Chapter 48 Before

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Chapter Forty-Eight: The Storm Before the Fire

The Northern army, twenty-five thousand strong, stretched across the ancient ruins of Moat Cailin.

The once-great fortress, now little more than crumbling stone and overgrown moss, remained a formidable stronghold. It had stood for centuries as the gateway to the North, the first line of defense against any who dared march past the Neck.

But today, it was not a place of battle.

It was the staging ground for war.

Inside the command tent, the great lords of the North were gathered around a large wooden table, studying reports and maps lit by flickering candlelight.

Lord Eddard Stark stood at the head, his face grim as he read the latest messages from the South.

Robb Stark stood beside him, his brows furrowed in deep thought.

And at the center, listening in silence, was Daeron Targaryen.

Ned began the meeting by going over the first report.

"The Riverlands are burning," he said grimly. "The Lannisters have struck their first blow."

The lords around the table shifted uneasily.

Lord Greatjon Umber let out a growl. "The bloody lions wasted no time, did they?"

Ned placed the first message on the table. "Edmure Tully had sent Lord Vance and Lord Piper to guard the pass below Golden Tooth, trying to prevent the Lannisters from entering the Riverlands. But Tywin was ahead of him."

The lords leaned in.

"Tywin dispatched Ser Gregor Clegane to raid the villages along the Red Fork," Ned continued. "Edmure, fearing for his people, split his forces. He sent men to every village and holdfast within a day's ride of the border."

Daeron's jaw clenched.

He could already see the mistake.

"He spread himself too thin," Howland Reed murmured.

Ned nodded. "And Jaime Lannister took advantage of it."

A heavy silence settled over the room.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, commanding fifteen thousand Lannister troops, descended upon the Tully forces," Ned continued. "The Rivermen were outnumbered. Lord Vance was slain, and Lord Piper retreated to Riverrun with what men he could save. Jaime is now pursuing them, likely planning to besiege Riverrun."

"And Tywin?" Robb asked.

Ned's expression darkened. "He has brought another twenty thousand Lannister soldiers up from the south."

The room fell into a heavy silence.

The weight of the numbers hit the room like a hammer.

The North had twenty-five thousand men.

The Lannisters already had thirty-five thousand on the field.

And that was before the other claimants entered the war.

The North has a strong army, but if Riverrun fell before they arrived, the Riverlands would be lost.

Murmurs filled the tent."The Lannisters are moving quickly," Lord Karstark muttered. "But what of the others?"

Ned placed another letter on the table.

"Renly Baratheon has finally made his move," he announced. "He has raised an army of eighty thousand men—the largest in the Seven Kingdoms."

Murmurs spread through the room.

Daeron narrowed his eyes.

"Where is he marching?" asked Lord Karstark.

"Toward King's Landing," Ned replied.

The lords exchanged uneasy glances.

"If he reaches the capital before we do," Howland Reed noted, "he could claim the city for himself."

"He would need to fight Stannis first," Lord Manderly said. "What of him?"

"Stannis remains in Dragonstone, gathering his strength," Ned answered. "His army is too small to be an immediate threat, but his fleet is considerable."

Robb exhaled. "So, we have three pretenders fighting for the throne."

Lord Umber grunted. "And only one rightful king."

His gaze turned to Daeron.

The others followed.

For the first time, Daeron spoke.

"The Riverlands are burning," he said quietly. "We march tomorrow."

There was no argument.

The lords bowed their heads.

The meeting was over.

That night, Daeron sat in his private chamber.

His battle armor was set aside, his Valyrian steel battle axe resting against the wall. Ghost lay beside the hearth, eyes half-closed but ever watchful.

Outside the tent, the camp was alive with the sounds of men preparing for war.

Daeron exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

Everything was moving so fast.

Weeks ago, he had been a bastard. Now, he was a King.

And soon, he would be at war.

The weight of it pressed heavily on his chest.

So many men would follow him into battle. Men who had families. Sons, fathers, brothers. He would not waste their lives for a throne.

A knock at the entrance pulled him from his thoughts.

Ghost's ears perked up.

"Enter," Daeron called.

A servant stepped in and bowed. "Your Grace… someone is here to see you."

Daeron frowned. "Who?"

The servant hesitated.

Then the tent flap parted—

And a woman stepped inside.

Daeron rose to his feet.

Silver hair.

Lilac eyes.

A face both regal and familiar.

He had never seen her before in his life.

And yet—

He knew her.

The woman exhaled, her gaze softening as she looked at him.

"Daeron," she murmured.

Daeron's breath caught.

"Grandmother."

Rhaella Targaryen had come to see him.