Starpike, The Dornish Marches
The wind howled through the crenellations of Starpike, the ancient fortress of House Peake, perched high atop a ridge of black stone and twisted pine. Its three towers rose like jagged teeth against the storm-gray sky, their banners snapping sharply—three black castles on a golden field.
In the great hall, dimly lit by torches and smelling of old stone and war, Lord Emmon Peake sat brooding on his high seat, a goblet of dark wine in hand. The iron-studded doors opened, and a dust-caked rider was ushered in by mailed guards.
"My lord," the messenger said, breathless and bent at the knee. "The royal host crushed our vanguard at Greenpools… we did not hold them."
Lord Peake did not flinch. "And the retreat?"
"According to your plan, my lord. They fall back toward Starpike in disciplined order. The King rides after them, but... not too close. His host moves slowly, wary. Bloodraven must suspect something."
A faint smile crept across Peake's face as he rose from his seat, the torchlight casting long shadows on the hall's walls. "Of course he does. He always does. That one smells plots in his sleep. But he is not wrong."
He turned to his captains seated nearby, then back to the messenger. "Send word to the retreating commanders: they are to establish a line of layered defenses—seven in total—wooden fortresses along the forest road. Shallow trenches, stakes, murder holes, fire pits, deadfalls. Make them fight for every foot of ground. And when the royalists come, they'll bleed with every step."
The messenger bowed his head. "And reinforcements, my lord?"
Peake nodded. "Aye. Once they reach the fifth fortress, send a thousand more to join them. Let them believe they've worn us down, only to be caught anew."
He stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. "Tell them well. This is no longer about banners or thrones. It is about legacy. I mean to end the Targaryen line here, at Starpike, with fire and steel and shadow."
The messenger rose and departed at once.
Outside the gates of Starpike...
The mountain winds bit with cold, but the men worked on. Pikes were buried at shallow angles beneath false leaves. Pit traps were dug and covered. Oil was poured into waiting casks to be lit at the right moment. Archers practiced among the trees, their arrows finding painted targets meant to look like dragons.
Lord Peake stepped out onto the battlements and surveyed the scene—his men like ants moving across the muddy ground, his walls bristling with defenses, the sky heavy with the promise of war.
He lifted his goblet again and drank deep.
"Let them come," he muttered. "Let the last dragon fall with a thousand cuts."