Mid-283 AC – Late 283 AC
The Loyalist Perspective
The war was slipping through their fingers.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood in his command tent, eyes locked on the war table. The candlelight flickered over the map before him, illuminating the jagged ink lines marking rivers, roads, and settlements. Each red token represented the forces still loyal to the crown. Each black token marked rebel advances. And with every passing day, the black outnumbered the red.
The rebels had taken Fairmarket.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening against the edges of the table. He had counted on Jon Connington to hold Stoney Sept, to keep Robert Baratheon contained, but that battle had been lost. And now the rebels, emboldened by their victories, pressed northward toward the Trident, cutting down everything in their path.
"The town is gone," Lord Darry said grimly, breaking the silence. His armor was dented, his cloak muddied. He had been there when the Northmen came. "Bolton's men were ruthless. They killed without hesitation. And Stark's host… they fight like men with nothing left to lose."
Rhaegar lifted his gaze, taking in the assembled lords. Lord Mooton, Lord Fell, Lord Grandison, and Ser Barristan Selmy stood around him, all bearing the same expression—grim, uncertain. Even Ser Jonothor Darry, ever a loyalist, seemed troubled.
"Robert's forces are relentless," Darry continued. "They're not just winning battles. They're breaking our men's spirits. Many of my soldiers fled. Some even surrendered to the rebels."
"Surrendered?" Jonothor snapped. "Traitors."
Darry's jaw tightened, but he did not argue.
"It's not just soldiers," Lord Mooton added. "The smallfolk are turning against us, too. They see Robert as the better choice. They welcome his men."
Rhaegar closed his eyes for a brief moment. He knew why. He had been gone too long—chasing a dream, seeking something beyond the throne. And in his absence, Robert Baratheon had become something else. Not just a rebel leader, but a symbol. A warrior-king in the making.
And Rhaegar was the dragon whose time was slipping away.
---
The Fall of Fairmarket
The battle had not been large, but it had been decisive.
Fairmarket, a modest town along the Blue Fork, was supposed to be a temporary hold—a delay to slow the rebel advance, not a battlefield where House Targaryen's forces would be shattered. Lord Darry had stationed a force of Crownlanders and Riverlords there, hoping to buy time for Rhaegar's army to consolidate.
But the rebels had come swiftly.
The first sign of their approach had been the distant sound of war horns. The deep, mournful call carried across the fields, setting nerves on edge. The men-at-arms gripped their spears tighter, shifting uneasily.
Then the wolves arrived.
Eddard Stark's Northmen led the charge, their banners billowing as they stormed the town's outskirts. The Crownlanders tried to hold the gate, but it was Roose Bolton's men who broke them—silent and methodical, cutting through ranks with brutal efficiency.
From the walls, Darry had watched in horror as the rebel forces swarmed the town. The fighting was quick and bloody. Some Riverlords surrendered outright, unwilling to slaughter their own kin for a losing cause. Others fought and died for the crown.
And then there was the man with the shields.
---
The Ghost in the Red Cloak
Ser Myles Mooton had been among the last to flee Fairmarket, barely escaping with his life. Now, standing before Rhaegar in the command tent, he recounted what he had seen.
"There was a man," Myles said, voice low. "Draped in red, moving through the battle like a shadow."
Rhaegar's brow furrowed. "A rebel knight?"
"No." Myles shook his head. "A warrior unlike any I've seen before. He carried no sword, only two shields—one strapped to each arm."
Some of the lords scoffed, but Myles pressed on.
"He fought like a demon. Broke our lines from within. At first, we thought we had him cornered, but the moment we surrounded him, men started falling. Not from swords or arrows—he threw them aside with his shields. He broke them with his fists. I saw him cut through twenty men before he reached the gate."
Ser Barristan narrowed his eyes. "You're saying a single warrior opened the gates to Fairmarket?"
Myles hesitated, then nodded.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly. "And you lived to tell the tale."
Myles bowed his head. "Barely."
---
The Skirmish at Lord Harroway's Town
The news had not stopped there.
After Fairmarket, another blow had fallen.
"The supply convoy was lost."
The messenger—a weary Crownlander knight—kneeled before Rhaegar, his armor still dusted with the dirt of the road.
"How?" Rhaegar's voice was controlled, but cold.
The knight swallowed. "The Crannogmen. They struck at dusk, moving through the swamps like ghosts. Before we knew it, half our men were dead, and the wagons were burning."
Howland Reed.
Rhaegar clenched his jaw. He had underestimated the Crannogmen, the strange, quiet folk of the Neck. They did not fight with open strength, but with patience, stealth, and poison-tipped weapons.
"They took everything they could carry," the knight continued. "Weapons, provisions, even the horses. The rest they burned."
Rhaegar looked at the map again. Without those supplies, his army would move slower.
Too slow.
"They mean to starve us," Lord Grandison muttered.
Rhaegar pressed his fingertips against the war table. He had planned to gather more strength before facing Robert, to force the rebels into a decisive battle on his own terms.
But time was no longer a luxury.
---
The March to the Trident
"We cannot afford to move slowly," Rhaegar finally said. His voice was steady, decisive. "Every moment we hesitate, the rebels grow stronger."
Ser Barristan Selmy, ever the loyal knight, nodded. "Then we take the fight to them."
Lord Mooton hesitated. "We are not yet at full strength. If we march now, we risk—"
"We risk losing everything if we wait," Rhaegar interrupted. His violet eyes burned with conviction. "The Trident is where this war will be decided. We must be ready."
Silence.
Then, slowly, the lords began to nod.
The order was given.
The loyalist army would march.
The final battle was coming.
And this time, there would be no retreat.
The war was slipping away, but Rhaegar Targaryen refused to let despair take root among his men. The losses at Fairmarket and Lord Harroway's Town had shaken the army. Rumors whispered through the ranks—tales of invincible rebels, of Northmen who felt no fear, of a red-cloaked warrior who had shattered the gates of Fairmarket alone. Worse still, desertions had begun.
Rhaegar knew that before they marched to the Trident, before he could face Robert Baratheon in battle, he had to restore faith in the men who would fight for him.
That night, he ordered the campfires to burn bright and gathered his bannermen, knights, and soldiers before him. Thousands stood in silence, the moonlight casting long shadows over their weary faces. Their eyes, dulled with exhaustion and doubt, turned to their prince.
And so Rhaegar spoke.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood upon the wooden platform, the golden light of the campfires flickering against his polished armor. The cold night air carried the whispers of doubt and despair through the gathered soldiers, men weary from long marches and bitter defeats. They had fought, they had bled, and some had begun to lose faith.
He could see it in their eyes—fear, uncertainty, exhaustion. These were not the proud knights and warriors who had once ridden with him beneath banners of red and black. These were men battered by war, haunted by the specter of defeat.
He took a breath, then spoke. His voice was steady, not raised in anger nor trembling with desperation, but firm, unyielding, and filled with the quiet strength of a man who knew his duty.
---
"My brothers. My warriors. My people. Look at me."
The murmur of the crowd hushed. Thousands of eyes turned to him—knights, lords, foot soldiers, and camp followers alike.
"I will not waste your time with lies. I will not tell you that this war has been kind. I will not tell you that victory is assured. We have all seen too much, lost too much, to believe in false hopes."
His violet eyes swept over them, filled not with pity, but with understanding. He let the silence stretch, letting them feel the weight of his words.
"But hear me now. Do you think the rebels have not suffered as we have? Do you think their road has been easier, their nights any less haunted by the faces of the fallen? Do you think they do not bury their dead, just as we do?"
A few heads lifted at that, some nodding faintly.
"We are told they are unstoppable. That Robert Baratheon cannot fall. That the Northmen are made of iron and the Riverlords fight with the fury of the storm. That there is a man among them who breaks armies alone."
He let the words linger, then exhaled slowly.
"And yet, they still march forward. Why? Because they fear us. Because they know that the true battle has not yet been fought. Because they know that when we stand together, when we fight as one, we are not just an army—we are a storm, we are a tide, we are the fire that will burn away this rebellion!"
Now, there were murmurs in the crowd—not of fear, but of recognition.
"You call yourselves beaten?" Rhaegar's voice grew sharper now, his eyes blazing. "Then I say this—look to the man beside you! Look to the warriors who have marched with you across rivers, through forests, through blood! Have they fallen? Have they broken? NO!"
A voice shouted, "No!" More joined, shields clashing against swords.
"Then why should we?!" Rhaegar's voice rose now, not in desperation, but in challenge.
"I do not fight for a crown! I do not fight for a throne of swords! I fight for you, for every man who has sworn to protect his home, his family, his future! I fight because I must, because if we falter, if we turn back, if we surrender, we are not only losing a battle—we are giving up everything that we have ever stood for!"
The murmurs had become a chorus now, a rising tide of voices. The men straightened, their hands tightening on their weapons.
"And you would give that up? You would let them claim our land, our people, our future? You would let them decide who rules, who lives, who dies? You would let them take what is ours, unchallenged?"
A resounding "NO!" erupted from the army.
"Then fight! Not because I command it, not because I wear a dragon on my chest, but because you believe in something greater than yourself! Fight because you are not nameless soldiers marching to your deaths! You are the might of the Seven Kingdoms! You are warriors! You are protectors! You are the storm that will break upon the rebels and wash them away!"
Now, men were cheering, beating their swords against their shields, lifting their banners high. The firelight reflected in their eyes, but it was not fear that burned there—it was fury, it was purpose.
Rhaegar lifted his sword high.
"Tomorrow, we march not as men defeated, but as men reborn! We march to the Trident, where fate itself will decide the future of this realm! But I tell you this—fate does not command us! The gods do not decide this war! WE DO!"
The roar of thousands echoed across the night, shaking the very earth. Swords rose into the sky, shields crashed like thunder, voices rose in defiant unity.
Rhaegar turned, his heart pounding, knowing that in this moment, he had given them something far more powerful than orders.
He had given them a reason to fight.
And for one night, the Targaryen camp was not filled with whispers of fear, but with the deafening war cries of men who had remembered why they still stood.