-and-thatch huts hidden among the grass. Others lived on raised wooden platforms built over the sand dunes. They fished in small, round leather boats, venturing cautiously into the bay.
To them, names like Riverrun and King's Landing meant little.
They lived simple lives.
And they kept to themselves.
When the army passed, a few brave children approached, offering baskets of clams and small fish.
Ser Boros accepted them with a nod.
"Thank you."
In return, the soldiers gave the children small pieces of candy—a rare and precious gift.
Soon, they reached the hills east of Maidenpool.
Unlike the barren coast, these hills were lush, covered in thick vegetation and surrounded by tall pine trees. The forest stood like silent sentinels, concealing the true strength of the approaching army.
From this vantage point, Maidenpool came into view.
The town lay below, its docks stretching toward the calm waters of the bay.
Above it all stood the castle.
It was said that this was the place where Florian the Fool had first met Jonquil at her spring—a tale of love and legend.
But today, the mood was far from romantic.
The banners of House Mooton still flew—red salmon on white—but the town bore scars.
Damaged walls.
Worn buildings.
Signs of plunder.
The Tywin Lannister had passed through here.
And he had not been kind.
Crossbowmen patrolled the walls.
Golden banners flew alongside the trout of House Tully.
Ser Boros narrowed his eyes.
"The fat lord is still inside."
Raymun Darry nodded.
"He lacks courage—but not stubbornness."
If William Mouton had truly been a coward, he would have surrendered long ago.
Instead, he had endured.
"Charge!"
The command rang out.
The cavalry surged forward, thundering down the hills like a storm unleashed.
Golden banners blazed like fire.
"Long live the storm!"
"Long live the storm!"
The defenders on the walls froze in shock.
They stared.
Blinking.
Then realization struck.
These were not enemies.
They were allies.
"Lower your crossbows!" the captain shouted.
"Lord Tully has declared for them!"
The gates opened.
And the army swept into Maidenpool like a rising tide.
Inside the town, life continued.
The sept stood tall.
Inns bustled.
Even the brothels were open.
War had not fully broken the town.
Yet tension lingered in the air.
Soon, William Mouton emerged from the castle.
He was pale and soft, his body heavy with excess. Clad in fine clothing and draped in a mink cloak fastened with a golden salmon clasp, he looked more like a merchant than a lord of war.
Still—
He bowed.
"Ser Boros. Lord Darry."
Boros studied him carefully.
There was a faint resemblance to his brother.
But only faint.
"The war has begun," Boros said.
William nodded slowly.
"What do you need of me?"
"I need your cavalry. Your horses. And your hounds."
William hesitated.
"My hounds…" he said quietly. "They're gone."
He recounted the tale.
A massive wolf pack near the Gods Eye.
Children taken in broad daylight.
Driven by fear and pride, he had hunted them.
But he had nearly died.
"The she-wolf…" he whispered. "She was enormous. Cunning. Terrifying."
"Not a single hound returned."
Silence fell.
Then Boros spoke.
"Prepare your cavalry."
His voice hardened.
"Revenge begins now."
Far away, in the Vale, plans were already unfolding.
Yohn Royce—the Bronze Lord—stood before a map.
"We have two routes," he said.
"If we move by sea, the risk is low. But if we march inland, we may encounter Stannis Baratheon."
Others voiced concerns.
Fleet sizes.
Customs.
Tywin's massive army at Harrenhal.
But Royce remained calm.
"We do not need to take King's Landing," he said.
"We only need to cut its supply lines."
He tapped the map.
"Maidenpool is the key."
And as all forces began to move—
The storm was gathering.
And soon—
It would break.
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