Outside the command tent, the world was a cacophony of organized chaos. The air was thick with the shouting of sergeants, the rhythmic neighing of thousands of warhorses, and the relentless, agonizing creak of heavy supply wains churning through the half-frozen mud.
"Annoying. Squawk! Annoying!"
Blackfeather shifted restlessly on his makeshift perch, his dark, intelligent eyes tracking the dust motes dancing in the warmth of the tent. Inside, it felt like a lingering spring; a red-hot iron stove burned through stacks of coal, venting a plume of thick, oily smoke into the grey sky via a slender chimney.
Eddard Karstark rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring at a stack of reports detailing the "small sins" of his army. A Free Folk hunter had brawled with a Mallister man-at-arms over a camp follower; a Karstark knight had accidentally killed a sworn sword during a drunken spar. He tossed the parchment aside with a sigh of irritation and stepped out into the biting north wind.
The cold was a tonic, clearing the fog of logistics from his mind. Before him, the camp was a sea of canvas and fur stretching across the hills of the coastal road, roughly sixty miles north of Lannisport. Hundreds of bonfires roared, their smoke rising like grey pikes to pierce the sky. Each fire fed a hundred men; hundreds of fires fed an empire.
The banners told the story of a broken kingdom reunited under a new sun. To the east, the Northern camp: the Stark Direwolf, the Glover Gauntlet, the Manderly Merman, and his own white Sunburst. To the west, the Vale: the runic pebbles of Royce, the broken wheel of Waynwood, and the six silver bells of Belmore. And merging with them from the north were the Riverlords—the leaping Trout, the Mallister Eagle, and the Piper Stallion.
Eddard commanded fifty thousand souls: fifteen thousand from the Vale, ten thousand Northmen, twenty-five thousand Riverlanders, and the ten thousand Free Folk and giants he had brought from Harrenhal. Managing such a host was more exhausting than any duel. It required a constant, grinding vigilance to keep the old blood-feuds from erupting into a civil war within his own trenches.
"Annoying! Annoying!" Blackfeather's voice echoed his own internal monologue.
Eddard looked south toward Crakehall. Tywin Lannister was there, gathering the shattered remnants of the West. Eddard had given his army three days to rest. Once their strength returned, he intended to use the clear weather to crush the Old Lion in a single, decisive stroke. He would dye the Westerlands in the black and gold of the Crossing before the next blizzard claimed the roads.
A frantic shouting broke his reverie. A rider on a lean Dornish sand-steed galloped through the mud, his multicolored silks standing out against the grey-brown camp.
"Eddard!" Prince Oberyn Martell shouted, vaulting from his saddle before the horse had even come to a full stop. He was grinning, his dark eyes sparkling with a predatory joy. "Good news! The gods have finally grown a sense of humor!"
Eddard raised an eyebrow. "What news could make a Prince of the Blood act like a squire at his first tourney?"
"The boy-king is dead! Tommen is gone!"
The words hit like a physical blow. Eddard steadied himself. "Dead? I thought he was safe at Goldengrove."
"He was," Oberyn laughed, reaching for a waterskin of Dornish strongwine. He gulped it down and tossed the skin to his squire, Daemon Sand. "But it seems Cersei took him on a little trip to Clegane Keep. Daemon and I were scouting the perimeter when we heard the bells. Not a warning chime, Eddard—a funeral dirge. The same rhythm they played for Joffrey."
Oberyn clapped his hands, his smile widening. "And I brought you a witness. Daemon, bring the 'White Rat'."
Daemon Sand led forward a mud-caked prisoner, his fine white cloak now a rag of filth. Eddard recognized the man instantly: Ser Meryn Trant. The Kingsguard looked hollow, his eyes darting with the fear of a man who knew the floor had vanished beneath him.
Trant confirmed the nightmare: Tommen had died of a wasting fever at Clegane Keep. Cersei was a prisoner in the tower, and Tywin had essentially disbanded the remaining Kingsguard, telling them to find their own way home.
"You have my weapons," Trant said, trying to regain a sliver of his former arrogance. "If you do not intend to ransom me to House Trant, then release me. Stannis holds the city; he will need loyal blades."
Eddard's eyes narrowed into grey slits. "Ransom? No, Ser Meryn. I recall my wife, Sansa Stark, mentioning your name. She spoke of the 'attentions' you paid her in the Red Keep under Joffrey's orders. She spoke of the bruises you left on an eleven-year-old girl."
Trant's face went pale. "I... I was following the King's command! A knight's duty is to obey!"
"A knight's duty is to protect the innocent," Eddard corrected coldly. He waved a hand to his guards. "Gag him. Keep him in the lightless pits until we return to Harrenhal. I believe the Queen of the Trident has a long-overdue debt to settle with this 'knight'."
One of the Northern guards delivered a brutal blow to Trant's jaw, silencing him with the sound of breaking teeth. They dragged him away by his heels, leaving a trail in the mud.
"Eddard, this is the moment!" Oberyn urged, his voice a low hiss. "Tywin is broken. The Tyrells will be fleeing back to Highgarden now that their 'Queen' has no King. Attack now, and we can drag the Old Lion from his den."
"No hurry," Eddard said, watching the horizon. "Now that Tommen is dead, does your brother Doran plan to crown Myrcella in Sunspear? A Martell-Baratheon queen would be a fine prize for Dorne?"
Oberyn stiffened, taking a step back. "What? You think we'd fight for another Lannister-blooded puppet?" He regained his composure, a smirk playing on his lips. "My brother is a careful man, Eddard. He won't waste Dornish blood for a Southern chair. But he'll certainly enjoy watching Tywin burn."
Eddard chuckled. "We talk tomorrow, Prince. I'm tired."
As Oberyn was escorted away by Karas Snow, Blackfeather took flight. The raven circled once over the camp and then shot south like a black arrow.
Eddard closed his eyes, warging into the bird's mind. Below him, the Westerlands flashed by—frozen fields, silent forests, and the winding coastal road. Two hours later, the towers of Crakehall appeared.
The Golden Rose banners were already being lowered. Thousands of Tyrell soldiers were moving south in a silent, urgent retreat, abandoning the Lannisters to their fate. The city of the Boar was eerily silent, a tomb waiting for its final occupant.
[System Notification: Narrative Shift: The Death of Tommen I confirmed.]
[Unit Captured: Ser Meryn Trant (High-Value Prisoner/Personal Quest).]
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