The Battle of Greenpools, 232 AC
The air was thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood. Beneath the banner of the crowned hammer, the royal host surged forth with steel and fury, banners snapping in the spring wind as they descended upon Lord Peake's vanguard at the shallow valley of Greenpools. King Maekar I Targaryen, armored in dark steel with his crowned helm glinting in the sunlight, led the charge like a black storm.
Prince Aegon rode beside him, his Blackwood wife watching from a distant hill with other noble retainers. Though young, Aegon fought with grim resolve, his sword hewing through Peake men like a scythe through wheat. Behind them, Ser Duncan the Tall and the Kingsguard carved a path with blade and shield, scattering the rebel lines.
The enemy was poorly positioned, their lines frayed from haste and overconfidence. The banners of House Peake, with its triple castles, fell back under the relentless assault of the royal host. Arrows sang from the Targaryen bowmen, and Maekar's mace smashed through shieldwalls like a wrathful god come to earth.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the rebels were in full flight—retreating southward, back toward the stony hills and tangled forests of the Dornish Marches.
That night, in the royal command tent...
Brynden Rivers stood before the map spread across the war table, a gloved finger tracing the retreating path of the rebel host. His face, pale as bone beneath the candlelight, betrayed little. Yet his voice was firm when he spoke.
"They run too quickly, too neatly," Brynden murmured. "It is not the rout of a broken army. It's a retreat drawn from strategy."
King Maekar, still bearing the stains of battle on his breastplate, grunted and leaned over the map. "They thought to crush our vanguard, and they failed. What strategy remains to them now?"
"They wanted us to pursue," Bloodraven replied. "And now we do."
Aegon stepped forward, sweat still clinging to his brow. "Then we hold our ground. Let them come to us."
But Brynden shook his head. "They will not. This war was never meant to be won in the open field. The Marches are a trap, and Starpike its teeth. I would wager they intend to draw us into those hills, to bleed us slow while cutting off our supply lines."
King Maekar paced for a moment, his gauntlets clasped behind his back. "And if we wait too long, they will gather more strength. There is risk in caution, and risk in boldness."
Brynden met the King's eyes. "Then strike—but strike wisely. Let our spears and fire go forward, but our eyes twice so."
Maekar nodded after a long moment, pounding his gauntlet once on the table. "Very well. We press on. But we press with the eyes of the raven."