299 AC - On the Way to Riverrun- Third Person POV
The great hall of the Twins, newly claimed by the North, hummed with the urgency of war. The northern lords gathered around a scarred oaken table, their faces grim under the flickering torchlight. King Aemon Targaryen sat at the head, his presence a quiet storm, his grey eyes scanning the map of Westeros spread before them. To his right, Eddard Stark traced the lines of rivers and holdfasts, while Robb Stark, to his left, leaned forward, his jaw set. The lords—Umber, Karstark, Bolton, and others—waited, their breaths heavy with the weight of the choices ahead.
Eddard broke the silence, his voice steady but laced with concern. "The Riverlands are burning. Edmure Tully, fearing for his people, has spread his forces too thin. He's sent men to every village and holdfast within a day's ride of the border, trying to shield them from Lannister blades."
Rickard Karstark snorted, his grizzled beard twitching. "A noble gesture, but a fool's one. He's scattered his strength like chaff in the wind."
"Aye," Greatjon Umber rumbled, slamming a fist on the table. "Jaime Lannister saw the weakness and pounced. How many men does the Kingslayer command?"
Robb, who had been studying reports from scouts, answered grimly. "Fifteen thousand Lannister troops, well-armed and disciplined. They're besieging Riverrun as we speak. Edmure's rivermen are outnumbered, stretched beyond breaking."
"And Tywin?" Aemon's voice cut through, sharp and focused. "What of him?"
Roose Bolton's pale eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "Lord Tywin marches from the south with another twenty thousand men conquering every fort of riverlands on his way north. That makes thirty-five thousand Lannisters in the field, Your Grace."
The hall grew quiet, the numbers sinking in. The North had mustered a formidable army of forty thousand, but a third—some thirteen thousand—had been sent to guard the western coast against the Ironborn. The remaining twenty-seven thousand were a match for Jaime's host, but if Tywin's forces joined him before the North reached Riverrun, the Riverlands would fall.
"What of the other pretenders?" Lord Manderly asked, his jowls quivering as he leaned forward. "Renly and Stannis?"
A young Glover knight, fresh from the road, spoke up. "Renly's made his move. He's marching on King's Landing with an army of a hundred thousand—Stormlanders and Reachmen, the largest host in the field. If he reaches the capital first, he'll claim it for himself."
Murmurs erupted, a tide of unease sweeping the hall. Greatjon's face reddened. "A hundred thousand? That popinjay will sit the Iron Throne before we've even crossed the Trident!"
"Not if Stannis contests him," Rickard Karstark countered. "What of the elder Baratheon?"
The Glover knight shook his head. "Stannis lingers at Dragonstone. His fleet is formidable, but his army's no threat—barely five thousand, by our scouts' count. He's biding his time, like as not."
Robb leaned back, his voice low but firm. "So we have three pretenders—Renly, Stannis, and Joffrey—and one rightful king." He glanced at Aemon, his eyes steady with loyalty.
Aemon rose, his hands resting on the table, his voice ringing with quiet authority. "The Riverlands are burning, and our allies falter. We waste no more time. We march for Riverrun tomorrow."
No lord argued. The weight of Aemon's words, coupled with the memory of his ice and fire shattering the Twins' gates, silenced any dissent. The council dissolved, and the North prepared to move.
At dawn, the northern army marched south, a sea of steel and fur under the direwolf and dragon banners. The air was crisp, the ground hard with early frost, but the men moved with purpose, their king's resolve kindling their own. Aemon rode at the forefront, his black cloak stark against the grey sky, while Eddard and Robb flanked him, their direwolves padding silently alongside.
Halfway to Riverrun, the host encountered a small band of riders bearing the leaping fish of House Tully. At their head was Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, his weathered face grim as he dismounted and knelt before Aemon. "Your Grace," he said, rising. "I bring dire news from the Riverlands."
"Speak, Ser Brynden," Aemon said, his voice calm but commanding.
Brynden's eyes flicked to Eddard and Robb, then back to the king. "Riverrun holds, but barely. Jaime Lannister's host surrounds it, fifteen thousand strong, with siege towers and trebuchets pounding the walls. Edmure's men are valiant, but they're stretched thin—too many garrisons, too few swords. The smallfolk suffer most; villages burn from Harrenhal to the Red Fork. And Tywin's coming with twenty thousand more. If Riverrun falls before you arrive, the Riverlands are lost."
Eddard's face darkened. "Edmure's heart is true, but his strategy falters. We must reach Riverrun before Tywin does."
Robb nodded, his hand resting on his sword. "How many men can Riverrun still muster?"
"Five thousand, at best," Brynden replied. "Enough to hold the walls for now, but not if Tywin's host joins Jaime's. The rivermen look to the North for salvation."
Aemon's gaze was unwavering. "They'll have it. We march with all speed. Ser Brynden, ride with us. Your knowledge of the Riverlands will guide our path."
Brynden bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
The army pressed on, the Blackfish's riders folding into their ranks. The northern lords, still awed by Aemon's display at the Twins, whispered of his powers—ice to shield, fire to destroy. Yet now, their thoughts turned to the battle ahead. The Riverlands burned, and the North marched to douse the flames, led by a king whose blood sang of dragons and whose will was forged in ice.
299 AC - Riverrun - Third Person POV
The northern army marched relentlessly toward Riverrun, their boots pounding the earth of the Riverlands, their banners of direwolf and dragon snapping in the wind. For five days, they pressed southward, their pace unrelenting despite the muddy paths and lengthening shadows. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, rode ahead with his outriders, cutting down Lannister scouts with ruthless precision. Each skirmish cleared the way, ensuring the northern host approached Riverrun unseen, a storm gathering on the horizon.
On the fifth day, the towers of Riverrun came into view, their stone walls battered but defiant against the Lannister siege. Jaime Lannister's host of fifteen thousand sprawled around the castle, their crimson banners like bloodstains against the green of the Tumblestone and Red Fork. Siege towers loomed, and trebuchets hurled stones, their impacts echoing like thunder. The northern army, twenty-seven thousand strong, crested a low hill, and King Aemon Targaryen raised a hand, halting the advance.
Aemon, his black cloak billowing, stood at the forefront, his grey eyes blazing with purpose. He turned to his lords—Eddard Stark, Robb Stark, Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, and Roose Bolton—and spoke, his voice a low growl. "We strike now. No mercy for the lions."
The northerners roared their approval, and with a shout, Aemon led the charge. He surged down the hill, his sword gleaming, cutting through Lannister outriders like a scythe through wheat. His enhanced strength made each swing a death sentence, armor crumpling and men falling before they could raise their blades. Behind him, the northern army poured into the fray, their war cries drowning out the Lannister horns.
Inside Riverrun, Edmure Tully, haggard but resolute, heard the clamor of battle. Peering from the ramparts, he saw the direwolf banners and the lone figure of Aemon carving a path through the enemy. "The North!" Edmure bellowed, his voice cracking with relief. "Open the gates! Strike the Lannisters now!"
The gates of Riverrun swung wide, and five thousand rivermen poured out, their fish-emblazoned shields glinting as they fell upon the Lannister rear. Caught between the northern hammer and the Tully anvil, Jaime's army faltered, their lines buckling under the twin assault. Men screamed as northern axes met Lannister steel, and the rivers ran red.
Aemon, a whirlwind of ice and fire, carved his way toward the heart of the Lannister host. His hands flared with power—ice walls rose to block enemy charges, while gouts of flame incinerated those who pressed too close. Lannister soldiers whispered of sorcery, their courage crumbling as their comrades froze or burned. Aemon's eyes locked on a figure in golden armor, lion-crested helm gleaming: Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
Jaime, sword in hand, met Aemon's gaze with a defiant smirk. "So, the bastard's a king now," he called, twirling his blade. "Let's see if you fight as well as you claim your throne."
Aemon's response was a blaze of fire, forcing Jaime to dive aside. The two clashed but Aemon's serum-enhanced strength overwhelmed the Kingslayer. With a single, bone-crushing blow, Aemon disarmed Jaime, sending his sword spinning. A second strike, a fist wreathed in frost, knocked Jaime to the ground, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
"Bind him!" Aemon commanded, and northern soldiers dragged the Kingslayer to Riverrun's dungeons, his golden armor dulled by dust and blood.
The battle raged for hours, but the Lannister host, leaderless and trapped, broke under the combined might of North and Riverlands. By dusk, the field was littered with crimson cloaks, and Riverrun stood triumphant. The northern lords gathered in the castle's great hall, their faces flushed with victory but wary of the war still ahead.
Eddard Stark clapped a hand on Aemon's shoulder, his voice thick with pride. "You fought like a dragon, Your Grace. The Riverlands owe you their freedom."
Greatjon Umber, his beard flecked with blood, roared with laughter. "Ice and fire from his hands, and strength to fell a knight in one blow! The Lannisters'll sing of this day in terror!"
Edmure Tully, bowing deeply, added, "You've saved Riverrun, King Aemon. My men were faltering, but your arrival turned the tide. The Riverlands are yours."
Aemon, wiping blood from his sword, met their gazes. "We've won a battle, not the war. Tywin's twenty thousand march from the south, and Renly's host looms over King's Landing. We rest tonight, but tomorrow, we plan our next move."
As Jaime Lannister languished in Riverrun's dungeons, the northern army and their Tully allies fortified the castle, their eyes turning south. The Riverlands were saved, but the Iron Throne remained a distant prize, and Aemon Targaryen's fire and ice would light the path ahead.