Leon sat on his horse, gazing at the gray castle in the distance where two rivers met.
He smelled Riverrun.
River water, earth, and roast meat.
House Tully's people were preparing a feast to reward the troops.
The silver trout banners drooped as though they had just woken up.
The gates stood wide open, welcoming the victorious army.
"At least they weren't planning to shut us out."
Tyrion spoke beside him.
He rode closer. "Did you know Hoster Tully has two daughters? One was promised to Brandon Stark, but Brandon died. The other is supposedly marrying Jon Arryn."
Leon glanced at him.
"Pudding Face's intelligence network covers even that?"
Tyrion grinned. "I wasn't just drinking during that month at the Peach."
A grand feast was held inside Riverrun.
Not to celebrate victory, but to forge an alliance. Two weddings took place at once.
Jon Arryn married Lysa Tully.
Eddard Stark married Catelyn Tully.
Leon huddled in a corner of the hall, his gaze sweeping over the laughing faces.
Robert's face was flushed with drink, and he had an arm around a Tully knight as he boasted loudly.
Eddard Stark sat beside his bride, his expression as calm as a frozen lake in the North.
Jon Arryn solemnly raised his cup in a toast, but Leon saw his hand trembling slightly. He was still thinking of his nephew who had died at Stoney Sept.
Tyrion approached with a cup of wine, an odd expression on his face.
"I just heard Robert announce something over there."
"What?"
"He declared that he has a claim to the Iron Throne."
Tyrion lowered his voice. "Through his grandmother. She was a Targaryen."
Leon fell silent for a few seconds.
His eyes told him that the nobles in the hall had felt an extremely complicated mix of emotions upon hearing the news.
Some were excited, some worried, some bewildered, and some... were calculating.
"This war," Leon said softly, "is no longer a rebellion."
Tyrion nodded.
"It's a usurpation."
On the third day after the weddings, the rebel army broke camp and marched east.
Four armies:
The Starks' northmen.
The Tullys' riverlanders.
The Arryns' men of the Vale.
The remnants of Robert's Stormlands forces. They joined up on the eastern bank of the Green Fork.
Tents stretched for miles, and banners blotted out the sky.
The direwolf, the trout, the falcon, and the crowned stag-four sigils flew side by side for the first time.
Leon stood on a high slope, gazing at the magnificent sight.
Inside those densely packed tents, the soldiers' emotions were like a pot of boiling soup.
Excitement, tension, fear, anticipation, all bubbling away. Mixed together, like a pot of boiling soup.
Tyrion stood beside him, saying nothing for once.
"What are you thinking about?" Leon asked.
Tyrion was silent for a few seconds.
"I was thinking," he said, "how many men will be lying here when this battle is over."
Leon did not answer.
In the distance, a burst of laughter came from Robert's tent.
He was discussing their next move with Ned and Jon: march south along the Kingsroad, cross the Trident, and advance straight on King's Landing.
But Leon knew it would not be that simple.
Because the scouts had just brought back word:
Rhaegar Targaryen's army of forty thousand was gathering at the main ford of the Trident.
That night, Leon attended a war council in Robert's tent.
The tent was packed.
Robert sat at the head, a crumpled map spread before him.
Eddard stood beside him, and Jon Arryn sat to one side. Hoster Tully had yet to recover from his wounds, but he had men carry him there as well.
Dozens of knights from the various houses crowded the tent to bursting.
A scout knelt on the ground, delivering his report.
"Rhaegar's army has crossed the Trident and made camp on the southern bank. We estimate at least forty thousand men."
A stir ran through the tent.
"Forty thousand?" A knight frowned. "We have forty thousand too."
"But they'll have more cavalry," another knight said. "The Dornish are all light cavalry, and there are plenty of knights from the Reach as well."
Robert tapped the table, and everyone fell silent.
"What about Rhaegar himself?" he asked.
The scout lowered his head. "Reports say he's commanding the army in person."
The tent fell silent again.
Fear.
It was something they were unwilling to admit, but it was there.
The name Rhaegar Targaryen carried a magic of its own.
Robert suddenly looked at him.
"Little Leon, what do you say?"
Everyone's eyes turned to the dwarf.
Here we go again.
Leon walked to the map, his face expressionless.
His gaze swept over the markings: the ford across the Trident, the eastern bank of the Green Fork, the positions where the two sides faced each other.
"Rhaegar will wait," he said.
"For what?"
"For the Dornish army." Leon pointed at the map. "Lewyn Martell is marching north with ten thousand Dornishmen. They haven't arrived yet. Rhaegar only has thirty thousand men right now. He'll wait until they arrive before fighting."
Robert narrowed his eyes.
"You mean we should cross now?"
Leon shook his head.
"No. Crossing would be suicide. He's waiting for us on the other bank. We have to wait too."
"For what?"
Leon raised his head, his pale purple eyes glimmering in the candlelight.
"Until he has no choice but to fight."
Everyone looked at Leon in puzzlement.
"How do we leave him no choice but to fight?" Eddard Stark's face was expressionless.
"I already sent people to King's Landing yesterday to spread rumors..."
That same night, on the southern bank of the Trident.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood outside his tent, gazing at the campfires scattered across the northern bank.
The rebel camp stretched for miles, its fires like a vast, winding dragon coiled on the other side of the river.
Myles Mooton came to stand beside him.
"My lord, His Majesty just asked you to..."
"Pay it no mind." Rhaegar did not turn around. "Look at our opponents."
Myles Mooton was silent for a few seconds.
"Robert Baratheon," he said. "I saw him at Harrenhal. He's a valiant warrior."
Rhaegar nodded slightly.
"I know he's valiant."
"Are you worried about him?"
Rhaegar finally turned.
Moonlight fell on his face, his handsome features as tranquil as a statue's.
But Myles saw something burning deep within his eyes.
"I'm not worried about him," Rhaegar said. "I'm worried about King's Landing."
Myles waited for him to continue.
Rhaegar looked north. There, the scattered campfires merged into a sea of light.
"Father has gone mad," he said. "Tywin remains silent. Varys is sowing discord in King's Landing. The Dornish... the Dornish only want to see us destroy each other."
He paused.
"No matter who wins this battle, House Targaryen has lost."
Myles was silent for a long time.
"Then why did you start this war? Why keep fighting?"
Rhaegar did not answer.
He simply gazed at the northern bank, at those campfires, at the man who would soon fight him to the death.
"Because I am a dragon," he said softly. "Dragons do not flee... because the Seven Kingdoms need..."
In the rebel camp, Leon received a letter.
It had come through Tyrion's channels, a secret report sent by Pudding Face from King's Landing.
Leon opened the envelope and read by the light of the campfire.
Tyrion leaned closer. "What does it say?"
Leon's gaze swept over the scrawled handwriting as the [Eye of Insight] pieced the fragments together in his mind.
The Mad King was growing ever madder in King's Landing. He trusted no one. He burned people every day. His stockpile of wildfire kept growing.
Varys...
Leon's finger stopped on a line.
"What is Varys doing?" Tyrion asked.
A trace of reluctance stirred in Leon's heart, and he raised his head.
"He's handing the Mad King lists," he said. "Lists of traitors."
Tyrion froze for a moment.
"Traitors? Who are the traitors?"
Leon looked at him.
"Anyone can be. As long as the Mad King wants to kill them... even Rhaegar."
"It was you... yesterday...!?"
Tyrion's face went white.
In the distance, another burst of laughter came from Robert's tent.
They were still excited about the coming victory.
Leon held the letter to the campfire, watching it curl, blacken, and turn to ash.
"What are you worried about?" Tyrion asked.
He only gazed at the southern bank, at the enemy camp hidden from view.
Rhaegar was there. Forty thousand men were there.
On the eighth day, the scouts brought news:
Lewyn Martell's ten thousand Dornish troops had arrived and were crossing the river to join Rhaegar.
Another emergency council convened in Robert's tent.
"Now they have nearly forty thousand men," a knight said. "About as many as us."
"But they have more cavalry," another knight said. "The Dornish are all light cavalry, and there are plenty of knights from the Reach as well."
Robert tapped the table, his expression grim.
"We can't wait any longer," he said. "Their numbers keep growing. We have to strike first, before they've fully joined forces."
Several knights nodded in agreement.
Leon stood in the corner, silent the entire time.
Robert looked at him.
"Little Leon?"
Leon was silent for a few seconds, then walked to the map.
"The Dornish have only just arrived," he said. "Their army is exhausted after the long march. Rhaegar won't send them straight into battle."
He pointed to the ford on the map.
"Tomorrow. Rhaegar will probably let them rest for a day. Only the day after will he ready his army for battle."
He raised his head and looked at Robert.
"So we attack the day after tomorrow."
The tent fell silent.
Robert stared at him for a few seconds, then grinned.
"All right. We'll fight him fair and square! The day after tomorrow!"
On this night before the battle, Leon did not sleep.
He sat at the edge of camp, gazing at the enemy lights on the southern bank.
The lights were packed so densely that they looked like stars fallen from the sky into the river.
Tyrion came over and sat beside him.
"Can't sleep?"
Leon nodded.
Tyrion was silent for a few seconds, then pulled a small flask from inside his clothes and offered it to him.
"From the Peach's stock," he said. "Bella gave it to me."
Leon took the flask and sipped. A fiery sensation burned from his throat down into his stomach.
"Tell me," Tyrion suddenly said, "will we win tomorrow?"
Leon thought for a moment.
"I don't know."
"Can't your eyes see that?"
Leon shook his head.
"They can't see the future."
Tyrion fell silent for a long time.
In the distance, low singing drifted from the camp.
Someone was singing a folk song from the North, bleak and far-reaching.
"Leon."
"Hmm?"
"If tomorrow..." Tyrion paused. "If I die, pay back what I owe Zhong'er for me."
Leon looked at him.
"What do you owe her?"
"Three silver stags." Tyrion grinned. "I promised I'd give them to her."
Leon was silent for a few seconds, then chuckled softly.
"You won't die."
"How do you know?"
Leon gazed at the lights on the southern bank, at the battlefield that would soon swallow countless lives.
"Because I still owe you my life," he said. "From Ashford."
Tyrion froze for a moment, then smiled.
His smile was especially bright in the darkness.
Hoofbeats suddenly rang out.
A mounted scout came galloping from the north, his horse's hooves shattering the night's silence.
He dismounted at the edge of camp and ran straight toward Robert's tent.
Leon's [Eye of Insight] instinctively tracked him. The mass of light was dark red, carrying the exhaustion of a long journey, along with a trace of... excitement?
"Something's happened." He stood.
Tyrion stood as well.
A few minutes later, a messenger found them.
"Young Master Leon, Young Master Tyrion, there's a letter for you. From Casterly Rock."
Leon's heart skipped a beat.
Casterly Rock. Father.
He took the wax-sealed letter and opened it.
Tyrion leaned closer, reading with him by the light of the campfire.
Tywin Lannister's handwriting was as cold and hard as iron, as always:
"Leon, Tyrion:
The army of the Westerlands has finished assembling in secret. I will lead it straight to King's Landing.
The Battle of the Bells and the Trident have drawn all the royalist army's attention.
Rhaegar and his forty thousand men are tied down by you. The Dornish have come from afar, and the armies of the Reach are either besieging Storm's End or serving under Rhaegar.
King's Landing has only a small garrison at present.
By the time your battle with Rhaegar is decided, no matter who wins, King's Landing will be mine.
Leon, you have been at Robert's side for so long that you should know how to make him remember Cersei's name.
Robert needs a queen. House Lannister needs a queen.
Do not disappoint me.
Tywin Lannister
At Casterly Rock"
The letter trembled slightly in Leon's hands.
Tyrion stared at those lines, his eyes wide.
"Seven Hells..." he murmured. "He's been waiting all along. From beginning to end, he's been waiting."
Leon's [Eye of Insight] swept over every word on the paper, as though he could see his father's perpetually expressionless face through those cold strokes.
"Waiting for us and Rhaegar to tear each other apart." Tyrion's voice carried a complicated emotion...
Amazement? Awe? Fear?
"Then he steps in and reaps the spoils. King's Landing. The Iron Throne. All fucking his."
He paused, then suddenly smiled. There was no joy in that smile, only bitterness.
"You know, Leon, sometimes I hate him so much I want to strangle him with my own hands. But sometimes..."
He shook his head. "Sometimes I have to admire him. The old bastard is fucking clever."
Leon folded the letter and held it to the campfire, letting it turn to ash.
"Cersei," he said softly.
Tyrion looked at him.
"Are you really going to do it?"
Leon was silent for a few seconds.
"Father's right," he said. "Robert needs a queen. House Lannister needs a queen. Cersei..."
He did not finish.
Tyrion finished for him. "Cersei's beautiful enough to move any man's heart. A brute like Robert will lose his head the moment he sees her."
Leon nodded.
"But that's for later," he said. "Right now..."
He looked toward the southern bank. There, Rhaegar's campfires flickered in the night.
"Let's survive tomorrow first."
Tyrion was silent for a few seconds, then patted his shoulder.
In the distance, the lights on the southern bank flickered. As though something over there was watching them.
Leon touched the gold coin from the year 276 inside his clothes.
Rhaegar. Tomorrow.
That night seven years ago in the Saltwater Cod Tavern, that man who had asked him, "You're still young. You can take your time thinking about it."
He was finally going to face him.
He tucked the coin back inside his clothes and stood.
"Let's go," he told Tyrion. "We've still got a hard battle tomorrow."
They turned and walked back into camp.
Behind them, the waters of the Trident flowed on without end, like a dirge with no final verse.