Copper Gate.
The gateway to the Stormlands lay south of the Kingswood, guarding the King's Road that stretched from Storm's End to King's Landing. The golden morning sun shimmered across the gate, reflecting off armor and spears, illuminating soldiers lined along the city walls, their bows strung and eyes alert.
Though the chill of early winter had begun to settle in the air, Earl Ralph Buckler's face was slick with sweat. As head of his house, he had once sworn allegiance to King Joffrey, but now his city gates had been tested by Stannis Baratheon's army. He had learned a harsh lesson: in these times, choosing between loyalty to one's liege lord and loyalty to the Iron Throne was a delicate, dangerous balance. One wrong step could doom a house.
Yet, the Bucklers' fate had been merciful. Ralph retained his title, though all his power was transferred to his cousin, Ser Bruce Buckler. The knight now stood beside him silently, scanning the enemy camp that stretched for miles beyond the city.
"Bruce," Ralph finally spoke, forcing a smile, "these lords from the Vale—they aren't attacking, nor building siege engines, nor sending envoys to negotiate. What do they want?"
Bruce's eyes held a flicker of contempt. "They wait, nothing more. I hear they do not intend to fight to the death. They hold their ground, awaiting news from Storm's End."
Ralph frowned. "News?"
"If Tywin Lannister defeats His Majesty, the lords of the Stormlands will likely shift allegiance back to the Iron Throne. The battle here is irrelevant—they'll receive credit for having been present, regardless."
"And if Tywin fails?"
Bruce shrugged. "Even then, their efforts are not wasted. By tying up at least five thousand of our soldiers here and safeguarding the supply lines for the main army, they've already proven useful. The Iron Throne will reward their diligence in future campaigns. Tywin is too shrewd to anger them unnecessarily."
Ralph could only shake his head. "I cannot imagine Lord Tywin allowing such a thing."
Bruce adjusted his telescope, gazing at the distant Vale encampment. "He cannot risk it. Stark from the Riverlands and our King watch King's Landing closely. Tywin will play the long game, protecting the interests of the Vale lords while ensuring his own schemes unfold as intended."
A dust cloud stirred in the distance. "Someone approaches," Bruce noted. A small cavalry unit, cloaked in black with gold-and-red armor beneath, rode swiftly into the Vale camp.
Lion's messengers, perhaps.
---
King's Landing stretched before Eddard's gaze, distant but unmistakable. Its massive walls, hundreds of thousands of residents, and bustling streets were testimony to centuries of growth. From the wilderness that Aegon's dragons had first encountered, the city had become a hub of commerce, governance, and strategic importance.
"My Lord, about five thousand villagers have been conscripted," Dita Kalander reported respectfully. "Our cavalry moved swiftly, leaving the enemy little time to disperse the locals."
Beyond the walls, livestock grazed on green pastures, orchards hung heavy with apples and pears, and gardens yielded vegetables and berries. Grain warehouses overflowed. Before the arrival of the combined Northern and Riverland forces, these people had lived comfortably, their livelihoods intact. Now, much of their produce had been requisitioned to sustain the army.
Yet Eddard, unlike Tywin, had restrained his soldiers. No villages were to be plundered, no fields burned, no innocents harmed. "Good. Gather wood from the nearby forests. We have many preparations ahead." He tugged on his reins, turning his horse toward the northern hillside, readying for the coming assault.
---
Day turned to night. The rhythmic sound of axes chopping wood never ceased. Hammers, saws, and shouts from laborers and soldiers blended into a continuous din. The night wind carried the scent of woodsmoke across the walls, torches flickering against the darkness.
Bronze Yohn stood motionless atop the parapet, eyes on the banners fluttering in the cold wind. The Stark wolf and Karstark golden sun waved side by side. Though he respected Stark, he could not deny his inner turmoil. Kevan Lannister's orders left him with no choice.
Many Vale nobles resided in the Red Keep under the watch of Lannister guards—nominal guests, effectively prisoners. Tywin Lannister's condition for allowing the Vale to command its troops was strict, yet fair.
"Lord Royce," Ser Adam Marbrand asked, smiling, "how many men do you estimate the enemy has?"
Bronze Yohn, having surveyed the camp all afternoon, narrowed his eyes. "Counting tents, cooking fires, and movement, no more than thirty thousand, including laborers."
"I estimate similarly," Ser Adam said. "We have seventeen thousand men defending the city. They will break their heads against these walls."
Yohn's thoughts darkened. He had once counted Stark as an ally, especially after the execution of Eddard Stark. Now, allied with House Karstark and Runestone through marriage, he was forced to face them in battle. All because of Petyr Baelish, cunning and manipulative.
He forced a smile. "It grows late. The enemy seems content to wait. I will leave now, Lord Adam."
"As you wish," Adam replied. Yohn descended the steps, followed by his torchbearers, unnoticed by the world above. Yet, on a nearby rooftop, a raven watched silently, its dark eyes fixed on Lord Royce.
---
Inside his residence near Silk Street, Lord Royce dismissed his attendants. A wine glass in hand, he contemplated the crescent moon. Thoughts of the looming battle weighed heavily. Should he secretly signal Eddard Karstark to retreat?
A shadow flapped through the window—the raven entered, landing upon the table. Then, miraculously, it spoke.
"Lord Royce, it is a pleasure. I am the Prince of the Trident, Regent of the Riverlands, son of Earl Rickard Karstark—Eddard Karstark. This letter attests to my identity."
Royce stared, astonished. He studied the bird and the magical runes adorning his armor, legendary protections of his house. After a long pause, he poured another cup of wine, offering it before the raven.
"You come with a proposal," Royce said softly.
"Indeed," the raven replied. "Open the Old Gate and Gods Gate tonight. Allow Northmen and Riverlanders inside. Within an hour, they will rout the Lannister forces and Golden Cloaks."
"No," Royce replied, calm but resolute. "This is treason against the Eyrie, against the Iron Throne. House Royce's honor is not mine to gamble lightly."
Eddard's voice remained steady. "You need not fear. Tommen I is not Robert Baratheon's son. He is the child of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, fruit of incest."
Royce's eyes widened. "I have heard this rumor, but there is no proof."
"This is fact," Eddard replied, feathers ruffling as if in thought. "The old Duke once said: 'The seed is strong.' He referred not to Robert Arryn, but to the truth hidden in Baratheon bloodlines: only black-haired children are born of Lannister-Baratheon unions. Proof of incest, evidence of deception."
Royce's hands trembled. "Then… was Duke Arryn murdered to conceal this? And Eddard Stark executed to silence knowledge of it?"
Eddard paused, giving the old lord time to absorb the shock. "Not all yet, but enough to understand the stakes. Varys and Archmaester Pycelle are aware, and documents may exist. Lysa Tully and Petyr Baelish conspired in Arryn's death."
Jon Royce sat in stunned silence, the weight of the revelation crashing upon him. Guards outside inquired, but he waved them away. His mind churned, a storm of disbelief and contemplation.
The raven watched patiently, black eyes gleaming under candlelight. The night stretched on, the city quiet but tense, poised on the brink of betrayal, war, and revelation.
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