The halls of Starpike, once adorned with the black-and-gold banners of House Peake, now echoed with the boots of conquerors. Ash clung to the air, and smoke curled from half-extinguished fires, painting the stone corridors in hues of grey and ruin. The royal host, though battered and mourning, held the fortress at last.
Within the great hall, the surviving lords and men-at-arms of House Peake were rounded up under heavy guard. Ten highborn knights and squires, stripped of weapons and armor, knelt in a row before the royal captains. The look in their eyes was not of surrender, but defiance—the proud, bitter gleam of men who had gambled everything and lost.
Prince Aegon Targaryen, his silver hair darkened by soot and sweat, stood tall before them. At his side, Ser Duncan the Tall, and behind him, a hundred grim-faced soldiers, weary but alert.
"Let no man take plunder," Aegon said firmly, his voice carrying through the ruined chamber. "Let no child be harmed, no woman touched. We are not the traitors here."
The men obeyed. Even amidst blood and grief, Aegon still commanded the hearts of those who followed him. His armor was dented and scorched, but the fire in his purple eyes remained unquenched.
Moments later, the door to the hall slammed open.
Ser Roger Reyne of Castamere entered, red-eyed with grief and bloodlust. His crimson cloak dragged behind him, tattered at the edges. He had not washed his father's blood from his hands.
He did not dismount as he rode through the ruined courtyard. But once inside, he leapt down, his boots slapping the cold stone as he strode toward the Peake captives.
The Peakes watched his approach with wary eyes. One, the youngest, no more than twenty, began to tremble. The eldest—Lord Emmon Peake, grey-bearded and hawk-eyed—met the Red Lion with a sneer.
"You came to weep for your lion lord, did you?" Emmon mocked, his voice rasped but cruel. "The boulders crushed him good. Crushed your king too. Hollow your victory may be, but it reeks like glory, I suppose."
Ser Roger did not respond.
He drew his sword.
The first stroke took Lord Peake's head clean from his shoulders. Blood sprayed across the stone.
Then another stroke. And another. In a blur of steel and fury, six more Peakes fell, screaming or silent, their lifeblood pooling around their fallen sigil. The remaining captives cried out in fear, guards shouting as chaos erupted in the hall.
"Enough!" Aegon's voice rang like steel against steel.
The prince stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Enough, Ser Roger. The Seven are watching us."
Ser Roger, breathless, sword still raised, turned slowly toward Aegon.
"The Seven?" he hissed. "The Seven closed their eyes when these curs hurled down stones and crushed my lord father beneath them. Where were the gods then, Your Grace?"
Aegon's eyes did not flinch. "I ask myself the same for my own father."
The words struck through the haze of rage.
"But vengeance won't bring them back," Aegon added softly. "It won't heal what's broken."
A long silence followed. Ser Roger's knuckles tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Then slowly, deliberately, he wiped the blade on his fallen enemies' cloaks, and slid it into its sheath. He walked away without another word, past the prince and the fallen men, until he reached the hall's threshold.
There, he passed Brynden Rivers.
The Lord Commander of the Raven's Teeth had stood silently near the wall all along, his red eye unblinking, his expression unreadable. He said nothing as the Red Lion passed him, only turned to watch the man go.
When he turned back, he locked eyes with Aegon across the blood-slick stones.
The prince said nothing.
Nor did the sorcerer-hand.
But in their shared look was the unspoken truth—they had won the castle, but not the peace.