Maekar Targaryen (197 A.C. Ten Moon)
Outside Kingslanding
The red towers of King's Landing rose in the distance at last, their peaks catching the light of the afternoon sun like embers upon Aegon's High Hill.
Maekar Targaryen reined in his horse upon a low rise and looked upon the city in silence. As stopped beside Lord Rickard Selmy.
Three moons. That was what it had taken him to bring this host together.
Three moons to rally and march them to Kings Landing the men of Summerhall and the lords closest to it. Three moons to gather Reachmen, Stormlanders, and the many peoples who lived upon those lands. Farmers, shepherds, hedge knights, sworn swords, and second sons, all called to war.
And now they had come.
Behind him stretched the long column of his army, banners stirring in the wind, armor glinting beneath the pale sun. Five thousand men, give or take, though the number grew larger if one counted the servants and squires who followed in their wake.
Three hundred knights rode beneath their banners. A thousand more were men-at-arms, hardened and disciplined. The rest were levies.
Levies who, three moons past, had been little more than farmers with tools in their hands.
Now they marched as soldiers.
Not perfect ones, Maekar knew. Not yet. But better than he had hoped.
The march had seen to that. It had been longer than he wished. What should have taken two or three weeks along the Rose Road had stretched into four. The ambush against Lord Butterwell and his party had seen to that, forcing caution upon him.
He had not forgotten it. From that moment they march he had sent scouts ahead and along the knights and squire rode their flanks.
If another attack came, they would be ready.
Still, the delay had not been without its uses.
Mustering an army was one thing. Forging it into something that could stand in battle was another entirely. So during the time he rallied the men around Summerhall he work to discipline them.
Most of the men who had come to him were peasants. They had never held a sword, never stood in a shield wall, never faced a charge of armored knights. Many had not even owned a proper weapon.
So he had given them one they could use. Pikes.
Simple, long, and deadly in formation. A weapon a peasant could learn to hold in a matter of days, if not master. With a pike in hand and a small shield upon the arm, a man could stand his ground. Could hold a line.
That was what mattered. Discipline over skill, Every day up until they had march, he had them during they day for hours, and then along the march for a hour, sometimes more. Holding formation. Bracing against a charge. Moving as one.
At first, it had been chaos.
Lines broke. Men fumbled. Commands were lost in the wind.
But day by day, they improved.
Shepherds and herders proved the quickest to learn. Many had used long staffs to fend off wolves and other predators. A pike was not so different in their hands. They stood steadier than most farmers, more accustomed to defending what was theirs.
And pikes were easy to make.
Easier than swords. Easier than large shields. Easier to arm five thousand men in short time.
Maekar had prepared for this.
Since receiving his father's orders many moons agon when his boy had dreamed of the war that had started, to ready for war, he had filled the armories of Summerhall. Pikes by the hundreds. Small shields, and easy cervelliere, and the nasale helm. Gambesons enough to clothe many of he levies, that wore only the cloth they wore. On occasion a family heirloom of a sword or rusted mail.
The lands had allowed it. The hills around Summerhall were rich with sheep, their wool turned to cloth, their trade filling his coffers. Vineyards stretched across the slopes as well, producing Stormy Red and White Stag wines, both valued across the Stormlands and beyond.
As they marched, more men had joined them.
At Grays Vale, Fawnton, and Tumbleton, levies and knights alike had ridden out to swell his ranks. The levies joined the groups already trained. They would join, and integrated over time, as they trained as one, and they would fight as one.
The lords, of course, kept their men-at-arms close, their personal retinues remaining under their command. That was expected. That was the way of things.
But the levies belonged to the army now.
To him.
The march had given him more than soldiers.
It had given him time.
Time to speak with the lords who rode beneath his banners. Each day, a different man would ride beside him. They spoke of lands, of harvests, of marriages, of petty disputes that seemed small in the face of what was coming, and about the coming conflict. Yet many seemed t
Those talks bored him.
But he endured them.
He was a prince. And a prince had his duties.
Yet not all conversations were dull.
Some men understood war.
Richard Selmy was one such man.
Near Maekar's own age, with a wife, two sons, and a daughter, Selmy carried himself with the quiet confidence of one who had seen conflict before. A marcher lord, born to lands that had known generations of bloodshed. His grandfather had fought in the Fifth Dornish War and lost a brother in it.
Yet the world had changed. Since the integration of Dorne into the realm, the old raids and counter-raids had faded. Not vanished entirely, no. There were always those who refused to bend. Those who clung to old hatreds. But now they were hunted. By marcher lords and Stony Dornish alike. That, at least, was something.
Maekar's gaze returned to the city before him. King's Landing.The red towers rose above the blackened walls and crowded streets, looming over the land like a great beast at rest. Yet it was not the city itself that first drew his eye.
It was what lay before it.
The lands around the capital, once fields of grain and pasture, had been swallowed by war. What had been farmland was now a sea of tents, stretching far across the plains. Banners snapped and flapped in the wind—Crownlands houses, a few from the Reach, others from the Riverlands—each marking the presence of men called to fight.
An army.
No… multiple armies, gathering into one.
As his host rode closer, the sound of marching feet and shifting armor blended with the distant murmur of thousands. Dust hung low over the ground, churned up by men, horses, and wagons alike.
Then he saw them.
A retinue rode out from the camp toward him.
Maekar's eyes narrowed slightly as he made out the banners. The three-headed dragon of his house flew foremost, but beside it rode another—his uncle's banner, the white single-headed dragon on black. And beside that, the sigil of House Hayford.
He raised a hand.
The column slowed, then halted behind him in a ripple of motion.
Five thousand men brought to stillness.
The approaching riders drew nearer, and soon Maekar could make them out clearly. His uncle rode at their head, calm and composed as ever. Beside him rode the new Hand of the King, Lord Daven Hayford, with Ser Justin Caswell following close behind.
The two groups met between the armies.
"Prince Maekar, welcome. You and your host are a warming sight at these trying times," the Hand proclaimed, smiling with open relief.
Maekar inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression remained measured. "My lord Hand."
Then his gaze shifted.
"Uncle."
"My prince," his uncle replied, voice steady.
"It seems your efforts have not been in vain. A fine force you are leading," Lord Hayford added, his eyes briefly scanning the ranks behind Maekar.
"It was hard work," Maekar said plainly. "But the levies have been somewhat whipped into shape. They should not break at the first charge." He did not claim more than that. Levies were still levies.
"Very well. I had hoped as much," the Hand replied. "It will be good to have them join us. Hopefully, we will soon see the arrivals of the Reach, the West, and the Riverlands."
There was a slight hesitation in his voice at the end of that, subtle but present. Maekar noticed.
"Good," he said instead. "The lords around Summerhall have all come and in good order, as have those we met upon the road, and those whose castles we passed."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Lord Rickard.
The Hand followed his gaze, then inclined his head. "Good, my prince. If you would join us to the Red Keep, your father wishes to speak with you." Of course he did.
Maekar turned in his saddle. "Lord Rickard," he called. "Until I return, you have command together with Ser Harwin. Organize the tents along with the rest of the army."
The lord nodded at once and wheeled his horse back toward the column, already calling for Ser Harwin, his captain of the guard.
Orders carried. The army would settle.
Maekar allowed himself one last look over his men before turning back.
"Ride on, Lord Hand. I wish to see the camp before evenfall." His gaze shifted briefly toward the wheelhouse rolling behind them, where his wife and three sons traveled under guard. Ser Manfred rode beside it, along with ten of his household knights.
He urged his horse forward and fell in beside Lord Hayford as they rode toward the city.
"It is good to see you finally wearing that badge," Maekar said after a moment. "After these many years of loyal service."
"I thank you, my prince," Lord Hayford replied. "I hope to serve the King well. Yet, sadly, with the actions Lord Butterwell took, I was not surprised to find he left certain matters lacking."
Maekar glanced at him, listening. "To give a example the funding of the City Watch was quite insufficient," the Hand continued. "As were payments for orphanages and other public works within the city. It seems Butterwell cut most of them to reduce the realm's spending, keeping only what was strictly needed after your grandfather's reign, as Lord Manwoody told me himself."
His tone tightened slightly. "Yet it was the smallfolk who bore the brunt of it."
Maekar said nothing, letting him continue. "Now that the treasury has recovered and stands full, even in wartime those fundings have begun again."
"Good," Maekar said. "I never understood why he was kept on as he was. Perhaps it was my father's way of showing the realm he was his father's son… and that he did not intend retribution."
"A fair speculation," Lord Hayford replied.
They rode on, passing beneath the looming walls, the great gates of the city opening before them.
"So tell me," Maekar continued, his gaze shifting once more toward the sprawling camp beyond the walls. "How strong are the forces? I saw the tents. I would place them at seven thousand, at least."
"Around that number, yes," Lord Hayford said. "The levies have been trained—pikes again, as with yours. More men-at-arms and knights have taken up residence within the city itself. And, of course, your father's personal household guard."
He paused. "In total, near nine thousand men."
"Where are most of them from?" Maekar asked. "The Crownlands, I assume."
"Primarily," the Hand said, as they passed beneath the Gate of the Smith. "Though there are others. I shall speak more on it when we meet your father. He wishes your counsel on several military matters." Maekar gave a short nod.
They continued through the city, the noise of King's Landing rising around them, voices, carts, distant hammer on metal, until at last the Red Keep came into view, rising above it all.
They dismounted within the yard.
Maekar spared only a moment to ensure his family was seen to before turning back to duty.
With his uncle and Lord Hayford beside him, he made his way toward his father's solar.
Daeron's Solar
As Maekar stepped inside the solar. His father rose at once.
"It's good to see my boy," his father said, closing the distance and embracing him.
Maekar returned it, firmer this time. "As do I, Father, even if it is under unwelcome circumstances."
"Indeed." His father pulled back, studying him for a moment, pride and worry both plain upon his face. "Come, sit."
They gathered at the table. Lord Hayford stood already at one side, and Brynden, his uncle, lingered near the maps, dark eyes ever watchful.
Maekar's gaze swept across the table before he spoke. "So, considering everything, we have not yet been able to capture Daemon or Bittersteel?"
"No," Brynden answered without hesitation. "I followed them as far as I could. He traveled north, likely toward one of the port keeps along Blackwater Bay or perhaps Maidenpool, to send his family to Tyrosh. After that, he vanished. Where he is now remains unclear, as do the full extent of his supporters."
He shifted slightly, one hand resting on the edge of the table. "Though we are not blind. For example the houses in the Reach, near the Red Mountains, have begun to gather. Not under the Tyrell banner, but rather Peakes. and in number, and word from the Hightowers tells us several of their vassals, those of the Three Towers, have failed to answer the call."
Maekar's eyes dropped to the map.
"The Peakes," he murmured. "One of the strongest of the Tyrell vassals. Capable of raising large levies, and men second only to the Hightowers." His fingers traced the Reach. "They have been grasping and isn't the first time, I doubt many forget Lord Unwin Peaks disastrous and grasping reign during the time of great-grandfather'." The room smirked at him, instead of helping the realm recover Lord Unwin Peak, only further destroyed unity in the realm, and failed to mentor Aegon III properly.
He looked up again. "If they gather enough strength, they could march to join Daemon, or split their forces. A diversion might be enough to keep the Tyrells forces occupied, prevent them from joining us."
His gaze sharpened. "What of the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands, Dorne, and the West? I saw the Butterwells with us."
He did not ask of the North. There was no point. Too far, too slow. And the Iron Islands… he had no wish to repeat that mistake.
"Indeed with Butterwells subdue, after Butterwells treason was relieved. As for the Riverlands," Brynden said, a faint edge in his voice, "are much as they were during the Dance. Divided. It seems two camps are forming, one around the Blackwoods, the other the Brackens."
Maekar straightened slightly, catching the disdain in his uncle's tone.
"I suspected as much," he said. "As much as I understand why Aegon raised the Tullys, they lack the strength to command true loyalty. It is the same with the Tyrells. Neither house holds true legitimacy in the eyes of their vassals. Neither wore a crown before the Conquest."
His lips pressed thin. "The Tullys are weaker still. They do not possess the wealth the Tyrells command through the Reach's bounty."
His father gave a small, approving smile at that.
"The West fares little better," Lord Hayford added. "There are reports of Ser Quentyn Fireball rallying men for Daemon. The Red Bastard is said to have joined him as well. The Tarbecks have clashed with the Westerlings. Whether that is tied to the Crown or merely a local dispute remains unclear."
"Mmm." Maekar considered that. "The Red Bastard made his name in the tourneys, did he not?"
"He did," his father said. "Won many. Ten years past, he unhorsed Fireball here in King's Landing. Asked no ransom afterward. It is said the two found common cause not long after."
"Then the Reynes are likely with them," Maekar said, rubbing his beard. "Another powerful house drawn to Daemon's cause."
His gaze returned to the map, though his thoughts were already beyond it.
"It is a pattern," he continued. "The houses supporting Daemon are not weak. Reyne. Peake. Bracken. All second houses. All powerful. All waiting for a chance to rise above those they serve."
He exhaled softly. "This is not about who has the better claim. It is about opportunity."
"Your brother said much the same," his father replied, giving a proud smile, and it was something he strived for. "He has already sailed for Sunspear, to aid the Martells. The Yronwoods are gathering men. We received word two days past."
"Not surprising," Maekar said. "The Yronwoods have long sought more power, eversince the Martells took control over Dorne, and Yronwoods, cast down as the High Kings of Dorne. If they side with Daemon, they may hope to supplant the Martells, and become Lord Paramount of Dorne."
"That is likely," his uncle said. "The Vale, at least, remains mostly stable. Save for raids by House Sunderland along the Fingers."
He gestured toward the map. "Lord Arryn reports that most of his strength will sail with the Velaryon fleet from Gulltown."
"How many?" Maekar asked.
"Two and a half thousand," Lord Hayford said. Maekar raised an eyebrow. "Not levies. Knights, men-at-arms, and squires." Lord Hayford added.
"Good. And their levies?"
"They gather at the Gates of the Moon," Hayford answered. "They will reinforce the Bloody Gate if needed, under Rolland Waynwood."
Maekar nodded.
"That leaves the Stormlands houses that did not answer my call."
His uncle gave a small shrug. "Lord Steffon rallies what men he can, but he has heard nothing from Houses Toyne, Strickland, Wensington, or Estermont. There may be trouble there. Though you have done well with the marcher lords. They remain loyal, to my surprise"
"I did as well after Lord Richard, told me of what effect Dorne's joining had at the region. The Marcher Lords seems content with the out come." Maekar echoed, and his father smiled happily at those words.
He leaned slightly over the table. "And Baelor?"
"He will deal with the Yronwoods, then march through the Boneway," his father said. "From there to Storm's End, and then here."
Maekar studied the map. "If the timing favors us, we may catch Daemon between us. Either we drive him toward Baelor, or Baelor drives him toward us."
He shook his head faintly. "But it is too early. We do not know where he is."
"Just so," Lord Hayford agreed. "For now, we gather strength. There are still houses near the Blackhold, Pyle, Blount, Gaunt, Farring. We have heard nothing from them."
Maekar's gaze hardened. "They are waiting. Either for Daemon, or to see who wins. And we cannot spare men to besiege them."
He tapped the table once. "So they wait. And so do we, and when the dust settles we deal with them."
"That's best option." his uncle and Lord Hayford said together.
Silence settled.
Maekar looked at his father then.
He seemed older than before. The lines on his face deeper. The weight of the crown heavier than Maekar had ever seen it.
His father was no war leader.
He was a builder. A ruler of peace.
And now he was forced into war.
"Father," Maekar said, his voice quieter now, "if that is all, I would see the camp. Speak with the men before I retire."
His father nodded and rose, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"That is all, my son. Rest when you can. And well done."
Maekar bowed his head. He spoke a few words to his uncle and Lord Hayford, then turned and left the solar, a household guard falling in step beside him.
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