Chapter 16: The Fall of the Griffin
The Aftermath of Stoney Sept – POV: Jon Connington
The bells of Stoney Sept still echoed in Jon Connington's mind—each toll a reminder of the ruin and his own crushing failure. They rang not for victory, but for his disgrace. Now, as he rode toward the Red Keep, his crimson cloak—once the mark of a proud warrior—hung in tatters around his shoulders. His horse, though sturdy and true, bore the burden of defeat as surely as his heart did. Connington had left behind a field strewn with the dead and wounded; his scattered men were now shadows of their former might. He returned not as a commander who had triumphed, but as a condemned man burdened with the weight of shattered dreams.
The journey to King's Landing had been a silent one. The roads, empty except for ragged groups of merchants and desperate refugees fleeing the rebellion, seemed to mourn his failure. Whispers of Robert Baratheon's growing legend followed him like ghostly echoes in the twilight. The Usurper had survived, the North had arrived, and the war, once easily winnable in Connington's eyes, had shifted irrevocably. All because he had failed when he mattered most.
As he rode through the barren outskirts of the capital, Connington's thoughts churned with bitter regret. He remembered the day on the battlefield when every plan had unraveled—the moment the Northern tide had broken through his defenses. The sound of clashing steel, the cries of the dying, and the ceaseless tolling of those accursed bells haunted him. He could not shake the image of Robert Baratheon, wild-eyed and unbowed, his laughter ringing out amidst carnage. That man had become a symbol of defiance even as Connington's own forces crumbled like sand.
Every mile brought him closer to the Red Keep—a place where he knew his fate was already sealed. His failure would be laid bare before the Mad King, and with it, his honor would be forfeit forever.
The Red Keep – POV: Ser Gerold Hightower
Inside the cold, stone walls of the Red Keep, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood unmoving like a monument to a bygone era. His gaze, steely and unyielding, fixed upon the Iron Throne where King Aerys II sat like a brooding specter. The court was packed with sycophants and fearful lords, all eager to witness the downfall of one of their own. Today, Jon Connington knelt at the foot of the throne, his armor stained and his crimson cloak reduced to tatters—a stark testament to his failure on the field.
Aerys's voice, as brittle and dangerous as a splintered shard of glass, cut through the heavy silence. "You were supposed to kill Robert Baratheon," he hissed, eyes narrowing as he regarded Connington with cold contempt. His decaying fingernails tapped an irregular rhythm against the jagged steel of the throne, punctuating every word with menace.
Hightower said nothing. He had long learned that in the presence of the Mad King, silence was the safest shield. The king's words, however, were not yet done. "You failed," Aerys continued, his voice rising to a shriek. "You had him trapped, did you not?"
Connington's answer was a low murmur, "The North arrived…" His voice trailed off, the admission laden with resignation. "The battle turned against us. They were too disciplined, too—"
"Excuses!" Aerys roared, slamming his fist against the cold floor. "The Griffin falls, does he? Like a common dog, rolling in the mud while the Usurper lives?" His tone was derisive and scornful, each word a dagger aimed at Connington's pride.
Hightower observed the man before him—a once-proud commander now reduced to a figure of defeat. There was no defiance in Connington's eyes now, only resignation and an aching sorrow for what might have been. The king spat, "You are no Hand of mine. You are a failure." His words, harsh and final, resonated through the hall and chilled the hearts of all who heard them.
Hightower felt no satisfaction at these words; he had seen many men fall, many brilliant commanders reduced to ashes by the whims of a mad king. He understood that pride, when mixed with ambition, was a dangerous spark. Yet, even as he bore witness to Connington's humiliation, he could not help but feel a quiet pity for the man—pity for a soul who had once held the promise of greatness and now lay broken before the throne.
The Last Loyalist – POV: Lord Qarlton Chelsted
Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin and one of the few remaining loyalists, watched the scene with a sinking heart. From his vantage near the back of the hall, he saw Connington's downfall not simply as the failure of a commander, but as the collapse of a hope for order amid the chaos of rebellion. Though Connington had made mistakes, he had fought with determination. Now, thrown away like a broken blade, his honor was tarnished beyond repair.
Chelsted's eyes wandered over the gathered lords. They watched with a mixture of fascination and disdain, whispers and furtive smirks barely concealed behind polite masks. No one dared speak out in defense of Connington. Their silence was as damning as the king's wrath.
Aerys's voice cut through the murmur, taunting and gleeful. "The rebels now hold the Riverlands, and Robert Baratheon walks free," he sneered. "And all because my Hand was not strong enough to stop him." His laughter, cold and devoid of true mirth, echoed in the hall, a final insult to those who had once believed in his command.
Chelsted's stomach churned. The king's cruelty was boundless, and his disregard for the lives lost in the war was evident in every callous word. "You are hereby dismissed from my service," Aerys declared, his voice rising as if to emphasize his finality. "And you will leave Westeros. Exile is merciful, don't you think?"
At these words, Connington's head lifted, his eyes meeting the king's in a silent exchange of defiance and despair. His hands clenched at his sides, a futile effort to hold onto a sliver of pride even as he was cast aside.
Chelsted then shifted his gaze to the empty space where Prince Rhaegar should have been. Rhaegar, the one beacon of hope in a kingdom spiraling into madness, was absent—rumored to be in Dorne, far from the heart of this torment. Was his absence a calculated maneuver by the king? Chelsted wondered bitterly. It hardly mattered anymore. With Rhaegar missing, and the realm teetering on the brink of collapse, it was only a matter of time before Westeros was consumed by fire and blood.
As Connington turned and walked from the throne room in defeat, Chelsted's heart ached for the loss of honor and duty. The Mad King's grip tightened on the realm, and with each passing day, the chances for redemption grew slimmer. Chelsted knew that when the fires of war finally blazed unchecked, there would be no victors—only ashes in the wake of a broken kingdom.
Epilogue: The Weight of Exile
Outside the Red Keep, the cold winds of King's Landing carried with them the bitter taste of betrayal and despair. Jon Connington, now exiled and shamed, rode away from the city that had once been his home, burdened by the knowledge that his failure had cost him everything. In the shadows of the narrow streets, whispers of his downfall mingled with the clamor of the besieged and the grieving.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted, left to watch the inevitable collapse of the realm from within the Red Keep, felt a profound sadness. He had long understood that the seeds of this ruin had been sown by ambition and cruelty, and now those seeds were bearing bitter fruit. The fate of Westeros seemed all but sealed. Aerys's madness, the rebellion's endless bloodshed, and the silent suffering of the people foretold a future of relentless despair. The wheels of fate churned inexorably toward a catastrophe that would leave no soul unscathed.
As night deepened and the cold settled over the Red Keep like a shroud, Chelsted resolved that one day, truth and justice might yet rise from the ashes. But for now, he could only bear witness to the fall of honor and the death of hope. The Fall of the Griffin was complete—a stark, cruel reminder that in a world ruled by madness and treachery, even the mightiest could be brought low.
In that silent, haunted moment, with the echoes of the fallen still whispering through the halls of power, the final realization took hold: there would be no victors in this war. Only broken men, shattered dreams, and the bitter promise of exile. And as Westeros teetered on the edge of oblivion, the cold certainty of inevitable ruin loomed large—a grim portent that when the fires finally consumed the land, nothing would remain but ashes and sorrow.