The Edge of the Marches — Aftermath of the Fifth Fortress, 233 AC
The scent of blood still lingered in the air, mingling with the smoke of smoldering timbers and the stench of unburied corpses. Crows circled overhead, cawing their grim chorus as they descended upon the fallen.
What remained of the royal host regrouped beyond the wreckage of the fifth fortress. The wounded moaned, the living worked in silence, and the dead lay in rows awaiting burial—or burning.
King Maekar sat astride his destrier, helm removed, silver beard matted with sweat. His eyes swept the field with a soldier's detachment, yet behind that cold stare, sorrow simmered. Too many had died, and they still had one fortress—perhaps more—between them and Starpike.
Hooves clopped against the blood-drenched earth. Brynden Rivers, his white hair tangled beneath his black cowl, approached with urgency, the wind snapping his crimson cloak.
"Your Grace," said Brynden, reining in beside him. "News from the capital. The Tyroshi fleet is harassing our ships at Blackwater Bay. Dockyards burned, trade disrupted. They seek to draw us thin."
Maekar didn't blink. His voice was rough but steady. "They were waiting for this. The moment we committed to the Marches."
He turned to one of his squires. "Bring me quill, ink, and parchment. And a raven."
Brynden raised a brow.
"I will send word to Lord Velaryon," Maekar said. "Tell him the time has come to drive the Tyroshi from our waters. They'll not find our shores unguarded."
Brynden nodded. "And what of here, Your Grace? The Peake forces retreat again—undoubtedly toward Starpike. But this was a costly victory. Another like it and the crown's sword arm will be broken."
Maekar glanced toward the horizon, where the banners of the rebels had vanished behind the hills.
"Then we'll need a second sword," he said. "Return to King's Landing, Lord Bloodraven. Summon the Lannisters to fulfill their vows. I want their strength marching south within the fortnight."
Brynden hesitated, then gave a small nod. "It shall be done."
The one-eyed Hand turned his horse, cloak billowing behind him as he galloped off toward the capital.
King Maekar watched him go, then turned back to the field, lifting his mace.
"Rally the men," he commanded. "We march again by dawn."
And so, though weary and bloodied, the dragon marched on—toward Starpike, and toward the reckoning yet to come.