The Morning After
The sun rose over Stoney Sept, burning off the mist that clung to the cobblestones. The town, which had been a slaughterhouse just twenty-four hours ago, was now a bustling military camp.
Ned walked through the streets, dodging carts loaded with scavenged armor and crates of supplies. The townsfolk, rather than hiding in their cellars, were out in force, cheering the rebel soldiers. Someone had painted a crude stag and wolf on the wall of the Sept. It was badly drawn—the wolf looked more like a confused badger—but the sentiment was there.
Ned ducked into the large command tent that had been erected in the market square.
Inside, it smelled of poultices, stale wine, and aggressive masculinity.
Robert Baratheon lay on a cot, his leg propped up on a stack of pillows. He was shirtless, his chest wrapped in bandages that were already spotting red. By all rights, he should have been unconscious or groaning in agony.
Instead, he was throwing grapes at a map of Westeros pinned to a wooden board.
"Missed again," Robert grumbled as a grape bounced off the Kingswood. He looked up as Ned entered. "Ned! Tell these maesters to give me real wine. This poppy milk makes my head fuzzy."
"Your head is always fuzzy, Robert," Ned said, grabbing a chair and sitting beside the cot. "And the maesters are trying to keep you from getting gangrene. Let them work."
"Gangrene," Robert scoffed. "I've had worse scrapes falling off a horse. I'm fine. I could ride today."
"You could ride," Ned agreed. "But you'd fall off in a mile and I'd have to carry you. And you're heavy."
Robert laughed, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. "Gods, it's good to see you, Ned. Jon Connington... that prancing fool. Did you really cut his saddle girth?"
"It was the fastest way to get him on the ground," Ned shrugged. "Horses are expensive. Hands of the King are replaceable."
"You haven't changed a bit," Robert grinned, shaking his head. "Always practical. Even when you're killing people."
"Someone has to be," Ned said.
He leaned back, looking at his friend. "Any word from the south?"
"Scouts are out," Ned said. "But nothing confirmed yet. We know Rhaegar has returned to the capital. He's gathering men."
Robert's hands clenched into fists. "Let him gather them. I want him to bring every friend he has. I want to kill them all."
The tent flap opened, letting in a burst of bright morning light. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully entered. They looked grim, the victory of yesterday replaced by the weight of tomorrow.
"My Lords," Ned said, standing up.
"Sit, Ned," Jon Arryn waved a hand. "We have news from King's Landing. Our spies have been busy."
Hoster Tully moved to the map board, picking up a charcoal stick. He drew a heavy circle around the capital.
"Rhaegar is marching," Hoster stated bluntly. "He has convinced Aerys to give him command. He's called the banners."
"Who stands with him?" Robert asked, sitting up straighter, ignoring the pain.
"The Crownlands, obviously," Jon Arryn listed. "Root and stem. Rykker, Staunton, Stokeworth. And he has the Dornish."
"The Dornish?" Robert raised an eyebrow. "I thought the Martells were angry about Elia being treated like a hostage."
"They are," Jon said. "But Aerys reminded Prince Lewyn Martell that Elia and her children are within the Red Keep's walls. It was a threat, plain and simple. Lewyn is marching with ten thousand spears."
"Ten thousand," Robert spat. "Spear-chuckers. They'll break against our heavy horse."
"Maybe," Hoster warned. "But that brings Rhaegar's numbers close to forty thousand. He matches us, man for man."
The room went silent. A pitched battle with equal numbers was a coin toss. It meant thousands of dead on both sides. It meant chaos.
"What of the others?" Hoster asked, looking at the western and southern portions of the map. "What of the Lions? And the Roses?"
Robert snorted. "Mace Tyrell is sitting outside my castle, eating food. And Tywin Lannister is hiding under his rock."
"Tywin is the dangerous one," Jon Arryn said, stroking his beard. "He was Hand for twenty years. If he declares for Aerys, we are flanked. If he declares for us, the war is over in a week. But he sits silent."
"He's a coward," Robert dismissed.
"He's a calculator," Ned corrected quietly.
All three lords turned to look at Ned. He was staring at the map, his grey eyes unfocused. In his mind, the Wiki of Civilization was pulling up character profiles.
"Can you explain, Lord Stark," Hoster Tully said, intrigued.
Ned stood up and walked to the map. He placed a finger on Casterly Rock.
"Tywin Lannister doesn't fight battles he might lose," Ned said, his voice steady. "He hates Aerys. We all know that. Aerys insulted his wife, stole his heir for the Kingsguard, and mocked him for years. Tywin wants the Targaryens gone as much as we do."
"Then why hasn't he marched?" Robert asked.
"Because he doesn't know if we can win," Ned said. "If he joins us and we lose, House Lannister is destroyed. If he joins Aerys and Aerys falls, he loses his influence. So he waits. He is sitting on the fence, watching the Trident. He won't move a single soldier until the victor is decided."
Ned looked at Jon Arryn.
"If Rhaegar wins at the Trident, Tywin will march to King's Landing to 'save' the city for the crown and claim he was delayed. If we win... he will march to King's Landing to sack it and prove his loyalty to the new regime."
Jon Arryn looked disturbed. "You think he would sack the city?"
"I think Tywin Lannister would burn the world to ensure his family ends up on top," Ned said coldly. "He is not our friend. He is a scavenger lion waiting for the kill."
"And the Tyrells?" Hoster pointed to the Reach. "They have the largest army in the realm. Sixty thousand men. If Mace Tyrell stops playing siege at Storm's End and marches north, we are crushed between him and Rhaegar."
"He won't," Ned said with absolute certainty.
"How can you be sure?" Hoster pressed. "Mace is a fool."
"Mace is a fool," Ned agreed. "But his mother isn't."
He tapped Highgarden on the map.
"The Queen of Thorns rules the Reach. Mace holds the title, but Olenna holds the reins. Think about their strategy. Why siege Storm's End? It's a rock. It has no strategic value once Robert is in the field. Why sit there?"
Robert scowled. "Because Stannis is holding them! Because my brother is stubborn!"
"Stannis is a hero," Ned agreed quickly to soothe Robert's pride. "But sixty thousand men could storm Storm's End in a week if they didn't care about casualties. They aren't storming it. They're camping."
Ned looked around the tent, channeling the authority of someone who had read the strategy guides.
"Olenna Tyrell is hedging her bets. By besieging Storm's End, the Tyrells appear loyal to Aerys. They are 'fighting the rebels.' But they are doing it in the safest way possible. No major battles. No dead Tyrells. No risk."
"If Rhaegar wins," Ned continued, "Mace claims credit for holding the Stormlands hostage. He gets rewards. If we win... Mace bends the knee."
Ned adopted a mocking, pompous tone, mimicking Mace Tyrell.
"'We were bound by our oaths to the crown! We had no choice! But look, we didn't kill Stannis, we just starved him a bit! We are loyal subjects of the new King!'"
Robert chuckled despite the pain in his ribs. "That sounds exactly like the fat flower."
"Exactly," Ned said, his voice turning serious again. "They will ask for forgiveness. And because they are fresh, and wealthy, and untouched by war... we will have to give it to them. A new King needs the Reach's food and gold. We can't start a reign by fighting another war against Highgarden."
Hoster Tully stared at Ned, wide-eyed. "That is... cynical. And brilliant."
Ned shrugged. "The Tyrells and the Lannisters are playing the long game. They don't care who sits the Iron Throne, as long as they are standing next to it."
Jon Arryn nodded slowly, looking at the map with new eyes. "So, we are truly alone."
"We are," Ned said. "It comes down to us. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands. Against the Dragon."
He placed his hand over the Trident on the map.
"The war ends here. Whoever wins at the Trident decides which way the lions and the roses jump. If we lose, Tywin destroys the remaining army to curry favor with Aerys. If we win, he hands us the crown on a platter."
Robert slammed his fist into his palm. "Then we win. At all costs."
"At all costs," Ned echoed.
He looked at Robert.
"Rhaegar thinks he is fulfilling a prophecy. He thinks he is the hero of a song. He's about to find out that life isn't a song. It's steel."
Jon Arryn took a deep breath. "I will call the lords. We need to organize the march. If Rhaegar is gathering at the Trident, we meet him there. We pick the ground."
"The Ruby Ford," Ned suggested. "The river is shallow there. Good for infantry. Bad for Dornish horses."
"Agreed," Hoster said.
The two older lords turned to leave. Jon Arryn paused at the tent flap, looking back at Ned with a quiet respect.
"You speak with your father's voice today, Ned," Jon said softly. "The North is in good hands."
"It's the only voice I have, Jon," Ned replied calmly. "I am a Stark. We do what needs to be done."
Jon nodded, seemingly satisfied that the boy he fostered had simply grown into the man he was always meant to be. He ducked out of the tent.
When they were gone, Robert slumped back onto his pillows, exhausted but grinning.
"You really think Tywin is that much of a bastard?" Robert asked.
"I think he's worse," Ned said, pouring Robert a cup of water. "But don't worry about him. Worry about Rhaegar."
"Oh, I'm not worried about Rhaegar," Robert whispered, his hand drifting to his hammer. "I'm dreaming about him."