It's 2am and I am writing this instead of sleeping. I hate myself sometimes. ^^
THE TRIDENT, 283 AC
POV: Torrhen Snow
The rebel camp near the banks of the Trident was loud with life and heavy with tension.
Men from the North, the Rivers, the Vale, and most recently the Stormlands had pitched tents by the tens of thousands—row upon row of banners flapping in the breeze, stinking cookfires, the sound of sharpening steel, and the occasional drunken cheer or brawl. War was coming, and every man could feel it. Especially with rumours that Prince Rhaegar had returned from wherever he had taken Lyanna Stark and taken control of the royal army marching towards them.
Torrhen Snow sat near the edge of the northern encampment, whetting his sword under the morning sun. His armor was modest, blackened ringmail over thick wool, but clean and kept well. He wore no sigil. Only a plain black cloak with a grey trim that hinted at his blood, but claimed no legitimacy.
Still, men watched him.
They didn't hide it well. Some passed by with sidelong glances, others lingered as if expecting him to grow a second head. One knight from House Bracken had walked up bold as brass the day before and asked, "Are you a sorcerer, lad?"
Torrhen had answered calmly, "No. Just very hard to kill."
Today it was an archer from House Royce who approached, curious but cautious.
"They say you died," the man said, not unkindly.
"I did."
"And then came back."
"So they tell me."
"Why?"
Torrhen looked at him steadily, sharpening stone slowing in his palm. "The gods gave me my life. Vision. Strength. And purpose."
"I am not the most devout but I know men who will take you being alive as an attack on their belief.. it would be best for you to return to the safety of the North" the man said with a sad smile.
"I would but I cannot. Many innocent lifes depend on my actions from here on, I will not disappoint them."
"Pardon my words but what sort of importance could a bastard like you have?" the man asked confusedly.
"I cannot tell you, just know that I will do everything possible to win this war as swiftly as possible and take my sister Lyanna back home"
The archer blinked, unsure what to make of that, then offered a nervous half-smile and wandered off.
Torrhen let him go. He was used to it now—the whispers, the stares, the tales passed from firepit to firepit like prayers. The Bastard Who Lived. Some said the Old Gods had chosen him. Some thought he was cursed. A few, mostly from the Vale and Riverlands, crossed themselves and muttered to the Seven for protection.
He didn't care what they believed. As long as they remembered what he fought for.
The rebel army was swelling, preparing for a clash with Prince Rhaegar's forces, rumored to be moving up the kingsroad. Torrhen had spent much of his time sparring and drilling alongside the Northmen, earning their respect through sweat and blood.
He beat men older and taller than him, and never once drew a real wound. His reflexes had sharpened. His stamina had stretched beyond what even seasoned sergeants expected. Ned had started watching him more warily now, though he'd said nothing.
That afternoon, the Stormlords arrived. They had taken their time making camp and hadn't finished yet but it seemed like Robert Baratheon's impatience to see his foster brother and father could not be contained any longer.
They rode in with thunder, Robert at their head—massive atop a black warhorse, a warhammer slung across his back. He dismounted at the main tent to a cheer, clasped hands with Jon Arryn, clapped Ned Stark on the back—and then looked across the camp, eyes sharp.
"Where's the miracle boy?"
Torrhen stepped forward.
Robert's gaze settled on him, brow arched. "You're smaller than I expected."
"I'm ten and two," Torrhen replied dryly.
"Aye," Robert said, grin forming. "And already men twice your size say you beat them. That true?"
Torrhen said nothing.
"C'mon then," Robert said, tossing aside his heavy cloak and gesturing to the sparring circle nearby. "Show me what kind of bastard the gods spit back out."
They faced each other in the makeshift ring, armed with blunted weapons. Robert took a heavy wooden hammer. Torrhen chose a sword and off-hand dagger.
The Stormlord was fast for a man his size, and strong enough to make the ground shudder when he struck—but Torrhen moved like wind around stone. He ducked, dodged, weaved, landed three hits before Robert caught him with a backhand swing that nearly sent him tumbling.
They went again. And again. And again.
By the end of it, Robert was panting, sweaty, and laughing.
"Gods, you're a strange one," he said, slapping Torrhen on the shoulder. "Quick as a cat. Dead serious too. Like your brother. You two ever laugh?"
Torrhen shrugged. "Not often."
Robert chuckled. "Well, we'll make a soldier of you yet. Just don't go getting killed again. I don't know if the gods plan to bring you back twice."
Torrhen allowed himself the faintest smile. "Neither do I."
Later, as he sat alone sharpening his blade again, Torrhen saw Ned watching him from a distance—expression unreadable, arms crossed.
Torrhen didn't look away.
He had his vision. He had his strength. And remembering the unfortunate if not outright cruel fate that would befell many in Westeros during the next 25 years if he did nothing, he would see it through to the end—even if no one else understood it.
**Scene Break**
The sky was grey and brooding, as if the gods themselves held their breath.
Rain had come in the night and gone by dawn, leaving the banks of the Trident slick with mud and bloodlust. The rebel army stirred like a storm about to break—men lacing their armor, sharpening swords, muttering prayers to old gods and new. Banners snapped in the wind. Tully red and blue, Stark grey, Arryn sky blue, Baratheon gold and black aswell as all the other noble houses—all gathered for this, the moment they would decide the fate of a kingdom.
Torrhen stood beside Ned as horns sounded down the line. Across the river, the royal host had taken position. Their banners gleamed brighter: Targaryen black and red aswell as Martell Yellow and Red, a sea of flame and fury. At their heart stood Rhaegar Targaryen in polished black armor, rubies glinting like fresh blood on his breastplate.
"They say he sings before battle," Ned muttered, eyes narrowed.
"Then he'll die to music," Torrhen replied before cringing especially when Ned shot him a strange look though thankfully his brother made no comment.
Yeah I have to stop saying stuff like that.
His grip tightened on his sword—a blade of northern steel, slightly heavier than most. A backup dagger hung at his hip, but he rarely needed it now. His strength had grown. His reflexes sharpened. He moved through drills faster than grown men, struck with precision that seemed unnatural for a boy of ten-and-two. He didn't speak of it often, not even to Ned, but there were times he felt his muscles remembered things his mind had never learned. As if his very body were part of something else now.
Not quite Westerosi. Not quite mortal.
He had stopped trying to explain it.
A rider approached—the signal.
Robert Baratheon was already mounting his horse, warhammer in hand, screaming for the charge. Torrhen felt the earth shake beneath him as the rebels surged forward. Arrows darkened the sky. Steel flashed. Screams followed.
The battle had begun.
Torrhen moved like a shadow through the chaos, weaving between mounted knights and stumbling footmen. Where others slipped in the mud, he kept his footing. Where others flailed in panic, he struck with measured, deadly calm.
He brought down a knight in Targaryen red with a slash across the back of the knee, dodged a mace swing from a Dornishman, rolled to his feet, and slashed across the ribs. Another came at him with a shield and spear—Torrhen ducked low, stabbed twice in the thigh, and kept moving.
Blood splashed across his cheek. He didn't blink.
All around him, war devoured the riverbank. Baratheon soldiers roared as they pushed toward the center. Stark and Arryn men held the flanks. The Riverlords surged under countercharge. It was a brutal tide, flowing back and forth, and Torrhen knew one thing: he had to get to the crossing.
He had seen it in the vision of Bran Stark.. The place where Robert and Rhaegar would meet—must meet. The ford was shallow and strewn with broken men already, but he ran for it anyway, sword in hand, heart like a war drum.
A horse crashed down beside him, screaming. Torrhen leapt over its thrashing legs and slammed into a Targaryen footman. They fell together into the water, grappling. Torrhen kneed him in the gut, reversed his dagger into the man's throat, and stumbled back up just in time to see it—
Robert. Rhaegar. Meeting at the center.
The clash of hammer against ruby armor sent a crack through the battlefield like a cannon shot.
Torrhen froze for half a breath. Not in awe. In calculation.
Rhaegar was faster than he expected—more graceful, more precise. But Robert's rage made him unstoppable, each swing of his warhammer shaking the prince's defense. The ruby breastplate cracked once. Then twice.
Torrhen began to move. Not toward the fight, but to the circle around it. Loyalist knights tried to rush in to protect their prince. Torrhen intercepted two. One fell with a crushed jaw. The other tried to scream but found only steel in his gut.
More men closed in—but Torrhen kept them at bay, guarding Robert's flanks without a word.
And then—it ended.
Robert's hammer crashed down a final time, crushing Rhaegar's chest. The prince toppled into the river, rubies scattering like bloodied stars.
The battlefield stilled. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Torrhen to see the look on Ned's face as he pushed through the crowd.
Shock. Grief. And relief.
The prince was dead. The war was not yet over, but its spine had been broken.
Later, as dusk fell over the Trident and the river turned dark with spilled blood, Torrhen stood alone at the edge of the water.
He held one of Rhaegar's rubies in his hand, still wet with the prince's blood.
He thought of Lyanna, wherever she was. Of Elia and her children, if they were still alive though they had to be as he had not made enough ripples yet to change the story too much.
He looked up at the sky.
"If this is the cost," he murmured, "then let it be paid in full."
**Scene Break**
The fires burned low. Victory songs had given way to exhaustion.
The camp sprawled like a wounded beast under the night sky—torches flickering, men drinking or weeping or simply staring into the dark as if trying to forget what they'd seen. The stench of blood and shit still clung to the wind, carried from the field where corpses lay unburied, claimed by crows.
Torrhen moved through the camp with purpose. He found Ned near the main tent, speaking in low tones with Lord Harbert of House Dustin and a grizzled Karstark captain. His brother's hair was damp with sweat, his expression grave.
When he saw Torrhen approaching, Ned dismissed the men with a glance.
"You fought well today," Ned said, though his voice carried no pride.
Torrhen nodded once. "So did you."
They stood for a moment, silent. Around them, the war wound down, though none dared believe it was truly over.
Then Torrhen spoke. "We need to talk. Alone."
Ned didn't argue. He led them to a quieter stretch behind the tent, where the sounds of the camp dimmed to a distant murmur. A lantern hung from a spear thrust into the earth. Its light flickered over Ned's solemn face.
"What is it?" he asked.
Torrhen hesitated only a moment, then began.
"You know as well as I do that Tywin Lannister's forces have not moved once during this entire war. But they will now."
Ned frowned. "He'll declare for the winning side, like a snake. Nothing new."
"No," Torrhen said, voice steady. "He's not marching to join us. He's marching to claim King's Landing."
That made Ned pause.
"Think of it," Torrhen pressed. "The Mad King has humiliated Tywin Lannister more times than we can count—ignored him, dismissed him, scorned him despite decades of loyalty. And now the realm knows Tywin did nothing during the rebellion until it was safe."
"He will want to redeem his honor," Ned said quietly.
"He'll want revenge," Torrhen snapped. "And leverage. What better way to have both than to offer Robert the Iron Throne on a silver plate? Cersei for Queen. If Tywin sacks the city and slaughters the Targaryens, Robert won't care how it happened. You know how he feels about them. He'll cheer it."
Ned looked away. "Aerys has earned no mercy."
"This isn't about Aerys," Torrhen said. "This is about Elia Martell. Her children. You told me what they mean to her. If Tywin enters that city first, they will die. That's what he does. He ends bloodlines. He makes statements. The Rains of Castamare alone should be proof enough of that"
Ned's jaw clenched.
"I can't stand by and let that happen," Torrhen said, stepping closer. "You know I'm right. And you know Robert won't stop it."
Ned didn't speak for a long time. The fire popped nearby, a single sharp crack.
"You're asking me to go against Robert."
Torrhen laughed slightly bitterly "Hah I doubt there is anything in this world that could make you go against Robert" he said with a smile remembering how Ned had allowed Jon Snow to go to the wall so that he could never make a claim to the throne of his dear Robert.
"I'm asking you to get ahead of him," Torrhen said. "Ride south now. Reach King's Landing before the Lannisters do. Not with an army, just enough men to make it clear—if there's going to be justice, it won't be done with fire and rape and slaughter."
Ned was quiet again, but the fire in his eyes was growing.
Ned hesitated. "You want me to move on the capital without the full host? On the word of—"
"On the word of someone who died and came back knowing too much," Torrhen said softly. "I know how it sounds, Ned. But you've seen what I can do. You've felt it. Do you trust me?"
Ned was quiet.
"I trust your heart," Ned finally said. "Even if your mind frightens me."
Torrhen gave a faint smile. "That's fair."
"I'll speak with Lord Arryn," Ned said at last. "And Hoster Tully. If they see reason, perhaps we can convince Robert that we are simply scouting the lands around King's Landing for any host they might be gathering from the city."
Torrhen exhaled. "Thank you."
"But you must stay here," Ned added. "If Robert hears this from you, he might take it as an insult. He trusts me. Let me speak for us both."
Torrhen hesitated, but nodded. "Just make sure you speak soon. The lions are already moving... And maybe it's better to leave out Robert out of the discussion, he will be busy with one of his whores anyway" he said bitterly making Ned sigh.
As much as Ned loved Robert he had to agree with Torrhen on this, perhaps the betrothal between Robert and Lyanna had been a mistake.
As Ned turned to leave, Torrhen looked up at the stars, tracing the path southward in his mind. He didn't know how many days they had. But he knew how the story ended if no one acted.
And he refused to let that happen.