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Chapter Text

ROBERT POV

There is no greater shame than the knowledge that the one you loved with all your heart had betrayed you.

It was true that he was a man of faults. He was lustful and promiscuous, and keeping to one bed was difficult for him due to his sexual libido--- which, to be frank, ranked off-the-charts.

He had his own recklessness and daring, and a ridiculous amount of reactiveness, which often prevailed upon him to forego doing anything of particular productivity.

But was he truly... that horrible?

Two hours earlier, the Eyrie (282 AC)

"You must be strong, Ned, and so will I," Robert laid a hand upon his best friend's shoulder, his brother's shoulder. "We both knew and cherished Brandon. And your Father, while I never got the fortune to directly meet with him, he must have been a truly great man to have a man like you ardently following him. But we must be proactive. A letter has arrived from King's Landing."

"And what is it that this letter says that is of true importance?" Ned spoke quietly. His voice carried a subtle coldness, a hint of venom, that took Robert aback. Ned never spoke like this. He was a very patient, calm man, and stoic to a fault, controlling his emotions always.

A balance to Robert's outbursts.

Nevertheless, despite the unsettling tone, Robert continued gravely.

"Ned, the Mad King is not sated. The dragon had asked for our heads, he sent a letter to the Vale. We are to follow Lord Rickard and Brandon to the Seven Hells, he says. Jon Arryn refused. He is calling the banners." He continued, ignoring the fact that every mention of the dragons, especially their latest atrocity, had sent his blood boiling. "There will be blood, Ned. Rivers of it."

"And what cause do we follow?" Ned asked, in the same indifferent, icy tone.

"The return of Lyanna and the destruction of House Targaryen."

"Of course we are," Ned scoffed, and Robert was getting worried now due to the utter lack of emotion in Ned's body. "And who will replace House Targaryen on the Iron Throne?"

"I will." Robert declared resolutely. It had been declared, an hour ago, when Jon left to call his banners.

"Of course it will. Benefits us all, doesn't it?" Ned suddenly said, his voice cynical and cold.

"What---" Robert began to say, dumbfounded at the unexpected hostility in his voice, as Ned finally rose to his feet. "What the hell are you saying, Ned?"

"I am saying--- it just couldn't wait, could it?" Ned spat. "A crown, a wife, you want it all."

Robert did not have words. He had expected Ned to be in serious mourning, but not this. He had not expected this.

"I didn't want anything---"

"Of course you did! You and your whoring. Your obsession towards Lyanna. It cost us all. Your desire to marry Lyanna and put her in the public spotlight allowed that dragonspawn TO ABDUCT MY SISTER AND CAUSED THE DEATHS OF MY FATHER AND BROTHER!"

Robert was too speechless to respond to the sudden, biting accusation that came at him unwarranted.

"And YOUR WHORING was what caused Lyanna to choose that dragonspawn!" Ned roared, his voice now more painful that the worst of rushing storms. "You left her vulnerable to a piece of shit that picked her up and spirited her away with his snake-like tongue! And father and brother died clearing up your messes!"

Robert could not believe this was happening. He was not responsible. Aerys was. Rhaegar was. Those dragons were! A roar rose in his mind, as the voices in his mind screamed at him to refute the falsehoods hurled at him, each of which was shattering him anew, eating him alive.

And the worst part of him was that it was Ned who was saying it.

Ned. His brother. The one he had chosen as one. His brother in all but blood.

"Yes. I will still stand by you," Ned affirmed his loyalty, as he still stood there in dumbfounded silence, unable to comprehend the horror of what he had heard. "But I am doing this only for my sister. You are not anymore anything to me but a destroyer of my family. I will ally with you because there are other butchers I must deal with. I am not your friend. I am not your brother. I will head North to Winterfell and call my banners. I will take back my sister from that curse House of Dragons, and see each one of them dead. And you will not marry her and bring her more misery."

That broke Robert. Something seemed to shatter. He did not know which was the worst: he would not marry Lya and be happy ever again, or that Ned would no longer be his brother. 

"And Your Grace," Ned seemed to say it with a slightly mocking, bitter irony, as he turned to the door. "I told you: spare me your fantasies. You saw, lustful wench as you are, an ideal woman you could rut on endlessly, but not the iron within. My sister never loved you, she said so herself. She told me that she would not marry you if she had a choice, and I will honor her wish. She said no amount of love could change a man's nature... especially if the man is as lustful and perverted as you are. I have ignored your excesses for too long--- no longer. You never saw the iron within her, her steely resistance to you. Think of it: she is willing to run off with an incestuous, disgusting, degenerate, entitled freak over you. That speaks volumes of your character. I was a fool to not acknowledge you as the pathetic fool you are, earlier."

That was by far the worst. Robert had his question answered.

After delivering the merciless verbal blows he had to, Ned strode off, his steps purposeful and measured on the cold stone floors of the Eyrie. A complete deviation from the boy he had grown up alongside. How little had he known everyone?

Lyanna had never loved you...

Lyanna never loved you...

Lyanna never...

Lyanna...

NO! 

For the first time in nineteen years of his life, Robert, who had prided himself of his toughness and never expressed any vulnerability, cradled his head in his hands and wept.

Present

She never loved him, an unlovable, lustful piece of shit.

NO. Something in his head told him. You're better than this, Robert. You don't bow to what others say about you. Prove them wrong. The ancient blood of Durran Godsgrief and Orys Baratheon flows in your veins. 

But what if they are right?

They are not right. You are not the one who shamed his wife at a Tourney to run with another's betrothed. You are not the one who burnt people alive. All you did was father a single bastard in a moment of grief, and play with some servants, hardly any more than even the average Lord. Stop being a self-loathing pitiful creature and go to war. You are a King. Or you will be King, rather. You have to be. You are the truest of men, and one born with the greatest potential. Take your Warhammer and coat it in Rhaegar Targaryen's blood. They are wrong about you. The Starks, the Targaryens. But it is on you to prove them wrong.

Something completely snapped inside him that day. The warm blue eyes full of mirth froze over, as the burden of maturity and the coldness of a man shunned took over. He rose to his full height, and walked from the room, his eyes and jaw steely in determination.

JON ARRYN POV

Change could be brought about by the smallest of causes, but change was permanent, and nothing could reverse it save another change.

And Jon knew, that something had irrevocably changed inside Robert that day. Jon had called his banners, brought the Lords of the Vale (well, most of them, save the Graftons and a few other loyalists), to rally them and get their acknowledgements of Robert as King.

And when Robert had inevitably stepped out on the podium, to address the gathered Lords, Jon almost gasped in shock.

Robert was different.

And while Jon knew his boy had grown, he was not expecting to see it outlined this way.

Towering over the entire room, Robert stood. His face freshly shaven and clean, as opposed to the mud and dirt that usually adorned it, the youthfulness of his face contrasting with the icy maturity (yes, maturity, Jon thought in disbelief--- he had not expected Robert's bearing to be such) of his blue eyes, which were as cold as the ice of the North. He was wearing the crown Jon had fashioned for him, the gold glinting in the light of the sun, the small horn-like antlers of the crown emphasizing his status as the Crowned Stag of the Seven Kingdoms, the symbol of the new Rebellion. It held back his hair, a mass of thick, dark curls that descended to his collarbone, which was, surprisingly combed back neatly as opposed to the usual wild neglect. His hair was the same color of his armor, as black as the night, with the symbol of the Baratheon stag emblazoned on the pauldrons and the front of his armor.

Tall and proud. Robert's very mannerisms and gait exuded an aura of command and confidence. He had been confident before, but he was lax: he rarely took command. 

"Esteemed Lords and Ladies..." Robert spoke, his deep voice carrying through the area, "You are here because we stand, today, inclined towards something that has not been done in the course of the history of Westeros. Rebellion. The crimes of House Targaryen are too heinous to go unanswered."

The nobles gathered seemed to be hanging on to every word he spoke, their faces displaying their intense focus.

"For three centuries they have ruled us. They supplanted the Kings of the Seven Kingdoms and created the seat of the Iron Throne. And it has yielded us nothing but disappointment! Bloodshed, wars, debauchery and depravity, and a systematic destruction of all norms we hold dear. That is the gift of their regime. And now even among the general quality of rulers to sit on the Iron Throne--- the current rulers bring with them a series of horrifying atrocities and cruelty that has made this Dynasty intolerable. 

"Lord Jon Arryn, the man who is Lord-Paramount of the Vale, is also a foster father to me, and Lord Ned Stark. Imagine our horror when my father in all but blood was commanded by the King we are sworn to, to kill those he raised for years simply because we are connected to the abduction of Lyanna Stark. The Prince stole our betrothed, and we raged, and when her family followed the command of their King and marched to King's Landing the King broke the terms of their loyalty and killed them in unjust, gruesome ways despite no fault of their own. Two men who went to get their daughter and sister back, respectively, I mind you! And this is not the first time the royal family has slighted others, commoner or noble. This is not a first time an innocent life has been extinguished by the King's madness.

"And after all these wrongs they committed, they dare ask for our heads! Despite us knowing nothing about the incident!"

There were murmurs in the crowd now: people were questioning the King, the Targaryen regime. There was anger being birthed in the midst of the Lords and Ladies assembled. If the King and his son could inflict such horrors on the Houses of Lord-Paramounts, what chance did they have? This was being asked throughout the gathering. 

The speech was having an effect.

"We cannot afford to stay silent! We must rise! This Dynasty have proven themselves unworthy of the Iron Throne! They must be thrown from power! The innocent souls harmed for the decades we have suffered their torment must be avenged! There is no escape!

"He burnt Lord Rickard Stark alive, and Brandon Stark! He asked Jon Arryn to execute me and Ned Stark, and be the next thing to a kinslayer! His son stole my betrothed and he enabled it! You think you are safe? You think being loyal to the Crown will save you? Oh no no no. Every moment you will walk uneasy. The slightest of things will result in incidents such as these, and worse. House Targaryen had overstepped its bounds. If it is allowed to further shatter the order of Westeros, no one will be safe. Rebellion is our only answer. We cannot let the overstepped boundaries lie without a just response. Rebellion is our only answer! Justice for the Starks, death to the Targaryens! Let there be war, from the Wall to the Arbor, from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea. The regime must fall. Summon the Legions, show them our fury. Let the gods be fair and just, and overthrow these horrors on the Iron Throne. But we must execute the will of the Seven on the Realm and see the justice done. For Rickard, for Brandon, for Lyanna! CALL THE BANNERS!"

And as the crowd roared, Jon Arryn, tears of happiness and pride in his eyes, roared the loudest, as he knew in his mind that Robert would lead his armies to victory and to death, and all those who were assembled today would follow him to the same.

[A/N:

1. See, in this world Ned reacted more violently than canon. He mistakenly blames Robert for everything wrong. For Robert it is an eye-opener.

2. I hope the speech was good. That was definitely inspired from a few places (not telling you guys where from). Jon is proud, I hope you are too.

3. I was always a little partial towards Robert. Expect some not-so-Rhaegar-friendly content.

4. Will there be changes? A lot. Robert cannot rely on Ned now because of the fact they fell out, so he will certainly be making some different decisions. Robert's Rebellion here will be much more different therefore.]

Chapter Text

THIRD PERSON POV

Gulltown, 282 AC, second moon, a week after the declaration of Rebellion

Seated atop a large warhorse, swinging a giant Warhammer the size of his chest like a mere sword, Robert cleaved through the armies like a knife through butter. Hundreds of soldiers and dozens of knights fell from their horses and were trampled underfoot their own horses and those of the enemy, their chests and heads caved in, their limbs shattered by the blows of his hammer. Like a force of nature, an inevitable cataclysm the Rebel forces shattered the vanguard of the army, and surrounded them from every flank.

Blood flowed in rivers and corpses piled high in the streets. All loyalists. The people of the Vale had hailed Robert as a savior, and many sacrificed themselves to bring about Robert's victory in the Vale. This led to a minimum rebel casualties, and maximal loyalist casualties.

An ideal result.

Many would look in awe at the legend that had risen, of the devastation the proclaimed King and the leader of the Rebels would bring. Blood on his armor, his helm thrown off from the adrenaline of the fight, his handsome face covered in blood, Robert Baratheon was having the time of his life, that was clear to both loyalist and rebel. More than a thousand men fell to his hammer in that single battle, and more than a thousand women were widowed that day, and a thousand children left fatherless. The dedicated defense of Gulltown by the loyalists had been carved through in a mere two hours, the entire force of Lord Grafton shattered.

Lord Grafton met his end in a pathetic matter: an opportunist who remained loyal to the Crown, he pleaded for mercy as he realized he had put his bet on the wrong side. He was led down the steps, shackled, up on the public square of Gull Town, and Robert, who they had proclaimed as King, himself brought the hammer down on the man's head.

He who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

ROBERT POV

If there was a greater pain in life than bureaucracy, none had experienced it yet.

Robert lamented as he wrote on several rolls of parchment. Various Lords and Ladies were being asked to bend the knee and overthrow the Mad King.

With the fall of Lord Grafton the Vale had been consolidated under Jon Arryn. Jon and Lord Royce rode themselves to consolidate their forces and open a front in the war. Hoster Tully had consolidated his forces in the Riverlands. The Brackens and Blackwoods had found common cause for the first time in history. Jason Mallister prepared his fleet to protect the rebels, as did Wyman Manderly in the North. The North had consolidated under Ned, with the Starks and Karstarks leading forces like the Boltons, Mormonts, Umbers and Glovers down south.

With three Kingdoms behind it, it was time to ensure that the fourth was consolidated.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a raven. Ah, Stannis, he noted, seeing the neat, carefully correct handwriting. 

He had never showed affection to his brothers. He had chosen Ned.

But after Ned...?

Opening the scroll, he saw the message.

To

Gulltown

The Kingdom of the Vale

Brother,

I have called the banners. You are correct, it is expected of me, as acting Lord-Paramount of the Stormlands, to follow Aerys. But you have declared yourself Liege, so I can, if I so want, follow my brother to the death. It is the law for me to follow the Mad King, but he is a Mad King and he was the first to breach his oath to the Lords. So I will call the banners on your behalf. However, there is a dedicated resistance to my call. The loyalists have thrown behind Jon Connington, Lord of House Connington. Monford Velaryon had been appointed Master of Ships in King's Landing, so expect nothing from the Isles. Attached is a list of Lords, vassals and individual members of Houses who have gone rogue.

Further, the Reach has heard of the Rebellion first. Mace Tyrell is on his way, with the united Reach behind him. We expect a blockade of Storm's End quite soon. I will be welcome to advice and further orders. 

Congratulations on the capture of Gulltown.

Sincerely,

Stannis Baratheon.

Robert read the letter, once, twice, thrice, before shaking his head bitterly. He had neglected Stannis, greatly. Despite law compelling him to throw behind Mad King, he had bent and twisted his ideals and principles to follow Robert, despite all the years. He had chosen Ned, but what had Ned given him? What had Ned done after all the years of friendship?

His blood went cold as he read the next part. 

The Reach was on their way to Storm's End.

Mace Tyrell was on his way to Storm's End. Considering they expected a blockade and the numbers of the forces, there was no doubt that at least the Houses of Hightower and Redwyne had thrown behind him. Those two Houses had a beastly number of soldiers and ships, respectively. The only naval and ground powers that came close to their number were Houses Lannister (barely behind the Hightower host), and Houses Targaryen (with the Royal Fleet) and Greyjoy, as naval powers. None of them had declared for the Rebels so far.

Armies or not, Robert was going to Storm's End. There was no way in hell that he let those bastards kill Stannis after all Stannis was doing for him.

JON ARRYN POV

His foster son was a grown man now.

He watched as he rode with Robert, how inspired his soldiers were, and the sheer authority and command he inspired. When Robert was not drinking or laying with a maid--- was he truly capable of this?

The Vale had a host of more than twenty five thousand men, and the Riverlords who had arrived had a similar host, a total of more than fifty thousand forces. It was one of the largest forces to ever be assembled since Aegon's Conquest, when dragons had rendered the need for large armies moot and most civil wars were limited to dragon-on-dragon combat and large-scale burning of cities and towns. Hoster Tully and he were to lead the force, and take the south, apparently. Their first target was to relieve Storm's End for Stannis and ensure a secure foothold to defend their Kingdoms against loyalist retribution.

Hoster Tully rode beside him. The man had already whitened hair and beard, but his eyes were shrewd and his face spoke of great intelligence.

"King Robert has given me a command, not exactly a bad one," Tully spoke up. "Apparently, our first move is to take Harrenhal. It will be the central force of our campaign down south, and we can secure a defensible position should Reach loyalists attack us in full force. The boy is a prodigy with how he has arranged our troop movements. You have raised him well, Lord Arryn."

Jon found himself preening at the praise: he wanted not to, but involuntarily he was. 

"Thank you, Lord Tully." 

He was inwardly quite proud of Robert. The sudden strike at Harrenhal would be a turning point, allowing them to capture a position from where they could project force into King's Landing, the Reach and even the West (if Tywin Lannister came to fight for the Mad King). Then, if they launched an offensive in the Reach and relieved Stannis, they could quickly attack the capital and destroy all resistance, deposing the Mad King and turning around to face the loyalists from an united front.

There would be no mercy for the men who had committed such acts of tyranny.

RANDYLL POV

"The boy marches south!" The Lord Oaf of Highgarden guffawed, apparently amused at the audacity of the boy who had been declared King. "The boy thinks he can take on the combined armies of the Reach and the West, and Dorne!"

Randyll was not so sure. While they were the most potent Kingdom in terms of sheer numbers of their armies, the Reach was much easier to invade than any Kingdom save the Riverlands. And while forty thousand forces were heading towards Storm's End, and one hundred and fifty ships, that left only fifty ships and forty thousand soldiers to defend the Reach AND meet Robert Baratheon's march south. There was no guarantee that the West and Dorne would capitulate and defend the Mad King, since their loyalty was held by fear, and a single incident could lead to turn-coats in every rank.

And the Lords were laughing about it. Distinguished gentlemen such as Lord Leyton Hightower and Lord Paxtor Redwyne were taking amusement out of Mace Tyrell's mocking jests, not caring that they presented a potent threat.

"My Lord," he spoke up, drawing attention in the room, "Wouldn't it be prudent to at least send a force down south and curb Robert Baratheon's forces before they march south? Just in case."

"Ha, as if!" snorted the Tyrell idiot. "They'll never reach us, never REACH us!" He laughed at his own joke: "Haha, REACH! Because we're the REACH, with a reach as big as our name and Kingdom!"

Randyll pretended to laugh, but he inwardly winced: seemed like he had to act himself. He had lent no forces save a meager thousand men to the Reach host marching east to Storm's End, so they had some leeway. Lords Florent and Footly would lend more. That would lend them more than twenty thousand men, especially with their minor vassals covering up several thousand men.

LEYTON POV

Next morning

"GONE! You hear me, GONE! They disobeyed my command, they shattered my trust in them, they showed insolence towards their Lord-Paramount! I will have their heads on spikes!"

Mace Tyrell was in a rage when he found out that the Florent and Footly force had met the Tarly force, as Randyll Tarly left camp in the night, taking around twenty thousand men up north towards the Riverlands, abandoning them with only forty thousand men to attack Storm's End. That left twenty thousand men in the Reach and deprived them of a skilled commander. 

Leyton was conflicted.

There was nothing they could do.

Now that Randyll had departed, the only thing the Lord of Oldtown could do was hope for his victory at all costs.

Because there would be a lot of blood.

Then an idea came to him: there was something he could do.

He pulled out a parchment and quill, and began to write.

To

Lord Whent

Harrenhal

The Kingdom of the Riverlands

It has come to my attention that Lord Robert Baratheon, a traitor to the Crown and a self-proclaimed King, has been marching south. Any man who must march south must meet the wrath of the Riverlords, but most of them have proven themselves traitors. It is up to you, my Lord, to display your fealty to the Crown and meet their march at Harrenhal. A host led by Lord Randyll Tarly, Alester Florent, and Lord Forrest Footly are heading up to reinforce you. I can assure you, your loyalty towards the Crown will be greatly rewarded.

Sincerely,

Lord Leyton Hightower,

Servant of the Crown.

One letter penned, another one had to go.

To 

Lord Frey

The Twins

The Kingdom of the Riverlands

It has come to my attention that you have yet to declare your position in the war. While I understand your position to stay neutral until you understand the situation, it is of immediate importance that the bridges of the Twins be raised, immediately. The self-proclaimed King, Robert Baratheon, is a traitor and a wanted usurper whom we of the Crown valiantly fight every day. He is dangerous, and the Crown offers so much more. The North had sadly thrown behind him, so it is of immediate importance that you lock down the Twins immediately and prevent the traitors of the North from getting across. The Crown has always handsomely rewarded its servants, and you will be no exception.

Sincerely,

Lord Leyton Hightower,

Servant of the Crown.

Leyton smiled. This he knew: their initial hesitation meant that they, at the very least, had SOME reservations, no matter how insignificant, about committing to the rebel cause. Which afforded them enough time to win them over. With reinforcements locked down and the Whents and Reach forces bogging down the forces marching south, they could take Storm's End, then turn around and face the rebels. The victory would definitely win over the West and Dorne, neither of whom would want to be on the losing side, and secure them the loyalist victory in the Rebellion.

And then--- he could look to intra-Reach problems. Such as... transfers of power.

[A/N:

1. Harrenhal is important. In fact, I am surprised that they did not go for Harrenhal in the Rebellion and instead hit... Ashford? Harrenhal, especially as it is, is much less difficult to take (as opposed to the intact pre-Aegon Harrenhal) and will provide them a holding point to directly attack King's Landing, especially with Northern Reinforcements on the way and fifty thousand men spread there).

2. Yes, there are definite coups against Mace. The Tyrells were not liked by a lot of Houses, and I thought I will explore them a little further. Especially with Mace sounding a lot like the Reach's Tytos Lannister.

3. This will, obviously, be a different Rebellion.}

Chapter Text

ROBERT POV

Harrenhal, 282 AC, Third moon

Time: Two weeks after the proclamation of Rebellion

Robert rode through the field, once more laying waste to those who opposed it. His Warhammer cleaved through an entire enemy flank, shattering the loyalist troops like butter. Those around him consistently guarded him, but truth be told, he needed no guard. He was a menace in itself, a one-man army.

The rich, fertile soil of Harrenhal would grow no more trees, so great were the fires that scorched the ground around them and made it difficult for most people to even stand amidst the heat. The walls of the castle itself was being bombarded by stones, each larger than the last, heavy, unwieldy boulders cracking the stone slowly over hours. Arrows from trebuchets and catapults hit any defender who was unlucky enough to be seen through the windows. Every now and then a defender, struck by a projectile that shattered their bones, or pierced their skin, would let out a gruesome cry of agony as the life drained from them, falling from the windows and roofs to be dashed on the ground below.

On the ground itself the rivers and water bodies had turned red with blood. The sound of metal meeting metal reverberated through the air, along with the agonized, blood-curdling screams of those that had fallen. Every now and then a horse would crumple to the ground. A rider would be met by a spear, an arrow or a sword to the head or chest, and heads and bodies would collapse to get trampled underfoot. Or maces, hammers and stones would crush them atop their horses as they were thrown from their mounts. The arrows and spears that missed their mark would embed themselves in the soil, and others would fill the sky, an entire rain of sharp projectiles, of pointed blades rushing to meet their designated target.

The Stranger would take with it whoever it could, in this one battle.

Harrenhal had raged for two weeks, with a monstrous siege as the rebels threw themselves against the walls of the loyalist Lord Whent. They almost clinched victory, but the timely arrival of Ser Silas Footly leading the vanguard of the Reach loyalists crashed into the ground, snatching away the chance to take the castle by smashing into their flanks and disorienting them. This was followed by a bloody ambush, aimed for the rebel leaders, which, while taking no lives of strategic consequence, disoriented the leaders enough to cost command, and the rebel force fell to desperation and chaos for a few hours--- just enough for Randyll Tarly, Alester Florent and Forrest Footly to come with a force worth two-fifths of the already exhausted rebel force and push them back leagues (at least two leagues behind their original position).

Since then Hoster Tully and Jason Mallister had led a successful charge that led to the death of Silas Footly. Ser Amos Florent, another of the lackeys, came running like a rabid dog, only to meet the head of Robert's hammer. Robert also took down several Groves and Costaynes on the field. They had come within striking distance of the castle, covering the distance that was abandoned by them previously. However, the retreat had given Whent time to recuperate and allowed the Tarly Lord to prepare more effectively, ambushing and bogging down several men.

Therefore, the objective:

Kill Randyll Tarly.

"We found Randyll Tarly, Your Grace!" Hoster Tully arrived at his side, "Lord Jon Arryn has withdrawn from the flank, and his men are in position in the isolated creek. Should Tarly take the bait, we will have his hide."

Perfect.

RANDYLL POV

Jon Arryn. Randyll could not believe his luck. The man had been found. One of the great commanders of the Rebellion.

And likely the most important.

"Lord Footly, you're in command. We'll hunt down this one. Lend me a hundred men, will you." He smirked, looking at the widened eyes of Jon Arryn as the man and his little guard retreated, supposedly in fear.

"But Lord Tarly, it could be a trap." Lord Forrest of House Footly protested. The older man had been a fighter in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and was no doubt jealous of his success. He was also a sycophant of Mace Tyrell.

No doubt he was lying, to get the glory, Randyll thought, as he took a net, and mounted his horse. He spurred it after the fleeing Arryn, his men after him. He could feel the old man's exhausted horse slowing down, and he inwardly smirked.

No more glory for Mace Tyrell. I finally get the credit I deserve. 

Then--- 

WHAM.

CRACK.

The last thing he felt was an unbearable pain in his skull, as he felt himself flying through the air, and saw... stars?

ROBERT POV

He nonchalantly swung his hammer. It was a light tap according to him--- but to one like Randyll Tarly? The man's brains came out of his skull, and the head itself was reduced to a fine mix of white bones and crimson ichor, as the hammer made contact with his skull. The horse, a panicked beast, neighed and made off into the wilderness, as the only commander who had, or would ever, give Robert a challenge, flew several feet in the air before the now-crushed man's body was dashed against a tree trunk, the remnants of his skull straight-up sliding off his body from the force of the blow.

Even the seasoned commander, Hoster Tully, looked green as he saw the absolute devastation above Randyll Tarly's neck.

"By the Seven! You have a dangerous hand, Your Grace." The Lord of Riverrun spoke, his voice shaky, "We're lucky that you're on our side."

Robert smirked, as he rode further down the clearing, laying waste to the men. Forrest Footly, Alester Florent and Samwell Whent looked absolutely horrified, before nets looped around them, binding them securely. Any remaining leadership was cleared up.

"They'll do good for ransom." Robert replied nonchalantly. "Tarly was too dangerous to be left alive, but other than that we can barter them off. Estimate their worth and open communication channels with their family members. And I'm going to fight it out, Lord Tully--- you'd better ensure that you have the post-capture measures ready for Harrenhal."

In later days, Harrenhal would be remembered as the one battle where Robert Baratheon met actual resistance in the Rebellion. 

NED POV

Bloodshed was not the first, or even the last thing one expected after having bread and salt.

But here they were.

Ned hastily climbed over another table, shielding himself from a flurry of knives and arrows lobbed at him. Blood spattered the cold stone floors of the hall, and corpses were piled high. Ned climbed over the bodies of dead Northerners as he tried to make sense of the situation.

Four hours ago, The Twins

They had arrived at the Twins. The massive host of the North, thirty thousand strong, had arrived, to cross the bridge and get passage to the South via the Riverlands.

Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, refused. 

"Oh no no no, I refuse. Staunchly so. I am not getting entangled in a war that does not have anything to do with me. There is no way I will risk bringing the Seven Kingdoms down on my poor sons and daughters and grandchildren by taking sides in this ridiculous, meaningless bloodshed."

"But you are honor-bound to," Ned looked scandalized. "You are a Riverlord, you are meant to follow your Lord-Paramount. Such is the nature of your Oath. Hoster Tully swore for our cause."

"Yet your cause involves rebelling against the Crown you swore yourselves to," Walder Frey smiled nastily. "Yet--- here we are. On the run from the Crown, with the intention to usurp. Is that not also a breach of honor and of law and of oaths? Fight your own wars. I will not involve you or myself in any wars."

"The King broke his oath first! He burnt my father and brother alive, and asked for my head and the head of..." Ned felt a pang in his chest as he tried to describe Robert. A brother. A friend. No longer, he warned himself sternly, he is a curse. A whoremonger, a horrible man. "a fellow Lord-Paramount. Does that not reek of treachery of our oaths and laws? It is a breach of our implicit consent to fealty." Ned appealed. "There is no just cause for which my family was executed, none for which my sister was abducted. Do you truly sink so low as to continue supporting such a regime?"

Walder Frey looked pensive. It seemed like he was deep in thought.

"Very well." He spoke, "Then let me invite you inside. Make yourselves at home and enjoy a feast while I consider your opinion."

Ned accepted it: it seemed like a reasonable offer. 

Present

How wrong had he been. 

He had not expected a breach of guest right, however: it was a sacrilege, and those who committed a violation of guest right were usually cursed. But Lord Frey had done it anyway. The Lords had started eating later, so they had not been eating like the knights and soldiers, and gotten affected by the poison in the food.

At first one man choked.

Then two.

Then many of their men began to choke. Some trembled. Some coughed out blood. Some's eyes rolled back in their head. Some lost their balance and fell over, inert. 

Then came the violent effects of the poison. Some of their men convulsed, writhing like men possessed. Some let our loud, agonized cries and choking gasps. Some clawed their throats out trying to gain air.

The Lords and the more important members of the Northern host, had risen to their feet, horrified, only for some of the Frey men to lean over and stab them. One Lord fell, grasping his stomach: a Lord of a vassal, but still a Lord.

And then it devolved into chaos. Fighting. Ned drew Ice, and cut down several Frey men with it. One almost got Rickard Karstark, only for Ned to run his sword through the man before the latter could do the same to his loyal vassal.

And now.

Ned ran through the halls which had devolved into a slaughterhouse. He swung Ice, and the greatsword cleaved through the Frey men, even though it was unwieldy and cumbersome it worked against the disorganized, ill-trained, leery Frey men.

"Why did you do it?" He asked, furious as he stepped up, grabbing Walder Frey by the neck from his seat and shoving him into a wall. "To break Guest Right is to be cursed by the Gods, Old and New. How could you destroy something so sacred?"

"It was--- it was Leyton Hightower and the Targaryens!" The old man choked, even as the air seemed to be squeezed out of his lungs, his eyes widened in fear, not expecting anybody to reach him up there as he watched the carnage. "They--- they sent me--- sent me evidence, that Jon Arryn was planning to renege on our pact with Hoster Tully and marry his daughter Lysa himself! I was promised security, Lord-Paramount status and a marriage to a Hightower daughter!" He confessed, "You all--- you never honor us because our House is new blood! You look down upon us, and you expect us to come running to your call like dogs!" His eyes were wide, flashing in deranged hatred, his previous fear forgotten. "We reject you! House Frey rejects your sins, rejects your discrimination!"

Ned had heard enough: he raised Ice, the sword carving through the ancient Frey's ribs. The man's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth drawing blood.

"The North rejects your life." Ned coldly replied to the corpse that collapsed on the floor, rubbing Ice against a dead Northerner's clothes.

He would not suffer the stench of a disgusting Oath-Breaker on his familial Sword.

"Get out, move!" He told the Lords and soldiers who had not fallen to the bloody feast, "Cross the bloody bridge!"

Accompanied by Rickard Karstark and Greatjon Umber, he began to fight his way out, sheathing Ice and taking a much more practical sword from his friend Howland Reed, who helpfully passed it to him. 

"Thank you, Howland."

As Ned ran to the doors, he saw Roose Bolton standing at the doorway with his men, relieved.

"Good that you're here, Roose..." Ned smiled politely even in this moment of urgency, "I am briefing you on the plan. We will clear a path and make off the Crossing with our remaining men."

"Very well, Lord Stark. You will make a crossing..." The Lord of the Dreadfort laid his hand on his wrist, carefully holding him in place, "To the afterlife. The Targaryens send their regards."

As Ned's eyes widened in horror, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. His vision blurred and he sank to the ground. The figure of Lord Bolton grew hazy, as he saw a distinct, familiar but not immediately recognizable figure (due to his vision) fling himself at Bolton, before he saw a sea of blood spattered in his eyes. He saw red, then black.

THIRD PERSON POV

The Red Crossing, as the event was named, would be one of the bloodiest crimes committed in the war, and by far the most heinous.

With the abrupt poisoning and the treachery of House Frey and Bolton, the Northerners were whittled down to a mere ten thousand men, a third of their previous forces, after the Red Crossing. Also named the Bolton Betrayal and the Battle of the Crossing, several thousand Bolton and Frey men struck the weakened Northerners after poisoning several of their best men. The deaths of the entire Frey and Bolton male lines was inevitable, and the Frey females would be carted off to meet their fate (which would be determined post-war). 

With the Twins in Northern control, two hosts of five thousand men each, under Rickard Karstark and Greatjon Umber, crossed the Twins, in an event known as the Red Crossing, and marched towards Harrenhal. A force led by Wyman Manderly stayed in the Twins with a recovering Ned Stark, who had been stabbed grievously in the stomach. 

The greatest martyr of the Red Crossing was Howland Reed. The man would be spoken of in legends for the sacrifice, which allowed the rebels to kill Roose Bolton.

Overall, the Red Crossing was yet another strike against Targaryen rule. And yet one more nail in the coffin as the dusk of the Targaryen era began to approach.

[A/N:

1. The fall of Harrenhal and the death of Randyll Tarly was meant to be in-character. The constant incompetence of Mace Tyrell and his taking credit for Tarly's achievements made Randyll Tarly unwilling to listen to any "pro-Mace" commander. His inability to see past his House led to his death. Sorry Randyll stans, he was a great commander but he was a shit person and worse father, so I can see him dying in an overconfident, short-sighted way (uncredited geniuses are often short-sighted levels of bitter against people that slight them, and often overconfident... well).
2. Yes, the Red Crossing. You would say, "The Red Wedding?! This early?" No, not the RED WEDDING, the Red Crossing. Think Northerners crossing in a sea of blood across the Twins as the rivers run red, and blood soaks the place from the walls of the castle to the rich, soft grass beneath. That was why it was named the RED CROSSING.
3. Screw the Freys and Boltons. I can see them pulling this. As for Walder Frey's actions, yes he is a coward. He is also a sadistic ass that took pleasure in watching the canon Red Wedding, so I can see him doing this. Also, in this one Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, as was revealed, DID screw over Walder by promising Lysa elsewhere behind his back. So while he does have a justifiable excuse... guest right is not the way to do it. So yes, this is, I confirm, in-character. Screwed over, bitter about it, decided to take revenge, was a dour ass and a terrible POS, and a coward the moment Ned turned him into a kebab with Ice. The Boltons... we will learn about THAT, probably.
4. Of course Leyton Hightower is pulling some strings! I mean, the man is from one of the most important and influential Houses after House Targaryen, which actually makes you wonder WHAT House Hightower was doing all along. No Hightower turning into a nuke storyline, sorry. Does Hightower's influence in the Red Wedding allow House Lannister to stay completely stainless? We will see. Tywin will no doubt learn of it soon.]

Chapter Text

KEVAN POV

Casterly Rock, 282 AC, third moon

Ten days after the Red Crossing

"What is it, brother, that troubles you so?" Kevan decided to ask his brother, who was staring at the letter in his hand, his face darker than thunder in the Stormlands.

His brother did not reply. Instead, the offending letter in question was shoved into his hand.

To

Lord-Paramount Tywin Lannister

Casterly Rock

The Kingdom of the Westerlands

It is by the command of the King that you are asked to bring your armies to bear in Harrenhal to defend the Realm against the new Usurper, Robert Baratheon. If you do not comply, Ser Jaime Lannister will be sent to the frontlines instead. Alone.

Sincerely,

King Aerys Targaryen

Second of His Name

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men

Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

Kevan's face matched Tywin's: "He cannot be serious."

"Oh, but he is. He does not perceive anything beyond treachery these days, after all."  Tywin's voice was dark and dangerous, as he turned his back to Kevan. "I cannot let such a slight stand. But we will bide our time. We will comply to his command but we will make it known that we do not approve of all he has done to House Lannister. But we will bide our time."

Another raven came to them: Tywin picked it up, and tore the letter from its grip, uncaringly throwing the raven, now quite wounded by Tywin's rough grip--- out of the window. Kevan winced. 

Tywin's actions were cruel... but necessary, and in his necessity he has lost sight of all kindness.

Then Tywin's jaw tightened, his face whitened.

"The loyalists have lost." Was all he said.

On the parchment was painted a bloody tale. Of the heinous violation of guest right. Of the condemnation of House Hightower, cursed by the Old Gods and the New, and the river of blood on which the Northerners, with a mere third of their men alive, crossed the Twins.

And he knew. If Tywin went to war he would fight for a lost cause. 

The regime of House Targaryen would fall, sooner than later.

ROBERT POV

"There will be no mercy for the Dragonspawn. On the name of the Warrior and the Storm God and the ancient blood of Durran Godsgrief and Orys Baratheon, I swear this. I will take the mantle, and I will sit on the Iron Throne as the first King of the Iron Throne that is not a member of House Targaryen. Our House has oft been scorned by House Targaryen, and the humiliation they have given me this time will be the last time. What they sow, so shall they reap, in the name of the Maiden. I will bring the Stranger to Rhaegar Targaryen and Aerys Targaryen, this I swear."

Robert rose from the altar, rejuvenated as he picked up his Warhammer. His most trustworthy companion, and one that would not betray him in any circumstances.

Unlike Ned had, unlike Lyanna had. 

He named it Ragnarok, the bringer of doom for House Targaryen and the new order under House Baratheon.

Ragnarok was, in fact, the ancestral, unnamed Warhammer of the House Durradon. Those descended as the Storm Kings, all demigods gifted by the Storm God, had wielded this hammer for years, bringing down champions of their eternal enemy, the Drowned God. House Baratheon might exist today, but all knew it was merely House Durradon with a different name. 

The Durradons had been called demigods. Argilac the Arrogant may have been the last King of the Storm, but at sixty years old he was over six feet tall, and had used the Warhammer he named Ragnarok in the legendary duel called the Last Storm. If it had not been for his age the lapdog of Aegon the Conqueror would have been exterminated long before. The Warhammer itself was crafted out of a different core and could be wielded only by the worthy.

Swing it like a sword? 

Oh no, they would kill themselves doing so.

Which was why Robert was aware of his specialty. He had Durradon features, had the height and build of a demigod, wielded the legendary Warhammer which was supposed to have shattered Valyrian Steel, and descended from a line of greats with a new purpose in mind, and an opportunity to take the Crown.

"Well... it appears that you came to the conclusion by yourself. I was hoping to avoid explanations."

Robert spun around, there was no one in sight. "Who was it?"

"Oh, but it is I, the Storm God. Your patron deity and the bringer of the fury."

"The Storm God?" Robert spoke angrily to the disembodied voice. "Am I supposed to believe in this drivel? Yes, I am special--- but that special? Really...?"

"Yes, yes," The voice spoke impatiently, "You are crucial to the survival of Mankind. You are Robert Baratheon, First of His Name. And your survival is crucial to the survival of Mankind. If you die, everything goes awry. Now, I will be gone. You will seize the Iron Throne and restore peace and prosperity to Westeros. Then you will unite Mankind under your banner and crush all your enemies. We will speak later."

"You cannot just leave---!"

"As I said, later. I believe that there are other Gods who must speak to you. The Warrior being a case in point: I will not speak unless they are here. You will be informed. But have patience."

The voice seemed to get fainter as it spoke. As it spoke the last word, there was nothing but a faint whisper on the wind. 

Robert roared in frustration. There was nothing charming or beautiful there: it was a primal, animal roar of unanswered questions.

ASHARA POV

Harrenhal, 282 AC, third moon

One week after the Vision

His dark hair tumbled down his collarbone in well-combed ringlets, barred from falling into his face by the golden crown he wore, and with it he wore a simple black robe, seemingly too ordinary save for the ornate gold carving of the stag on the chest of the robe, and his eyes shone like a storm as he spoke, like the very aura of the Stormlands he was once the Lord of, every word exuding complete confidence in himself and his audience, every word seemingly a plea but acting as a command, for none could resist the appealing words, the beautiful, rough, husky voice of the new King who had proclaimed himself, his every word compelling the people to listen and act, to take every word at heart, to kneel in their hearts and minds, and even physically.

Ashara had no idea what to say about... this vision.

She had been sent, clad in the disguise of a common maid, to a gathering of many, of nobles and smallfolk, at a small village a short distance from Harrenhal, in the border between the Riverlands and the Reach. She had ridden, chaining her horse outside the village, as she strode in, her trademark hair and eyes shielded by a thick veil, walking with as little grace as she could muster to impersonate the smallfolk.

Princess Elia, her dearest companion and her employer, had sent her to--- in lack of a better term, gather information on the new self-proclaimed King.

Targaryen loyalists called him the Usurper. Rebels called him the Rebellious, the Rogue, the Vengeful, the Salvation, the Deliverance. The last ones had been a source of mystery, even to those at the Red Keep. How was it that this man could earn greater popularity than even the Crown Prince?

Now, Ashara had never been fond of the Crown Prince. He was delusional, one obsessed with greatness, a narcissist who had bought into the myth of himself, and fed his own ego which was the size of Balerion the Black Dread. But she could not deny that he was beautiful, he was charming, and he was well-mannered in the public eye--- and people in general loved him: they would long to see him and cheer for him, and women would swoon over him and men would egg him on.

Which obviously left those at the Red Keep in a mystery as to why this man, a supposedly obscure Lord of the Stormlands, was suddenly more popular than the Crown Prince.

Then the Master of Whispers, Varys, returned with news.

This man was being called a god in human skin. The smallfolk were not merely pleasant to him as opposed to the indifference or even hatred directed at the usual noble, they actively fought for him. They hid him in their homes, fed and sheltered him and his shoulders, sent their sons and brothers to war for him, and laid down their lives if loyalists raided his place of residence. That was how well they loved him.

Princess Elia had been subjected to great suffering at the Red Keep. She had been actively mocked by other women and by various nobles who attended about her frailty and marital status, which had increased tenfold when Rhaegar shunned her for others. The King, her father-in-law, had her flogged more than once for his amusement: to see, apparently, whether she had any hint of a reaction in her. Elia accepted all those, and her own husband's subtle abuse, demurely, as expected of her in society.

As unfair as the society was.

But one thing Princess Elia did not lose was her curiosity. She was excellent at sniffing out new things and would scramble to gather information, and to be honest it was one of the few things that kept her hanging on to life despite the disappointments it had provided her. As her closest companion, it fell to Ashara to gather the information for her dear Princess and great friends.

And looking upon the Baratheon, Ashara felt a shiver down her spine as she realized the challenger to the Throne was an even more charismatic man than she had assumed he was. Oh Gods, what a man! She barely kept herself from gasping out aloud. She could feel herself getting warmer and warmer, every word of his resonating in her ears. Between him and a delusional effeminate Crown Prince and his mad, old, frail father, logically all those of sound mind or unbound by self-interest would choose Robert Baratheon.

After the sermon was over, she quickly withdrew, walking to the outskirts of the small village and mounting her horse.

Oh, Elia, you will love the news.

ELIA POV

The Red Keep, King's Landing, 282 AC, third moon (last day of the third moon)

Two days after Ashara's visit

She almost gasped in joy when she saw that her dearest companion throw off her veil, shaking out her long black hair. She pulled her friend into a hug, holding the Lady Dayne close, whispering words of relief into her ear, the Princess' hands tangled in the other woman's hair. After this intimate gesture, they pulled apart, before Elia sat her friend on the bed.

"So... what have you gathered?" Elia asked with a smile. "Is it a rumor, an exaggeration, a fluke--- or something more?"

She expected some amount of gushing, Ashara was a romantic. But Ashara was also rather cynical about people after being in King's Landing... so the reverent, glassy look in her violet eyes was not expected. 

"By the Seven and by Mother Rhoyne... he is greater than I expected." Ashara's voice was a soft gasp as she barely spat out the words with difficulty, her eyes still glossed over. It was almost like... she was purring?

Elia's jaw dropped. Why in the Seven Hells was Ashara acting like this?!

"He is, a demigod... closer to Gods than men," Ashara almost licked her lips. "I would stare into his eyes all day. I would tangle my hands in his hair, I would feel him atop me, I would do anything he asked. I would give anything to have him speak to me. By the Gods..."

"Who are you and what have you done with the real Ashara?!" Elia looked dumbfounded.

"Muscled like a maiden's fantasy..." Ashara purred, completely out of touch with the outside world now.

Alright. Ashara was officially driven to madness. Was Robert a beautiful devil that drove people mad with lust when they laid eyes upon him? Was that his secret? Elia thought. 

But he sounded good, and just, from the news that had come, as little as it was, to King's Landing.

Which meant that she had to count on him as a potential option. 

She had to get out of King's Landing. And perhaps this Rebellion would be where it provided opportunity. Starting with Robert Baratheon.

[A/N:

1. Tywin's dilemma will be solved, quite soon in fact. We will see what he does. On one side it is ironic he has not broken guest right this time, and is condemning it and realizes the political implications, but he is not 69 years old and a senile, petty man right now, but in his prime as TY-WIN Lannister the Mannister. So yes, he realizes the long-term consequences. So he is stuck between potentially losing his "perfect Heir" and backing a "lost cause." What will he do?
2. Robert definitely had voices in his head. So what is the Storm God? Why is it in Robert's mind/around Robert? WHY is Robert so special? That is, according to the Troll God, a tale for another day. Because with two appearances as of date, Storm God is definitely a troll just like Dumbledore/Yoda. He does NOT elaborate. He is going to vanish and get destroyed, but still not elaborate (or maybe he will? Keep hope).
3. Ashara is horny for Robert. It is hilarious, yes, as is Elia's reaction (or at least--- as hilarious as I can hope it to be). But keep this in mind because this WILL serve a purpose. Everything always serves a purpose.]

Chapter Text

THE MANNIS POV

Storm's End, 282 AC, fourth moon

Two weeks after the Red Crossing

He held.

Against all odds, he held.

Every wall of the castle, every single window, he arranged to be as defensible as possible. Every weak point secured, every bridge raised, every moat filled with water. Every single preparation had been done.

Grinding his teeth, he held.

Steadfastly, loyally, he held.

Stannis heard the roars of the thunder and the pattering of the rain with the howling wind, and the distant sounds of heavy stones crashing into the castle walls. Sometimes entire rooms would shake in the impact, sometimes the castle itself when enough stones collided with it at the same time. 

He could hear the people in the walls, of barked commands and agonized cries. Some would be killed, and he could see bodies of archers and other defenders lying before open windows, arrows and other projectiles in their chests and throats, pools of blood. Sometimes they decorated the window, and it was clear that they had fallen from them. The same was happening in the ramparts of the castle, where he could see people running with more projectile ammunition, or else whatever they could find, from rocks to the tricks of the Pyromancers. Fires would be ignited at parts of the castle, either unwanted ones from the impact of the weapons, or fires that people lit with the intent to keep warm from the horrible wind and cold.

There was no escape. For twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, these people continued their Siege.

Occasionally the castle shook, like right now. Stannis felt the ground rise under him, and jumped away rapidly just in case. The loyalists were using battering rams that crashed into the castle, coupled with their stone-throwing catapults and projectiles. 

From the lower levels of the castle the wails of babies could be heard. After all, Stannis had a duty to his people, and that duty meant that those who sought refuge from the pillage and plundering of the Reach, whose villages and towns were raided, could seek refuge in Storm's End. People had flocked there, men, women, and children, thousands of them. Storm's End, steadfast and spacious as it was, held them all. They loved him for it, but he replied with what he oft said: it was his duty as their acting Lord-Paramount.

And the smallfolk had done their duties as well. The able-bodied men took up weapons and helped in the defense of the castle. Some went into the occasional charges outside of the castle, knowing that they would never return, harassing the enemies and whittling down their strength as much as humanly possible. Sacrificing their lives for the cause. The older men or the men who were skilled took up their trades here, helping the warhorses by feeding and breeding them, forging weapons for the war effort, helping in the castle defense from simple tasks like carrying arms and supplies, and helping organize and stockpile food. The women cleaned up the debris and put out the fires and cooked the meals to feed them all, because after all feeding everyone was a task that was a difficult task.

Stannis was satisfied with this. This meant more to him than the compliments of the smallfolk, because they were doing their duty. 

Food stockpiles were fast dwindling, however. Within two months of siege the storages would be gone. After all, the Rebellion was not an expected event, so they had not stocked up on food before the siege began, and most food tended to rot a lot anyway, especially in a climate such as this, where half the walls and floors were wet. The cost of feeding thousands was great. 

"Maester Cressen," he nodded, as he saw the aged man coming towards him at full tilt.

"My Lord, there is a raven from Harrenhal. It is of urgent importance that you read it."

"Harrenhal?" Stannis' interest was piqued, "Finally--- I hope some good news..."

He tore open the seal, and saw the unruly handwriting of his older brother.

To 

Stannis

Storm's End

Brother,

Harrenhal is ours. We write from a position of great victory. Twenty thousand Reachers are either dead or prisoners. Several Lords and their families are awaiting freedom by ransom. Randyll Tarly lies buried beneath six feet of charred, barren soil and horse-dung. Do not lose hope, Brother. We are coming. Soon Mace Tyrell will join his fellow Lord six feet under. 

Regards,

Robert

Short, curt, straight to the point. No beating around the bush, that was certainly like him. Stannis hated people who beat around the bush like idiotic, sycophantic numbskulls. Then he was horrified at the thought of sharing something in common with his brother whom he was supposed to be furious at.

But he could not be furious at his brother. Because Robert was coming. He was not there during the shipwreck yes, but now he was coming. He was not going to leave them again.

A certain someone ran out, Measter Cressen at his heels in hot pursuit.

"Renly, stop!" shouted the aged Maester, as he ran after him. 

Renly barreled into Stannis, knocking the wind out of him, leaving him sprawling in an undignified manner on the ground.

"Is he coming?" Renly asked with shining, hopeful eyes. "What did he say? What did he say?"

"Forgive me, my Lord..." The old man looked apologetic, "He heard there was a message from Lord Robert and came running. He's too excited."

"No, it's alright." Stannis lifted himself to his feet, in a good mood for once, as he knelt down beside Renly, "Yes, Renly. He's coming. He's coming to save us."

"YAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

"Ow, you're going to make me deaf," Stannis winced, rubbing his ears and the proximity and volume of Renly's yell.

JAIME POV

King's Landing, the Red Keep, 282 AC, fourth moon

"HE WHAT?!" roared the King, as the Master of Whispers broke the news.

"They are amassing troops outside King's Landing, Your Grace." Varys simpered. 

The reactions of the Council were different: Pycelle, the old Grand Maester, looked like usual. The Master of Ships, Monford Velaryon, raised his eyebrows. Some looked rather terrified, like Lord Qarlton Chested, the Master of Coin, and Lord Symond Staulton, the Master of Laws. Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, showed no reaction, but Jaime could see the fear in his eyes.

"How dare he!" The Mad King shouted, "Burn him! Burn them! BURN THEM ALL! Out, all of you, out!"

Jaime did not leave with the rest of the Council. He had tried, but the Mad King would not let him out of his sight, convinced that the traitor Tywin (in his words) was planning something. The last time he had tried the King had almost had him burnt alive--- not exactly the best way to be...

As the Small Council filed out, the King raised his voice: "And summon the blasted Rossart!"

The King seemed to have forgotten about his presence, and was stroking one of the dragon skulls in his room lovingly, as he seemed to be rambling to himself.

"We are the blood of the dragon... They think they can defeat us? They will see... I will rise... reborn... stronger... stronger than a dragon... rebirth... renewal... the rise of House Targaryen... greater than ever. Traitors... traitors everywhere! Treacherous Tywin... that Tywin planned it all along... he stole from me Joanna, he stole from me everything else, he stole from me my Throne in all but name! He will pay... they will pay... they will pay... I will burn them... I will burn them all! They will see... fire and blood... fire and blood... fire and blood!"

His mutterings and comments about Joanna made his blood boil, but he held his tongue, letting the King ramble, to make sure the latter was not aware of his presence. A few moments later, Lord Rossart entered, the Chief Pyromancer and Alchemist, but he was such a common presence that the man did not bat an eye at his conspicuous presence there (conspicuous for someone who was not insane, that is). It also helped that there was a dragon skull right behind him, which again did not have the King's attention.

Well--- Rossart was insane, but he was the smarter kind of insane, unlike the delusional King.

"Your Grace..." simpered the Pyromancer in his raspy voice, "What am I summoned for? You wish is my command."

"The time has come. I will be reborn as a dragon from the ashes. Burn them all. The wildfire under the city... set it all off."

Wait, what?! Jaime's mind ground to a halt, Was he insane? Half a million people including them all. The dawning horror on Jaime's face was not concealed, and it appeared that the King had finally noticed him, because he let out another leery grin.

"Don't balk at it all, cub. It's for the glory of House Targaryen, and the death of all traitors. I've seen it in the flames, I'll rise and be reborn as a dragon, and House Targaryen will rise as never before!" The King cackled like a lunatic (which he was), and traced his fingers around the knight's jaw.

I have to stop this. Somehow, I have to stop this. He thought, the voice making his skin crawl. He flinched at the old man's touch. The nerve.

But how?

Then he noticed an interesting detail: there was just the three of them.

This was the only way it could be done, but it would mean going back on his vows.

As the King continued his mad monologue, he debated his mind:

What vows? What do you still serve? A rapist and a murderer and a tyrant and an abuser. Is that what your vows are for? You were meant to protect the honor of women, yet you were forced to watch as the Queen was abused like an animal and the Princess was scorned and flogged. You were meant to bring justice to the children and the innocent, yet you watched them being burnt alive. Is that justice? If that is your vow, then you have taken either a lie or a vow of evil!

Follow the light. This is your last opportunity. Do it.

"And House Tar--- ACK!" The King looked down at the sword embedded in his stomach, before his face morphed into furious hatred, spittle flying from his mouth, his eyes blazing. "Traitor! Kingslayer! Vile Lion Cub, just like his father---"

He could no longer speak, as Jaime stabbed him again and again, picking up the frail body and throwing it at the foot of the Throne. The old man, for his credit, did the one good thing in his life: he died, choking and gurgling on his blood--- his eyes blazing in hatred to the very last, trying to hurl obscenities he could not because his throat had been skewered from top to bottom.

The Pyromancer, shocked and terrified by the sudden death, turned to flee, but Jaime's aim was true and the sword, thrown at the man, quickly impaled the man, killing him on the spot.

Shocked by the commotion, Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry, the only two members of the Kingsguard in King's Landing, rushed in, followed by the Small Council.

Lewyn Martell had only a moment to process before he shouted: "KINGSLAYER! TRAITOR! OATHBREAKER!" and lunged at him, Darry following him.

While the three locked blades, Darry and Martell combined were no match for Jaime, and he moved with such speed and skill, moving so fast that he was a blur, cutting Darry in half and causing Martell's head to roll off his shoulders in a devastating duel (one would debate whether to call it a duel because it was an execution).

With them thrown from the stairs of the Iron Throne, clearly dead, Jaime ascended the steps and took the coveted seat of power.

The Small Council members looked horrified. Varys in particular.

"Open the gates of King's Landing and welcome the rebels," Jaime commanded, to no one in particular: the rush of adrenaline had not yet worn off.

"How dare you? You killed our King and broke your oath, and now you usurp his Throne---" Jon Connington step forward, furious, but was interrupted.

"OPEN THE FUCKING GATES BEFORE I MAKE YOUR CORPSE HANG OVER THEM!" Jaime roared. "And bring me all the Pyromancers now, before I send you to join the King you so love!"

The Lords looked ready to argue, but they realize that none of it would work since none of them would stand a chance against the Lannister. Most people would be relieved after the death of the King and would have no problems with Jaime's Decisions, especially because the Pyromancers had overstepped boundaries a lot during their time in power.

That was called, later, the Hour of the Lion: after the brutal execution of the Chief Pyromancer, the King and some of his Kingsguard, several Pyromancers were judged, every one privately interrogated. A few who were innocent of the wildfire plot were let go, the rest of the Guild executed. Other men who were executed was the Hand of the King, Jon Connington, though for what reasons none would know, and the Master of Whispers, Varys. The rest of the Small Council was dismissed on the spot, except Grand Maester Pycelle, and told to leave the city immediately to prevent execution. The gates were opened and a missive was sent to Robert Baratheon. 

Jaime Lannister would later be found brooding on the Iron Throne, very bored with life.

[A/N:

1. A Mannis POV is crucial to the development of a healthy society. As we see, The Mannis is one of the few people who would help the commoners because it is his duty. He would also like being helped in the Siege rather than endless compliments. The Mannis might have grudges... but he is, he was, and he will be Robert's goodest boi as long as Robert is alive. I do intend more Stannis Siege POVs in later chapters.
2. The Mannis' stockpiles are running out as well: sure, Storm's End is a massive place, but nobody really expected all this to happen, did they? Plus feeding thousands. Plus from all the damp floors and no fridges, I expect a lot of food to rot. 
3. Jaime found out about the wildfire plot early because they are attacking King's Landing directly from Harrenhal, and then marching into the Stormlands. Instead of sacking the capital later they are doing it much earlier. So with rebel forces in the capital obviously Aerys acts sooner. Yes, Aerys is a mad, old, disgusting slob. Ded. Bye. I hope Tywin comes and pisses on your ashes and your grave later in Frank Underwood style (though technically he is more likely to do it to Tytos)-- - because Aerys and the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion are the only places I unironically rooted for Tywin (because he was in the right in those two, unlike the canon Sack and the Red Wedding and everything that happened with Tyrion). MAYBE you could make an argument for Tyrion being taken prisoner, because Cat acted like an idiot there and Tywin did what anyone would technically do in Westeros.
4. The Hour of the Lion IS inspired by the Hour of the Wolf, in case anyone asks. Jaime is able to take control because of the Lannister men like Pycelle in King's Landing and for the fact that everyone hated Aerys.  And adrenaline, along with the fact that Jaime looks like mini-Sanguinius should work on the average person. The adrenaline wears off, and Jaime is, well, BORED.
5. As for why Jaime executed Varys and Con Jon, we will see his reasons. The fight between the three Kingsguard, I regret I could not embiggen it. I sort of wanted to save the literary vocabulary for the Tower of Joy.]

Chapter Text

ROBERT POV

King's Landing, The Red Keep, 282 AC, fourth moon

Same day as the Hour of the Lion

Love was the death of duty.

Robert stood silently by the Iron Throne as he watched Jaime Lannister's arrest. Truth be told he had done the Realm a favor... but customs had to be upheld and Kingslayers had to be shackled. The Rebellion was nowhere near an end. Control of King's Landing hardly meant complete control over the Realm. This just meant that the Throne had passed to him, and right now they were in full control of everything north of the Red Fork plus Harrenhal and King's Landing. The Royal Fleet was... interesting, consisting of Northerners, Stormlanders and Valemen composed of large portions of the fighting force, so dozens of ships had surrendered. Those who did not were quickly defeated, and more than two hundred ships lived to join the Baratheon armada, bolstered by the Manderlys and Mallisters they reached further prominence, and became as well-equipped as the original royal armada. They asserted control over Blackwater Bay and now set sail for Storm's End to lay waste to the Redwyne Fleet.

If Storm's End was shattered, the Reachers would lose whatever prominence they had. They would be reduced to a mere fifth of their army, and likely bend the knee. That left the Dornish, who he was sure could quickly urge to bend the knee, especially with Princess Elia, Lady Ashara, and the former Royal children as hostages. He did not want to harm the innocent, and he hoped he did not have to.

But duty was what he had to uphold (as both Jon and Stannis would remind him on occasion), and it was his duty to set aside what he had enjoyed. As much as possible. And take up the governance of the Realm.

The moment he had stabilized things he would march to the Stormlands to relieve Stannis, and end the Rebellion in a short three moons. That was, to be honest, refreshing, he hoped.

Well... not really three moons, considering two had already passed. There would continue to be pockets where rebellion remained: Dragonstone was one such. Luckily, while the passage had been cleared by Targaryen loyalists the Queen and the youngest Prince had been yet to be transported, which allowed him to keep them close at hand, just in case anyone tried anything. 

It was then that he received a raven. 

He opened it, curiously.

To

Casterly Rock

The Kingdom of the Westerlands

The plan has failed. The Northerners have crossed the Twins and are heading south. Ned Stark is incapacitated and Howland Reed is dead, but otherwise only two-thirds of their thirty thousand are dead. Lord Frey and Lord Bolton have failed.

The Bird of the Twins

No. It could not be. Ned could not have... what have they done with Ned? A cold panic seized Robert. Robert would not deny that despite his attempts to cut Ned out of his mind, his once-brother-in-all-but-blood had lingered in his mind, and Robert had longed for the day they would at least fight. 

What has he done?! snarled Robert. How dare he... Robert thought furiously of the Old Lion.

"Lord Tully," he spoke, his voice cold, "Have Tywin Lannister and any Lannister in or near the city brought back in chains. Also raid Casterly Rock. He has a son, Tyrion, and two brothers there. I want them all, alive."

"What have they done---" The Tully asked, before looking at the letter, and nodding, his face livid: "Yes, of course, of course."

LEYTON POV

The Hightower, Oldtown, 282 AC, fourth moon

Leyton smirked at his handiwork. In a few hours, the results of his work would bear fruit.

The message, cleverly drafted to Reach Robert Baratheon, would give him the idea that Tywin Lannister was the one who had orchestrated the violation of guest right and the Bolton Betrayal and the Red Crossing. One rash decision, and twenty thousand remaining Reachers granted to ensure that the Northern commanders who knew the truth had been stalled, the ones who had crossed over when the Rebel forces were busy sacking King's Landing. This would leave forty thousand in command of Storm's End, and the Reach would be defenseless so he could quickly establish control over Highgarden while Mace Tyrell was occupied.

The Hightower men would then have both Oldtown and Highgarden, and then he contemplated what to do: use the Lady Tyrell nee Redwyne to win over the Redwynes, that was definite... but would Olenna Tyrell be a hostage, or perhaps a wife? Leyton stroked his chin, noticing the whitening stubble of his beard. I am growing old, he sighed. He had to act quickly to establish a legacy as the greatest of his House that ever lived.

With control of the Reach he would bring back what remained from the Northern campaign (and his men would win, they had twice the amount of Northerners, that he had no doubt), and starve Storm's End completely in a moon before sacking it. Invading the West would take time, so he would have a nice little scapegoat for the rebels to invest time and forces into, while he lorded over the Reach, took control of the Stormlands, and then established himself... in King's Landing, maybe? He did not know why, but King Hightower had a certain ring to it--- especially as now Dynasties had fallen left and right... so it was not exactly unviable. 

And as inevitably as always, I will succeed, Otto thought. I am the true King of the Reach, and therefore Westeros.

TYWIN POV

The Red Keep, King's Landing, 282 AC, fourth moon

"What is the meaning of this?" Tywin snarled, as he, Tyrion and Kevan were manacled by the new King's men.

The King stared at him, and for the first time Tywin felt true fear. It was a soulless, emotionless and cold stare, one that promised great terror and torment, yet showed nothing except in the eyes, which were essentially a void save the fear he felt.

"It appears that you already know. Your part in the Red Crossing."

"I am innocent!" Tywin protested, knowing that he had no part in it, who the hell had told the King that he had anything to do with it all? What was going on behind the scenes?

"Take Lord Tywin, Lord Kevan and Lord Tyrion to the Black Cells. They will be collectively tried for their part in this."

"Wait!" Tywin shouted, but his sound was drowned by the roars of the courtroom as he was dragged away with his brother and son.

Someone had framed House Lannister. And in such a turbulent time, he could see why. There was definitely an intent to cause further bloodshed and warfare, to drag Tywin in. With all rational people in his House held, there was only Tygett and Gerion of all the men who remained and counted, and they would no doubt start a war within a war, and destroy House Lannister's position.

Whoever did this, they will pay. Tywin thought resolutely, as he was led away to the cold dungeons of the Black Cells. And so will the Iron Throne for its foolish disobedience. The Baratheon Dynasty will fall just like its Targaryen counterpart.

[A/N:

1. Ironically, Tywin is innocent of the charges levelled against him for once. And Kevan and Tyrion do not deserve to suffer, and neither does Jaime, but here we are. 
2. The full depth of the Hightower plot is as follows:
3. Use the twenty thousand Reachers (forty thousand are at Storm's End and twenty thousand gone or surrendered at Harrenhal, and their total strength is eighty thousand), to intercept the Northern host, kill them, and hide the truth of the breach of guest right permanently.
4. Blame it on the Lannister, and have the rebels (Robert specifically) go to war against House Lannister, and spend their forces fighting the West.
5. Meanwhile, starve out Storm's End, and kill Stannis, and take control of the Stormlands.
6. Use the remnants of the Northern and Stormlands campaigns to depose the (supposedly) unpopular, weak Mace (basically making himself number one Reach Lord).
7. Occupy Highgarden (because the Reach is basically undefended), before the dust of the war has settled, take Olenna Tyrell (aka Redwyne) as... a hostage, probably marrying her, and basically ensuring the Redwynes' cooperation.
8. Swooping in on King's Landing, in this era of every force having depleted each other, and taking control of the Iron Throne, over a severely depleted, shattered Kingdom.

Now, there are several flaws to Leyton's plan, but some things had best remain unsaid.

3. We will see more of the Rebellion. The entire Hightower-Storm's End-Redwyne Fleet vs Royal Fleet plotline still remains, so does Barristan Selmy and Crownlands and other loyalist forces. We have not seen Dorne yet, I am unsure how Dorne will react, but I assume it could be negative (because I doubt Doran will like losing the chance to make Elia Queen). The Greyjoy to the west remain a wildcard.
4. Some people might be angered by Robert's actions--- but let us be honest. Robert is a very vengeful man when it comes to people close to him being hurt. He will not balk at killing a few Lannisters, especially a Kingslayer, a dwarf, a man known for his fear, and a guy... that does not matter in his eyes (sorry Kevan, love you)? Robert will not magically become flawless, but there will be opportunities to correct, control and curb said flaws.]

Chapter Text

ELIA POV

King's Landing, Maegor's Holdfast, 282 AC, fourth moon

Elia sat by the nursery, gently rocking Aegon to sleep as she watched Rhaenys play with her dolls, humming a lullaby. She was one of the few people in here, and it was lonely to be honest. The only other people were Ashara, the servants who would bring them food and water and tend to their needs, and the Queen and her own child, Viserys, the latter of which was a menace. Uncle Lewyn Martell would come by to visit at times, but her uncle was more concerned with the white cloak and the duties of the Kingsguard. While he had been an inspiration, by no means was he an ideal, to be honest.

For one week there had been a complete lack of news. Nothing had come or gone. The guard of the Holdfast had been tightened, and no one entered or left: it was her, Ashara, the Queen, the children, and the servants.

She then heard a sound of commotion, and Aegon began to cry loudly again, and Rhaenys immediately retreated under the bed, frightened. She desperately tried to put Aegon to sleep, the poor thing, as she then rushed to the window to see what was going on. The guards of the Holdfast were being cut down like fodder by the men who seemed to have arrived. Some of them had gotten in and lowered the bridge, and someone of importance, though less distinguishable from the distance and the darkness of the night, seemed to be riding across, followed by other people.

Armed men. Oh no no no no.

She had to run.

She scooped up Aegon with one hand, Rhaenys with the other. She quickly ran upstairs. It was not safe for them to stay in the nursery. Since there was no way out, they had to hide, preferably as high as humanly possible. 

She bumped into the Queen as she ascended the stairs. The Queen was holding Viserys, and by the look of the Queen and Ashara who joined them on the landing, they felt the same as she did.

They climbed up, passing flights and flights of stairs. She could hear the faint clashes of metal against metal as blade locked against blade, and the thundering sound of a multitude of footsteps ascending the stairs. The more they kept running, the less distanced the footsteps were, growing louder and louder.

"YOUR HIGHNESS, YOUR GRACE!" roared a voice from below, "Come down, and we will let you go intact."

There was a distinct cackle from below the stairs, and snickering. She knew at that moment, that they were not earnest.

Then there was a crack, a crash, and an animal roar, followed by the lock of blade against blade. There was the animal roar again, a demonic one, an evil one to say the least, pure darkness in that roar. Then a loud thud of something falling down the stairs could be heard. The voice that seemed to have spoken before screamed, before it cut off in a choke. Then a voice came, much more soothing yet commanding than the last:

"Princess Elia, Queen Rhaella. You and your party can come down. I don't mean to harm you." 

Something about the voice made Elia calm down. It was so... rough, yet so--- smooth. Like a dichotomy, yet perfectly so, a perfect combination. 

She saw Ashara's eyes light up, and decided to take the steps down. She was drawn to the voice, like a bee to honey, and Ashara seemed to follow her eagerly. Her dear mother-in-law, the Queen, was more reserved, but cautiously followed them as she realized there was no point hiding.

There were two figures lying crumpled at the foot of the stairs, blood pouring down their bodies, their corpses twisted. The faint moonlight made her recognize one of them, as to who it was... the Mountain, Tywin Lannister's favorite dog, the seven foot tall madman that would slaughter and rape, to the point they called him the Mountain that Rides. And the other she did not recognize, but it became clear what they had meant to do, and she suppressed a shiver as dawning horror came upon her as she realized what would have happened if this savior had not made an appearance.

As for the savior, she could sense the power and warmth radiating off him, and she could see, even from here, that he was several feet tall, at least six-and-a-half, muscled like a maiden's fantasy. He carried with him a massive Warhammer... and wore black, which meant---

Realization dawned on her. No wonder Ashara was reacting so positively! It was Robert Baratheon!

"I thank you for saving our lives, my Lord." Elia said sincerely, bowing her head, almost losing her balance because she remembered she was carrying both her children. Ashara bowed just as eagerly, though she made it most graceful considering she did not have to, literally, bear children with both her hands, and Elia felt a biting annoyance at the other woman: was she not Elia's lady-in-waiting and companion? And she just proceeded to fuck off after promising Elia that she was going to help take care of Aegon and Rhaenys today?

"What are you going to do with us?" The Queen, Rhaella Targaryen, asked, her voice apparently indifferent and her voice stiff, she was definitely much more cautious of the man's sudden presence.

"Causing harm does not suit me, especially to innocents." Robert replied, his voice a music to Elia's ears. "You will only have to renounce the claims to the Iron Throne, we have fought a war over it and still fight. I am also sorry because your son will die, my Lady. He is as mad and selfish as his father, it is only expected. In exchange I will allow Aegon and Rhaenys to be raised as Martells, and Viserys to become the Lord of Dragonstone. You women will of course guide them in these matters."

A reasonable proposition, Elia sighed in relief. He is at least not cruel. And abhors cruelty, it seems. One more reason he is better than the men I have had in my life before. I should have known. Ashara has a good sense of judgement.

The Queen voiced her thought, which was quite similar.

"It is a reasonable proposition. But I will not be manhandled in court." The Queen said sternly, "And I swear that if my children are so much as touched... I will impale you on the Iron Throne. Personally."

"I know the vengeful mother, Lady, I would be stupid to try that." Robert had an easy, youthful grin on his face, a grin which made Elia's heart race.

Two hours later

The Red Keep, King's Landing

Elia marveled as she saw Robert dressed in a full coronation outfit: he was clad in a robe of great beauty, a marvelous black and yellow, and it suited him well, especially with the sigil of his House on his shoulders. His hair was combed back, the faint stubble she had seen earlier completely shaven, making him look... actually, with the clean-shaven and his hair combed, and with a presentable outfit, the now-King Robert seemed to beat Rhaegar at his own game: the art of looking pretty. She was not the only woman in attendance who was admiring him--- men were in awe, and women were swooning and drooling as the young King, several years younger than even herself, took the Crown, and sitting on the Iron Throne. Ashara openly fell into the drooling category, and even Rhaella had a faint blush on her cheeks. It appeared that the Queen had certainly found a new fantasy that was not Ser Bonifer Hasty. She reminded herself to tease her mother-in-law about it. He certainly did not wince in pain as he took the Throne, which either meant he was worthy because the Throne did not cut him, or ungodly strong. Probably both.

"All hail King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm!" announced Jon Arryn, who had been appointed Hand of the King in the wake of his arrival at King's Landing. "Your Grace, a few words for your subjects..." he prompted.

Robert rose to his feet.

"I am not of House Targaryen. I am not of the draconic bloodline that believes itself superior to all others, the one that believed that they had a divine right to the Iron Throne. Perhaps they did. But they lost that claim when they willfully tormented this subjects. Rebellion was the only path. And I am but a boy from House Baratheon, crowned for the purpose of justice. So be it. I will be wise and just, to the best of my ability. I hereby swear to protect the Realm and ensure the best of my subjects. I swear to follow the path of justice and ensure that not a soul remains tormented, and to minimize suffering across the Seven Kingdoms. I swear to prevent all bloodshed and serve the Realm, and hold the peace and prosperity. I swear to the promise of progress and hope, to carry out the duty I was given, and to leave a stable, safe and secure Realm for generations to come. So I swear by my authority and responsibility. Let it be written in the annals of history that I would not commit the Iron Throne to myself, but myself to the Iron Throne."

Many hailed and cheered, and the Throne Room was a storm of applause. 

"And now... I call upon the Queen and the Princess of House Targaryen. I am not one who will punish the innocent, so I grant Elia Martell and her children the opportunity to be raised as Wards of the Crown, and the name of Martell, should the claim to the Iron Throne be relinquished. I make the offer for the survival of House Targaryen to Rhaella Targaryen, for the same, and grant them their ancient seat of Dragonstone. Is it acceptable to you, Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella?"

There was no hesitation when the women in question bent the knee.

LYANNA POV

The Tower of Joy, 282 AC, fourth moon

Those with the greatest and most majestic of arts have the darkest and most corruptible hearts.

Lyanna had learnt this first-hand after running.

She had taken the Prince to be a handsome, beautiful (yes, he met both criteria, she would unashamedly say), charming, innocent young man. She was moved by his songs and his performance in the joust. How romantic, how lovely, she had said then. 

How foolish and naive she was. She had agreed to run with him.

She had recoiled in horror when he revealed his plans. The prophecy his delusions seemed to think of, and her role as a broodmare. She had always hated being a broodmare. And only then did it register that he had a wife and two children he had left behind.

She had derided Robert for being a drunk, but Rhaegar was drunk on something worse: power, delusions and prophecies.

She had derided Robert for being self-centric, but here she was with a man who believed the world revolved around him.

She had derided Robert for being lustful and fathering a bastard, but now she saw a married man... she had despised being a broodmare, but she was here.

Rhaegar is no knight. He is the dragon. That should have been obvious, he has the blood of the dragon. Lyanna thought bitterly.

She lamented the fate of the others out there, and she lamented her own fate, as she sobbed bitterly, condemning herself and the bitter irony she had brought herself to.

[A/N:

1. Elia and Rhaella have gotten a good deal. Not because Robert is that kind, but because the argument has hardened him and made him more dutiful, and less emotional. He has literally frozen over. Also, the reaction of the women, good luck girls. Robert is being crowned.
2. Yes, Lyanna laments her fate. Ironic that the person she ran with basically manifested everything she hated but worse.]

Chapter Text

THE MANNIS POV

Storm's End, 282 AC, beginning of the fifth moon

Weeks had passed, and their stockpiles of food were at the lowest. Davos, his friend, had smuggled him some to feed his people, but now it was not uncommon for the people of Storm's End to catch bats and rats to eat. As a result, some would fall sick, and even the water had to be boiled and the animals in it, to prevent the outbreak of more plagues in the castle. Those who caught diseases were peacefully taken care of by the Stranger. 

He was already beginning to contemplate something new. He NEEDED something new, dammit. Robert had been winning victories left and right, and it appeared that the Lannister forces had joined the war against Robert. Apparently Jason Mallister and Wyman Manderly were on the way with the majority of the Royal Fleet to end the blockade, and there was Rickard Karstark and Greatjon Umber marching south to meet the Reachers. There was gruelling warfare everywhere, with the entire Seven Kingdoms in chaos. The Dornish were acting more cautious, but it could be said that the war was going to draw on. 

But at least there was hope. Hope that they would have the ability to defend against what was to come.

JASON POV

Storm's End, 282 AC, fifth moon

"Enemy ships spotted," the scout told Jason helpfully. The Lord of Seagard was here to liberate Storm's End from the Redwynes. 

"How many?"

"Close to a hundred, My Lord, Lord Manderly is cutting in from the other flank of the open sea."

Ah. So Manderly had come. The Lord of White Harbor was gaining weight from the relative lack of resistance and lack of action therefore, but he was fast catching up. As it was, the Lord of the Arbor was no ordinary opponent, possessing the largest armada in the open sea save for the Greyjoy Fleet. And even then to truly be disadvantaged against the Iron Fleet the Ironborn would have to enter wartime capacity. Few navies could match the Redwyne Armada pound-for-pound, though they supposed it was good that it was said that a fourth of the ships, some fifty or so, were still in the Arbor while the rest ravaged Storm's End, consistently aiding the Reach troops with their blockade, and boulder bombardment. 

"Are we in position? The moment we have a clear sight, open fire. We want as many ships to go down in the first, surprise strike, before we press the advantage."

The waves rushed against the deck--- shattering the air with the noise. Luckily... their ships drawing closer were obscured by the raging waves.

Once close, Jason smirked: "Fire!"

The first wave of stones and flaming arrows hit true, and more than a dozen ships were hit. Several sank, struck by rocks immediately. Fires burned bright across some, engulfing the ships before any had time to do anything. Some were struck by fire and rocks, but were only somewhat damaged, while many others were just damaged beyond repair.

What was most crucial was the chaos.

The disorder.

As everyone moved to evacuate ships or discard the useless parts while preparing for retaliation, a second wave of projectiles set ships ablaze and dashed them apart. 

The problem was, the ships never expected an attack. The Redwyne Fleet was so used to being unchallenged, both in this particular war and traditionally throughout history, that the Royal Fleet, created by King Aegon the Unlikely and improved upon by Tywin Lannister, found them, figuratively, with their pants down and all their weapons pointed at Storm's End. To even pivot around and to face the attacking fleet was a time-consuming affair for the Redwyne Fleet.

By which time they had swung around to face the fleet led by Jason, the Distraction Fleet so to say, the majority of the fleet, the Pincer Fleet as it was called, had emerged from the open ocean, led by Wyman Manderly, and would once more create problems, as once more the Redywnes faced attack from a direction that they had not swung around to meet.

To put it clearly... the Redwyne Fleet was fucked.

WYMAN POV

"The attack is ready, my Lord."

"Fire!"

Wyman smiled as he looked at the death raining down on the enemy ships, already essentially having lost half their fleet taking down only a dozen of their ships. Wyman's sudden attack dashed two dozen more against rocks and roasted them against flames. He could make out the agonized cries and desperate calls as men burned alive or bled to death or drowned in the cold water trying to swim to safety.

Wyman smiled. The Lord of White Harbor would not dare allow them to lose. Even a bloody nose was not acceptable. The victory had to be clear and crisp, with few ships lost on their part.

And that was what was happening. The Lord of the Arbor had brought more than a hundred ships to Storm's End, with less than thirty gathering dust at Dorne and fifty to defend the Arbor. Of hundred more than eighty had been lost in the first hour of the attack, and conversely only twenty seven ships were lost on their combined Mallister and Manderly Fleets which had basically divided the Royal Fleet. The crew loathed the Mad King with a passion and had been waiting to get away from him, so it was no wonder most of the navy bent the knee to King Robert immediately.

Whatever, Wyman rolled his eyes. His was not the politics to consider, his was the loyalty to the North and the business to White Harbor. And for White Harbor he needed to win Storm's End.

PAXTER POV

"Once upon a time, a little man,

Running from the Rainbow Guard in Highgarden,

Playing with a little toy, a lit-a-bit-a joy,

He is da man, da busta-boi.

Hiding in the city Oldtown,

Running from a man whoze a ruff moron,

Playing with a little toy, a lit-a-bit-a joy,

He is da man, da busta-boi..."

For hours Mace Tyrell had continued to remain a drunk oaf, as he was, singing loud, jolly songs in his slurred voice as he stuff more food and drink into his mouth. The Lord of the Arbor was morbidly awed and equally disgusted as to how a man could be so unrepentantly incompetent, corrupt, gluttonous and oafish while also greedily taking credit for everyone else's success at the same time. It was ridiculous and tested his patience. He could see a similar expression on Lord Hightower's face.

All of a sudden there were shocked cries and calls. Something could be heard from far away--- above the usual ground-shaking sounds of the siege of the castle.

Paxter rushed outside.

There was fire and explosions in the sea. At first he looked, and could not realize. Then he did not believe it. Then he let out a cry of horror.

"MY FLEET!" he roared.

"Your--- oh, fuck my dragon-cock shit..." Hightower looked similarly affected. "The entire fucking blockade, swept aside in a fucking night..."

Tyrell turned accusatorily towards him, his eyes narrowing in a very crude manner, making him look more pig than human.

"You incompetent fool! You accursed traitor! You craven ladder-climber! You corrupt donkey!"

Bonkers, thought Paxter, even as he drew back to prevent the spittle flying in his face. You are what you call me. That has been proved.

But he was too horrified at the absolute massacre of his fleet to say anything. He remained quiet.

THIRD PERSON POV

The Battle of Shipbreaker Bay would be remembered as one of the most devastating and bloody naval battles in history. Never had such battles been fought, not even when the Lannister and Gardener Kings had launched hundreds of ships from the Arbor and Lannisport, not when the Velaryon and Triarchy Fleet tore through the Narrow Sea. More than three hundred ships were fought, and more than half of them were lost, with more than a hundred lost on the loyalist fleet, and some thirty lost in the Rebel Fleet. Jason Mallister and Wyman Manderly would both be granted full honors and command of half of the Royal Fleet each later by King Robert Baratheon. They would sail the Sunset Sea and the Narrow Sea respectively as Lord-Admirals of the Royal Fleet. 

With the Battle of Shipbreaker Bay ended the Rebellion proper. After this and the attacks on Storm's End, the loyalists would not have enough to bring against the rebels, especially with the King already in control of the Iron Throne. However, the Rebellion itself would continue for several more moons.

[A/N:

1. The Battle of Shipbreaker Bay was NOT plot armor. I explained what happened: you had Wyman in the open sea, and Jason in the Bay proper. The loyalists were holed up in the Bay with their weapons pointed at Storm's End. With the advantage of the storms Jason Mallister sneaked up and caused a distraction, basically sinking dozens of ships with surprise attacks. So the ships are distracted, they pivot around to face him, all the while losing more. Their morale goes down slightly, obviously. Now Wyman Manderly closes into the fleet from the open sea in a pincer movement, catching the ships which were fighting the distraction fleet. Another wave of attacks when they lost half their fleet, cornered and as shown, aimed carefully. The loyalists cannot sink many ships because they were not prepared, have low morale and panic, are being bombarded left and right--- and the fleet is so used to superiority that they had no idea what to do about a real opponent.
2. Rest easy, Stannis. Help is coming.
3. Mace singing "Busta-Boi" was NOT on my list. It was a spontaneous decision. Hope you guys liked it. Unfortunately, Mace to me gives off the "jolly" but actually sleazy and corrupt, credit-taking boss vibes.]

Chapter Text

RICKARD POV

The Bank of the Trident, 282 AC, fifth moon

Rickard spurred his horse through the battlefield, killing men left and right. They had been caught in an ambush, by a force twice their size.

What the fuck even was going on now?

Rickard was no knight or great warrior, but he was no fool and no slouch either. An average man, or even an average knight, could be defeated by the sheer force of his blows. Unlike what others like, say, the Mormonts, would say, loyal to their honor as they were, Rickard would and could forsake his honor at times if it granted them the possibility for victory.

But he would not do so needlessly. And suffice to say he was stunned by the ruthless killing fields of the Reach forces.

"Fall back! And watch the left flank!" He ordered, carefully retreating into a safer area.

This was the third time their left flank had been left vulnerable. Which meant that since they were facing east, the forces that ambushed them had come from their left--- which was from the north.

Since so many men were abundant from their left side and it was impossible to find much cover in the Riverlands, it was a likely possibility that their enemies had already snuck in earlier, and this ambush was a much more calculated objective.

"What the fuck was that? You can't consider retreat like that..." Lord Umber rode up beside him.

"I'm trying to minimize casualties. I won't retreat. But I'm going to do something very nasty." Rickard told him.

The Greatjon stared at him: "Please don't tell me you're considering something like... setting fire to the field..." 

"That's exactly what I'm---"

"Oh, come on!" snarled Greatjon. "What purpose would it serve?"

"This is a grassy field, with no rivers except the Trident. Set fire on both sides. Our people will keep them engaged!"

"Hundreds of ours will die!" protested the other Lord.

"And thousands of theirs, and they'll clear out the traps! Take the shot. That's our only shot to stand a chance."

"On your head be it then." Umber replied, riding off, barking out commands.

A few minutes later, flames engulfed both banks of the Trident as most of the Northerners retreated. It was the older men who had given their lives to distract the Northerners, and a few hundred of them died, with a smile on their faces. The Reach forces, on the other hand, died agonizingly, screaming out as hundreds and thousands were incinerated.

Rickard watched in satisfaction as the enemy forces dwindled to less than half of the Northerner host (although the Northerners had less than eight thousand men at that point). He spurred his horse, ready to ride, when he saw Ser Willem Darry riding at him. Now, he was a knight, and an above-average one, but certainly not invincible, and certainly not against a man who was as strong as Rickard Karstark, and Rickard took that in stride. Spurring his horse away, he ducked underneath to unhorse the man---

Only for Greatjon Umber to ride up from the back, lean over and casually snap the man's neck.

"What the fuck?!" Rickard swore aloud in utter surprise and confusion.

"That was payback for sacrificing at least two hundred of my men," Umber grinned.

Only Northerners could talk about large numbers of men getting martyred with a grin on their faces.

PYCELLE THE STAN POV

The Citadel, Oldtown, 282 AC, fifth moon

Apparently the Northerners had defeated the forces of the Reach at the Citadel, in what was being called the dramatic Battle of the Trident. The entire incident was being known as the Second Field of Fire because even now several fires burnt and the entire soil had been rendered infertile. And Rickard Karstark was being known as the Demon of the Trident for his policy of mass destruction. In normal circumstances he would have been condemned, but the Red Crossing and the horrifying deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark had left the Northerners quite justified in revenge, and they had arrived at the capital to bolster the Rebel armies. With an entire host destroyed the Maesters of the Citadel seemed to be walking on eggshells around the Conclave.

What he had not expected was the horrifying truth revealed to him. They had plotted a coup with Leyton Hightower under his nose.

And he was expected to poison King Robert so Hightower could take over. They had framed House Lannister, and gotten Tywin Lannister, the Uncrowned Monarch, in the Black Cells, and were planning a meticulous uprising. 

Gods dammit.

He had to free Lord Lannister and get this to the King, now.

Tywin Lannister was the closest thing Westeros had to an ideal King. He could not be allowed to die. For him to remain alive and keep Westeros in its Golden Age, the interests of House Lannister must be kept at the forefront.

THIRD PERSON POV

Timeline of Events until now:

1. 282 AC, first moon:
2. Brandon and Rickard Stark are brutally murdered by Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, shortly after the abduction of Lyanna Stark by Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
3. The Mad King sends for the heads of Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark.

iii. Robert is declared King of the Seven Kingdoms, and war is declared on the Crown, with the Eyrie Declaration.

1. 282 AC, second moon:
2. Battle of Gulltown, securing a foothold against all loyalists within the Vale, the most contested of the four Kingdoms sworn to Robert.
3. Ned Stark marches North to call his banners.

iii. Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn accompany King Robert in the Battle of Harrenhal.

1. The Battle of Harrenhal drags on for two weeks till the death of Randyll Tarly and the capture of several nobles and soldiers.
2. Robert tours Harrenhal and the area surrounding it, in the heart of the Crownlands, to ensure more support for his regime.
3. 282 AC, third moon:
4. The Siege of Storm's End begins in earnest, and continues unabated.
5. Robert prepares to march on King's Landing.

iii. The Red Crossing, the betrayal of Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, leaves two-thirds of the Northerner force dead: both traitors and all their men are killed in the process, and Howland Reed becomes a martyr even as Ned Stark is temporarily incapacitated.

1. The Hightower plot continues in motion.
2. 282 AC, fourth moon:
3. The Wildfire plot ends with the slaying of Aerys by Ser Jaime Lannister, dubbed the Kingslayer, along with the death of Prince Lewyn Martell and Ser Jonothor Darry.
4. The Hour of the Lion, with Lannister men and Grand Maester Pycelle, Ser Jaime seizes the Iron Throne and executes Lord Eunuch Varys, Hand Jon Connington, and several Pyromancers, leading to a highly unstable city.

iii. Robert sacks King's Landing, and Jaime is arrested, and a pardon is considered for his services.

1. The Siege of Storm's End continues.
2. Blackwater Bay is taken in a short battle and the Royal Fleet bends the knee and defects to Robert.
3. Robert turns his attention on Maegor's Holdfast.

vii. The Lannisters are arrested (read: framed) on suspicion for the Red Crossing, and in revenge, Lannister forces hit Maegor's Holdfast.

1. 282 AC, fifth moon:
2. The death of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, and Ser Amory Lorch, and the seizure of Maegor's Holdfast.
3. Wyman Manderly and Jason Mallister take command of the Royal Fleet and clear out Shipbreaker Bay, destroying most of the Redwyne Fleet in the process.

iii. Rickard Karstark kills ambushing forces of the Reach in the Battle of the Trident, and the Northerners march towards King's Landing as he earns the nickname: Demon of the Trident, with Ser Willem Darry's death by Greatjon Umber.

1. Grand Maester Pycelle moves to uncover the Citadel-Hightower Plot.

[A/N:

1. Yes, Rickard Karstark earns the nickname Demon of the Trident. Why? Because you cannot expect things to remain canon like that. Here, Robert crossed the Trident before after catching Harrenhal (a lot of Whents fought for Aerys in canon to be honest). And now that the Northerner force will know, and the naval battles, Lord Hightower's plan is falling apart. Rickard is called a DEMON because he made a difficult choice and chose to roast thousands alive, only he is still called a demon and only tolerated because of the fact that the Northerners already suffered under the pro-Targaryen forces. Things will only complicate more from here.
2. Pycelle was the final nail in Hightower's coffin... or does Leyton ACTUALLY have a Hightower Mecha with nukes (so basically Liberty Prime?) hidden around somewhere?]

Chapter Text

ELIA POV

The Red Keep, King's Landing, 282 AC, fifth moon

"Must you leave so soon?" Elia asked the King sadly. 

Whilst she had been some eight years his senior, she found within him an authority and command that could not be found in many experienced men. And not merely his authority, he was also a charming person to be around. His jests made people laugh, his advances made maidens swoon, and she felt a strange warmth and comfort in his presence, as she listened to his tales and his jests. His tales were often moving, from wild adventures that sounded like the journeys of a fairytale Prince, to events that caused grief and even moved her to tears (though she did her best to conceal them). She almost wailed around when she heard of the loss of his parents on Shipbreaker Bay.

But one thing he never mentioned was the subject of Princess Lyanna. And his face would darken whenever someone spoke of that topic, so she would try not to push it.

And here he was now, leaving. With his departure she had greatly lost one she thought she could count on in this pit of vipers--- nay, she knew she could count on, King Robert had more than proven himself worthy of the Iron Throne.

"Unfortunately so," Robert smiled, equally sadly: he loved war, but it was clear he would miss these conversations as much as she did.

Which made her heart blossom more, that someone valued her other than her brother and her lady-in-waiting. Her mother-in-law had tried but had been too cowed to continuously drag her, her father-in-law was... well, the less said about him the better... and her husband had been too lost in his fantasies and songs and prophecies to pay any attention to her in any significant way--- he was also horrible in bed, and she loathed the feeling of the Crown Prince in her, because he had no regard for her when he took her, so he would take her when she was too ill and frail to resist... until she had become barren after her second childbirth and he had lost all interest in her. Then there was her eldest brother, a shrewd, cunning man who knew nothing outside his politics, and for all his disapproval of Tywin Lannister he was essentially the same but in a different cloth. 

"Barristan Selmy marches on King's Landing with what remains of the loyalist host. The part of their forces that are not starving my dearest brothers in Storm's End, that is. Their forces were spotted last around the Trident in the God's Eye. From pressure Mace Tyrell has dispatched a force to Rook's Rest to attack us from the south. A fourth of their men. Luckily... the Northerners have arrived in King's Landing, to bolster our forces. The fighting will continue shortly after. Rickard Karstark tells me he has something to say, so he will. Then I will leave for war." Robert rose to his feet.

From the corner of the room, she could see the former Queen Rhaella enter and sit down in court. Since right now they had not been allowed to leave, they were still effectively hostages till the end of the war, one saving grace was that they could behave like any normal person would. 

"Alright there, my Lady?" Robert addressed her, with a grin.

"Yes, I am well." The Dowager Queen replied, a faint hint of a smile on her lips: her suspicion towards Robert had lessened somewhat. "I also hope you fare well. Safe travels, Your Grace."

Robert bowed with a charming grin.

"Thank you, my Lady."

Just then, the guards came into the room, followed by Rickard Karstark and Greatjon Umber, as well as others.

"Your Grace," Rickard bowed.

"Lord Karstark. Congratulations upon your victory at the Trident." Robert nodded, "Tell me of what news you have about Lord Eddard Stark and the Red Crossing."

"Your Grace, House Lannister is innocent of the crimes. The interrogations and their own confession yielded that the plot was orchestrated by House Hightower and Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, in addition to the Citadel."

Elia gasped in horror, and Ashara behind her had the same reaction. The court was in different stages of shock, anger and confusion. After all, the people of Westeros took the violations to guest right pretty seriously. She looked at her wretched mother-in-law, for once having been able to experience a period of joy and comfort after the abuse under Aerys, completely broken by the news her son had ordered such a heinous atrocity to take place in any way.

"YOUR GRACE!"

It was another, aged voice. Ah, Pycelle. The aged Grand Maester ran in.

"Your Grace, it was the Hightower host... they were the ones who planned it all. They plan to destroy Houses Baratheon, Targaryen, Lannister and Stark by this commotion, and take power in King's Landing."

The further they went into the plot the further Robert's face darkened. Now Elia realized why the Baratheon saying was: "Ours is the Fury."

"Release Tyrion, Jaime and Kevan Lannister immediately." Robert commanded.

"But--- Your Grace, what of Tywin Lannister...?"

"Even beyond the bars of the Black Cells he hired Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to raid the Holdfast and rape the women and kill the children. There will be no royal mercy for him." Robert commanded coldly.

Elia snarled silently at the reminder, which went unnoticed (or so she hoped): she had been informed of the intent of Tywin Lannister's retribution and attempt to, essentially, bribe himself out of the Black Cells with the heads of her children--- luckily, Robert did not pursue such actions, and Tywin's head would soon be mounted on the Red Keep alongside the Mad King.

However... the rage in Robert's face, she felt a shiver of fear and excitement when looking at him. The youth's eyes blazed and his hair fluttered, and while his rage was palpable he never raised his voice once, but every tone carried a hint of Valyrian Steel intermingled with Dornish Venom. She reminded herself that the man was a King.

"As for Hightower and the Maesters, I will deal with both. We will first rout God's Eye and bring down Barristan Selmy. Then Rook's Rest, then Storm's End where we free our starving peoples. Then Oldtown will be next, and I will see what the Hightower louts do. As for your services, Rickard Karstark, I name you Lord-Commander of the Northern Armies. It is my great Decree."

Rickard Karstark looked dumbfounded as he accepted the honor.

"There will be Lord-Commanders of each region and Lord-Admirals for each water, beholden to the Crown. That is my command. When the Liege-Lords gather their armies, they will be given the key to the command, for they have proved their loyalty to both the Liege-Lords and the Crown."

Well. That was new. Elia smirked. Finally, something interesting.

And with this Robert rose from the Throne and marched from the court, leaving behind an awed audience.

LYANNA POV

The Tower of Joy, Prince's Pass, 282 AC, fifth moon (middle of the fifth moon)

She heard faint voices outside. While she knew by now that Rhaegar was no love or even a friend of hers, she had to fish for information herself. That she could, by eavesdropping the conversations between the Kingsguard members posted here, and the Targaryen Prince.

"... the fuck have you done? We can't cover your ass in this situation. Are you dumb?! That's insane, what you've done!"

It was the voice of Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The man was an absolute fanatic and Rhaegar's best friend. The man who had held her down while Rhaegar, curse his name, had taken her, once she realized the truth and grew resistant to him. 

"Arthur, what am I to do?! The Northerners would've pulled up with a force loyal to that Usurper of my cousin. I had to try and have them killed, at least."

What? Lyanna almost gasped aloud, putting a hand to her mouth as she reeled with the sheer horror of the revelation. They tried to kill him? Rhaegar--- he...

"Please tell me you succeeded."

"No... Ned Stark lies incapacitated for a while, recuperating from his wounds. We lost both Bolton and Frey, our staunchest allies there. Benjen Stark has vanished, Howland Reed lies dead, and Rickard Karstark and Robert Baratheon took the Trident and Harrenhal, respectively."

Oh Gods... what have I done? What have I come with? He is a monster, he cannot have done this...

Ned bedridden, Benjen missing, Howland dead. Oh Gods...

"Are you fucking with me right now?!" It was the voice of Gerold Hightower, the one who was the most appreciative of not merely Rhaegar's actions but those of the Mad King. He was the most sycophantic and ridiculously fanatical of the lot. "Those buggers didn't die?!"

 She heard a sharp intake of breath: "You were in this too?" Arthur Dayne was disbelieving. 

"Of course I was! My father planned it well."

That shattered Lyanna's world. 

"Lord Hightower?!" Arthur's voice was even more disbelieving. "What kind of animal is he, to allow the slaughter of soldiers under guest right?"

They did it under guest right?! Just when Lyanna thought it could not be more damning, they had gone and proven it wrong.

"Aye." Rhaegar spoke solemnly. "We would've gotten away too. We framed House Lannister, but unfortunately the Northrons got there in a few pieces. Jason Mallister and Wyman Manderly shattered the blockades in Shipbreaker Bay and took full control over Blackwater Bay as well. We lost the fleet, and with it, a crucial part of our plan to starve Stannis Baratheon. Further, the King is dead and the Usurper sits on the Throne. I keep thinking how this can't happen. I'M THE PRINCE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE. I CAN'T LOSE LIKE THIS!" He shouted, in his delusional rage, "There must be three heads of the Dragon, I'm the CHOSEN FUCKING ONE. I risked a war to get the third head, even brought a gullible Northern whore along--- it would've been perfect, everything down to the last, minute detail. But no, we're completely finished."

Gullible Northern whore indeed. Lyanna thought bitterly, as fresh tears ran down her face, as she stifled her muffled sobs. Gods, I was so naive to trust a pretty Prince. 

She stopped sobbing and composed herself as Rhaegar came in, the door flying open as he pushed it with force. He had the stench of drink upon him, as he roughly grabbed her. Still beautiful, but what she had thought was dark melancholy she now realized as a dark obsession.

He was obsessed. Not with her in particular. But his prophecy.

"Get on all fours, Princess..." he slurred in his sweet singing voice, and while Lyanna almost started to fall for it as usual she quickly composed herself.

And it was good she did, for what followed was anything but sweet.

[A/N:

1. I doubt there is anything to explain besides the Lyanna characterization, which I strongly mentioned in a previous chapter. She may have loved Rhaegar at first, but D&D, always mucking up characters as usual, forgot that she was pretty immature overall, and would hardly have a high sense of character judgement: more like Sansa in that way (and oddly enough, Cersei--- maybe all the maidens like Princes, I guess). I doubt she would have loved Rhaegar once she heard that said "love" led to two of her family members roasted alive. Targaryen wankers usually justify this with heavy Stark and Baratheon bashing. Which sounds ridiculous, to be honest.]

Chapter Text

BARRISTAN POV

God's Eye, 282 AC, end of the fifth moon

He had known that his duty and command as one of the few remaining loyalists to the King and the Crown Prince compelled him to dutifully lead the forces of the Crownlands that still remained loyal to House Targaryen, against the rebels.

As it was, things had already become difficult: he was being forced into a difficult position by Riverlands and Stormlands troops who were used to the watery and muddy climate, with thrice the amount of troops as his own. He had only a meager four or five thousand, while his enemy mustered between ten to twelve thousand men. Not to mention the Northerners who were used to harsher climates.

Ser Richard Lonmouth, the Knight of Skulls and Kisses, had come upon the battlefield to help the loyal forces as a personal favor to the Crown Prince, whose whereabouts were still unknown. 

"This is ridiculous!" he snarled to himself, "How can so many forsake their honor and duty as knights and abandon the Iron Throne in the hour of need?"

Aloud he shouted: "Fall back upon the east bank, we need the Usurper!"

"Rumor is that he personally rides to battle today." Lonmouth, the ever-arrogant, piped up as he rode past him: "If the Usurper is truly thrown in battle today to the Seven Hells where he belongs, it will hurt the Rebellion badly, especially when his so-called Heirs... starve at Storm's End. They have no heirs after that, and if the Baratheon Dynasty is gone the rebel families will no doubt tear each other apart in a contest for the Throne, while we claim a secure Throne for House Targaryen."

Barristan hated to agree with Richard, but he nodded his head as he once more mounted his horse, shouting out commands: "Spur around the banks for a cavalry charge on the other end! Lure them! Take out their right flank! We need a clear position when the usurper comes!"

He rode his horse around the bank as an example, meeting Ser Lyn Corbay in single combat. Their blades locked, but then Lonmouth came charging from the left flank, slicing off the other Knight's horse-legs in a dishonorable manner, and Ser Corbay fell to the ground, and was carried away by the rebels, because he was one of the important assets to their cause and could not be lost. Barristan was about to rebuke him for his cruel methods, but something interrupted him.

"THE USURPER COMES!"

"THE SUN RISES!"

He whirled his horse around to face the direction the noise was from, and forgot his quarrel with the other knight. In the horizon, riding faster than an approaching storm crashing into a ship and shattering the vessel in half. It was no man, he thought at first, it was a massive creature, dressed in the dark armor that made it look like an approaching specter of death, two antlers on its helm, thundering towards them, like judgement itself, the Baratheon sigil proudly emblazoned on its armor.

Barristan's mouth went dry, and Richard Lonmouth's milk-white face revealed everything.

"This--- is what exactly? An opponent?" Lonmouth choked, and for once they were in agreement.

Just before the Usurper was about to collide with them, a sword cut through, locking with the hammer in mid-air.

The Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, was finally here.

Finally. Barristan felt a note of joy, thinking something would happen, as he and Richard Lonmouth rushed forth to help Rhaegar beat back the Usurper.

"Your fight is with me, Usurper..." Rhaegar growled, confidently and dangerously. 

Barristan thought him a lunatic, because no man could take on this force of nature alone. And continued to beat back Robert Baratheon's shield harder.

While the three swords beat back Robert Baratheon, the man was no fool. Usually two hands were required to hold a Warhammer, and one the size Baratheon carried would not be humanly possible to lift, yet he wielded and swung it like it were a sword, both the spike and the blunt end of the hammer equally deadly, denting their shields on impact. And he was balancing it with his shield, deftly and expertly. 

In fact, Barristan could smell the sweat and blood and knew that had the Usurper not been tired, they would have been dead already. That, and fighting on a horse actually impeded him against fighters of similar renown.

This continued, a ritual. Their shields dented and battered. Their swords and that massive, ungodly hammer swinging around with such potent force that Barristan considered, on multiple occasions, fleeing the battlefield.

Then came the first blow of consequences. 

As they ducked to avoid a blow from his Warhammer, Rhaegar shattered his shield.

The Crowned Stag threw it away.

And coldly chuckled.

"Had you not destroyed my shield, you would have a chance. But now you allowed both my hands to fight, unimpeded, with my weapon of choice."

Shit.

They had fallen into a trap.

They barely had time to react, for the next swing cleaved all their shields in half.

"Unfortunately, unlike me, the same cannot be said for you. You protect yourselves with the shields. So you are, on the other hand, very vulnerable."

Fuck.

The next strikes came in a flurry. Lonmouth's sword shattered despite his earnest attempts to stop it, and the next moment the hammer met his helm. The helm caved in, a shower of blood and brains emerged through the holes that remained open after being devastated by the strike. The man was thrown from his mount like a doll, flying several feet into the air before landing face-first in the mud: he died as he lived, undignified.

Despite the helm he could see the hesitation on Rhaegar's face. The boy then charged forth, Barristan in following.

After all, he was their King now. Barristan could not let his sworn charge and liege die.

But Robert had other plans. The swings caught them both by surprise, and Barristan had his sword shattered in half. Ducking low with the remnants of his blade, he sliced through Robert's steed, knocking the Baratheon lad down, hoping to kill him.

Only to be met with a swift kick in the balls.

Barristan howled, wincing as he sank to the ground.

The next swing missed him barely, taking both their horses in a single blow. The animals sank, and Rhaegar came to rest beside him, mumbling something about his back.

"Oh... my back..."

Barristan could not believe it: "You must get up... fight..." he groaned as he picked up Lonmouth's sword and stood.

But he had forgotten another thing. He had deprived Baratheon of the horse that hindered him. 

The Usurper toyed with them for a few moments, before delivering a blow to Rhaegar that sent him flying--- into the mud. His breastplate was caved in, Barristan noted in horror, and he was bleeding like a common pig beneath the ruins of his armor. Then he felt a burning sensation in his leg, only to see that his legs had shattered like glass, every bone broken by the next impact as he died. 

He closed his eyes as the Warhammer came down.

And then he did not have a face anymore.

The last thing he heard before blackness and silence took him was a squelching sound, along with an agonized cry, a choked sob: "Wait! Wait!"

HOSTER POV

Rook's Rest, 282 AC, end of fifth moon

Hoster Tully was pleased. They fled from him like rats in a sinking ship scurrying from the rushing water. Lords and Heirs he caught alive, the rest he drowned alive.

Already based in King's Landing and on the way to Storm's End, he had intercepted two short forces at Summerhall and Duskendale, killing more than seven thousand each time. Now another force of some six thousand or more were here at Rook's Rest, led by the last of their commanders. The oaf Mace Tyrell was at Storm's End apparently, and there was no news of Hightower and Redwyne, the last of the remaining Reach Commanders. Lord Fossoway and his Heirs had been taken alive, for example. These were good news, mostly. 

Good news and good news. The Rebellion would be over in a moon, a couple of moons at most. 

Hoster was satisfied to hear the honors bestowed upon Wyman Manderly and Jason Mallister as Lord-Admirals, and himself and Rickard Karstark as Lord-Commanders. Someone was being named Lord-Commander in the Stormlands as well, great positions of military authority entrusted by the King. Coupled with the arrangement of marriage between his daughters Lysa and Catelyn to Jon Arryn and Ned Stark, he would secure a lot of influence in the Realm.

"News from God's Eye, my Lord," The Lord Moonton rode up, presenting to him a raven.

He smirked as he saw the letter.

It was better than expected. Robert Baratheon had slain Rhaegar Targaryen, Barristan Selmy and Richard Lonmouth on the banks of the God's Eye.

This would shatter loyalist morale like nothing else.

Now, all they had to do was punish Leyton Hightower, Paxtor Redwyne and Mace Tyrell for their insolence and rescue Stannis Baratheon and Lyanna Stark.

RHAELLA POV

The Red Keep, King's Landing, 282 AC, fifth moon (end)

Nothing is there that you love more in the world than you love your first child.

Rhaella teared up when she read the letter. She had known it was coming, but still... it was more than a little unbearable. She broke down in sobs as she stared at it. Rhaegar had paid the consequences of his actions, she knew that. It was so unfortunate that she was the only one who mourned him, because she was the only one who had had a modicum of affection for him.

But this had already been agreed upon by both her and the new King. He deserved it, the Realm deserved it: justice. And love was the death of duty, and duty the death of love.

She had, above all, known it the most.

It was written without any formalities.

Lady Rhaella,

Your son has paid his price. I am sorry. If there is anything you need, please ask it of me.

Regards,

Robert

Short, sweet and to the point. Robert was frank, she had seen, and barely engaged in anything like plotting. Unlike her husband and her previous trysts he did not hide anything, he did not immediately go for her body, and he did not satiate his thirst upon her, but it was clear he appreciated her body, and there was clear desire within those compliments. But there was holding back, a desire to ravage her, take her, that make her heart race. He was young, but he was beautiful, like her son but even more, but considering she had no love of the incestuous tradition her brother reveled in, she actually had a reciprocating desire for her son's killer: he was like a demigod come to the Realm. And polite and kind and charming, and with a way with both words and wars.

Everything she had wanted, but had never gotten. She felt ashamed of dreaming of her son's killer, but this need was too great to ignore. He was the first man she had met in decades and both respected and desired, and that elevated him above all the others.

She prayed for his safe return from the war. Her son had paid the price for his arrogance, but she prayed that Robert and the rest would not have to do so.

[A/N:

1. So no Demon of the Trident because it is taken. But Hammer of the God's Eye sounds better, does it not? Or the Doom of the Dragons, maybe? Anyway. Sorry, Barristan. Robert is much more merciless here, he could not be taken alive in this one. He is more willing to save the innocent, but fight against him and there is little chance of being taken alive unless you have plot armor, and nobody has plot armor in Westeros. Also, Rhaegar had to die. He has to die. He always has to die.
2. The Reach forces are breaking apart. The force Hoster Tully shattered in parts was half of the Reach force, pretty much. With Paxter Redwyne lamenting his losses, Mace Tyrell not competent command, and Leyton Hightower in his own schemes with everyone else baying for his blood for the Red Crossing. The navy is broken, the capital is gone, entire armies are burnt, leaders have fallen, strategic strongholds taken, the great blockade lifted, they happen to be in a terrible position now. These are the last stages of the war, and a pretty short rebellion basically. Of course, no formal end to the rebellion till Operation Lyanna has been successfully completed.
3. Rhaella is equal parts saddened and equal parts vindicated. I mean, no mother wants to see her son die, but no mother would like them as a monster either. Even CERSEI admitted and sympathized with Sansa and Margaery about Joffrey being a monster. And Rhaegar has definitely cemented himself as a monster.]

Chapter Text

TYWIN POV

The Red Keep, King's Landing, 282 AC, sixth moon

"Of the Red Crossing plot, Kevan, Tyrion and Tywin Lannister are found not guilty owing to conclusive evidence of their innocence. The evidence of the Northern Host, Grand Maester Pycelle and their own testimony provides enough evidence to the contrary. Lord Leyton Hightower and Ser Gerold Hightower are, however, guilty of the plot, as are, an unknown number of Maesters. In the name of the King I pass a decree for their arrest."

Jon Arryn's voice was loud and cold, so everyone could hear. Tywin smirked under his unshaven beard. King Robert had made him Hand in Jon's stead. That was good. Jon Arryn had the same awe and compulsive need of his image so he would be more lenient to bring House Lannister into the fold.

"Therefore, I order Tyrion and Kevan Lannister to be set free."

What?! Why just Kevan and Tyrion? What of him?! Why was he declared innocent and still shackled? He thought, as Tyrion and Kevan were freed, staggering over to join Tygett, Gerion and Stafford, and Tywin's smirk vanished.

Jaime was still bound in chains. His trial was yet to be completed.

"Jaime Lannister, you stand accused of the executions of Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, thereby committing the crime of Kingslaying. You also killed his Pyromancer, the Wisdom of the Guild, Lord Rossart; two of your fellow Kingsguard, Ser Lewyn Martell and Ser Jonothor Darry, in cold-blooded murder. Further, you notable took command of the city illegally and ordered multiple executions, including the Hand of the King Lord Jon Connington, the Master of Whispers Varys, and most of the Pyromancers' Guild. Not only that, you also caused mass panic and instability with your actions, leading to stampedes in several corners of the city. How do you plead?"

"Guilty, Your Grace."

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Kingslayer? You broke your oaths and killed many. Tell me, Kingslayer, was sulking on the Iron Throne worth it? How many lives did you even save?"

NO! Tywin thought. His greatest asset's life could not just be thrown away just like that. All his life's work, about to be scattered like ash in the wind, thrown to the monstrous, abominable Imp...

Jaime looked up, his glare fierce as he felt Jon Arryn mocking him, and the men laughing in their cups.

Just like Tytos, Tywin thought miserably, his blood boiling, Once more the people mock us in their cups.

"Half a million, Your Grace."

With every statement uttered at court today Tywin found himself more and more surprised. He thought he would be set free. He thought Jaime had not done anything significant in his time as a Kinsguard. He thought Jon Arryn would be a lenient judge as he presided as the Hand and Acting Regent.

Only to be proved wrong, time and again.

The court seemed to be silenced. Even Jon Arryn seemed surprised.  

"... What?!"

"The population of King's Landing, Your Grace." Jaime spoke with that cocky, insufferable smirk. 

Stop being so smug, you idiot, Tywin raged in his mind. You are ruining it, you will make yourself look guilty.

"Elaborate." Arryn leaned forward, locking eyes with Jaime.

"There is wildfire hidden under King's Landing, Your Grace."

Gasps of shock and horror seemed to ripple through the Throne Room. Even Jon Arryn drew back, his face a picture of one who had been caught completely off-guard.

The same horror was in the faces of his brothers and the Imp, he noted.

Was Aerys mad? Tywin cursed at his own pun, Of course he was mad. But THIS mad? Wildfire in the capital?

"He hid it everywhere under the capital. There is wildfire in the Red Keep, in the Holdfast, the Great Sept of Baelor, the houses and the markets and the barracks. In the floorboards and in the sewers. Everywhere. He wanted to be reborn as a dragon." Jaime chuckled bitterly, "The vow of a Knight is to protect the innocent, and yet the vow of a Kingsguard is to obey the King, and stand by as the King kills innocents. And that is the price of honor, I guess. When I choose the vows of a Knight over those of the white cloak I am branded a traitor, an Oathbreaker. Is it not marvelous?"

Jaime laughed, and Tywin assumed he had gone mad. So did the court, because of their murmurs about whether Jaime Lannister had finally gone mad from staying with Aerys too long.

Jon Arryn closed his eyes for a brief moment, before opening them again, silencing the murmurs of the court.

"Very well. I will take your service into consideration. You will not be punished. He is innocent of his crimes..."

Tywin smirked.

"Except breaking his oath. Oaths are to be taken seriously."

His smirk dropped.

"So Jaime Lannister will remain a knight, but because he chose the vow of a knight he will be that, and not a white cloak, he will be released from his vows and dismissed from the Kingsguard."

Jon Arryn seemed to be almost toying with him, Tywin thought irritably as he assumed, though he felt a slight smugness come over him as he saw Jaime stagger back. At least I will have my heir, and he is not going to slip away again.

"He will take up Lordship of Casterly Rock."

What?! I am Lord of Casterly Rock! Tywin thought, his smugness vanishing as he wondered what game Jon Arryn was playing.

"It is noted that Tywin Lannister, the current Lord of House Lannister, is still accused of sending the false Knights, Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane, and a raiding party, and his guilt in writing the raven and sending it through unsavory channels speak volumes. He is accused of ordering what was the rape and murder of Princess Elia Martell and her children, Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen and her boy, and Lady Ashara Dayne, who were all in the Holdfast at that time, as his primary charge. Secondary charges of corruption apply. How do you plead?"

"NOT GUILTY!" 

Fuck, he had not expected that little order he gave to bite back in that way. He thought killing them would endear him to the new regime and absolve him of guilt.

  "Well, that is good, Lord Tywin, because that means... maximum sentence."

What in the---?!

"You see, your involvement was already proved and you were tried in absentia. Witnesses were produced, and all of them testified the same thing, including the King himself, who rescued said women and children, and members of your own raiding party."

The King himself went to rescue them?! Tywin thought as dread pooled in his stomach. All his plans, shattered.

"Men at war commit all sorts of crimes without their superior's knowledge." He bit out icily, in an attempt to defend himself.

"You were not at war. It was a calculated operation." Jon Arryn stood up, looking smug. "And besides... your guiding Edicts helped greatly in this matter, former Lord Hand. After all--- when soldiers misbehave, the fault lies with their commander. Your own little addition."

Tywin cursed himself. He was screwed. There was no other way, save perhaps negotiate the punishment.

"Such a crime is only punishable by death. Then you are, Lord Tywin, sentenced to---"

"Wait!" He interrupted, "I have something to say for myself."

"And what is that?"

"I would like to... serve the Realm one last time, as I have as Lord Hand. I will renounce all my lands and titles and march to the Wall to serve the Watch till the end of my days. In return, I will pledge the West to the War."

The court was silent. The support of the West could decisively end a bloody, decisive war and win the Commanders of the West great glory and bring them back into the fold. But that meant giving Tywin the opportunity to live.

After a while, Jon Arryn spoke reluctantly: "Very well. You are sentenced to the Wall."

Good. Tywin smirked. I knew the leniency would have worked out somewhere.

He would, of course, provide instructions and communicate by raven from the Wall. Perhaps even raise an army there. There was some people there, he remembered. Savages, wildlings, they called them. Vicious, blunt instruments like those he had lost, several tens of thousands strong. They were also very divided, which made it far easier.

He would avenge the slight made on his House. Today Tywin Lannister swore, that the Lannister Dynasty would sit on the Iron Throne before he breathed his last breath.

Two hours later

Tywin sat in his cells, manacled securely to ensure he did not escape.

His first visitor entered. It was Tygett. He sighed. He had been granted leave for three visitors before he left for the Wall.

He had words with Tygett among them.

"How could you have done this?!" Tygett snarled as soon as he entered. "They were innocent women and children!"'

Tywin sighed. He knew that Tygett was the one person who could catch his bullshit very easily.

"They were of House Targaryen, a defeated Dynasty of murderers and madmen. They needed to go."

"They are not Ellyn Reyne, Tywin, they are innocent!"

"They were claimants to the Throne!" Tywin defended himself.

"So you say to excuse yourself. How much blood have you put on your hands? Castamere I understand. The rest?! You have adopted the Targaryen motto, brother, handing out fire and blood like Father handed out sweets---"

"DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF FATHER!" Tywin roared.

"Father did many mistakes, Tywin. But he was a good father. He would not have treated Tyrion like that. His betrothal to Genna was a terrible thing, and both she and I were grateful to you over it."

Tywin closed his eyes, remembering what had happened that day. He could see himself again, young and inexperienced, a mere boy, screaming at the indecisiveness of his father, of his weakness. He could see Walder Frey tremble, and Tytos' milk-white face, and the adoration that shone in Genna's eyes.

"But then you never even paid attention. How many ravens have you written her in the Twins? How many---"

"DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF HER!" Tywin roared, "I called you here for something different. If you have to listen, listen. You need to criticize me, get out. It is nothing new to me."

Tygett stared at him, his eyes dark with anger, then stormed out.

It had ended terribly.

His next visitor was Kevan.

"Come, sit." He said wearily, fed up of himself and his brother and of life. "I am afraid the accommodations are not particularly comfortable."

"It is alright, brother." Kevan said, kind and loyal as always. At least Kevan would listen.

He needed to get his plot out now.

"Brother, I called you here to speak one thing. One last wish, so to say. Perhaps my last, I do not know how long I will survive in the Wall."

"Go on, brother."

"I have committed many sins in life, but you know they were all necessary. You always knew. But I do not want my children to pay for my sins. Make sure Cersei is chosen as Queen. The dreams of the daughter will not pay for the sins of the father, I hope you know what I mean."

One more hour later

He and Kevan heartily parted ways. One final moment. Kevan and Genna listened, that was their greatest use. 

He smirked. The seeds have been planted.

Now onwards to the last meeting. He would have looked sour in ordinary circumstances, but he knew that he had to at least keep a semblance of politeness.

He was to meet with the Imp.

And as he predicted, the short stature of the Imp cast a long shadow over the door as he entered. 

"Father." It was a curt acknowledgement. Nothing more. Tywin had never allowed his children, even the twins, to be informal with him.

"Tyrion. Make yourself comfortable. As you know, I will soon be off to fulfill your dream of pissing off the edge of the Wall," Tywin began, in a nonchalant tone, hoping that Tyrion was acting exactly the way he--- oh, there was the dropped jaw. "As it is, Tyrion, despite our animosity in these past years... you have served as a loyal asset to House Lannister. And while I would rather die than let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse, as I mentioned a long time ago--- I do believe you deserve a place as my Heir, so I would bestow on you something that suits you. Consider this my apology for my intolerance towards you, because that is the most I can offer."

Tyrion seemed shocked, while Tywin was certainly in-character he was being too, far too lenient towards Tyrion than normal. But Tywin needed the Imp in what was to come, so he needed a perfectly loyal set of characters. Tygett was already being insolent, Tyrion would not be allowed to follow in his wayward uncle's footsteps.

"I believe you have heard the Rains of Castamere?"

"I have, Father."

"Then you know, that with its unexploited gold and silver mines, and overall wealth and impregnable nature, will bring glory to House Lannister. You will have a Lordship, and as I already mentioned to your Uncle Kevan, you will marry, and you will own Castamere. You will fulfill your duty, and as long as you pay your tithes and incomes and do your duty you can hang around with as many whores as you want."

Tywin knew the unspoken implication. Expand the Lannister family and wealth, and you can have clemency. Or at least enough clemency before Tyrion could be set aside for a Heir for Castamere.

"As it is, this is all I have to say, Tyrion. You may leave."

Tyrion looked at Tywin, still dazed from the shock at the situation, as he staggered away on his little legs.

Enjoy for now, Imp. Until you have fulfilled your purpose.

[A/N:

1. A chapter all about Tywin! Tywin did WHAT?! Yes of course he did:
2. Negotiation like that was actually possible. It saved Tywin from death because no one wants a powerful Lord of the richest House in Westeros to die and his family to be alienated. This ends the war decisively at a point where the loyalists are already losing, so Tywin has no commitment problems either. Instead whoever fights gains more prestige and gives more glory to House Lannister. So he gets to piss off the edge of the Wall... (maybe it will finally clean his bowels) and allow for some benefits of House Lannister. Also, he is innocent of the charge they were originally arrested for: if he is suddenly executed now it will probably be bad optics.
3. He will, obviously try to make Cersei Queen. That is clear.
4. The conversation with Tygett will not go well. Did not, I mean. I tried to portray Tywin from a Tywin POV like that because we were not shown what a Tywin POV really looks like, it was quite a thing to me to try something new.
5. As for Tyrion, he is not doing it out of kindness. He is manipulating him, until such time as he makes a baby at least. He is using Tyrion like he used his services for years, but he cannot exert his authority so he is using manipulation to control Tyrion remotely. He wants everyone to benefit him and his legacy.
6. As for the Watch and the Wildlings, when exactly has he balked at using rapists and criminals and murderers (looks at Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch pointedly)? Even if he dislikes someone he uses them efficiently (Northern Traitors in the Red Wedding, Freys, Mountain Clans, Tyrion). Even if they are beneath him he will see their use and use them accordingly. His nature comes out when people are purposeless to him.]

Chapter Text

THE MANNIS POV

Storm's End, 282 AC, Sixth Moon

Their food stockpiles had dwindled quickly once their armies had been ground down. Several had surrendered. That was, until the Royal Fleet had come to rescue them from the blockade. The moment Jason Mallister and Wyman Manderly showed up, protecting Davos Seaworth who had brought boxes upon boxes of food, Stannis knew that Robert had played his hand. The starving smallfolk had fallen upon them like vultures, and Renly led the charge... to the dinner table. In moments several boxes were empty, the food within ravaged--- granting them life for another month. Further, the Reachers were beginning to retreat, and an entire force led by Leyton Hightower had marched south. The next two charges, though it cost many men from Stannis' force, had ground down the last of their forces, chipping and whittling away at their strength.

And then the massive lakes that the Storm's End housed to collect the rainwater that pounded on them, had burst.

Somehow--- it had also been boiled.

Gallons of hot water burst forth, boiling soldiers of their enemies alive. Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne met their fate that day. Drowned alive in their camps, their lungs seared to the very end.

The last of the loyalist forces were shattered that day, with tens of thousands dead.

No one who had been in the Siege of Storm's End and was of the enemy left the field alive. 

More than fifteen thousand men had been cooked alive in their armor and cloaks and camps. While it was a horrible thing, this was war. 

When the water cooled and most of it seeped into the soil or drained into the sea, horses came along the puddles: slow, hesitant, surely. With one horse at the lead. And while he could not make out the features of the man at the lead, the antlers on the helm and the tall outline told him who it was.

Disregarding everything else, he ran out, ignoring Maester Cressen's calls. 

"Robert," he exclaimed, showing emotion for the first time in years, as his brother threw off his helmet.

The two brothers embraced, unheeding of the pattering rain around them. Robert had come for them. Finally.

The moment was broken by a tiny figure barreling into his brother.

"My brother has come---"

"RENLY!" he roared in anger before Renly opened his mouth, and his expression morphed into open terror as he dreaded what he knew was coming: "RENLY, NOOO---"

"YAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

"AAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Stannis screamed as his eardrums seemed to burst again.

ROBERT POV

Storm's End, 282 AC, sixth moon

"Negotiations?" Robert asked as he looked at Hoster Tully.

"Yes, negotiations. First we need to dispose of this body and sack Oldtown, get rid of that Hightower Lord. That man still has a little less than ten thousand forces under his command." Hoster Tully replied as he prodded the body of Mace Tyrell with his foot, even larger and more bloated than it had been in life: It was a caricature, and he looked comical as usual, just as he had looked in life. "The man has broken guest right, it is unseemly to let him get away with it unscathed. It deserves nothing less than a death sentence."

"Good. Who do you think we should make Lord-Commander for the other regions?"

"I would suggest Tygett Lannister for the West, Your Grace," Tully replied. "He often had public fallouts with Tywin Lannister over policy, he would be a good counterweight."

Robert nodded: "Then so be it. As for the Stormlands, Stannis has earned his title as both Lord-Commander and Lord-Paramount of Storm's End. I will grant him it, and he will go to Dragonstone. That is still a loyalist bastion full of Valyrian Supremacists. They will be put under the rule of Storm's End."

"You wish to unite Dragonstone with the Stormlands, Your Grace?" Tully looked slightly surprised.

"Easier to manage rather than two separate regions: for what even, an island?" Robert shook his head. "For the Vale and Dorne I will consult with Lord Arryn and possibly the Martells. The Iron Isles are also something I need to consider."

"And what of the Reach?" asked Tully.

"Fought with the loyalists. Half the Houses are extinct. The Tyrells have severely overstepped. The Reach, I believe, is a relic of an old age." Robert smirked. "They will be carved up between the Westerlands, Dorne, Stormlands, Riverlands and Crownlands."

"Surely you cannot mean it," Tully's jaw had dropped but there was a greedy look in his eye.

"I mean it." Robert said coldly. "They will pay the price for what they have thrown behind."

NED POV

Riverrun, 282 AC, sixth moon

It had been a while since he had been able to rise from bed after he had been stabbed in the stomach by Roose Bolton, whom he had foolishly thought was a loyal Lord to him. After all, he had believed in honor a lot: he had expected him to be... loyal to their oaths to the Starks?

Never trust a Bolton, he remembered his father's words: but had it not been his father whose ambitions and yet reliance on the honor of the King that had gotten him killed?

He had reached Riverrun with difficulty, and gotten married. It was a short ceremony, officiated with both the ceremonies of the Gods Old and New as it was supposed to be, because both of them were from different portions of Westeros. Catelyn was a beautiful woman, with the bright sapphire-like eyes of a Tully and dark crimson curls that descended to her waist, and Ned lamented that this was the woman who was promised to Brandon. There would be duty--- but neither had loved the other, and it was but a relationship between two friends.

The coupling had been alright, but awkward. As it was... she had been with child by the time he left for King's Landing, determined to see through the Rebellion and find his sister.

What he heard was stunning.

In around two moons give or take Robert and the rest had turned the war around: thousands were dead, Robert had taken the Throne as he was meant to, and the rest seemed to be raring to strike Dragonstone and Oldtown, the last bastions of the Royal Forces.

The King was dead, the Crown Prince and two Knights including a Kingsguard were killed by Robert himself, in single combat. The greatest commanders and Lords in the Reach and most of the Kingsguard was also dead, as was their Hand and Master of Whispers. Tywin Lannister had been sent north to the Wall for his crimes.

He had a lot of catching up to do. And, he thought with a pang, a lot of apologizing and a lot of explaining as well.

THE MANNIS POV

Storm's End, 282 AC, sixth moon

"You are seriously considering this?" Stannis looked shocked as he heard the news.

"Yes. You will be the Lord of Storm's End. The Targaryen House will be granted Dragonstone, but the seat of succession of the Baratheon Dynasty will shift to Storm's End. You will be Lord-Paramount of both the Stormlands and the Isles and Dragonstone. They will now be one single, united territory." Robert smiled, "And you are the Lord-Commander of the Stormlands armies as well, which mean you hold supreme military command as well as political. I will also call you in when I appoint my Small Council: I might need your aid and consultation."

"Davos," Stannis muttered.

"What?"

"Davos! My friend the smuggler, I believe you have seen him," Stannis began. "I have too many titles already, but if Davos Seaworth is given a lordship and a seat on the Small Council, that will serve as my voice and a good source of counsel. He is better than me and will navigate the pit of vipers in King's Landing better." He sighed, "He is, to be serious, excellent, and his only disadvantage is that he cannot read, though he is learning the basics now."

"Done." Robert smiled, nodding.

Stannis blinked. That easy? Robert had done nothing but fulfill every desire he had and amplify it all to the maximum. He felt a moment of suspicion, but stifled it quickly.

He was being favored and rewarded for his efforts, and his brother had returned. 

Safe to say that he would serve this Robert dutifully till the end of his days.

OBERYN POV

Sunspear, 282 AC, sixth moon

"So... we are supposed to--- bend the knee." Oberyn ground out: he was not pleased at all that had happened, and was even less pleased that he was being asked to bend the knee like a common dog.

"Yes." Doran said coldly. "Our uncle is dead. Elia and her children are hostages in King's Landing. We cannot afford to win at any cost. What will we win with anyway? Our forces were decimated during the Northern March, and what remains remains at Ashford."

"So when do we surrender?" Oberyn bit out the last word.

"I am sending you to King's Landing. You will issue our official surrender and secure the safety of our family." Doran spoke, his voice grim. "Please do keep to the negotiating table and do not get lost in the whores like you did in Lys."

"YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING PIECE OF---!"

[A/N: 

1. Mace Tyrell is dead. Unfortunately. So is Paxter Redwyne. And Leyton Hightower is going to die too. That pretty much wipes out or thins down a lot of male lines and technically renders a lot of Houses extinct. The division of the Reach is VERY merciless, but the Reach is the Reach and so a merciless version of Robert is punishing them for supporting House Targaryen. Will Olenna Tyrell take it well? We will see! She is in her early 50s in this story, so she will not be able to hit anyone with a cane, yet.
2. The Mannis gets the respect he deserves. One of the new Lord-Commanders, his loyal Davos landed and granted a Small Council seat, Storm's End, and overall Lord-Paramount of the Stormlands and the Dragonstone Holdings and Isles (I thought they were tiny and ugly anyway, why bother keeping them separate?).
3. Ned WILL apologize. Why will he not, huh? They are good friends, Robert and Ned. They cannot stay mad at each other for long.
4. The Martells are about to surrender.]

Chapter Text

ARTHUR POV

Tower of Joy, Prince's Pass, 282 AC, sixth moon

They looked upon the raven that had just arrived.

"That authentic?" Hightower asked, his face skeptical as usual.

Arthur felt a wave of dread come over him as he saw the seal: it was the seal of Sunspear. The Martells had sent him a letter. Judging by the extreme formality... not good.

Rhaegar is dead. The war is lost. Stay where you are. Take Princess Lyanna and prepare her for a long journey.

Arthur passed the letter to the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard, whose face twisted in a sneer.

"Well, fuck that idiot." He sneered, "Who in the everliving shit would face that monster in single combat? Only Kingsguard." He threw the letter away, "Woe to the Usurper had we been at God's Eye. But now we have to deal with the consequences. Very well, take that woman and dress her up. She knows how to ride, does she not?" He grinned.

Arthur looked disgusted at the horrible double meaning pun. Well, considering this shit had a turn with her and the Queen, obviously. Arthur internally sneered at the horrible standards of Gerold Hightower, the man who was an excellent fighter but as a person a sack of shit. Who am I kidding, all of us are terrible people. We helped our Crown Prince kidnap an innocent woman and held her down while he raped her. He thought in disdain. 

Two hours later

Arthur stood at the front of the Tower, and behind her was the newly-acquired Princess. The woman's eyes were wide and terrified, from the overall nature of what was going on, to Hightower's lustful gaze on her body as he guarded her rear--- apparently (Arthur knew EXACTLY where Hightower's eyes were, and he wanted nothing more than to sock the man in the face). Oswell Whent and the Gold-Cloaks were standing in a secure circle around them.

Lord Anders Yronwood came upon them, followed by an entire party of people. There they were.

"So let me guess, we're getting her to Essos?" Arthur asked Anders, as the latter rode up behind them.

"Get upon your horses, you fools. Fast. We need to be on the move as fast as possible."

Arthur turned, but abruptly a hail of arrows just barely sailed past his head, hitting all his fellows in their parts. Hightower's face was disfigured beyond recognition, and Whent clutched his shredded throat. The others had already fallen. He heard Lyanna's high-pitched scream, the woman had not been hit but she was cowering. Arthur felt a sharp pain in his back. He turned back around to Anders, blood pouring from his mouth.

"Why..." he asked, even as the next bolt hit him in the right eye.

Then there was just blackness.

OBERYN POV

The Tower of Joy, 282 AC, sixth moon

Oberyn could not shake off the feeling something was wrong.

The moment Doran had considered surrender, he felt something was wrong.

Doran was not a man who surrendered, he played a long game. Oberyn had seen it.

And to be fair, Doran's plot had horrified him.

Getting Elia back was something he was on board with. Using the Stark girl as a hostage to secure Elia, even that he could understand. Taking their sister and then using a slow-acting poison to eliminate the Stark after she got home, and using the relatively fresh Dornish forces to crown Elia and Aegon and kill every rebel, that he did not sympathize or understand with. There was no way Oberyn was going to let Doran do THAT in his hunger for power.

What he did not expect was the dead bodies of Anders Yronwood, an entire party of Dornish folks, and three members of the Kingsguard.

And the Stark woman standing above them, sword in hand--- was that the legendary Dawn?... bloody.

Damn. They did not exxaggerate that when they said that Lyanna Stark was the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

While they were able to coax her onto her horse, the woman did not let go of Dawn.

DORAN POV

Sunspear, 282 AC, sixth moon

Two weeks after the treason

He was furious.

Oberyn had not reached negotiations.

The bodies in the Tower of Joy told him what had happened.

What was the point of making a move without Elia being Queen? How would he make sure Elia and Aegon were repaid without crowning them? Did Oberyn not understand?

He would have to make sure Oberyn got the point once they got home. Of course he was happy Elia would be back. But Elia merely being back did not suit him. Elia with a Crown on her head suited him more.

LEYTON POV

Oldtown, 282 AC, sixth moon

Leyton's plans were falling apart like a box of playing cards toppling one other.

First, he had forgotten to take into account the fact that the Royal Fleet could turn either way. And that they were mostly discontent with Aerys.

Second, there was the fact that there had been a hot water body somewhere, a large one, under the Stormlands. And sheer luck and the pragmatism of using it had likely come from the Usurper, who likely knew his home ground better than them. He cursed himself for not realizing that an area with constant storms and rainfall would not have some water in the soil. Or probably he boiled it first. Whatever, it had broken.

And then there was Rickard Karstark, who had set up an entire Field of Fire and shattered the troops that were supposed to join him.

And the political pressure that led to Mace Tyrell, incompetent as that idiot was, splitting his forces.

So he had left an ambush in Ashford and one in Oldtown itself, defending the Hightower with the rest of the Reach force. Several had deserted, and it was likely that he was going to have a massive problem manning things even if he managed to kill the Usurper. That meant he had to hold them off for long enough, then catch a boat to Essos. It was the only way he could make it out.

[A/N:

1. Probably an underwhelming chapter. But Doran always gave me the creeps with his entire "behind the scenes" and his constant comparison to Tywin Lannister. I would not be surprised if he has a potential claimant for Queen Regent eliminated to see his sister on the Throne (boom, off go things). Same for Gerold Hightower, his attitude gave me the creeps: and considering Lewyn had a paramour and how Gerold was noted to have an implied turn with Rhaella, I will not be surprised if he and Rhaegar took turns with Lyanna. Arthur sounds like a solid fellow though, if only a bit like Barristan with rigid honor. He does sound like the kind to give Gerold Hightower a sock in the face for all that rhetoric. I can also imagine him telling Rhaegar: "Bro wtf do you wanna end up on the List?"
2. Which makes me more sorry that Arthur died due to betrayal. This is a bloody story however, with a lot more characters dying than canon. 
3. So just in case anyone did not understand, the plots were:
4. Arthur and the rest--- Escape to Essos with Lyanna with Dornish help, crown her Queen Regent and any potential child King (depending on if I decide to give her a kid), Rhaegar left only a month ago so she could be pregnant with no visible signs... yet. 
5. Doran--- Use Lyanna for hostage negotiation, get Elia and the kids, then basically do what Ellaria Sand did to Myrcella in the show (horrible), by the time she gets back dead the Seven Kingdoms forces are weakened by the war (which is pretty bloody here), so by the time Robert rages again Doran can declare Aegon King and use the (still) fresh Dornish forces to seize the Iron Throne, Lyanna was the favorite so Doran wants to kill Lyanna to secure the Throne for Elia.
6. Leyton--- Ambush, get a boat, run to Essos, hopefully kill Robert and major leaders so the resulting chaos keeps Westeros focused on themselves instead of him.
7. Oberyn--- Do everything except the war and kill Lyanna part, and talk some sense into his brother.]

Chapter Text

ROBERT POV

Ashford, 282 AC, sixth moon

"I have come a long way, Robert Baratheon." Oberyn said pleadingly, "And I'm glad to hear that you've accepted my deal. I will help you end the Rebellion and swear loyalty to Dorne, and return Lyanna Stark to you myself if you allow me to collect my sister, niece and nephew. Allow them to be raised as Martells, I ask of you. They will not hold claim to the Iron Throne in any way."

"Agreed." Robert replied, "But how exactly do you intend to return my betrothed?"

"By way of---" Oberyn hesitated a little. "Actually, she is here."

Robert's head spun: he no longer loved Lyanna after finding out what had happened in truth. Well, he loved her, but not as intensely as he had before. But still, to find out she was safe and alive...

He inclined his head. "What exactly do you want, Oberyn Martell?"

Oberyn sighed, before speaking something so horrific that Robert could not have conceived it in his mind. 

"My brother Doran planned to use the Dornish flank to secure the Iron Throne for Elia, after having Princess Lyanna poisoned. He was the one who jumped to marry Elia to the up-jumped, mad Crown Prince and caused a lot of her suffering... for his own political gain. I want you to help me remove him from power." Oberyn uttered the damning eyes, forcing Robert to widen his eyes in shock: "I want Elia to sit in Sunspear as the Princess of Dorne."

What the---? Robert thought, his eyes wide.

"So... in exchange for all this, you want Doran Martell to be replaced by Elia?'

"Yes."

Robert carefully looked at Oberyn for a second. Maybe replacing a power-hungry unknown variable with his much more likeable and amiable (and beautiful) sister, was probably not a very difficult decision to agree to.

"I agree."

In a few moments Oberyn had led him to the camp. He ducked into one of the tents and spoke a few short words.

Robert froze for a moment as he saw his once-lost love: the beauty which he had once thought unparalleled. Dressed in riding clothes, she appeared, clutching tightly a sword at her hip, her eyes wide, her hair tousled, her lips trembling somewhat. She seemed to compose herself as she saw him.

"Then we shall set out soon." Robert forced himself to look away from his once-betrothed, loving her as she looked but loathing her for what had happened.

It would not have happened if it had not been for your drinking and whoring!

You saw her beauty, Robert, but not the iron within!

Robert's jaw tightened, but he kept his mouth shut and his face calm. He turned back to Oberyn. "Have your soldiers escort her to the Northern camp, I want this ambush at Ashford dealt with today."

He saw Lyanna's face flash in surprise, and her eyes widen at the apparent (and actual) lack of attention, but he was done listening. He wanted to win his war and go home. No longer would a woman with apparent moral grandstanding and yet hypocrisy when it came to a dragonspawn, control his actions. This woman was a hypocrite, as much as she was beautiful and free-spirited, and being a generally quite straightforward man he did not like hypocrisy. He still loved her, but she had shattered his devotion to her when she shattered hers to his.

Four hours later

Four hours later, the Dornish betrayal of the Reachers left the Ashford front in complete ruins, with all the loyalist soldiers either dead or surrender. The loyalist ambush had the Dornish flank as an important component, and its withdrawal and betrayal led to a complete collapse of the ambush, and even the smallest commanders managed to destroy hordes of soldiers.

Robert casually rode victorious through the camp, stripping himself of his armor. The blood on his body and his muscles were not his, but others': few people could actually hurt him in truth. He had slain Barristan Selmy, Willem Darry and Rhaegar Targaryen in a single duel, what kind of candle did these uncountable hordes of what were essentially flies, hold to him? In truth that duel had exerted him more than any: he would never admit to anyone but his Maester that Selmy had nicked him in the arm thrice, and had it not been for timely treatment he would have bled out. Or that the dragonspawn's intervention was why he had to face such a grueling battle in the first place.

In a supremely good mood, he entered his tent, only for it to sour immediately.

Lyanna was seated on his bed, clad only in a thin gown, her body clearly visible through the translucent fabric. Her lips and cheeks were carefully enhanced by whatever cosmetics she had used. Her hair lay in a tumble across her back, neatly done as in opposition to the usual wild state of her hair. She smiled as she saw him, striding softly towards him, almost swaying as she did so, her attitude of sudden sweetness making it all the more unbearable.

"What are you doing?" Robert asked, his tone ice-cold.

"Why, getting to know my betrothed." Lyanna's voice was low and seductive... though it certainly worked--- only to some extent.

"Cut that crap, Lyanna." Robert cut her short, surprising her again. "You are my former betrothed, you got what you wanted."

"What---?!" Lyanna's eyes widened in shock and something else Robert could not identify.

"You got what you wanted. You hated marrying me, did you not?" His smile was tight, cold, out of place: and it was warranted, her look of shock deepened. "It stands cancelled. Live your life to the fullest. I wish you luck."

Lyanna looked as shell-shocked as he had imagined she would be. Her lip trembled, her eyes widened, she looked like a vision, but Robert refused to acknowledge any of it. She was the woman who never wanted him, why would he chase her and live a life full of regrets?

"Robert... what..." The girl tried to look innocent.

"It would have been good if you had merely told me that you did not want your marriage, instead of... you know, running of with dragonspawn ten times worse than I was. I would not have wished to shackle a woman who did not want me." Robert admitted, and he seemed to take a vicious and cold pleasure at the weight of the Stark girl's own actions crashing down on her, "Besides, Ned called off the betrothal anyway. He promised me he would kill me if I ever laid a hand on you. Sorry." Robert continued in his flippant, cold way, not caring how she felt. "So yes, enjoy your freedom." He took to his bed, not caring where she went. 

Lyanna's lips trembled, and she ran from the room, her eyes brimming with tears unshed, and Robert found that while he did not begrudge her for taking her own choice, he resented what he had done.

She meant nothing to him, but the fallout of her actions did. 

Robert still had some lust for her, but that was the day he realized that his love had died. He would not love again.

LYANNA POV

Ashford, 282 AC, sixth moon

She wept till she could no longer weep at her plight, at all she had been cursed with. She truly could not fathom the extent of what had happened. She felt that he had been a horrible person, but he was correct: she had poor judgement if she had run off with a man who was ten times worse than the man she had claimed to fear.

There was no fault in his cold logic: she was welcome to make her choices but the consequences were hers alone to bear. She had done something that started a war for the future of the Seven Kingdoms, leading to the death of thousands including her own father and brother. And she had not even gotten what she wanted out of it, to make things even worse than they looked at first glance. She had shattered a friendship, or so it seemed, that her other brother gushed on and on about. It was no wonder that she was receiving her just desserts. She had been foolish, and had made poor judgement, and had gotten off relatively lightly compared to what happened to many reckless women in the past. 

She wondered what she could do. She knew Ned would not ever let the truth get out, so there would be no social backlash, and Robert Baratheon had made peace with it. She had tried to seduce Robert to mend bridges, but she had already burnt one too many bridges in her act of foolishness.

She had to win back Robert's favor, quickly: it was not out of anything else, but if Ned and Robert had fallen out and it truly came to blows she was going to try to at least compensate for the ills she had done by at least helping them if not anything else. She was ashamed of herself, and wished to do better.

LEYTON POV

The Hightower, Oldtown, 282 AC, sixth moon

He who breaks guest right is blighted by the Gods.

How was he going to get out?

Leyton ran around in shock, through the passages and hallways, on brief occasions stealing a glance out of the window to see what the status of the siege was. His actions had finally caught up to him, and the complete obliteration of the ambush at Ashford and the betrayal of the Dornish in both Oldtown and Ashford left his forces open to a massacre by angry Lannister soldiers who had not taken kindly to the framing of House Lannister and the breach of guest right.

And as he turned to leave, his stomach pooled in dread as he saw a sword pointed directly at his throat.

Tygett Lannister.

"Listen, I can give you everything I want..." He began to say.

"You framed my family, can you give that back?"

"No..."

The sword moved like lightning, burning his throat as the blood spurted out like a fountain and the decapitated head, completely detached from its body.

Leyton Hightower had breathed his last, spelling the end of the male line of House Hightower.

[A/N:

1. Robert makes his deal with Oberyn to overthrow Doran and install Elia. Profitable for both him and Oberyn. Doran is a power-hungry political player (and constantly seems to be making extremely dangerous moves), so Oberyn wants him out before Elia and her children, whom he greatly adores, are exposed to the schemes.
2. Robert technically rejects Lyanna. The Betrothal is off. Yeah, some arguments are borderline offensive, but there are rising tensions and more emotional arguments of both sides, can you really expect him not to? She is a free person by our standards, and can make her choices, but she cannot really escape consequences of poor judgement: for example, wanting to be a free person and running away with a married man who wants to make you a broodmare after being sucked up in his kool-aid. Rhaegar demonstrated he was not loyal when he shunned Elia--- that is horrible judgement right there.
3. Leyton Hightower had to die for the Red Crossing. He doomed House Hightower. Tygett Lannister is too OP for even the Gods to take without a disease. He killed four soldiers at age ten including a Knight. Arthur Dayne who? I doubt Tygett will take such a frame-up of his brothers and nephew well.]

Chapter Text

NED POV

The Red Keep, King's Landing, 282 AC, seventh moon

The first thing Ned noted about Robert was that not a single word was exchanged between him and his old friend. Yes, he still thought his friend had a measure of guilt, but the overall dismissal still hurt. As it was, Robert had ascended the Iron Throne and the war was over. He sat there on the Iron Throne, not even so much as fazed from the long rows and columns of swords that constituted it. Neither had he spoken to Ned's sister: after Oberyn Martell had approached him and handed her over, that was the end of it. The betrothal, once a union of two Houses who were great friends and a testament to North-South cooperation, now lay in shambles. And Ned knew that Robert would be approached by a thousand different marriage proposals immediately after the news broke.

"Respected Lords and Ladies, the royal court is now in session." Robert spoke, his voice echoing through the room. "First of all, I would like to extend my sincere thanks to the people who have aided me in victory in this rebellion. The chosen Lord-Commanders and Lord-Admirals are a testament to their loyalty, ability and resilience."

Not all of them were, Ned thought. 

"The positions for the Reach, the Vale and Dorne still remain vacant. For their work in undermining the works of the cursed Leyton Hightower, I name Baelor Hightower and Oberyn Martell the Lord-Commanders of the Reach and Dornish host, respectively."

There was a moment of stunned silence followed by mild applause as the men in question seemed to make their way towards the Throne were the King granted them their positions. The loudest clapping came from Alerie Hightower, the widow of Mace Tyrell, and Elia Martell. He had known that Jason Mallister and Wyman Manderly had gotten the position of Lord-Admirals and the Lord-Commanders of the North, Westerlands, Vale, Stormlands (and Dragonstone) and Riverlands had been selected, as Rickard Karstark, Tygett Lannister, Yohn Royce, Stannis Baratheon and Hoster Tully respectively. 

With those positions decided he was witness to yet another shocking truth.

"Prince Doran Martell, please come forward."

Doran Martell emerged from the crowd of nobles, bowing lowly before the King, though Ned felt that he was not sincere from the way he bowed.

"Prince Doran, you have been accused of attempting to mount a coup to install your nephew, Aegon Targaryen, on the Iron Throne. In the process hurting any and all who came in your way, including Lady Lyanna Stark whose status as a Princess potentially affected his claim to the Throne. How do you plead?"

Doran's face turned chalk-white as his head snapped up to the King. Elia let out a gasp of horror from the front of the crowd: others in the room shuffled, whispered, murmured, in likewise horror. Even those like Jon Arryn beside the Iron Throne were surprised. Lyanna's face reflected the same horror he felt. Only Oberyn Martell's face was stony, as if he already knew it.

"What?! Lies, Your Grace! Whoever---" It seemed he had caught on, as he turned to Oberyn who did not look shocked at all, "Oberyn, you idiot!" He roared, all sense of propriety forgotten. "How could you? Aegon could have had the Throne, you had to sell us out! For gaining a little short-term favor...?!"

"I will not see House Martell follow House Targaryen on the Iron Throne for your short-sightedness, brother. You and your hunger for power was always unfortunately too much. Elia suffered at the hands of Prince Rhaegar because you married her to get your blood on the Throne. A war where Elia's bloodline is extinguished is not a war I want." Oberyn replied, "I am just happy to get my family back."

"This is a coup! A coup! You will pay for this!" Doran roared as he was led away. 

"I decree that by right of Dornish inheritance, Doran Martell's titles and lands are forfeit and the new ruler of House Martell and Dorne be Lady Elia Martell." Robert was quick to pass his judgement.

That was definitely planned, Ned thought. Completely methodical.

If anything, Elia's jaw was (almost) on the floor. Lyanna, on the other hand, seemed to know. Ned made it a point in his mind to ask his sister about what she had known about this little agreement, later.

Two hours later, after the end of the King's post-war court session

Ned returned to his chambers, dazed. He needed a drink. After Robert had given orders for the sanitation situation at King's Landing to be taken care of and judged the remaining Lords along with full compensation (ransoms to the Crown, basically) and ordered the caches of wildfire to be removed, the court had been dismissed. 

The moment the door had been closed behind him and Lyanna, he turned to his sister: "Did you know about this entire shit?"

"Yes. It was part of the negotiation. I was returned in exchange for--- that."

Ned looked completely unimpressed. 

"Anyway... where are we going now?"

Ned looked at her, with a glare. "We're going home. There's nothing left for the Starks in King's Landing now."

"But--- surely Robert's your friend and will offer you---"

"Former friend." Ned spat, "Not now."

"What... former?!" Lyanna looked completely taken aback, "The rumors were true."

"I told him what you said, what was wrong with him. He didn't take it well, of course." Ned ground out, "You wanted not to marry him, so I cut it off."

"But..."

"No buts. And not another word. We're going back to Winterfell." Ned cut her short, turning away from her and striding to the door. "If you've made any friends here, say your goodbyes."

And he walked away, leaving Lyanna behind him. He was sure she was going to appreciate it.

OBERYN POV

The Black Cells, 282 AC, eighth moon

Doran glared balefully at Oberyn as he entered the cell. 

"So you come, brother. Did you truly gain the courage to face me, after knowing that it was you who arranged for this... power-hungry takeover?" Doran spoke, his voice laced with venom potent enough for Oberyn to dip his spear blades in. "A coup?"

"A coup? I am simply tired of the bullshit." Oberyn retorted, calmly, not even missing a beat. "I would rather see us forsake the Iron Throne than live through the constant bloodshed. Elia is safe, Aegon is safe, Rhaenys is safe. That is all."

"You betrayed us! Elia should be on the Throne right now, and Aegon should be crowned King!"

"Not at the cost of their Crown. House Targaryen forfeit their claim. We have no claim anymore, let's be honest."

"You're just pessimistic as usual," Doran replied bitterly. "There's anything possible, if we're strong enough to do whatever's required to get it."

"Well, I won't. I love my family too much to throw them away on a quest for the Crown." Oberyn smiled, "You were a bonus. You've done enough harm to our family to get Elia and her children killed as well. And sorry brother, I'm not strong enough to be a kin-slayer."

Doran's face reeked of suspicion, still unknowing of the truth: "What do you mean, Oberyn?"

"I know what exactly you did to mother, Doran. Consider this... a debt repayment, so to say."

Doran's face flashed in fear for the first time, as he seemed to grin nervously: "Oberyn, if you're talking of the time I stole her herbs and mixed them with a..."

"Oh, no, no." Oberyn's voice was low and yet predatory. "But only you went near her horse. And mother was too skilled of a rider to break her neck in a riding accident."

"What?!" Doran snapped. "How dare you, Oberyn! You accused me of murder! Of kin-slaying, no less!"

"She didn't approve Elia's betrothal to, in her words, a delusional dragon-dick, remember?" Oberyn threw the words in Doran's face. "Then she suddenly dies, you take over Sunspear, and the betrothal is allowed to go on with great fervor to the Mad King... am I right or wrong? Unfortunately, there's no legal way to punish you for that. But I'd still have let it go... for a while more, if you hadn't risked Elia with that little plot. Now--- you have to go."

"YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Doran roared, "Come back here! Come back, you little shit!" 

Oberyn did not listen to Doran, he knew the other man was condemned for what he had done.

Let them not say that House Lannister was the only one who paid their debts.

[A/N:

1. I always felt that Doran Martell was sleazy. This is not canon. Anyway, it is at least inferred that if Elia had been killed there would have been some support, but I very much doubt that with Elia alive House Targaryen would be supported. Even canonically Elia is a mother first and foremost, and unless Elia was exceptionally evil she would not have gone for a war or anything just to see her son on the Throne. She would forsake claims if only for her children. Oberyn would support her because he loves Elia. This was just an additional touch because I find Doran a little sleazy.]