"Prince, how do we hit them next?"
The question came during the war council. A handsome, middle-aged man in his fifties stepped forward, the sigil of twin blue towers on gray stitched across his chest.
Stevron Frey, eldest son and heir to Lord Walder Frey of the Twins.
Daeron had studied the Freys. This man had spent sixty years as the heir, slowly being worn down by his father's endless scheming. But House Frey had thrown in with the Iron Throne from the very first day of the war. They had camped at the Twins and blocked the Green Fork, forcing Eddard Stark to march the long way around. Now, with Riverrun stripped of most of its lands and titles, the Freys were rising fast as the new power in the Riverlands.
"Riverlands are unified," Daeron said. "The rebels have fewer than twenty-five thousand men left. We chase them down and finish this."
Stevron liked the answer. He sat back down without another word.
Daeron laid out the rest of the plan.
Tywin was wounded and in no shape to lead. The Lannister troops would stay camped in the Whispering Wood, guarding the Red Fork and watching for any rebel raid into the Westerlands.
Daeron turned to Stevron. "Keep the Twins on full alert, day and night. No gaps. I want the Northmen's retreat cut off so they stay trapped south of the Neck."
Not just the Twins. Howland Reed had already been sent back to Greywater Watch to rally the crannogmen and seal the causeway at Moat Cailin.
Then came the real campaign.
Daeron looked straight at Randyll Tarly. "I am appointing Lord Randyll Tarly to the rank of Field Marshal of the Realm, with the same authority as the Master of Ships. He will take fifteen thousand men and hold the Red Fork. His orders are simple: hunt down Eddard Stark and the Northern army."
"Yes, my prince."
Randyll stood tall, every inch the soldier.
Daeron had already explained the new military system to the assembled lords. Noble levies and household knights still answered to their own lords. But the City Watch, Kingsguard, Kingswood Rangers, and the new Road Wardens under the High Warden of the Kingsroad were now full-time professionals paid from the royal treasury, with ranks, pay, and pensions.
At the top sat the Warden of the Realm—Daeron himself—alongside the newly created rank of Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms. Below that came the army commanders, then general officers, field-grade officers, company-grade officers, and finally the enlisted ranks created specifically for common soldiers.
Randyll's new rank put him on the same level as the Master of Ships. It was a deliberate lift.
Lord Walter Whent had already thrown his full support behind the reforms. He was turning every able-bodied man on his lands into Road Wardens under Randyll's training—three and a half thousand fresh troops. On paper it looked like House Whent was giving away manpower. In reality, Walter kept command of the force and gained a title with real teeth. The High Warden of the River Road answered directly to the crown, drew pay from the treasury, and held powers equal to a great lord.
Everyone saw the advantage. The lords who had stayed loyal were already calculating how to turn it to their own profit.
The Red Fork.
Randyll's fifteen thousand men slammed straight into Eddard Stark's Northern force while they were busy raiding and looting along the river.
"Seven hells, they found us," Eddard muttered.
The young lord still lacked experience commanding large armies. Until now he had relied on hit-and-run raids, using the Riverlands terrain to bleed the loyalists and then slip away. Riverrun had fallen too fast. He hadn't had time to link up with the Vale army or change tactics.
Now Randyll's riders had them pinned against the Red Fork.
"My lord, the bridge is ready—let's go!" a fat Northern lord in fine furs shouted, his horse practically buckling under his weight. He looked ready to bolt.
Eddard glanced back. Randyll's cavalry was already charging, the knights of the Riverlands and Crownlands driving forward like a steel wedge.
"Withdraw!" Eddard ordered.
He swung into the saddle and galloped for the nearest makeshift bridge.
A streak of red fire split the sky.
Caraxes screamed like a diving siren and tore through the clouds, Daeron on his back.
"Dracarys!"
Crimson flame poured down in a roaring column, slamming into the men trying to cross. The temporary bridge exploded into splinters and burning bodies. Dozens of Northern soldiers burst into flame, screaming as they thrashed in the river. Even in the water the dragonfire kept burning, turning the surface into a boiling hell.
Eddard's face went white. "Run! Don't stop!"
He spurred his horse across the second bridge. Behind him the entire Northern column dissolved into chaos.
Caraxes swept low, serpentine body twisting, spraying flame wherever the troops were thickest. Panicked horses reared and threw their riders. Men trampled each other trying to reach the water. The Red Fork ran red with blood and fire.
Randyll timed it perfectly. The moment the dragon passed, his cavalry smashed into the broken Northern ranks and tore them apart.
"Wheel and withdraw—don't get bogged down!" Randyll shouted, banners flashing.
His riders cut through the enemy like a knife, then pulled back before the foot soldiers could close around them.
Daeron stayed in the air, picking out the densest clusters and burning them to ash.
In minutes the Red Fork was a slaughterhouse.
Half the dead had burned. The rest had drowned or been crushed under their own comrades.
Eddard made it across, looked back at the carnage, and felt his stomach drop. Thousands of his men—good Northmen—gone in a single afternoon.
Randyll had already moved his longbowmen to the bank. Arrows hissed out in steady volleys, picking off anyone still trying to swim or wade across.
A fat Northern lord who had lost his horse lay on the muddy bank, an arrow in his enormous backside, sobbing and refusing to get up.
"Dracarys."
Caraxes banked and unleashed another jet of flame. The fat lord shrieked, rolled into the river, and disappeared under a mass of burning bodies.
Daeron scanned the chaos for the Stark direwolf banner but saw none. The Northmen had learned to hide their colors.
Still, the day wasn't a total loss.
His eyes settled on a huge Northern warrior swinging a six-foot greatsword, holding off a dozen Riverlands soldiers by himself. The man roared and hacked two of them in half at the waist.
Jon Umber—the Greatjon—stood covered in blood, eyes wild with fury.
The Riverlanders backed off fast when they heard the dragon's scream.
Greatjon laughed, thinking he had scared them away. "Cowards! Come back and fight like men!"
"Dracarys."
Caraxes opened his jaws. A wall of red flame swallowed the giant Umber whole.
The Greatjon howled, staggering backward into the river. He crashed through floating corpses, trying to smother the flames, but the water itself began to boil. He sank, still screaming, until the Red Fork closed over his head.
Daeron patted Caraxes's neck and wheeled away, already looking for the next target.
By late afternoon the battlefield was quiet.
Randyll walked up as Daeron landed. "My prince, rough count puts rebel dead at six thousand five hundred. Three hundred prisoners. We took several Northern house banners."
No sign of Eddard Stark himself.
"My prince, we caught a big fish," Ser Jon said, dragging forward a mud-covered, overweight man.
Daeron smiled. "Wyman Manderly of White Harbor?"
The fat lord stared up at the dragon and the prince with pure terror in his eyes.
The North had just lost its first major battle south of the Neck.
And Eddard Stark was running for his life.