The River Road
The march south had been a grueling sprint, a race against a clock they couldn't see.
Ned rode at the head of the vanguard, his eyes scanning the horizon. The exhaustion was there, gnawing at his bones, but he pushed it down, feeding his fatigue into the meditation techniques he'd practiced during the long nights in the Wolfswood.
A rider crested the hill ahead—a scout wearing the trout sigil of House Tully. The horse was foaming, ridden near to death.
"Lord Stark!" the scout gasped, reigning in hard as Ned and the Blackfish approached. "We found him. Or at least... we know where he is."
"Where?" Ned demanded, his voice tight.
"Stoney Sept," the scout wheezed. "But he's not alone. Jon Connington has the town surrounded. Thousands of loyalists. They've sealed the gates and they're tearing the place apart house by house."
Ned felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Stoney Sept was a trap. If Connington found Robert before they got there, the rebellion ended today.
"How long ago?" the Blackfish asked sharply.
"They started the search yesterday. The town is resisting, my lords. The smallfolk... they're hiding him. But they can't hold out forever."
Ned didn't wait to hear more. He turned in his saddle, looking back at the column of Northmen and Riverlanders stretching behind him.
"Double time!" Ned roared, his voice carrying over the wind. "Drop the baggage! We ride for Stoney Sept! If the horse dies, you run!"
He dug his spurs in. The time for strategy was over. Now, it was just a rescue mission.
Outside Stoney Sept
The town didn't look like a battlefield. From the ridge where the rebel coalition had halted, Stoney Sept looked like a painted miniature—slate roofs, cobblestone streets, and the shimmering ribbon of the Blackwater Rush winding around it.
But the sound... the sound was wrong.
It wasn't the clash of steel. It was the bells.
They were ringing incessantly. Not in a rhythm of worship, but in strange, syncopated clusters. A low toll from the Sept on the hill. A sharp, high peal from a watchtower in the east. A chaotic clamor from the market square.
Ned Stark sat on his black destrier, listening.
He closed his eyes, filtering out the wind and the nervous breathing of the thirty thousand men behind him. He pushed his awareness down into the town, reaching out with his mind as he had done with the shadowcat and the river.
It was a maze. He felt the heavy, rigid signatures of the Loyalist soldiers—Jon Connington's men. They were frustrated, scattered, angry. They were moving in tight squads, kicking down doors, searching.
But moving around them, like water flowing around stones, were the townsfolk. And deeper, hidden in the pockets of silence between the bells, was a burning coal of pure rage.
Robert.
"They aren't raising the alarm," Ned realized aloud, opening his eyes.
Jon Arryn frowned, looking at the town. "The bells? Then why ring them?"
"It's a code," Ned said, a grim smile touching his lips. "The smallfolk. They're signaling Robert. Every time a search party moves, a bell rings to warn him. They're playing a game of cat and mouse."
"Then let's introduce the cat," the Blackfish said, drawing his sword.
Ned drew his blade. This was a heavy, castle-forged longsword of good Northern steel. It lacked the ripples of Valyria, but in Ned's hand, it felt weightless.
"Connington has his men dispersed," Ned analyzed, the knowledge from his other life overlaying tactical markers on the town below. "He's doing a searching, though, not a defense. His perimeter is weak. If we hit them hard, we cut them in half before they can form a line."
He turned to his bannermen. The Greatjon. Rickard Karstark. Roose Bolton.
"No quarter for the Griffin," Ned commanded, his voice cold. "He is hunting Robert like a beast. Today, he learns what happens when the North fights."
"THE NORTH!" the Greatjon roared.
"THE VALE!" Jon Arryn shouted.
"TULLY!" the Blackfish screamed.
The horn blew—a single, long, terrifying note that shattered the evening air.
And the avalanche began.
The Breach
The charge down the ridge was a blur of motion and noise, but to Ned, it moved in slow motion.
He let the familiar calm wash over him, his senses expanding until he could hear the individual hoofbeats of his horse and see the terror on the faces of the Loyalist sentries at the town gate.
An arrow flew toward him from the wooden palisade.
Ned felt the disturbance in the air before the arrow even registered visually. He didn't block it; he simply leaned slightly to the right. The shaft whistled past his ear, missing him by an inch.
He hit the gate at full gallop. The timber shattered under the weight of the combined vanguard. Ned's horse trampled a screaming man-at-arms as they burst into the streets.
The town of Stoney Sept instantly transformed from a search grid into a slaughterhouse.
Connington's men were caught completely off guard. They were in houses, in cellars, in lofts. They spilled out into the streets, trying to form ranks, but the narrow alleys worked against them.
"Drive them!" Ned shouted, swinging his sword.
Ned fought like a force of nature. He cleaved through a spear shaft and the man holding it in a single swing. He used the momentum to spin, taking the leg off a knight who tried to flank him.
The street fighting was brutal. It wasn't clean lines of battle; it was a thousand knife fights in a phone booth.
Ned dismounted. A horse was a target here.
He moved through the chaos with a fluidity that unnerved his own men. He didn't just react; he anticipated. As they moved down a narrow alley, he suddenly sensed a sharp spike of danger from above.
Ned ducked instantly. A crossbow bolt slammed into the wood frame of a stall exactly where his head had been a second ago.
He looked up, spotting the crossbowman fumbling to reload on the low roof. Ned didn't use a telekinetic blast.
Instead, he snatched a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it with terrifying speed. The axe spun once and buried itself in the crossbowman's chest. The man toppled from the roof, crashing onto the cobblestones.
"Keep moving!" Ned ordered, stepping over the body. "To the market square!"
The Market Square
The heart of the town was a cauldron of noise. The bells were deafening here, clanging madly as the battle raged.
In the center of the square, the Loyalists had managed to form a shield wall. Behind them, shouting orders, was a man in Griffin-emblazoned armor.
Jon Connington.
The Hand of the King was fighting with the desperation of a man who sees his career—and his life—crumbling. He was good. Ned watched him for a second, analyzing.
Connington moved with the grace of a trained knight, his sword flashing as he cut down a brave but foolish Mallister man-at-arms.
But Ned wasn't looking at Connington. He was looking at the building behind him—a brothel with a painted peach on the sign.
The door exploded outward.
A massive figure burst onto the street. He wore no armor, just a torn tunic and breeches, but he wielded a warhammer that looked heavy enough to anchor a ship.
Robert Baratheon.
"CONNINGTON!" Robert screamed with bloodlust.
The Stag crashed into the flank of the Loyalist line. It wasn't a fight; it was demolition. Robert swung the hammer, and a shield shattered. He swung again, and a helmet caved in.
A famous knight, Myles Mooton—one of Rhaegar's former squires—stepped forward to challenge him. Mooton was fast, skilled, and armored.
He lasted three seconds.
Robert took a sword slash to the arm, ignored it, and slammed the hammer into Mooton's chest. The breastplate crumpled. Mooton was dead before he hit the ground.
"Robert!" Ned shouted, his voice cutting through the din.
Robert turned, his face a mask of blood and fury. He saw Ned. For a second, he looked confused, then a wild grin split his beard.
"NED! YOU GLORIOUS BASTARD!"
"Get back!" Ned warned, sensing the shift in the battle. "Connington!"
Jon Connington had seen the threat. He realized his line was breaking. He saw the rebel leaders converging. Most men would flee. Connington, fueled by arrogance and loyalty to Rhaegar, decided to end the war right there.
He spurred his horse, a white courser, and charged straight for Robert, who was on foot and wounded.
"Baratheon!" Connington screamed, lowering his lance.
Robert raised his hammer, bracing for the impact. He was too hurt to dodge. He was going to try and tank a lance charge.
No.
Ned moved.
He didn't blur. He didn't teleport. He just ran. He ran faster than a man in mail should run, his legs powered by the internal coil of the Force. He sprinted across the cobblestones, closing the distance with impossible speed.
He didn't try to intercept the horse directly. He intercepted the angle.
As Connington thundered past, focused entirely on Robert, Ned slid into the mud. He slashed his sword in a brutal, two-handed arc—not at the man, but at the horse's front legs.
It was cruel, but necessary. The heavy Northern steel bit deep. The courser screamed and collapsed, its momentum sending it tumbling forward.
Connington was thrown from the saddle. He flew through the air and crashed heavily onto the cobblestones, rolling through the mud.
Robert lowered his hammer, blinking. The lance tip had missed him by a foot.
Connington groaned, scrambling to his feet. He was dazed, his fine armor scuffed and muddy. He looked up to see who had unhorsed him.
Ned Stark stood ten paces away, his sword resting on his shoulder. His grey eyes were empty of mercy.
"You," Connington hissed, spitting blood. "Bloody Stark."
"You missed," Ned said calmly.
Connington roared, drawing his sword. "I'll mount your head on the Red Keep!"
He charged.
It was a good charge. Connington was one of the finest swordsmen in the realm. His strikes were precise, powerful, and drilled into muscle memory by the best masters in King's Landing.
Against anyone else, he might have won.
But Ned Stark was fighting on a different level. He felt Connington's intent before the muscles even fired. To the onlookers, it just looked like Ned Stark was impossibly lucky or incredibly fast.
Connington feinted high. Ned didn't block; he stepped inside the guard with casual ease.
Connington slashed low. Ned pivoted, his steel deflecting the blade with a shower of sparks, turning the Hand's own momentum against him.
It wasn't a duel. It was a deconstruction. Ned didn't use telekinesis. He just used perfection. Every time Connington struck, Ned was already where he needed to be.
"How?" Connington gasped, backing away, his breath coming in ragged tears. "You... you fight like a storm."
"I'm a Stark," Ned said, advancing. "And winter has come for you."
Connington, realizing he was outmatched, shouted for aid. "To me! Griffin Guard! To me!"
Three loyalist knights broke away from the melee and rushed Ned from the sides. Two from the left, one from the right.
Ned didn't turn his head. He sensed them coming—jagged spikes of aggression in his mind's eye.
The first knight swung a mace at Ned's back. Ned dropped to one knee at the exact right moment, the mace whistling harmlessly over his head. In the same motion, he swept his sword backward. The blade sheared through the knight's greaves and bone.
The knight screamed and fell.
The second knight thrust a spear. Ned grabbed the shaft with his left hand. To the observers, it looked like a desperate grab. In reality, Ned squeezed with Force-enhanced grip strength, crushing the wood. He yanked the knight forward... directly into the path of the third knight's sword swing.
Friendly fire. The third knight cut down his own ally.
Before the third knight could recover from the horror of killing his friend, Ned rose and delivered a pommel strike to his helmet. The blow, amplified by his internal energy, dented the steel like a tin can. The man crumpled instantly.
Three seconds. Three knights down. No magic visible. Just brutal, terrifying efficiency.
Connington stared, his eyes wide with horror. He wasn't looking at a wizard. He was looking at a warrior who simply did not make mistakes.
"You're a monster," Connington whispered.
"I'm a brother," Ned said. "And you hunted the wrong family."
Connington, desperate, lunged. It was a sloppy, fearful strike.
Ned sidestepped. He swung his sword in a flat, horizontal arc.
The Northern steel was sharp, and the arm behind it was stronger than any man's had a right to be. The blade bit through the gorget, through flesh and bone.
Jon Connington's head spun into the air, a look of surprise frozen on his face. His body took another step before collapsing into the mud of Stoney Sept.
Silence rippled out from the duel. The Loyalists saw their commander fall. They saw the Wolf standing over the Griffin, the sword dripping blood.
"HE'S DEAD!" Robert roared, limping forward, raising his hammer. " CONNINGTON IS DEAD!"
The will to fight evaporated. The Loyalists threw down their swords. They turned and ran, scrambling over the walls, diving into the river, desperate to escape the town.
The Aftermath
The bells finally stopped ringing.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crackle of fires.
Ned wiped his blade clean on Connington's cloak before sheathing it. He felt the exhaustion now. Keeping the Force contained—using it only to fuel his muscles and senses without letting it spill out into visible power—was draining.
"Ned!"
Robert limped over, supported by the Greatjon. He looked terrible—covered in blood, limping, pale—but his grin was blinding.
"You got him," Robert laughed, a wheezing sound. "I saw that! You cut him out of the saddle like... like a damn dancer! And then... three knights?"
Ned said, gripping Robert's arm. "You look like hell, Bobby."
"I feel like it," Robert admitted. "But I'm alive. Thanks to you."
Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully approached, stepping over the bodies.
"The town is secured," Hoster reported. "We're rounding up prisoners. A few escaped, but the army is broken."
"And our losses?" Ned asked.
"Light," Jon Arryn said, looking relieved. "Denys Arryn was wounded—took an axe to the pauldron—but he lives. He's with the maesters now. He'll make a full recovery."
Ned nodded. In the original timeline, the Darling of the Vale had died here. Saving him felt like another victory against a dark future.
"We need to move Robert," Hoster said, looking at the King-to-be's wounds. "This is no place for a... for the leader of the rebellion."
"The Sept," Ned suggested. "The Septons can tend to him. It's defensible."
The Sept of Stoney Sept
Later that night, Ned sat on the steps of the town Sept. The air smelled of smoke and rain.
He held a cup of water, staring at his hands. They were steady. He had killed a man today—a significant man—and felt... nothing. No guilt. No hesitation. Just the cold satisfaction of removing an obstacle.
"You saved him."
Ned looked up. It was Denys Arryn. The "Darling of the Vale" had his arm in a sling and a bandage around his head, but he was walking.
"I heard," Denys said, sitting down gingerly. "Connington broke through the line. He was coming for me before he saw Robert. If you hadn't intercepted him..."
"He was focused on the Stag," Ned said. "You just happened to be in the way."
"Still," Denys smiled. "I owe you, Stark. My wife... she's with child. If I had died today..."
"You didn't," Ned said firmly. "Go home to them, Denys. When this is over, live a long life."
Denys nodded. "I intend to. They say you move like a wolf, Stark. I believe them now."
He clapped Ned on the shoulder and walked back inside.
Ned watched him go.
He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses one last time. He felt Robert sleeping heavily, his aura bright and chaotic. He felt the exhaustion of his own men. He felt the fear of the prisoners.