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Jon Connington, 25th Day of the 4th Moon of the Year 299 AC; Duskendale

His eyes stood closed, cold wind blowing against his face and doing its best to wrench his greying red hair from its topknot. The Griffin didn’t mind - he enjoyed it, a relief from the scorching late-summer sun. One he was oh so well acquainted with. His home for the last ten and five years had been the place of endless summer after all.

But this was home. His home restored. Not Griffin’s Roost specifically, for that would come later. No, he would finally set foot onto the soil of Westeros for the first time since Aerys had banished him for defeat.

The defeat that led to Rhaegar’s death.

“There it is, Griff,” the voice spoke, normally so confident and strong but now breaking slightly with emotion. “The Seven Kingdoms, mine at last.”

Jon Connington opened his eyes, gaze falling on that of the silver prince. Not ‘His Silver Prince,’ but rather his younger brother. His ‘valonqar’ as Rhaegar oft affectionately referred to. A wistful smile crossed on Connington’s face, remembering the fearful boy he had been and witnessed to the man he had become. “Feels almost alien, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me.” Viserys Targaryen pounded his fist onto his chest, gaze fixed on the green shore growing closer with every row of the skiff. “This is my domain. My realm.” He met Connington’s gaze, filled with wanderlust and dreams. “They toast songs to my health in secret, Griff, just as your brothers did, my love.”

Lady Valaena Velaryon, squinting as the sun shone on her bronzed skin, bit her lip. “There are undoubtedly some, but you will need to prove yourself to them decisively, my sweet.”

“And he will, Princess.” The fourth voice, that which made Connington’s hair at the back of his neck stand up on end, made itself known. Self-assured and intimidating, perfectly fitting the red hue of the striking beauty it belonged to. “The fires have shown the dragon reclaiming Westeros, and it shall be done.”

“See?” Viserys laughed, pounding his chest. “They will all fall before me.”

“Lady Melisandre,” the Queen remarked. “It is best to be realistic.”

“There is nothing more real than the Lord’s will, your Grace.”

Valaena shared a worried glance with Connington, but he smiled and shook his head. Such a boast could spell madness, but it could also spell the confidence of a young and capable leader.

He had no doubts over who Viserys was, even if it was his task to keep him from flying too close to the sun.

“Be warned, my King. The Lord of Light rewards only those that choose to help themselves.”

Seems it wasn’t just him looking out for Viserys.

As the boat got closer to the shore, a welcoming party was visible in the distance waiting on the beach. Queen Velaena just seemed to notice. “Are we not landing at Duskendale, my love?” The port town splayed out to them about a mile to the north, nestled behind its walls that had held off the royal army while imprisoning Viserys’ father all those decades ago - the fulcrum upon which the Rebellion had turned, resulting in the madness of Aerys II. Meanwhile, the hundred or so soldiers accompanying the fluttering banners of House Rykker waited on a stretch of beach populated with a few peasant dwellings, a mill, and some jetties for the local fishermen. 

“I want to set up a proper marching camp once we land our horsemen,” answered Viserys. “And the less we are seen in the city, the less spies will relay information to King’s Landing.”

“Do you really think there will be many spies?”

Connington nodded at the Queen. “Kessa, your Grace. They don’t call Lord Varys the ‘Spider’ for no reason.” Valaena bit her lip and nodded - she had the intelligence and determination to be a good consort to Viserys, but was still young. It would take time.

First the lead boat, piloted by Valaena’s brother Aurane Waters, made landfall. Then it was their own turn, the keel of the skiff slamming into the soft sand beneath them. Viserys, with a whoop, leapt over the side… and promptly lost his footing and fell in the surf. “Viserys!” screamed Valaena, while Connington steadfastly dove out into the water after his King. Cursing not from true worry, but at how horrible an omen it was.

He needn’t have worried. Viserys leapt to his feet with handfuls of sand and silt clenched in his fists. “Westeros!” he bellowed. “I have you in my hands!” His voice boomed, and from the boats all around them and from the Rykkers on the shore, some staggered cheers rang out. Connington laughed and pounded his King - his charge - on the back. A quick look at the boat found both Valaena and Melisandre smiling. Their King had turned a bad omen into a triumphant one.

A dozen men - the King himself included - hauled the boat towards the shore for the women to disembark. Viserys held out his hand for Valaena to take, Connington doing the same for Melisandre even if she earned only his respect, not his liking. Lord Rykker, far older than when Connington knew him, approached and bent the knee. “Your Grace. I am honored to welcome you to Westeros.”

“Rise, Lord Rykker,” Viserys replied, wiping his hands before he donned his riding gloves. “How many men can you promise me?”

“Your Grace?”

“Men, Lord Rykker. Preferably knights and other horsemen. I will need them to properly screen for the Usurper’s dogs if they show up.”

Lord Rykker laughed. “You are a man of action, I admire that. Much like your brother… and your foster. Connington, it’s been a while.”

“Far too long, Rykker,” Connington answered. “We’ve brought two thousand horse with us, with another two on its way.”

“That’s it?” Rykker shook his head. “I have about a thousand I can call up at the moment, but Mooton, Staunton, Sunglass, and the others are sitting on their heels.”

Viserys bristled. “They’d dare reject their King’s summons?”

“They would desire to support you, your Grace,” Connington answered. “But my entreaties and that of Lord Velaryon cannot match the threat the Usurper’s armies pose on them, nor the value of your mother and sister’s continued hostages…”

“Where is my sister?” Viserys’ voice dropped to a growl. “And my mother? Lord Velaryon promised…”

“A promise not even the faceless men could deliver, I’m afraid,” Ser Aurane remarked, his face showing what could pass for genuine regret - perhaps it was genuine. “She is locked in the maidenvault under double guard, good ones too, not the scum of Robert’s Kingsguard.”

Viserys bristled. “If they harm a single hair on her head…” 

“They will not, she is too valuable to them to harm.” Connington placed a hand on the boy, and unlike with his father was able to relax him. Ease the anger and torment in his soul. “The lords are fickle and can be won over with a victory. Any victory.”

That seemed to animate him again. “Yes, to beat the Usurper’s armies. If we capture his senior Lords… perhaps his brother or the Stark dogs, we can trade them for my mother and sister.”

“Your sister is the Lady of Moat Cailin in the North, your Grace,” Rykker replied. “Married to Jon Snow.”

“Against her will, no doubt,” Viserys scoffed. “She should’ve gotten my letter by now. Have another sent, without the Starks knowing of it… in fact send ravens across the Realm, proclaiming their rightful King has returned. While they do that, we will prepare the camp for my men.”

“And your wife and the Lady Melisandre, your Grace? Shall Lord Rykker prepare quarters for them…”

“No, they stay with me,” Viserys insisted. “I shan’t let Gregor Clegane or any other monsters harm them while I am alive. They will be protected by myself and my bodyguards.” Valaena reached for his arm and lifted it, kissing his knuckles. “My horse then, Rykker. We have a war to win.”

Connington, as always, was left to organize his King’s grand designs. The brother of his Silver Prince. Hence why he did it without complaint. “He is exuberant.” Connington turned to find Lady Melisandre stepping into place beside him. A beautiful woman, no doubt. One that stoked no fire in him but he couldn’t deny that. “The perfect model of a warrior king.”

A nod. “I see much of Daeron or Daemon Blackfyre in him, but with myself to see he avoids the pitfalls… but then again, they say that his father was vigorous when he was younger.”

“Do you see the madness in him?”

Connington frowned. “Could we not all be capable of madness?” Melisandre merely tilted her head at him, to which he sighed. “I don’t see it yet, but cannot be sure.”

She chuckled. “We all have our part to play, my Lord, and the true Lord works in mysterious ways.” With that she left him, following after their King.

Rhaella, 25th Day of the 4th Moon of the Year 299 AC; The Red Keep, Throne Room

One never truly appreciates freedom until it is taken from them. Rhaella thought she knew that saying well, but upon returning to her chambers within the maidenvault she came to realize fully what Robert was taking from her. Leaving her children and sole grandchild was bad enough, but now to return to her solitude with only occasional visits from lover and also from lord Stark, she felt as though the walls of the chamber were closing in around her.

At least with Eddard now as Hand she was allowed more than just a few books to read. Jon Arryn had tried to grant her more liberties, but Robert never allowed it. His foster brother simply failed to ask permission first. She was also allowed to write letters to her children in the north, and she delighted whenever she was sent a response.

Learning that Daenerys and Aenar were already expecting their first child made her cry happy tears, doubly so when a following letter came to tell her that Margaery was also with child. She wished so desperately to be there as she should, to help her precious daughter - and granddaughter by marriage - through the steps of her first pregnancy as her own muna had for her. Lord Eddard assured her for a fortnight that she would do so in the future, but his assurances did little to help her.

The day was ebbing into the central hours as the sun sat at its peak for the afternoon. Rhaella broke her fast with a well prepared meal of eggs, pork sausage and porridge that Eddard had sent to her. Most often Jaime would have been the one to sneak to her with some bits of his own morning meal, but she liked this much better. Before she was only given what was left from the kitchens before the cooks began to prepare for supper, which was little more than table scraps.

Wiping at her mouth she prepared to read more of the latest book she had been reading. But as she began to open her tome, the echoing of footsteps in the maidenvault caught her attention. Jaime always came through the passageways, and lord Eddard had never been so frantic in his approach to her chambers.

Before she could even mentally prepare for whatever was about to happen her door was nearly kicked off its hinges. “Grab the bitch,” Meryn Trant ordered as he stepped in and then to the side, a smirk plastered across his face as several members of the Poor Fellows came into her chambers after him. Before she could even muster a resistance to them they grabbed her by the wrists and upper arms, they left her legs to dangle and drag as they forced her to come with them.

“Unhand me, you wretched swine!” She spit at them as she tried futilly to escape their hold.

“Don’ tink you can order us around. Ya ain’t Queen na mer,” One of the men holding her right arm told her, his rotten breath making her want to vomit as it washed over her face. Turning to face him she spat in his eye, making him yell out and let go of her. He was quickly replaced however as they continued to drag her forward.

Despite being confined for nearly two decades in the maiden vault Rhaella knew well where she was being taken already, and a pit began to form in her stomach. She had been escorted too many times to count at the behest of her brother to witness him executing yet more men he had believed to be conspiring against him, and even more times she raced these halls as a girl as she dreamed of dragons and knights.

Now she was being brought to the throne room at the behest of another king, and she could only figure a few reasons as to why Robert wished for her presence on this day.

The hall was bustling with activity as she was hauled through the main entrance. All eyes were on her as she tried still to fight her captors, just as she did that day Robert had decreed Daenerys would be taken from her. Looking up she spied him sitting upon the throne, his gaze focused squarely upon her as she was tossed before the throne onto her hands and knees.

Before she could even rise, Meryn Trant's voice rang out. “Rhaella Targaryen, you have been brought here before your king for the suspicions of you aiding and conspiring with the usurper, Viserys Targaryen. Do you deny this?” Her words caught in her throat before she could even think of what to say. Viserys? He was here? He was alive? She had hoped and prayed nightly for this day, to hear any news of her lost son.

Rhaella had often hoped he had found a life for himself away from Robert and Varys’ watchful gazes, but she should have known better. No Targaryen, one worthy of the name at least, would ever abandon their family. And thus he had returned to their home.

“I would suggest you speak, you old bitch. Lest I take your silence as a confession and take your head,” Robert warned, earning him a glare from the kneeling former queen.

Standing, Rhaella glared up at Robert as she composed herself. “Only a fool would think I have somehow been able to communicate with my son whilst confined to the Maidenvault.” She spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “Though I suppose this castle houses of the sort these days,”

“Watch who you insult, you incestuous whore.” Trant warned, his hand moving to rest on the dagger which hung from his hip. Rhaella only smiled at him, remembering how the lord commander had been so thoroughly thrashed by her grandson. He snarled at her in response, which only made the former queen laugh at him. “You think this is funny?!”

The hall exploded with insults raining down around her as the men of the faith militant hurled insults of all kinds in her direction. It was almost when someone threw a half eaten apple a her head did she cease in smiling up at Robert and Trant. Over the ruckus she could hear Trant say, “I feel we need to send a message to the usurper, your grace.”

“I am of the same mind,” Robert growled out as he stood. “Seize her, and then bring me her head. I’ll send it along with the men who go after that dragonspawn shit, so that he can know what awaits him here in my kingdom!”

Still reeling slightly, Rhaella had not the time to react before she was seized again. From the corner of her eye she watched as Jaime was frantically trying to look for someone else as his hands shook at his sides, no doubt aching to take out his blade and cut his way to her. The sound of her dress ripping echoed through the chamber as she felt her breasts spill out the following moment. Robert glared down at her as Trant smiled, his hand going to his blade as he strode toward her.

“CEASE THIS MADNESS!” Lord Eddard yelled as he stopped before the iron throne, his guards and ser Bonifar following behind him. “Unhand her. NOW!” He ordered, and the poor fellows who had grabbed hold released her as he took a step forward. Before she could tell lord Stark had draped her in his cloak and helped her back to her feet. Bonifar was at her side the next moment as Ned turned his attention to the King. “Is this what you do whilst war rides our way?! Parade a defenseless woman before your court and take her head for imagined conspiracies?!”

“In case you have forgotten, she is the mother of the usurper!” Trant yelled back.

“My son must have truly thrashed you good back in my keep to think killing Queen Rhaella would at all dissuade Viserys from waging further war against us,” Eddard retorted. 

“You dare insult the king in the presence of the kingsguard?!” Trant barked as he approached a step, hand on his blades hilt as he did so.

“I am not insulting the King. I am insulting you,” Rhaella had to stifle a laugh. “My son must have truly thrashed you well in my keep to not realize that yourself.”

Before Trant could continue this trading of insults, Robert spoke. “All save for lord Stark, leave the chamber. It seems my hand and I have much to discuss,”

“That's putting it mildly,” Ned murmured before turning back to Rhaella. “My men will escort you back safely,” The former queen could only nod her head swiftly before Bonifar helped her from the chamber, several of his own men following behind him as he did so.

The aged knight said little to her as they walked together, though she could tell he was livid. Just as much if not more so that Eddard himself had been as he entered the throne room. “I’ll leave two of my men at the entrance to the vault to ensure your safety,” He told her.

“You need not,”

“I insist on it,” There was no sense in arguing any further with him. Rhaella knew just how stubborn her one time beloved could be. “Please, tell me of anything you might need, your grace.” Bonifar told her as they reached her chambers. 

“I promise that I will. Thank you, ser.” Rhaella said, not meeting his gaze as she walked back into the familiar surroundings of her chamber before shutting her door behind her. She hoped Bonifar did not think her upset with him for dismissing him so quickly, she simply just had not the energy to think of anything other than her son.

She knew not how much time passed between her shutting her door and Jaime sneaking in through the secret entrance he so often used. All she did remember was his arms coming to wrap around her as they sat on the beds edge as she cried into his shoulder.

Renly, 30th Day of the 4th Moon of the Year 299 AC; The Red Keep, Royal Chambers

“Four thousand men? Four thousand men?!” With a sweep of a meaty arm, Robert swept aside the entire planning table. Figurines of men and horse, color-coded and marked with banners to distinguish them from each other, clattered to the floor - each figure wasn’t loud, but scores together made a clatter that echoed through the cavernous chamber. “How the fuck do I only have four thousand men?! The entire Seven Kingdoms bow down to me!”

“Please, brother,” Renly insisted, grabbing his shoulder. “Calm yourself, lest you get overwhelmed again…” It had happened before, when news of Viserys’ landing had first trickled in. Robert had worked himself up into such a fury that he fainted. Pycelle insisted it wasn’t his heart, but Renly did not want the risk of having a succession in the middle of everything. To have Joffrey take over would be a disaster in and of itself…

Heeding not the warnings, Robert shoved his brother to the side. “Don’t tell me to calm down! We had thirty-thousand in the rebellion, double that at our fingertips against the Ironborn cunts.” His ruddy face turned near purple. “There’s only one reason we can only drum up four thousand. Treason! Backstabbing!” Puffing in and out, he hunched over with his hands splayed over the table, as if weakened by his explosive rage.

The Small Council remained silent - even Cersei, a bit of a sneer on her face as she shook her head at him. Whatever warming of relations between them over the last decade or more was just that. Warming. Melting a little permafrost didn’t lush, beautiful weather make. “Robert?” That was Ned, his voice hesitant. “Are you…”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Robert sputtered, waving for the servants to produce a chair. For him, one was brought, though none of the others were granted that luxury. “Go on, tell me this isn’t treason. Tell me that Olenna Tyrell and the fucking Martells haven’t stabbed me in the back.” His eyes shifted to his wife. “Or your father didn’t find a better deal with the son of his late friend.”

“If my father deigned to betray you Robert,” Cersei answered back sharply, “then you’d already be dead. The facts are it takes time to assemble men, correct, Lord Stark?”

Renly blinked, eyes focusing on Ned. While Hand, he was also Master of War as Robert hadn’t filled the post. Double the responsibility - Ned had handled it adroitly when it was merely the threat of Euron Greyjoy to deal with, but a full invasion by the Targaryens… Yet to be seen.

He was sure Ned could handle it.

He prayed Ned could handle it.

“Queen Cersei is correct, Robert. Between the household guard, your knights, and the assembled banners of the loyal Lords of the Crownlands…”

“Do not forget that of the Faith Militant,” insisted Grand Maester Pycelle, voice mushy with age but still crafty. One Renly didn’t underestimate as most did. “They have one thousand well-trained men in the city’s environs.”

“I’m well aware,” Ned replied, his face sour. “I was including them already. Five and ten-hundred men of the household guard, half cavalry. The Crownlands lords close to us - Rosby, Stokeworth, Hayford - can muster their horsemen and knights sooner than their infantry so that’s another two and ten-hundred. The Faith has one thousand, a fifth horse, and then there are the three hundred mounted knights sworn to Robert. Four thousand we can march quickly against Viserys in Duskendale as you desire, Robert.”

“And what of our home, Renly?” Robert grunted at him. “We marshaled twenty thousand against the dragonspawn.”

Renly bit his lip. “We can, but it will take time. We need at least a moon to gather our standing forces and march them to the capital… two or three to gather any sizable force…”

Robert hit his fist on the table again, only it was more half-hearted. “We need an army ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Standing armies are quite expensive, your Grace,” murmured Baelish. “And seen as a threat to the lords under our protection. Instead we should’ve had advanced warning of this move by the Golden Company and the Velaryons moons in advance so we could’ve marshaled a proper host, and such warning is your responsibility, Lord Varys.”

Eyes shifted to the eunuch, who stood there quietly and largely unnoticed. “Lord Baelish has a point, Lord Varys,” Renly remarked. “Why didn’t your little birds warn us?”

His tone was at ease, as usual. “Sometimes the gentle bird fails to sing, my Lord.”

“Sometimes the gentle bird sings for another,” Cersei said, her voice dripping with double meaning. “How do we know you aren’t working for the pretender?”

“Given Lord Tywin’s failure to march his standing force to the capital as we speak, how can we know you or your house aren’t working for the pretender?” Renly bit his cheek, stifling a chuckle. The glare on Cersei’s face was alone worth it, even though Varys had won the enmity of the Queen for that remark.

“Let us not accuse each other baselessly,” Ned interjected. 

Varys nodded. “Thank you, Lord Stark. Yet, my birds did sing of an opportunity for you, your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “Even with hired sellsails and the Velaryon fleet at his disposal, Viserys Targaryen has only landed at Duskendale with four thousand men.”

“Four thousand only?” Pycelle asked.

“Yes, Grand Maester.” Varys reached down to the figurines and picked up several cavalrymen wearing the banners of House Targaryen and the Golden Company. “Most of the Golden Company is resting on Claw Isle, Driftmark, or Dragonstone to rest and refit from their journey across the Narrow Sea. The whispers out of Viserys’ war council is that they wish to ferry all their men from Essos before landing them at Duskendale and Rook’s Rest, and those coastal ports not under their full control are dangerous for amphibious landings.”

“But Viserys wanted to land himself?” Renly asked.

“Yes, my Lord.” His neutral look continued, but a flash of… something, filled his eyes. “He has come under the sway of a sorceress.”

“A sorceress?” Pycelle scoffed.

A nod. “She is a priestess of the Red Faith, originally from Asshai as far as I know. She has filled him of delusions of grandeur, that he is a ‘Prince that was Promised’ according to some old Valyrian legend. This has warped him and made him more aggressive than his war council should wish of him.”

Cersei laughed. “Oh, the fool. Walking right into our hands.” 

Varys ignored the comment. “He took five and twenty-hundred cavalrymen of the Golden Company and landed at Duskendale with a thousand infantry and five hundred horse from Driftmark. Lord Rykker called a thousand of his banners to reinforce him. Many cautioned him to remain on Dragonstone or Driftmark while Jon Connington secured the coast, but he refused, wishing to be seen as a decisive King and introducing himself and his wife to the Realm.”

“Lord Velaryon’s sister, correct?” 

“Indeed.”

Cersei smirked. “Well, husband. It seems his desire for glory has left him overconfident. I’m no expert on war, but you could steal a march on him and wipe him out before he can get reinforcements.” 

That particular fact managed to rouse Robert from his sullen mood. Returning animation to his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s what I’ll do.” He puffed out his chest. “Ned, gather the men. We ride for Duskendale on the morrow.”

Renly’s eyes widened and he shared an expression with Ned - the older man looked just as grim as Renly felt inside, though perhaps without as much shock. Truthfully, Robert was being Robert, bold and reckless to a fault. Luckily for the two of them, Pycelle was who spoke first. “Your Grace, you can’t possibly think the right course is to march out yourself!”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Of course not…”

“What the Grand Maester is saying is that having the King march out himself for such a rebellion isn’t wise,” Renly stated, choosing his words carefully. “For you to ride out not only risks your life while your heir is underage, but also confirms the seriousness of this. Treat it as a minor matter and allow your Hand and Master of War to handle it.”

“I am no coward,” Robert growled.

“No one is saying that, Robert,” Ned said. “But neither was Maekar Targaryen when he rode out to the Peake Rebellion and he met his end. A minor matter plunging the Realm to chaos… it is for such reason that I wish not to go out to battle at this time.”

“I hope you have a proper commander in mind, Lord Stark,” Cersei replied.

He nodded. “Lord Beric Dondarrion is at court. He is brave and a crafty leader of men, and would answer the call if asked.” Glumly nodding, Robert looked like a kid sent to bed without his sweets. Eager to get back into the swing of things.

“Do you think Lord Beric will lead them well?” Renly asked Ned as the session dismissed, checking behind him to ensure no one was listening. He kept his voice low just in case.

“He’s as good as we can have at this point, considering I do not want Robert to go nor can I afford leaving him alone.”

“Fearful the Lannisters or Hightowers will dig their claws in?”

Ned frowned. “Not as much as I fear leaving the Realm in the hands of an untested boy at a time like this.” You don’t know the half of it, Ned. For your sake I pray your daughter elopes with anyone else. 

Olenna, 4th Day of the 5th Moon of the Year 299 AC; Highgarden

“It’s good to have you home, brother.” Willas said as he wrapped Loras in a tight hug. Well, as tight as the heir to Highgarden could muster as he stood without his cane. Melissa was close by, little Sansa clutched in her arms as she cooed and was bounced to keep her entertained before her uncle could take her.

“It has been quite a while, yes.” Loras let go of his eldest brother. Sansa was presented to him the following moment, just as she had been when they were all in Winterfell .The young girl obviously remembered him as she yelled in her shrill little voice in excitement as he took her from her mother.

Olenna watched with a small smile at the sight as she stood beside her son and her gooddaughter. Alerie had several tears already falling down her cheeks before she rushed forward and hugged her youngest son and granddaughter tight. The scene would have been one of great joy, even for the Queen of Thorns, had her mind not been occupied on other more pressing matters.

Namely, her plans for the future regarding Margaery. And their family by extension.

Her being pregnant was already a good step in the right direction, having an heir born and established would do nothing but aid her and her husband’s future ascent to the iron throne. The only snag was that, not surprisingly, Daenerys was pregnant as well. And the young princess had announced her own pregnancy first, which would likely mean she would give birth first.

Now, if Daenerys were to have a daughter, all would be well. Especially if Margaery were to give birth to a son. It would be a simple thing to have the siblings wed as the Targaryens often did, ensuring both Daenerys’ and Margaery’s bloodlines continued on. But if the opposite were to happen, if Daenerys bore the son and Margaery the daughter?

Well, plans were made for just such occasions.

With her mind still elsewhere where she didn't notice Loras approach her and Mace, only as her son spoke did she come back to reality. “It’s good to have you home, son.” He said before pulling the younger man into a hug. Loras hugged him back. He then moved over to Olenna herself and knelt slightly to wrap his arms around her.

“You look well, grandmother.” Loras told her.

Olenna scoffed in response. “No need to try and compliment me dear. I know how I look,” she said, making her grandson chuckle before she kissed his cheek. Looking at him smiling down at her as he stood back upright she had to agree with her son for once, it was good to have him back where he belonged.

Even if the boy was still sullen over him having to come back. Oh, he hid it well from his brothers and his mother and father, but Olenna could see it. His slightly slumped shoulders, the slight slip of his smile every few moments, the distant look in his eyes as he looks away from one member of their family so as to look at another.

‘He will get over this. It will simply take time,’ Olenna told herself as Garlan came over and led Loras back to their elder brother and his sons Dickon and Garth. The pair of boys proceeded to try and climb on their uncle, which made Olenna and the older men laugh at the sight.

“My lady,” a voice called from behind her. Turning, she found her man, Left, waiting on her, two raven scrolls clutched in his hand. “Letters for you.” The man knew enough to say they were for her and not her and Mace. If they were truly so important she’d inform her son of what was written to them later in the evening.

With a sigh she walked back into the keep, leaving behind the happy scene her family was enjoying as she made her way to the lord's solar. She used this chamber just as much if not more than Mace himself did. Sitting  at the desk reserved for the lord of Highgarden she placed both scrolls upon the dense wood. One scroll bore the wax seal of house Baratheon, which was unsurprising. But the other was the one which shocked her.

For it bore the crimson seal of House Targaryen. 

With all the speed her old bones could muster Olenna broke open the scroll and began to read the scrawled words meant for her son.

Lords and ladies of Westeros,

I, King Viserys Targaryen III have returned to reclaim my birthright. Dragonstone is mine, and many of the lords in the Crownlands bend the knee to me already. I broach you with the same offer that I did to them, to those who choose to bend the knee to their rightful king, I will be most grateful and generous. 

To those who choose to side with the usurper and his ilk, I will show you the same mercy he did to my niece and nephew.

Decide.

King Viserys Targaryen III, rightful king of the seven kingdoms.

It was surreal to read. Almost as much as it was to learn her granddaughter was marrying the rightful heir to the iron throne. Seven and ten years have passed since any word of young Viserys was spoken by any in the seven kingdoms. Robert had hunted him of course, but no word had ever come of the last son of the mad King ever being found. And now he had returned.

“The avenging son,” Olenna said with a chuckle as she placed the scroll down back onto the desk. Her gaze turned to the other scroll sent to them, but she did not move to open it. She knew it would be the same message, only with a few words changed round.

As she peered down at the pair of letters a thousand thoughts rushed through Olenna’s aged mind, each telling her of a thousand possibilities that could come about in the next couple moons. It brought a sense of familiarity to her, making her think back to Robert’s first war with the Targaryens and how she had to make a similar decision for her family. The Targaryens were the better option, despite the madman who sat the throne. The realm had a bright future in Rhaegar, had he not been the man he was she would have told Mace to side with Robert instead.

History would tell the tale of how monumental of a mistake that was for the Tyrells. And now such a decision once more was laid at their feet. At her feet.

Neutrality was out of the question, it would paint them as cowards in the eyes of both sides of this new conflict regardless of who won. Should Robert claim victory once more he would more than likely strip them wholly of their status of paramount lords and likely give it to the Hightowers. Should Viserys win there was no telling what he would do. Was he a man more like his father, or like his elder brother? Should he prove to take after the latter it would be good for them to side with the Baratheons this time.

At least until Margaery and Aenar rose to take what was rightfully theirs.

“We must navigate this situation with care,” She told herself as she rolled both letters back into their scrolls. “At least until one side truly gains the upper hand.” And so, with that in mind, Olenna grabbed two pieces of parchment before dipping her quill into the close by ink and began to write a message to both Robert Baratheon and Viserys Targaryen.

Viserys Targaryen, 29th  Day of the 5th Moon of the Year 299 AC; The Crownlands, west of Maidenpool

It is the greatest of follies to assume that the weak wish not to seek out battle. That they cower, that they hide and run and do whatever it takes to avoid a fight.

Anyone who thinks that, they must reassess their thinking.

It is the strong that would seek to shun battle. They are strong, they are in control - they risk nothing by avoiding battle and letting the enemy die on the vine and threaten to lose everything by charging headlong into the fight. It is the weak, the out of place, the disadvantaged that need to take risks. That need to whet their swords on the flesh and bone of their foes. To gamble, for all that there is the fear of loss there is also the glory of triumph.

One must risk defeat, for in doing nothing, defeat is certain. 

“They’re leaving their camp, your Grace.” 

Dropping his Myrish spyglass, Viserys nodded. “I can see that, Aurane,” he told his goodbrother. “Foolish, they should’ve waited for reinforcements.”

The Valeryon bastard, himself only a light bronze compared to his sister, shrugged his shoulders. “The Usurper’s legitimacy is hanging more precariously after the death of Jon Arryn, plus the defiance shown by your sister in the North. I suspect they wish a quick victory.”

“Your logic is unassailable, but the desire is stupid.” Viserys Targaryen had spent his life as a mummer’s farce. Everything scripted, pretend, theoretical. From his sparring to his studies, never risked by Connington, Strickland, or any other to an assassin’s blade or enemy’s arrow. Now though, he finally found himself in the midst of a real battle. A real campaign. It exhilarated him. “They have every advantage, while I don’t even have my full complement. I need the battle, not they.” Daeron the Young Dragon’s words burned into his mind like the Seven Pointed Star would to a Septon. He folded his spyglass and kicked the side of his mount. “Sound the call. We leave camp for battle.”

Aurane audibly sighed. “As you wish, your Grace.” They doubt me… I don’t blame them.

After today, none will doubt me again. 

The camp was built just west of Maidenpool, the towers of the port city a visible backdrop upon the floodplain of the mouth of the Trident. Theirs had been a hard ride over the past weeks, but a productive one. The greater endurance of the Essosi horses had allowed them to handle the trek better than the strong but short stamina Westerosi knightly steeds Beric Dondarrion undoubtedly used - Viserys could see it with the mounts provided by Lord Rykker, so ordered those knights to ride without armor. An insult to their knightly chivalry, but one he could shoulder given the situation.

Every mile of distance between Duskendale was a mile further from his supply line, but also a mile of exertion the Usurper’s hastily put together force would have to cross. So, his men obtained a day of rest outside Maidenpool before Beric finally showed, something the works of the great generals and Kings of the past always hammered home to Viserys.

Time would tell if such strategies played well outside of books.

“Aurane,” he ordered. “Stay behind with the reserves. Do not skirmish.” He had five hundred mounted archers from Essos, and then the Velaryon skirmishers. Beric already seemed to deploy his crossbowmen for the usual harassment - each minute of such fighting was an additional minute the Usurper’s dogs could grab water or a bite to eat. “Griff?” The face of the man he saw as his father - only faded memories of an old man with bright eyes and a thick beard, a loud man, inhabited the back of his mind - gave away nothing. “Lord Mooton?”

Connington shook his head. “Spent the entire night cajoling him. He was… sympathetic, but professed his neutrality. Feeling like he wants to test your mettle.”

Viserys sighed, then straightened his back. “I shan’t disappoint him, then. Form up!” The hornblowers blurted their signals and the drummers picked up their stucco. Guiding the seamless men of the Golden Company into position. “Lead them, I’ll be with the knights. Time to see what their King is made of.”

Perhaps someone else would argue that he should stay behind the line, not risk himself. Not Connington - he knew the stakes. He also knew Viserys, had trained him personally. “Valar Morghulis.” 

“Valar Dohaeris, but it won’t be me. Not today.” They clasped hands before Viserys rode to his position.

The field was a flat plain jutting out from the Trident to the North of them. Technically the Riverlands rather than the Crownlands, it served Viserys’ purposes as it maximized his advantages - they would be confident, having a superiority in heavy cavalry and crossbowmen even as he had numerical superiority. Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven, took the bait and formed up his heavy lancers behind the crossbows, expecting to skirmish. This was something Viserys would not give, the Golden Company manning each flank while the center were the Rykker knights and any hedge knights that joined him on the march, seeking fame or glory. There was not an insignificant amount.

Somewhere found a Targaryen banner, the red three-headed dragon displayed for all to see. Viserys felt his heart burst with pride. This is for you, muna… and for you, sister. “Sound the charge,” he bellowed, and the warhorns blared. 

“Beneath the gold!” came the shout from the ranks of the Golden Company to either side. “The Bitter Steel!” They surged forward.

Viserys let them have their shout. “Prepare to charge,” he cried, closing his own helm, a mimic of his elder brother’s at the trident. He tightened his hold on the lance in his hand, keeping it pointed upright. The hopes of his house weighed on him, as did Melisandre’s prophecies. “Fire and Blood! Charge!”

He gave his mount a light kick to get the horse moving. 

The line surged forward. “Fire and Blood!” 

From a still line it turned into a cantor almost instantaneously, building up steam until the entirety of Viserys’ line - the many thousands of gleaming waves of steel and flesh basking under the sun - surged forth. The enemy crossbowmen, almost paralyzed at the unexpected sight, recovered their wits and fled behind Dondarrion’s own cavalry. Hooves churning up the still moist grass of mid-morning, Viserys could see the frantic movements to assemble. To countercharge.

It was too late. “Lances!” His fears evaporated, banished by the thrill of it all. He ignored the mass of men heading for him, focusing only on a single knight right ahead of him. Everything seemed to slow, Viserys floating on his horse while he aimed dead center… slow enough for him to see the single butterfly fritter about the tip of his lance… 

In an instant everything exploded. Screams of man and horse echoed through the air. Viserys’ lance shattered, almost pitching him back off his horse and slamming him into the saddle, but the steel tip punched through the knight’s breastplate. Shearing the metal and pulverizing the man’s chest in a detonation of bone, flesh, and blood. 

With nimble dexterity, he dropped the lance. Seamlessly drawing his sword and engaging in melee. A form of combat in which the Golden Company excelled but the knights of Westeros were shit at. Another thing he had planned, swinging his sword with wild abandon. A lance came for his heart, but a slash upwards severed his attacker’s arm and coating his own in blood.

He wheeled around and charged back into the chaos, aiming for the gut of another. Steel could block a blade, but not at the join of the metal plate. The forward momentum of his horse played a part, nearly helping him decapitate the unfortunate soul. Blood sprayed across his helm, Viserys tasting it on his lips. This was nothing like he imagined.

This was everything like he imagined.

Suddenly, his head rang, followed by an intense crash that almost staggered him. Through his vision, near blinding, was a bear of a man seated on his horse with a mace in hand, wheeling it around for a second swing. While Viserys raised his blade to parry, equally as suddenly appeared another rider with scraggly hair and a close-cropped beard. With a swing of his sword, the arm holding the mace fell to the ground in a pool of blood. Screams were silenced as Viserys stabbed forward, ending the man’s suffering. Spitting out blood from his mouth, coating the inside of his helm, Viserys snarled. “Now!” 

Somehow the hornblower was close at hand, and gave the signal.

Peeling around from either side were the horse archers and Velaryons, a thousand men at Aurane’s command. They roared around the flanks, arrows arcing upwards and spraying death on the crossbowmen in the rear. Those panicked and fled, leaving nothing standing in the way for the attackers to erupt and charge into Dondarrion’s rear.

The battle was over barely after it had begun.

Removing his helm, inhaling some of the fresh air blown in by the breeze - glorious relief for him in the midst of the sickly fetid mist collected over the field - Viserys reached up to brush the hair matted to his forehead. “Ah…” He drew his hand back, forehead stinging… his hand was smeared with blood. 

“Your Grace!” A knight ran to him, stripping cloth from his tunic. “You’re injured.”

“Am I?” Sure enough, the forehead of his helm had been gouged, split in two from when the mace crashed into it. “Seven Hells, I didn’t even notice.”

The cloth stung as the knight wiped his forehead. “Easy… gotta wipe away the blood…” 

Silent as his head stung, Viserys sucked in a breath. “How many did we lose?”

A shrug. “Less than them, that’s for sure. Dondarrion got a lance through the chest, last I heard, but the fucker with the flaming swords dragged his body away.”

“Thoros of Myr, I know of him.” A pregnant pause. “Connington? Is he…?”

“Alive, yeah. Fucker was a madman, cuttin’ down at least a dozen or two.” Viserys smiled, glad Griff was alive through it all. The man was his only friend through the years, and his surrogate father. “Sliced your forehead,” the knight replied, biting his tongue as he wrapped the impromptu bandage around Viserys’ head. “A shallow cut though. Bleeds like a bitch but shallow.”

Viserys winced, but gritted his teeth. “Do they often bleed like that?”

“Forehead cuts, damn straight… pardon me, your Grace.”

“You’re pardoned.” He looked about him, taking in the sights. “The wife’ll be fuckin’ furious with me.” He chuckled dryly.

The knight grinned. “Mayhaps at first, but the ladies love some battle scars. Don’t be surprised if ye’ git yer’ heir tonight.”

Stifling a snicker of his own, Viserys eyed the man closer. “You’re the one that pulled me out of that mess, now were you?” The knight nodded. “What’s your name, Ser?”

“Bronn, your Grace… but I ain’t a Ser. Just a man lookin’ for some adventure… and a payday.” He whispered that part, chuckling.

Viserys grinned, clapping the man on the back. “Well, you’re a knight now, and a member of the Kingsguard if you want it.”

Shaking his head, Bronn met Viserys in the eye. “An honor, your Grace, but I can’t. Plannin’ on gettin’ a plot of land and a wife after this. Can’t do it with a white cloak.”

“A man that knows what he wants, I like it.” Viserys grabbed his hand, clasping it. “But a sworn sword and my companion, you will do well on both accounts. You shan’t deny your King this.”

Bronn blinked, then grinned back. “How can I refuse?” Hornblows distracted them, drawing each to the east. “Banners ridin’ towards us.”

Squinting, Viserys made out a red salmon mid leap fluttering in the wind. “Ah, seems Lord Mooton finally made his choice.” 

“Better fucking late than never,” Bronn spat.

“Victory is victory, Bronn. Now come on.” Viserys’ smirk split his face from ear to ear. “You’re about to see what it looks like to kiss the arse of a King.”