The battle for the Bloody Gate had turned into a bloody slog.
BOOM—
The ancient gates finally buckled and crashed inward under the weight of the loyalist assault.
"Don't panic! Follow me and push them back!" Robert bellowed, stepping out from the rebel lines.
He looked like a steel giant—full plate armor under a yellow tabard with a roaring stag, antlered helm on his head. His warhammer swung in wide, crushing arcs, smashing the first wave of attackers and driving them back.
Eddard had no choice. He drew his sword and charged with the last of his Northern warriors.
"Kill them!" hundreds of rebels poured out of the gate in a desperate counter-push. The narrow valley road gave them just enough room to hold. For a moment, raw courage and the terrain let them shove the loyalists backward.
But this wasn't the old world anymore.
Daeron watched from above and said quietly, "There they are."
Caraxes and his rider moved as one. The red dragon lifted straight off the stone arch-bridge and poured a river of crimson flame straight into the packed rebel mass.
Screams erupted. The narrow pass turned the dragonfire into a furnace. Dozens died in seconds.
Tessarion swept in from the flank, blue flame raking the battlements and forcing the crossbowmen inside the gate to keep their heads down.
"Wonderful! We're winning!" Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, clearly itching to lead a heroic charge—until he noticed none of his lords were moving. He stayed put.
Randyll never took his eyes off the fight. "Longbowmen—ready!"
Spearmen held the line against the rebel counter-charge while the archers behind them drew and loosed in a single deadly ripple. Arrows arced high and came down like iron rain.
The rebels lasted one hard clash before they started to break.
Robert took an arrow to the shoulder, yanked it out, and kept swinging.
But individual bravery could no longer change the math.
The loyalists surged forward again, driving the rebels back inside the gate. At the same time, more rebels tried to push out from behind, creating a deadly traffic jam in the narrow passage.
Eddard found himself crushed in the middle of the mob. There was no room to swing a sword—barely room to breathe.
"Robert—fall back!" he shouted, fighting through the press toward his friend.
Robert was in a battle trance, hammer rising and falling, yellow tabard now half red with blood. He had carved out a small clear space around himself, but the loyalists were tightening the noose.
"Robert, come on!" Eddard finally reached him and grabbed his arm.
The fighting was pure chaos now. Loyalist soldiers refused to yield. Rebels spilled out of the Bloody Gate and started scrambling up the cliffs just to avoid being trampled.
"Get Robert out—I'll hold them!" Denys Arryn abandoned the crossbowmen, drew his sword, and charged out to cover their retreat.
Eddard dragged the exhausted Robert toward the gate. "Denys—hurry!"
Denys tried to fight his way back.
A roaring curtain of red flame came down from the sky, sweeping from the gate outward and straight into the heart of the melee.
Denys never had a chance. The dragonfire swallowed him whole.
Eddard's eyes widened in horror.
"Someone get Robert to safety!" he shouted.
There was no time to grieve. He handed his friend off to Lord Karstark and turned to try to rally the remaining rebels and seal the gate.
He had just reached the front when a figure stepped up behind him.
Shunk.
Eddard froze as cold steel slid into his lower back.
He turned his head with agonizing slowness and saw Roose Bolton's pale, almost bored face.
"Sorry, Lord Stark," Roose whispered, twisting the dagger. "You understand. I simply want to live."
Eddard opened his mouth but no sound came out.
Roose pulled the blade free, signaled his men to bind the Stark lord, then shouted the order that ended the rebellion.
"Lord Eddard Stark is taken! We surrender!"
The cry spread like wildfire. Weapons clattered to the ground. Exhausted rebels dropped to their knees.
Randyll's voice cut through the noise. "Secure the prisoners. Take control of the Bloody Gate immediately."
Mace Tyrell—never one to miss a chance to look important—led the rush inside, accepting surrenders and ordering every rebel bound.
Within minutes the loyalists had cleared the battlefield and raised the three-headed red dragon banner over the Bloody Gate.
Daeron landed Caraxes on a nearby cliff and looked down at the newly planted banner. A fierce pride swelled in his chest.
They had taken the Bloody Gate. Next came the Eyrie and the entire Vale.
"The Vale is huge," Shaena said as Tessarion settled beside them. She pointed down the two roads beyond the gate—one toward the Eyrie, the other opening into the vast green bowl of the Vale itself.
From their perch on the ridge they could see it all: the richest farmland in Westeros, ringed by the Mountains of the Moon.
"Give the army one night to rest," Daeron ordered, voice carrying across the host. "Tomorrow we march into the Vale."
"Yes, my prince!"
The cheer that answered him shook the cliffs.
Word of the victory raced back to King's Landing.
Aerys—miraculously lucid for once—called every lord and lady in the Red Keep to a grand feast. The Mad King was practically dancing.
In the Tower of the Hand, Tywin had already returned and buried himself in paperwork. Merging the Riverlands and Stormlands into the Crownlands meant rewriting taxes, chains of command, and centuries of tradition. He was deep into the numbers when the door opened.
Olenna Tyrell walked in, leaning on her cane and complaining loudly. "Why in the seven hells did they build the Hand's tower so damn high? Has no one ever considered old people?"
Tywin didn't look up. "Lady Olenna. What do you want?"
"Oh, plenty." She settled into a chair without being invited. "You rushed back from the Riverlands and locked yourself in here. I'm curious what's so important."
"State business. Not your concern."
Olenna smiled sweetly. "I'm no traitor, and I don't care about state secrets. I simply want to know whether the lands Prince Daeron promised my family are still on the table."
Tywin set his quill down. "What exactly did Daeron promise House Tyrell?"
"Nothing too grand—just some land." Olenna's eyes sparkled. "Truth be told, the Reach doesn't need more dirt. What I really want is a proper place for my daughter… or rather, for my son Mace to have a seat on the Small Council."
Tywin's expression didn't change. "Is that all?"
Olenna leaned forward, voice dropping. "I also want to know what you've been working on up here—and what new system Prince Daeron plans to impose once the rebellion is finished."
The old rose's political nose had caught the scent of something enormous.
Under the rising power of House Targaryen, House Tyrell needed to choose sides. Trading promised lands for a seat at the high table was one thing. Finding a reliable partner to ride the coming storm was another.
And right now, the only house strong enough to stand beside them was House Lannister.
Tywin met her eyes across the desk, the two greatest schemers in Westeros sizing each other up in silence.