In the Great Hall of Riverrun, the noise of the welcome feast had not yet fully faded, and the lingering scent of roasted meat still wafted between the stone walls.
But a dust-covered raven, bearing a war report from the south, instantly dispelled the brief celebration of their victorious rendezvous.
Eddard Stark, Euron Greyjoy, and Lord Hoster Tully gathered around the massive map table, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on their grim faces. The letter crumpled slowly in Ned's tightening fist.
"Robert was defeated at Ashford," Lord Hoster Tully's voice was low, like a winter wind blowing through the hall. He raised his grey eyes to look at the other two. "He faced Randyll Tarly personally and was wounded. Fortunately, the wound is not grave."
The heavy silence brought by the news lasted only a moment. Lord Hoster took a deep breath, his finger tapping the map along the Green Fork. "Randyll Tarly... truly a hard bone to chew. That Robert could retreat from his sword with his life is a misfortune turned lucky."
Ned pressed his hand on the map, tracing north along the Kingsroad. "The Stormlands army has not disintegrated. They are marching north under Robert's command, closing in on us." His fingertip landed heavily on Riverrun. "Now, we must merge as quickly as possible. Robert's army needs rest, and our strength must be united."
Euron leaned over the map table, his knobby fingers tapping King's Landing, Riverrun, and Ashford in succession. Under the candlelight, his movements formed a sharp triangle, trapping Robert's potential route north within it.
"We need to make preparations to receive Robert at any moment," Euron's voice was cold and rational. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. "If I were the commander in King's Landing for this war..." His fingertip struck the location of King's Landing hard, then drew a sharp, straight line stabbing into the center of the triangle. "I would never let the enemy's wounded commander link up with the main force so easily. An interception midway is the best strategy."
His words blew through the hall like a cold wind.
Eddard Stark's grey eyes suddenly sharpened. He exchanged a glance with Lord Hoster Tully, both faces mirroring the same solemnity and seriousness.
Euron's deduction struck precisely at their deepest worry.
Lord Hoster braced his wrinkled hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward, his silver trout brooch gleaming in the firelight. "So the most urgent matter now is," his voice was low and urgent, "we must immediately ascertain Robert's exact marching route! And exactly who King's Landing will send to intercept him, and where..."
The words hung in the air. For a moment, only the soft crackle of the candles remained in the hall. Invisible pressure spread. A shadow war surrounding Robert's life and death had quietly begun on the map.
The night outside the window was deep, but the strategic chessboard had become clearer. The brief setback hadn't shaken the coalition's resolve; instead, it made the road north seem even more urgent and singular.
---
In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, the cold, gloomy atmosphere seemed solid enough to touch.
When the exquisite wooden box from Highgarden, lined with black velvet, was presented before the Iron Throne, Aerys II, sitting amidst the twisted iron spikes, revealed a warped smile.
His withered fingers eagerly opened the lid, grabbing the treated head inside—the frozen, shocked face of Lord Cafferen.
The King lifted it high, his cloudy eyes staring dead into those lifeless ones, as if admiring a beautiful piece of art.
"Hahaha... Good! Very good!" A burst of manic laughter suddenly tore through the silence of the Throne Room. Before the laughter even faded, Aerys kicked the head violently, as if kicking away a piece of trash!
Lord Cafferen's head flew with a whoosh, tracing an arc through the air before smashing heavily onto the cold floor. It rolled across the vast, empty hall with a gurgle-gurgle sound until it stopped at the feet of a courtier who was bowing with bated breath, leaving a blurry dark red trail.
Aerys panted heavily, as if the mad action had drained his strength. He slumped back onto the Iron Throne, shrieking in a shrill voice, "Mace Tyrell, that Pufferfish... I didn't expect him to have such skill! It seems the roses of Highgarden have sharper thorns than I thought!"
His words echoed in the hall, carrying a chilling approval. The courtiers bowed their heads even lower. No one dared look at the rolling head, and no one dared respond to the King's "praise."
In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, the silence was more suffocating than the smell of blood. While Aerys II laughed maniacally over Mace Tyrell's "achievement," the courtiers and knights standing on either side knew the truth in their hearts.
In this well-informed center of power, who didn't know that the man who actually commanded the army at Ashford and defeated Robert on the field was Lord Randyll Tarly, wielder of "Heartsbane"? Mace Tyrell, that "Pufferfish," had merely swum to the front stage at the moment of victory, greedily claiming his subordinate's illustrious war merits as his own.
But before the Iron Throne, truth was often the first casualty. No one was foolish enough to puncture the King's fragile fantasy while he was immersed in the "joy of victory," risking provoking his obvious, hair-trigger rage. Pointing out the truth required not just courage, but the readiness to accept death.
So, everyone in the hall unanimously chose the same posture: they bowed deeply, staring intently at the cold granite floor or humbly watching the King's face twisted by laughter. With a collective, death-like silence, they built a wall to protect themselves.
Behind this wall, the truth was smothered to death, while flattering lies, along with that rolling head, became the only "fact" of the moment.
In the Throne Room, before the Mad King's laughter had fully faded, the new Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington, stepped forward. His calm voice was like a block of ice thrown into the still-churning, twisted fever.
"Your Grace," Jon's voice was clear and steady, "Robert Baratheon is not yet dead. The Battle of Ashford blunted his edge, but it failed to take his life. At this moment, he leads his defeated army north, intending to merge with the rebels at Riverrun."
His sharp gaze swept over the silent courtiers beneath the Iron Throne, finally settling on Aerys's unpredictable face as he delivered the critical strategic judgment. "Robert is the soul of the rebels, the banner that unites them. As soon as he dies, the rebel coalition will fall into internal chaos and amount to nothing. We must not let him reach Riverrun alive. We must intercept and kill him halfway. This is the fastest way to quell the rebellion."
Aerys II leaned forward, his fingers gripping the Iron Throne until his knuckles turned white. A sickly light flashed in his eyes. "Good! Well said! Leave it to you." His voice suddenly turned shrill. "Jon Connington, I give this task to you. Bring me Robert's head and place it before this chair! I want to see with my own eyes how that rebellious stag holds his head high then!"
"I obey your command, Your Grace." Jon Connington knelt on one knee, his voice devoid of any ripple.
He wasted no time. After rising, he immediately mustered his forces—one thousand elite cavalry and three thousand infantry. Accompanying him was Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, serving as both support and supervisor, symbolizing the King's extreme emphasis on this campaign.
The army moved out quickly, like an arrow released from the bowstring, pointing straight at Robert's inevitable route north, swearing to strangle the hope of the rebels in the cradle.