Chapter 8 – Rebellion
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Battle of Summerhall
Robert Baratheon's POV
The stormlight painted the broken towers of Summerhall in hues of iron and gold. My heart thundered like distant drums as I led my men across the trampled, blood-soaked field. Lord Fell's sigil rippled on standard and surcoat—his host already drawn in defiance, braver than I'd hoped.
Across the gusting wind, he raised his sword.
"For King Aerys! For the Stormlands!" he cried.
"TRAITORS!" I bellowed, my voice ragged and raw. Storm's End was behind me, vengeance in my hands.
"For Storm's End! For Honor! For Robert Baratheon!"
Steel rang as we surged forward.
I found Lord Fell in the chaos—his blade fast, his stance firm. Stronger than the tales said. But I was the storm, the wrath of gods and thunder. I ducked his swing and brought my warhammer crashing into his thigh. He stumbled, armor buckling. Sweat and mist blurred the shattered ruins behind him.
"This is my storm. My land. My war."
I struck again—once, twice—until he collapsed, blood on his lips and rain on his brow.
A moment of silence—then his men broke. We chased them down like wolves in the rain.
But even as victory came, new banners rose—Cafferen blue, Grandison gold. Through the mist, their knights approached.
Silveraxe Fell glared through the grime. I grabbed his pauldron and snarled,
"Yield, and you live. Fight, and you join your father."
He yielded, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
Cafferen's knights hit like a hammer—hard and fast. A sword tore my sleeve, blood running down my arm, but I swung back harder. My hammer broke their shield wall in a roar of fury. When Lord Cafferen fell to his knees, I seized his shoulder.
"Your king sent you to die for madness."
It was midday before Grandison's men arrived, expecting allies. What they found instead were the stormlords, blooded but unbeaten, blades already waiting in the howling wind. They barely formed ranks before we shattered them.
By sunset, three armies lay broken across the fields.
Lord Fell—dead.
Cafferen and Grandison—chained.
Silveraxe—disarmed and glowering.
I stood tall in ruin and rain, battered, bruised—but unbroken. I climbed a crumbling stone, rain streaking down my face, turning my hair black as night.
"Storm's End stands!" I roared.
"The Stormlands stand with me! If any man still serves the Dragon, ride for King's Landing—pray the storm does not catch you!"
A roar rose from my men, bruised fists pounding steel.
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Eddard Stark
I've reached the mainland of the Vale. Now, I ride alone through open country toward Jon Arryn's camp.
The land here is empty—too empty. Quiet roads and long shadows. It makes travel faster, but also dangerous.
It's been weeks since I washed up on the shores of the Three Sisters. Since then, I've had little but hard roads and cold meals. But now, I finally see their banners ahead.
Jon Arryn steps from his command tent as I ride in.
"Ned! What happened? You were supposed to be in the North, calling banners."
"My ship wrecked in the storm. I was washed up near the Sisters. Made my way here through the Vale."
He exhaled, relief and worry fighting in his eyes.
"Thank the Seven you're alive. But your delay... we need the North, Ned. Without them, we'll be crushed."
"You don't need to worry about that," I said. "The North will come. Even without me. My brother Artos would have called the Banners after listening to the news of Father and Brandon."
He frowned. "Your brother... Artos, isn't he fifteen? You really think northern lords will rally behind a boy?"
"He's a Stark," I answered. "He's got the Umbers. The Mormonts will follow regardless. The mountain clans always answer the call. Crewyn, Winterfell, and many others will stand with him. He's more like Brandon than I ever was. He is well liked in North."
Jon nodded slowly. "We'll send scouts to confirm. I hope you're right, Ned. I truly do. Without the North, we are badly outnumbered."
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Robert Baratheon's POV
We push west toward Ashford.
Momentum—that's what I need. Keep pressing. Keep moving. Strike before the enemy gathers. If we can take Ashford, we can push deeper. Crack the Reach open like a ripe melon.
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Lord Randyll Tarly
War.
House Tarly has always been a house of soldiers. We wait for wars like this.
Young Robert Baratheon's won some skirmishes. He's confident now. That will be his mistake.
I've gathered thirty-five thousand men. More than enough. We hold the terrain, we know these roads, these fields. He won't expect us—not yet.
We'll strike before the full Reach banners are raised. We'll bleed him and scatter his rabble.
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Battle of Ashford
Robert expected a delay—a slow muster of the Reach. He thought he had time.
He didn't.
Lord Randyll Tarly struck fast, bringing the hammer down with brutal precision. His forces—disciplined, armored, relentless—hit us like a tidal wave.
I'd already folded in the armies of the traitor houses—Fell, Grandison, the broken remnants of Summerhall—but it wasn't enough. We were overwhelmed.
I ordered the retreat.
Lord Tarly cut men down like wheat. When he saw Lord Cafferen—who had turned against King Aerys—he rode him down without hesitation. Three swings of his sword, and Cafferen's head rolled in the mud.
I watched from the rear, helpless as his blood soaked the field.
We couldn't be trapped in the Stormlands. I took my remaining men and fell back—north, toward the Riverlands. The Reach was too strong here. Too fast. We needed allies. A new path.
Behind us, Randyll Tarly stood tall, already issuing commands.
Storm's End would be his next target.
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Artos Stark
We've marched for moons now, cutting across the North and through the Neck. I lead the army south, heading for the Trident.
Scouts have returned with news: the Vale host is near, coming down from the Bloody Gate. We'll meet soon—our forces joined at last.
My men are tired but steady. Morale is high. They're hungry for vengeance. Hungry for blood. Hungry to remind the South why the North is feared.
But gods, I'm tired.
Being a commander isn't all glory and steel. It's supply lines, food stores, broken boots, and sick men. I miss the days when I was just swinging my sword. Now I swing maps and scrolls.
I pray to the Old Gods that Ned returns soon. I need him. I need someone else to carry this weight.
Until then—I'll carry it. For my father. For Brandon. For Lyanna.
For the North.
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Aftermath
Robbert Baratheon
I was on my to Stony Septs a small town in Riverlands. I have just 3000 men on my side. Rest of them retreated into Stormlands.I am injured. My armies are tired . We need to rest if need to win this war .
Randyll Tarly
I am moving towards Stromlands to siege it. I have broken most of its army . Now they they will be trapped in Thier homes. Rest of Thier supplies were taken by retreating army . So Stroms End won't have much so We can Starve them and have them surrender the castle.
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