Stannis stood in the King's Tower at Harrenhal, staring down at the map with a face carved from stone.
The moment he learned an enemy force had appeared behind his lines, he had ridden hard from Riverrun, leaving most of his army behind.
"Our eastern flank is threatened by a small enemy column," Alester Florent said. "No more than a thousand men, I'd wager. Give me two thousand and I'll crush them before they can do any real damage."
In truth, Alester was guessing. Stannis's scouts had been thorough; if the enemy had been much larger, they would have been spotted. Besides, Jon's captured men had all claimed their flanking force consisted of only three small companies. Alester had chosen to believe them.
Most soldiers talked when captured. Survival was usually more important than loyalty. If two companies had slipped through, then roughly a thousand men remained.
Alester asked for two thousand because that was nearly every man House Florent could still field.
"I'll give you three thousand," Stannis said coldly. "End this nuisance."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Stannis's voice dropped even lower. "And bring me the head of whatever lord was supposed to be guarding our right flank."
Alester felt a chill. He understood the king's fury. The disaster on the Blackwater had begun because his nephew had failed to scout the river properly. Stannis had been determined not to repeat that mistake—yet here they were again.
Alester bowed. "It will be done."
He knew his own head would be next on the block if he failed to deal with the force at their rear.
Stannis left most of the decision-making for the coming "decisive battle" to himself and sent Alester off with his three thousand men. Five thousand soldiers remained at Riverrun as a garrison. The rest—over thirty thousand—began the march south.
The stag banners lay trampled in the mud alongside the bodies of the dead. Victorious soldiers rolled up the captured banners and stacked the corpses in neat rows. In an age without gunpowder, there was no acrid smoke, but the battlefield still reeked of blood, shit, and the lingering weight of violence.
Alester could not understand how the gap between men could be this vast.
He had misjudged Jon's strength. Three thousand of his own men against roughly two thousand of Jon's should have been an easy victory. Instead, his army was shattered in a single morning, and he himself was taken alive.
The feeling of being completely seen—every movement anticipated, every feint read in advance—was suffocating.
Alester was dragged before Jon. The first thing he saw was the three-headed dragon banner snapping in the wind behind the young man in white Valyrian steel armor. Around Jon stood a ring of bright-armored lords and officers, all of them holding small notebooks and speaking quietly among themselves. There was no cheering. Only calm, professional discussion.
Alester looked at them and felt the last of his hope die.
He had planned to die shouting insults at Jon, proving his loyalty to Stannis so the king might still spare the rest of House Florent. Now even that seemed pointless.
He drew a deep breath and began to shout.
"Jon Snow! You filthy bastard! You let your own wife spread her legs for other men just to climb higher! That silver-haired whelp of yours is probably some Lysene sailor's get! The Seven Hells themselves won't take a man as low as you!"
The words carried across the field.
Sandor Clegane's sword was at Alester's throat in an instant.
Jon raised a hand. Sandor stepped back, though his blade stayed half-drawn.
Alester's voice cracked. "You—you're going to kill me? Go on, then. I'm not afraid. Long live King Stannis!"
Jon studied him for a long moment, then spoke in a level voice.
"Alester Florent. Why don't you and your entire house simply swear to me instead?"
Alester's mouth opened, then closed. "I would never— What?"
Jon's expression had not changed. He looked almost bored.
"I said you can swear to me. I'll give House Florent lands elsewhere—good lands, no smaller than Brightwater Keep. Your people will be safe. All of them."
Removing the Florents from the Reach would also remove any lingering threat to the Tyrells. Jon had plenty of empty castles and unclaimed lands. More importantly, House Florent's centuries of wealth, books, and knowledge would become his.
Alester's mind reeled. "But Selyse— No. This is treason."
"Selyse and Shireen bear the name Baratheon now," Jon said quietly. "Are you really willing to let your entire house die for your niece and grandniece?"
Alester stood frozen, the world tilting beneath him.
Jon continued, voice calm. "Swear to me and the past is forgotten. Refuse, and I'll have no choice but to kill every Florent man here. I've done it before. I can do it again."
Alester's eyes flicked to the captured soldiers—many of them distant cousins or men who had served his house for years. He thought of the pyramid of heads Jon had built at Lannisport.
"I… I yield," he said hoarsely. "House Florent swears to you, Your Grace."
Jon stepped forward and raised him up.
"I, Jon Targaryen, accept your oath."
Leo Tyrell—now Sir Leo once more—stepped up beside them with an easy smile. "Welcome to the winning side, Alester. We're glad to have you."
Alester blinked at him, still dazed.
Jon's army had just grown by another two thousand men.
Once the decision was made, Alester Florent threw himself into serving his new king with the zeal of a convert. The idea of fighting for the Iron Throne had always felt like a burden. Now that burden was gone.
He told Jon everything he knew of Stannis's plans: use the Dornish army to pin the Reach in place, then crush Jon in the Riverlands while he still held the advantage in numbers.
"I've already reached an understanding with the Martells," Jon said. "They will not attack the Reach."
Alester turned slowly toward Leo.
Leo's smile was thin. "The southern army will be marching north very soon. Stannis will either have to surrender or be destroyed. All we have to do is hold until they arrive."
Alester felt the last of the tension leave his body.
He had jumped ship just in time.