The last crimson rays of the dying sun bled away into darkness, leaving only pale starlight to cast its feeble glow upon the ancient stones of Stone Hedge. Night crept across the land like a shroud, and with it came the promise of rest for weary souls.
From the wooden houses and stone towers of the town, thin streams of smoke rose toward the heavens—black, gray, and white ribbons that merged with the twilight sky like incense offered to forgotten gods. After another day of tedious routine, soldiers and townsfolk alike prepared to break their evening fast and seek what comfort they could find in ale and warm beds.
Beyond the town's walls, the campfires of the Riverlands host flickered like fallen stars scattered across the earth. Ten thousand men or more lay encamped around Stone Hedge's perimeter—too many to quarter within the town's confines without turning streets into a writhing mass of steel and flesh. Better to keep the main force outside, where they might serve as both overflow and shield should enemies approach.
In truth, few among them troubled themselves overmuch with thoughts of battle.
From Ser Jon Fossoway, their commander, down to the lowliest man-at-arms, all understood their role in this grand game of thrones. They were not the principal players upon this stage, merely supporting actors in a drama whose climax would unfold elsewhere.
Stone Hedge would likely see no fighting at all.
Such knowledge brought secret relief to some—those whose courage had never been tested in earnest—but it rankled others who had answered their lords' call expecting glory. How had it come to this? When the banners had been raised and the war horns sounded, every man had dreamed of epic clashes, of songs that would echo through the ages, of deeds that would etch their names in history's pages.
None had imagined they would be relegated to the wings while others claimed the stage.
Yet the enemy's movements defied all logic and expectation. Lord Tywin had gathered his strength but kept it idle in the Westerlands, forcing Earl Rowan to divide his attention between multiple threats. King Joffrey had first seemed to ignore the war entirely, then abandoned his capital to sail for Storm's End—madness that made no tactical sense.
King Renly had chosen to match this chaotic pattern, and so the great host of Highgarden found itself split like a broken sword. Lord Mace and Earl Tarly had marched east with thirty thousand of their finest, seeking to end the war in one decisive stroke at Storm's End.
Which left their own thirty thousand to guard the rear—a vital task, to be sure. Someone must watch the northern approaches, protect the supply lines, gather intelligence from enemy lands. Yet for all its importance, this was not where legends were born or songs were sung. History would remember Storm's End, where heroes would rise and fall like wheat before the scythe.
Stone Hedge might well be forgotten entirely—a war that began with fanfare and ended in anticlimax.
What warrior worth his salt could stomach such a fate?
Fortunately, they had been encamped here little more than a sennight, and wine, dice, and willing women still sufficed to ease their frustrations and banish boredom's sting. Ser Jon Fossoway proved himself an able commander in this regard, working tirelessly to maintain both discipline and morale. He resolved disputes before they could fester into bloodshed, assigned duties to keep idle hands busy, and ensured his men remained fighting fit without growing restless.
Save for those sent out on patrol and reconnaissance, the host settled into a comfortable routine. During the bright hours, some walked the walls while others slept off the previous night's excesses. Games of chance and skill occupied many, while bards and storytellers plied their trade for coin and applause. The town's whores did a thriving business, their services much in demand among men far from home.
When darkness fell, the duties shifted but the diversions remained much the same. Guards took their posts while gamblers gathered around flickering candles, dice and coins changing hands with each throw. Some caroused until dawn, others sought companionship in willing arms—be they professional courtesans or lonely wives whose husbands had marched off to war.
Thus did Stone Hedge pass its days and nights in a strange mixture of peace and chaos, discipline and dissolution.
Until the first scouts returned with news that changed everything.
Gathering intelligence on King's Landing had proven easier than expected, though perhaps it should not have surprised them. Though the northlands crawled with enemies and normal commerce had withered like flowers in winter, Stone Hedge lay only two days' hard ride from the capital. Even relying solely on military outriders, the city could not entirely mask its activities.
The knowledge they brought back sent tremors through the camp.
Had Ser Jon not moved swiftly to contain the information, panic might well have taken hold and shattered their force like glass against stone. Even with such precautions, it required all his skill to restore calm and confidence among his officers.
The intelligence was three days old at most, but its implications were staggering.
The royal fleet had returned to the Blackwater Rush in force, their warships commanding every port and bridge that might serve an advancing army. Smaller vessels had pressed upriver into the narrower reaches, extending their control far beyond what any had thought possible.
The exact count of ships remained uncertain, but the scouts estimated at least as many vessels as the royal fleet had originally boasted—and all of them crewed with disturbing competence. No ships ran aground or foundered through inexperience; every maneuver spoke of seasoned seamanship.
The officers had gathered in private council to discuss this troubling news, their voices hushed with disbelief. Where had such numbers of skilled sailors come from? Operating hundreds of ships demanded thousands of experienced hands—surely they could not all be fresh recruits?
Yet according to the scouts, that was precisely the case.
Though they dared not enter the city proper, they had lingered near the harbor and witnessed something that defied belief. Merchant vessels and warships alike took aboard waves of landlubbers from the city—men who had never set foot on a deck, women who knew nothing of rope or sail. Yet somehow, impossibly, these raw recruits were transformed into competent crew members within days rather than seasons.
The teaching methods seemed almost supernatural. Instructors spoke few words, yet their students absorbed lessons with unnatural speed. Mistakes that should have plagued novices for months were corrected in hours. Green boys partnered with veteran sailors soon handled their duties as though born to the sea.
Most disturbing of all, these new sailors continued to improve at a pace that mocked nature itself, swiftly matching and even surpassing their supposed masters.
The gathered officers fell silent at this news, each man lost in his own dark thoughts. They had counted on the enemy's lack of experienced seamen to limit the royal fleet's effectiveness. Now that advantage had vanished like morning mist.
But this was only the beginning of the intelligence that would shake their confidence to its foundations.
The scouts spoke of wonders and horrors in equal measure—of King's Landing transformed into something men called the "Holy City," where miracles walked the streets like common beggars. They described severed limbs growing back whole, envoys from the Iron Bank arriving with great ceremony to congratulate King Joffrey on his coronation, and strange battles won through mysterious "ship-cannons" that all the city seemed to whisper about.
Such tales might have been dismissed as tavern nonsense under normal circumstances, but too many sources told variations of the same impossible stories. The officers found themselves facing an enemy that grew more alien and terrifying with each report.
Stone Hedge responded as any prudent commander would—patrols were doubled, sentries tripled, scouts sent out in greater numbers than ever before. Vigilance became their watchword, caution their creed.
Yet for all their precautions, they remained blind to the greatest threat of all.
What the eye cannot see, the mind struggles to comprehend. Men naturally assume that enemies make noise when they move, that scouts cry out before they die, that death itself carries some warning. In this, they were fatally mistaken.
For beyond the hills that ringed Stone Hedge, beneath skies gray as old bone, an army waited in perfect silence. They had slain every eye and ear that Stone Hedge had sent forth, cutting them down like wheat before they could raise alarm or send word of warning.
Countless watchers peered through the gloom toward the unsuspecting town, where cooking fires still burned and men still laughed, ignorant of the doom that crept ever closer.
Stone Hedge had already tasted war's bitter cup—twice had battles raged around its ancient stones, and twice had the town paid in blood and tears for the honor of lending its name to history.
During the Dance of the Dragons, tens of thousands had died for the privilege of calling their slaughter the First Battle of Stone Hedge. The town had burned, its women had been ravaged, its very foundations shaken. Years later, the Second Battle of Stone Hedge had claimed three dragonriders and their mounts, along with thousands more souls fed to war's hungry maw.
Now the town had been rebuilt, its scars hidden beneath fresh mortar and new timber. Yet once again, armies had come to its gates like carrion birds drawn to a feast.
From his place of concealment atop the ridge, the man who had once been called Petyr Baelish—but who now bore the face and form of another—stroked his beard and smiled with anticipation. The restoration of his features had been but one gift among many, and tonight he would repay that kindness with interest.
"Today," he murmured to the darkness, his voice soft as silk and sharp as steel, "we shall witness the Third Battle of Stone Hedge."
The words hung in the air like a curse, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried out as though heralding the chaos that was to come.
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