Jon Connington, who had originally promised to bring 30,000 troops, arrived with just under 20,000. However, he arrived five days earlier than expected. This not only offset the slight disadvantage in troop numbers, but also ensured that he was there in time for the decisive battle with Robert. It was a shrewd and timely decision.
Moreover, Viserys' army was far superior to Robert's in both equipment and morale. There was little suspense as to the outcome of the impending battle.
The old captain Hoyt was the first to arrive at Maidenpool, carrying the three-headed dragon banner of House Targaryen. As his feet touched Westerosi soil, he felt an odd sense of unreality. Only a few short years ago, he and Viserys had come to an agreement regarding the Windblown mercenaries, and now they both stood on the cusp of their ultimate goals.
Nearly 60,000 troops had gathered in Maidenpool, yet the strict military discipline was remarkable, something that earned Hoyt's respect. After some pre-battle preparations, Connington approached Viserys to speak about his eldest daughter, Victoria.
"Blessed by the Seven, the Princess is very healthy—growing fast and sleeping soundly," Connington reported with a fatherly smile. He knew well the dangers of childbirth in Westeros, where the infant mortality rate was terrifyingly high for both noble and common families alike. Victoria's health felt like a blessing from the gods.
"That's wonderful. What does she look like?" Viserys asked, barely able to contain his excitement. This was his first child in two lifetimes, and the thought of her filled him with a mixture of pride and longing. He desperately wanted to return and see her, but the war tied his hands.
"She has silver hair and purple eyes, though they're a bit bluish. Her ears are more like Lady Shinelli's, but the rest—her eyes and nose—are all yours," Connington replied, his tone warm.
Viserys rubbed his hands together in excitement, while nearby, Daenerys smiled at the news. The birth of the princess was good for the expansion of House Targaryen. Although Viserys had already decreed that children born to his concubines would still address Daenerys as "Queen Mother," she knew they were not truly her own. Nonetheless, it was an important step for their house.
Dany quietly counted on her fingers, realizing she would be sixteen in just over a year. Yet, despite the growing family, there were still only two dragonlords in the Targaryen household, and their position was far from secure. She glanced at Viserys, wondering when they would finally find the stability to marry and further strengthen their lineage.
As Daenerys watched Viserys, who was still eagerly asking Connington about the appearance of his daughter, Victoria, she murmured softly, "Willemrys." Her thoughts were momentarily distant, but the sight of the banners outside snapped her back to the present.
The yellow crown stag of House Baratheon flapped ominously in the wind, heralding the coming storm. The army in Harrenhal was gathering, preparing to strike at Viserys' forces. But before the battle, several lives would be sacrificed—offerings to the Lannister banners flying beside Robert's.
Robert stood coldly on the execution platform, watching the seven nobles who had attempted to assassinate him. Their hands were bound behind their backs, nooses around their necks, standing precariously on wooden blocks. They had been caught in their attempt to kill him, and now they faced the consequences.
Among them was Ser Raymun Darry, the ringleader. Stripped to the waist, his body was battered and bruised—his nose broken, one eye swollen shut, and his torso covered in cuts and bruises. He looked like a bloodied gourd, yet there was no fear in his eyes. He stared at Robert with defiance, his posture that of a man embracing martyrdom, ready to meet his fate with unwavering resolve.
Inspired by Viserys' daring night attack on Summerhall, Raymun had believed that his bold actions could hasten the end of the war. With all four of his older brothers having fallen alongside Rhaegar on the battlefield, Raymun felt it was his duty to continue the fight. In his mind, he could not be left behind.
In secret, Raymun had rallied a group of Riverlands nobles still loyal to House Targaryen, hoping to assassinate Robert at Harrenhal and bring a swift end to the conflict. They had named themselves "The Dragons," after Viserys' cause. Raymun took on the moniker of the Yellow Dragon, and the others adopted dragon names, hoping their assassination attempt would be as swift and devastating as dragonfire.
But somehow, the plan had been betrayed, their movements discovered before they could strike. Raymun could not figure out how their plan had unraveled so completely.
'Thanks to the Red Witch... wherever she is now.' Robert thought, his mind briefly wandering to Melisandre. She had given him a completely different kind of "experience" during her time at court. Though the last mission she had overseen had failed, the nights they spent together had left a lasting impression on him.
At the execution platform, Gendry approached, breaking his reverie. "Your Grace, everything is ready," he said.
Robert rose from his seat and ascended the high platform, his every move watched by the gathered lords of the Riverlands and Crownlands. As he scanned the crowd, he saw the yellow stag banners of House Baratheon fluttering in the breeze, but among them were also the blue sturgeon of House Tully, the scarlet-and-gold lions of Lannister, and even the direwolf of House Stark. Robert, still unaware that the North's army had returned, believed Ned was holding Bitterbridge on his behalf.
Turning to address the nobles below, Robert began, "The son of the Mad King, the brother of the rapist, has returned! I—"
"Long live Your Grace Viserys!"
The shout came from the crowd, cutting Robert off mid-sentence. It was Ser Raymun Darry, defiant even with his hands bound and several teeth knocked out. His voice was hoarse but unyielding.
A Lannister strode forward and landed a punch on Raymun's already battered face. But the blow only incited the others. The rest of the condemned assassins, despite their beaten bodies, joined Raymun's cry.
"Long live Your Grace Viserys!"
"Long live Viserys!"
"Long live the Targaryens!"
"Long live the dragons! Long live the Seven!"
Their shouts were ragged, teeth missing, words slurred, but they were loud enough to disrupt the proceedings. They had no illusions about their fate. Their only goal now was to throw the execution into chaos and insult Robert one last time.
By the time the guards managed to gag them, the damage was done. The mood was soured, the ceremony derailed. Edmure Tully, standing nearby, sighed in frustration. The atmosphere of authority that should have accompanied Robert's speech had evaporated.
Robert, seething with anger, turned back to the crowd. "In this battle, I will lead you to kill the remaining Targaryens! Let those incestuous bastards be driven from our lands!"
With a dramatic flourish, he unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Raymun and the other would-be assassins, their defiant glares meeting his.
Seven soldiers stepped forward, kicking away the wooden supports beneath Raymun and his comrades. The ropes tightened, and almost instantly, the weight of their bodies snapped their necks. Their faces flushed red as their eyes bulged, and saliva dribbled from their mouths. They twitched and struggled briefly before going limp, their rebellion snuffed out.
In Westerosi tradition, noblemen were usually granted the dignity of a beheading, while commoners were hanged. But Robert had intended this as a final insult to Raymun and his conspirators—traitors in his eyes, not worthy of a noble's death.
With their bodies still swaying on the gallows, Robert raised his voice once more. "Move out!"
At his command, the army poured out of Harrenhal, ready to march into battle, ready to gamble everything in the final fight against the remnants of House Targaryen.