Chapter 18 – The Rebel Camp
Setting: The Riverlands, Rebel Army Encampment
The fires burned bright in the rebel camp, their light flickering against the faces of soldiers, knights, and lords alike. Victory had come at a cost, and though the banners of Robert Baratheon flew high over the field, the scent of blood and ash still clung to the air.
The rebels had broken the royalist forces at the Battle of the Bells, but the war was far from over. As men sharpened their blades and drank to their fallen brothers, discussions of strategy and politics brewed in the command tents.
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General POV – The Camp
The rebel army had swelled in numbers. With the Riverlords now firmly committed, their ranks were filled with men from Houses Tully, Blackwood, and Bracken—men who had once feuded over petty grievances, now bound together in common cause. The North stood strong, its forces hardened by cold and discipline, but even they showed signs of fatigue.
In the common soldier's part of the camp, men whispered about the battle. Some spoke of Robert Baratheon's sheer, unrelenting might. Others marveled at how Eddard Stark had led the North with such calm determination. But one name had begun to rise among the ranks—the Captain.
"He fought like a demon," a soldier muttered near the fires, wrapping his hands around a steaming cup of ale. "I've never seen a knight move like that. He cut through them like they were wheat before the scythe."
"Aye," another agreed. "And yet the lords still hold him back. If that were me, I'd be demanding a command position after a fight like that."
"He's not one of them," a veteran knight pointed out, voice quiet but firm. "No name, no lands. Even if he fought like the gods themselves, they won't let him rise past what he is."
Silence fell over the group. In the flickering firelight, the truth of those words was hard to deny.
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Inside the Command Tent –
Inside the largest tent, the lords of the rebellion sat in tense discussion. Robert Baratheon leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Jon Connington is done," he stated, voice heavy with both satisfaction and exhaustion. "The Targaryens lost a good man. But we're far from done."
Eddard Stark nodded, his gaze steady. "Rhaegar has not yet moved from Dorne. We have time, but not much. The Crownlands will rally to him before long."
Jon Arryn, ever the statesman, folded his hands together. "We must take the next step carefully. We hold the Riverlands, but the royalists still control the capital. We need to be smart about this, not just rely on brute force."
"Brute force wins battles," Robert countered. "And we will break them. Every man here knows that."
"Brute force lost the Targaryens this battle," Hoster Tully interjected, his sharp eyes surveying the gathered leaders. "Connington overestimated his ability to hold the town. He underestimated us. That mistake cost him."
A murmur of agreement passed through the tent.
Then, one of the younger lords—Lord Jason Mallister—spoke up. "And what of the Captain?"
Robert grinned, eyes flashing. "That man fights like he was born for war. I saw him hold the gate like a bloody whirlwind."
"Yet he remains without station," another lord murmured.
Eddard's expression darkened slightly. "He is a knight. He has fought with honor, and he will continue to do so. But Westeros does not elevate men so easily."
Jon Arryn's voice was measured. "We will see where his path leads. For now, we have a war to win."
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The celebrations of victory had not yet faded, but in the minds of many lords, one battle did not win a war. The rebel camp was alive with tension, the air thick with the weight of what lay ahead. Around the fires, within the tents, and beneath the banners of their houses, the noblemen who had pledged themselves to this cause debated, whispered, and pondered what would come next.
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Hoster Tully –
Within his personal tent, Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and the man whose forces had solidified the rebel position in the Riverlands, leaned over a map of Westeros, deep in thought. His daughters were now bound to the rebellion—Lysa to Jon Arryn, and Catelyn to Eddard Stark. Their fates were tied to this war as much as his own.
"Robert is a hammer," he murmured to himself. "And hammers break things. But we need more than brute strength to win this war."
He had pledged his house, his army, his very legacy to the cause, but was Westeros truly ready to be ruled by Robert Baratheon? Jon Arryn was wise, and Eddard Stark was honorable, but Robert was wild. A warrior, not a king.
Hoster rubbed his temples, sighing. The Targaryens had ruled for centuries. To tear them down was one thing; to build something new was another entirely.
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Jason Mallister –
Outside the command tent, Jason Mallister, the Lord of Seagard, sat with his men, his mind still aflame with the battle that had passed. He had fought in many skirmishes along the western shores, fending off Ironborn raiders, but never had he seen a battle like this.
"Connington was good," he admitted to his gathered knights. "But he lacked the patience to hold the town. We could have been broken if he had been wiser."
"And if not for the Northerners," one of his men added.
Jason nodded. "Aye. Stark's men pushed through, and that Captain—Steve—they say he was like a shadow on the battlefield, cutting down anyone in his way."
The men murmured their agreement. Jason tapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword. He did not envy the lords who had to deal with the politics of this war, but the fighting? The fighting was what he lived for.
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Jon Lynderly –
Near the edges of the camp, a young lord, Jon Lynderly, stood in quiet conversation with his father's sworn men. He was one of the many lords sworn to House Arryn, his lands lying in the eastern parts of the Vale.
"We've won here," he said, "but the war will only get harder. The Targaryens still have loyalists in the Reach, in the Westerlands."
One of his knights scoffed. "The Westerlands won't move without Tywin Lannister's direct order. And that man is as cautious as he is ruthless."
Jon frowned. "Then what of Dorne?"
Silence fell over them. The Martells had yet to act, but everyone knew that Prince Doran was not a man to be underestimated.
"If Rhaegar gathers the Dornish behind him, we'll have a true war on our hands," Jon murmured.
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Randyll Tarly –
Within another tent, Randyll Tarly, one of the most capable commanders among the rebel forces, sat with a goblet of wine in hand. He was not a man given to drink, but tonight, as he listened to the boasting and the laughter around him, he felt irritation gnawing at his patience.
"Victory breeds complacency," he muttered.
A knight sitting near him turned, raising an eyebrow. "What was that, my lord?"
Randyll glanced at him. "The men cheer, they drink, they think the war is already won. But the royalists still hold King's Landing. The Reach has not committed fully, and the Lannisters wait like lions in the tall grass."
The knight hesitated, then nodded. "So, what do you suggest?"
"We push," Randyll said simply. "Strike before Rhaegar can rally his forces. Before he can use the Reach and Dorne to counter us."
The knight exhaled. "You should speak to the lords about this."
Randyll smirked, finishing his drink. "I'll let Jon Arryn and Stark handle the politics. But if Robert Baratheon is as bold as I think, I won't need to convince anyone."
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Garlan Grafton –
Not all in the camp fully trusted the cause. Garlan Grafton, a minor lord sworn to the Arryns, sat with his sworn swords, watching the fires burn. His mind was on the war, yes, but also on the alliances forming.
The North and the Riverlands were now bound together. The Vale stood firm with them. But where would that leave men like him?
"Baratheon is a warrior, not a king," he muttered. "And yet we fight to put him on the throne."
A knight beside him scoffed. "Better than the Mad King."
"That's not the point," Garlan said, shaking his head. "If Robert takes the throne, who rules when he is on the battlefield? The Starks? The Arryns? Or will we trade one tyrant for another, just of a different kind?"
The knight hesitated, then said, "You think we're backing the wrong side?"
Garlan sighed. "No. But I think we're not asking enough questions."
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Across the camp, the lords of Westeros debated, plotted, and speculated on what lay ahead. The war was not yet won, and though their banners flew high, they all knew the real challenge still awaited.
Some saw the war as an opportunity. Others feared what would come after.
And among them, one knight without a name or noble house had begun to cast a long shadow—a man who fought like a warrior out of legend, yet had no place in the world of lords and kings.
The rebellion continued. And with it, the fates of all who had taken up arms.
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Steve Rogers –
Outside the tent, Steve Rogers sat on a fallen log, sharpening his sword. His mind wandered back to the battle—the blood, the cries, the sheer weight of the fight. He had been through war before, but not like this.
Here, in Westeros, there were no clear villains. No Red Skull, no HYDRA. Just men, fighting for their beliefs, their honor, their survival.
And he was just a piece in the game.
The soldiers respected him. That much was clear. They called him Captain, not out of nobility, but because he fought beside them. Because he was one of them. But the lords? The lords saw him as useful, but nothing more.
He didn't mind. Not really. He had never cared about rank. But if he was going to protect these people—if he was going to help them win—he would have to find a way to navigate this world's politics without losing himself in them.
The fire crackled, and Steve exhaled, watching the embers drift into the night sky.
For now, the war continued. And so did he.
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