The first light of dawn crept over King's Landing, weak and colourless, spilling through the broken windows of the Red Keep. Jon Arryn stood at one of the high balconies, his hands gripping the cold stone rail. From there, he could see the city below, what had once been a camp of victory, now a battlefield without lines.
Smoke rolled across the lower courtyards. Fires burned where tents had stood the night before. The sound of steel carried faintly up the hill, the rhythm of it uneven and frantic. What had been the combined might of the Riverlands, the Vale, the North, and the Stormlands was no army now. It was a swarm of men lost in their own fury.
Jon squinted through the haze. He could make out banners flapping wildly in the wind, trouts, direwolves, falcons, and stags, all tangled together, indistinguishable from one another in the chaos. Here and there, the sunlight caught on armour, flashes of silver and gold moving through clouds of smoke. It was impossible to tell who fought whom. The clash of swords echoed without pattern, a thousand duels bleeding into one shapeless roar.
He'd seen battles before, but this was different. There was no command, no cry of charge or retreat, no horn to signal order. Only panic and noise. The field that had once stood united against dragonfire was now eating itself alive.
From somewhere below the gates, he saw movement, a surge of bodies pushing against the Red Keep's outer wall. He couldn't make out their colours, but he could see the rhythm of their charge, the ripple of shields rising and falling. Arrows arced overhead, vanishing into the smoke. Another group broke away, trying to flee toward the lower streets, only to be cut off by riders wearing crimson cloaks. Even from this distance, the sunlight on those cloaks looked like blood.
Jon turned away for a moment, breathing through his nose. The air inside the hall was thick with the smell of oil and burning wood. Behind him, servants hurried past, some crying, others silent, carrying buckets of water or messages no one would read. The corridors trembled with each distant explosion of sound.
He forced himself back to the balcony. The sight hadn't changed. Men were still fighting. Horses stumbled through mud and ash. He saw the glint of spearheads turning on their own allies, though none down there would know it. The whole host that had broken the Targaryen line at the Trident was tearing itself apart before the Iron Throne was even claimed.
He tried to count the banners again, but they were too many and too mixed. A blue field where it shouldn't be, a red one falling into the dirt, a flash of green vanishing in the smoke. Even the sky seemed dimmer, the light smothered by haze.
A sound carried faintly up from below, a horn, deep and drawn-out, though it was impossible to tell whose it was or what it meant. For a heartbeat, the fighting seemed to waver, the noise dipping, and Jon felt a spark of hope that someone, somewhere, had seized command. Then another horn answered it, shriller, angrier, and the chaos rose again. The sound of shouting swelled until it seemed to fill the air itself.
Jon pressed both hands against the railing, his knuckles whitening. He could feel the stone vibrating beneath his palms. He wanted to shout down to them, to demand they stop, but his voice would never reach that far. No words would.
He turned from the view and began pacing the length of the balcony. His boots clicked against the marble. Every thought led back to the same hollow truth: there was nothing he could do. Tywin had vanished into the storm he'd created, and Robert, Robert was somewhere in his chambers, lost to grief and wine, unreachable. The commanders were gone or dead, and the soldiers below were no longer soldiers at all.
He thought of how it had begun. How easily men had sworn loyalty when victory seemed clean. He thought of the ride south, of the cheers when the Targaryen banners burned, of the belief that this war would end the killing. All of it undone before the crown was even forged.
The shouts outside grew louder. He stepped back to the window. From here, the city looked like it was bleeding. Fires burned through the camps and market stalls, black smoke rising in twisting columns. He saw groups of men fighting in the streets now, Lannister red flashing through the chaos, cutting through whoever stood in their way. Arrows hissed upward, a few striking the outer walls of the Keep before falling harmlessly to the ground.
Below, the great gate that led into the palace square had become a choke point, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. He could see the ripple of movement as one side pushed forward and another fell back. Somewhere near the walls, a wagon of supplies caught fire, and the blaze leapt to a nearby tent. The flames spread quickly, swallowing everything in their path. The smoke blurred the lines between armies until all he could see were silhouettes, men swinging at shapes, shadows stabbing at other shadows.
Jon felt his stomach twist. He'd spent his life believing in duty, in reason, in the power of order over chaos. But from where he stood now, there was no order left. Only noise and fire.
A young page stumbled into the room behind him, panting hard, sweat streaking his face. "My lord! The fighting. It's spreading down the city streets!"
Jon didn't turn. "Who's winning?"
The boy hesitated. "I—I don't think anyone is."
Jon nodded once, almost absently. "Go. Find water. Stay clear of the walls."
The boy fled.
Jon leaned forward again, elbows on the stone. The first rays of full sunlight were cutting through the haze now, turning the smoke golden. For a moment, the field below looked like the surface of the sea, waves of armour and fire rolling and breaking against one another. Somewhere, he thought he heard the faint clash of a warhorn again, long, low, drawn out, its note swallowed by the wind before he could tell where it came from.
He stayed like that for a long while, watching as the dawn spread across a city, tearing itself apart. He didn't pray. He didn't call for guards or messengers. He simply watched. The rebellion they'd built was dying in the streets below, and he had no words left to stop it.
The horn sounded once more, closer this time, its echo washing through the Red Keep. Then came another, from the opposite side of the city, answering it. The sound folded into the clamour of battle until it became part of the chaos itself.
Jon closed his eyes briefly, the wind from the open balcony carrying the smell of smoke and blood. When he opened them again, the sky above the city was bright with firelight.
And below, the army that had won a kingdom fought itself to ruin.
-X-
The air inside the Red Keep was heavy with the aftertaste of smoke. Sunlight crept through narrow windows, falling in pale streaks across the floor. The council chamber smelled faintly of iron and oil. The map of the Seven Kingdoms lay across the table, smudged by soot and marked by small wooden tokens: a stag, a direwolf, a trout, a falcon, all scattered as though flung by an unseen hand.
Tywin Lannister stood before it in silence. His armour gleamed, recently cleaned, every plate aligned with precision. The gold of his lion sigil caught the early light. Behind him, the faint echo of rebuilding filled the Keep, hammers striking, men shouting orders, the slow rhythm of soldiers reclaiming order from ruin.
He had never seen this kind of chaos before. Armies that thought themselves united turned on one another once victory was won. Honour dissolving quicker than blood dried. What began as a war for freedom had ended in confusion, and confusion had served him well.
The door opened.
Lord Damon Marbrand entered, helm under his arm, dust and dried sweat dulling the shine of his armour. He bowed once, low and brief.
"My lord," he said.
Tywin didn't look up from the map. "Report."
"The fighting's ended," Damon said. His voice was rough but steady. "The field's ours. The northern host has broken and is retreating up the Kingsroad, taking with them a few thousand from the Vale and Riverlands. The rest are captured, dead or scattered."
Tywin's eyes shifted over the map, tracing the road northward. "Casualties?"
"High," Damon said. "Impossible to count cleanly. The dead lie from the gates to the river road. Our own losses are… considerable."
"Acceptable?"
Damon hesitated. "Yes, my lord."
Tywin nodded once, the motion small. "And within the city?"
"Quiet. The gates are sealed. Patrols have been set at every major street. There's looting in the camps, but it'll burn itself out by nightfall."
Tywin finally looked up. "See that it does."
"Yes, my lord."
The knight fell silent. The scrape of Tywin's gauntlet against the table was the only sound. He studied the mess of banners on the map, the tiny carved armies toppled and scattered, and for a moment saw the battlefield as it had been: smoke thick as fog, men screaming, blades flashing without direction. The lines of allies had broken almost instantly, confusion spreading like fire as men fought simply to protect themselves, turning sword against ally in the confusion. It hadn't surprised him. Men drunk on victory were always easy to mislead. A rumour here, a word there, it was enough.
By dawn, the field had devoured itself.
Now it was quiet again.
Tywin turned away from the table and crossed to the window. From the balcony beyond, he could see the plains below the Red Keep where the rebel host had once camped. The smoke was thinning now, rising in lazy curls. The bodies were being moved into heaps. Men in crimson cloaks worked with the same efficiency as butchers.
He said, almost to himself, "The King's peace is restored."
Behind him, Damon shifted. "Your orders, my lord?"
Tywin turned back, expression as cold as his voice. "All nobles who raised arms against the King's will are to be taken to the Red Keep and held until judgment. Their men will surrender their weapons. Those who refuse will die."
"Yes, my lord."
"Inform Ser Kevan I want a full accounting of the survivors by midday. Supplies, rations, mounts, all of it. We march north at first light tomorrow."
"North, my lord?"
Tywin's gaze returned to the map. He placed a gloved finger on the carved direwolf still standing near the Trident and nudged it along the painted road. "The traitors run home. We'll meet them before they reach it."
Damon inclined his head. "And what of the Vale men, and the Riverlanders who rode with them?"
"They made their choice," Tywin said simply. "They'll share the same fate."
The knight hesitated a fraction. "The men are exhausted. Some fought till dawn. They—"
"Then they'll rest when the realm is quiet again," Tywin said, cutting him off. "Not before."
Damon nodded. "As you command, my lord."
Tywin glanced at him. "And Ser Damon, make certain discipline is maintained. No more confusion."
"Yes, my lord."
Damon bowed, turned, and left the hall, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor.
When he was gone, Tywin stood alone once more. The sunlight shifted across the table, glinting off the dagger he'd used to pin the map in place. He reached out and straightened one of the scattered tokens, a fallen falcon, lying on its side near the Vale.
He thought of the night before, the noise, the fire, the smell of burning pitch and blood. Men screaming for orders that never came. By the time they'd realised what was happening, the battle had already chosen its victors.
Disorder was a language all its own, and Tywin had always spoken it fluently.
-X-
Night had fallen over the Kingsroad. The air was still, the kind of quiet that came after slaughter. What remained of the northern host lay scattered along the fields beside the road, broken carts, half-burned wagons, men huddled around small fires that gave more smoke than heat. The wind carried the smell of blood and ash northward.
Benjen Stark sat apart from the others, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. The fire in front of him burned low, throwing long shadows across his face. He hadn't slept since the retreat. He doubted anyone had. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the field outside King's Landing, the smoke, the shouting, the way their banners fell one by one until nothing was left but confusion and death.
They hadn't been beaten in a battle; they'd been broken in a storm.
When news of Eddard's death had spread, many had marched to the Red Keep for answers. The chaos that had ensued when tempers soared, resulting in conflict and bloodshed. Some nobles escaping the conflict had fled to their levies camped outside, some proclaiming that the Lannisters had usurped Robert, others proclaiming it was the North. No one had been certain, and when the Lannister army sallied out and the North charged, joined by some Vale and Riverland soldiers, those caught in the middle, unsure, had been dragged into the fight simply to protect themselves.
He rubbed his hands together, feeling the raw blisters from sword and rein. His fingers were still trembling. It wasn't fear anymore. Just exhaustion and anger.
The northern banners around the camp were few and tattered. A wolf here, a bear there, the reeds of House Reed painted on a shield half-splintered. The Riverlanders and Vale men who'd escaped the chaos had joined them, their own banners drooping beside the northern ones. None of it looked like an army anymore.
A man approached from the shadows. It was Gregor Forrest, his face drawn and streaked with dirt. "My lord," he said quietly. "The others are waiting. The council's begun."
Benjen nodded, pulling himself up. The motion felt heavier than it should have. "I'll come."
They met in the largest tent still standing, a frayed banner of the direwolf hanging limp outside its entrance. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and burnt tallow. A single lantern hung from the central post, casting weak light over the gathered lords.
There were maybe a dozen of them left who still commanded any real following. Their armour was dented, cloaks torn, faces lined with fatigue. The murmuring stopped when Benjen entered.
He took his seat at the head of the table, Eddard's seat. The realisation twisted something in his chest. He kept his eyes on the wooden map before him, though there was little left to plan on it.
Lady Maege Mormont spoke first, her voice calm but urgent. "We cannot stay here, my lord. Not with the Lannisters marching. The scouts say they left King's Landing this morning."
Benjen nodded slowly. "How far?"
"No more than a day behind us," Maege said. "They'll be on us before the week's end if we remain on this road."
Across the table, a Lord Royce leaned forward. "Then we should turn east past the ford, to the Vale. The mountains are defensible. The Eyrie's walls could hold against ten times their number."
Lord Bracken, his sleeve bound in a rough bandage, shook his head. "The Vale's too far. We've wounded and barely enough food to last a march of days. We should go west to the Riverlands, to Riverrun. The Tullys will take us in. The river crossings will hold against pursuit."
"And abandon the North?" Another voice cut in, Lord Hornwood with his arm in a sling. "Moat Cailin's our best hope. The causeway's narrow enough to hold back the whole of the Lannister host if need be."
The tent filled with the low rumble of an argument. Every voice carried the same note of weariness and fear.
Benjen sat still, eyes on the map, his mind half on their words and half on the faces he no longer saw. Brandon's grin, reckless and bright. His father's steady voice. Ned's calm, quiet strength. Lyanna's laughter. All gone, all because of this war, and the men who had sworn to end it.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself back to the present. "If we scatter," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "we'll die one by one."
The noise dulled slightly.
"We can't face them on open ground," said Lord Brakcen. "We need walls between us and Tywin's host."
"Walls won't save us," Benjen said. "Not now. They'll only give him time to starve us out. He'll burn every field from the Trident to the Neck."
Lord Royce frowned. "Then what do you propose, my lord? We've neither the strength nor the numbers to meet them."
Benjen looked around the table. He saw older men, men who'd followed his father, fought beside his brothers, watching him with the same expression: pity mixed with doubt. He hated it.
"We march," he said.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.
Gregor was the first to speak. "March, my lord? You mean to fight them?"
"Aye."
Maege leaned forward slightly, his tone careful. "Benjen… our men are tired. They've lost friends, sons. They'll follow you if you order it, but they won't survive another slaughter."
Benjen's fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. "We won't survive running, either."
"That's not true," said Lord Bracken. "Riverrun could—"
Benjen slammed his hand against the table, the crack echoing through the tent. The lantern flickered.
Every head turned toward him. His hand trembled, but he kept it there, pressed flat against the wood. "Enough," he said, voice shaking with anger he couldn't quite contain. "Enough talk of hiding behind other men's walls. We're not rats scurrying from fire. We're the sons of the North, and the men who stood beside us. We won't crawl away while the lions feast on our dead."
No one spoke. The only sound was the wind against the tent canvas.
He forced his breathing to slow, his voice dropping lower. "They killed my brother. They butchered our host and called it justice. They'll keep coming until we make them stop." He straightened, the flickering light catching the Stark grey of his eyes. "Tomorrow we march south. We'll meet them on the Kingsroad and show them the North still remembers its dead."
A murmur ran through the lords, disbelief, protest, then a grim kind of acceptance. Some bowed their heads. Others looked away.
Gregor said softly, "If we march, we march for vengeance, not victory."
Benjen nodded. "Then let it be vengeance."
The tent fell silent again. Outside, the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint cry of a wounded horse and the low hum of distant thunder. The sound made the lantern sway, shadows stretching across the faces of the gathered men.
One by one, they rose. There were no cheers, no vows, no grand words. Just tired men bowing their heads and leaving the tent to prepare what remained of their forces.
When they were gone, Benjen stayed seated, staring at the map.
He felt something twist in his chest, pride, grief, fury, he couldn't tell which anymore.
He thought of Eddard again, the way he'd smiled that quiet, steady smile, always certain of what was right. Benjen didn't feel certain of anything now. But he knew what he wanted even if it wasn't sound.
He rose and stepped outside. The night was clear and cold, the stars sharp against the darkness. The camp stretched out below him, fires glowing like embers across a field of shadow. Men lay asleep or pretending to be. The road behind them disappeared into blackness; ahead, it bent south toward the faint red haze still lingering over the horizon.
Somewhere beyond that glow, the Lannisters were marching.
Benjen stood there a long time, cloak stirring in the wind. Then he whispered under his breath, "For Ned."
The words vanished into the night, carried southward by the wind.