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Late August. The Reach baked under its hottest sun of the year. Even the river water had lost its chill.
But the people of the Reach weren't complaining. They welcomed the heat—because it meant harvest season had arrived.
Highgarden
Seventy thousand Reachmen stood assembled. Under the banners of Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Mathis Rowan, the great host marched out along the banks of the Mander, a glittering serpent of steel and silk that stretched for miles.
Seventy thousand men. Enough to roll over Robert Baratheon's Stormlanders, smash them flat, then turn around and do it again for fun.
At the same time, the Redwyne fleet sailed north from the Arbor, while half the Shield Islands fleet slipped out under cover of darkness to link up with them.
The entire Reach was alive with purpose—every forge ringing, every stable full, every lord and knight burning to prove themselves.
"I've already sent ravens to Lord Grandison at Grandview," Daeron said, spreading the map across the table. "They are to hold position and concentrate their strength at Deerfield."
In the original timeline, Robert's path had been Summerhall → Ashford → the lower Mander. Without Randyll Tarly stopping him cold, he would have cut the Reach in half.
Daeron was not Owen Merryweather. He didn't micromanage loyal lords. As long as they stood for the Iron Throne, they could fight their own battles.
The three marcher lords—Grandview, Deerfield, and Wood's End—were no weaklings. Massed at Deerfield, they would form a perfect anvil.
"When the Reach host marches north and collides head-on with Robert's Stormlanders, we hammer them between the anvil and the hammer."
Randyll Tarly studied the map with cold precision. "Robert won't let three loyal houses sit comfortably behind him. He'll strike Deerfield first—crush the opposition, consolidate every Stormlander blade, then turn south toward Ashford."
Daeron nodded. "I've already written to Lord Tywin. He is to march from King's Landing to Tumblestone and wait. The moment Robert commits to Deerfield, Tywin hits him in the rear."
Tumblestone sat squarely between King's Landing and Deerfield.
If Robert attacked, Tywin could slam into his flank like a mailed fist.
Randyll allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "With Lord Tywin in position, the worst outcome is still a successful defense of Deerfield until the main Reach host arrives."
He didn't say the rest aloud, but everyone understood: Tywin Lannister was a brilliant politician… but not exactly a battlefield genius.
"Prince, you should rest," Randyll said, his voice almost gentle. "We still have a long march ahead, and the enemy could appear at any moment."
Daeron's lips curved. "I'm looking forward to it."
Pyke, Iron Islands
Quellon Greyjoy sat on the Seastone Chair, one massive hand pressed to his forehead, listening to the shouting match below.
"The Redwyne fleet and the Shield Islands fleet have both pulled out!"
"The Iron Throne is at war with three kingdoms! The Reach lords are all marching north—nothing can stop us from paying the iron price!"
"Exactly! The Shield Islands are bluffing—sending out a dozen longships every day for show, but their harbors are empty—"
The damp hall was packed with Ironborn lords and captains, all of them roaring like hungry wolves.
Ironborn tradition was simple: every lord and every captain was a king… in his own mind.
And right now, every single one of them smelled blood in the water.
"Silence!"
Balon's hoarse bellow cut through the noise. "Father, the Reach is undefended. This is the perfect moment to follow the Old Way."
Quellon lowered his hand, his weathered face once again the mask of the Lord Reaper.
Balon had prepared for this. He snapped his fingers. Two Ironborn dragged a plump, sweating merchant forward.
The man was already shaking.
Balon's voice was iron. "Speak. Tell them exactly what you saw."
The merchant stammered, "S-shield Islands… secretly bought iron arrowheads, wildfire jars, and huge stocks of supplies from Lannisport…"
A lord stepped forward. "Why would the Shield Islands need those things?"
"I-I don't know," the merchant squeaked, then quickly added, "I heard Lord Hightower of Oldtown is supporting Prince Daeron's march north. All their supplies went to the Reach host—so the Shield Islands had to buy from Lannisport instead."
Balon's lips curled into a victorious sneer. "You see, Father?"
If the Shield Islands weren't preparing for war, why buy iron arrowheads and wildfire in secret?
Quellon frowned. "You're certain half the Shield fleet is gone?"
"I'm certain," Balon said, eyes gleaming.
Quellon fell silent, weighing the risks.
He was an old man now. He could no longer restrain his sons—or the pack of wolves howling in this hall.
If he denied them this raid, he might not live to see another winter.
Quellon slammed his fist on the armrest.
"Then we follow the Old Way!"
The hall erupted in savage cheers that shook the very stones of Pyke.
The Shield Islands
The air was thick and humid, heavy clouds promising rain.
Lord Green of Greyshield stood atop the watchtower, scanning the sea as always.
Then he saw it.
A longship.
No—many longships.
And flying from the lead mast was a golden kraken banner.
"Ironborn!" Lord Green roared. "Sound the horns! Light the beacons!"
Across the water, the horizon filled with black sails.
On the flagship
Balon stood at the prow in salt-crusted leather, long curved blade in hand.
Today, the Ironborn would remember the Old Way.
Fifty longships. Two thousand reavers.
"Balon, do not engage in open battle," Quellon warned from a nondescript flat-bottomed barge nearby. "Our goal is plunder."
Quellon had hidden his best warriors on the ugliest, slowest ship—classic Ironborn cunning.
Balon didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the four Shield Islands rising ahead.
Horns wailed across the water. Beacons flared on every island.
"Ironborn!" Balon bellowed, voice carrying across the fleet. "The wealth of the Reach is waiting! Take it!"
"We Do Not Sow!"
The roar shook the sea itself.
The Ironborn crashed into the thin line of Shield Islands ships like a hammer on glass.
Mander River Mouth
Lord Randyll Tarly stood motionless behind a barricade of sharpened stakes, Heartsbane resting against his shoulder.
Behind him, a thousand Tyrell, Hightower, and Tarly soldiers waited in perfect silence.
"Lord, the Ironborn have engaged the Shield fleet!" young Baelor Hightower shouted, voice cracking with nerves.
Randyll didn't even glance at him. "Stay behind your guards and obey orders."
Baelor wanted to protest, but one look at that granite face shut him up.
Randyll's cold eyes tracked the enemy fleet pushing up the river.
Then he gave the order.
"Loose."
From both banks, hundreds of longbowmen rose and fired.
The sky darkened with arrows.
Balon's head snapped up in shock. "What—?!"
The first volley tore through the lightly armored Ironborn like a scythe through wheat.
"Ambush!" Victarion roared, hacking arrows out of the air with his greatsword.
Quellon tried to stand on the flat-bottomed barge, but the panicked crew knocked him down. An arrow punched into his chest.
"Ah—!"
Balon and Victarion's faces twisted in horror.
"Loose again!" Randyll Tarly commanded, voice flat as steel.
The second volley fell like death itself.
The Ironborn ships were trapped—barricades ahead, archers on both banks, and the river mouth behind them. They couldn't turn, couldn't retreat, couldn't even reach the shore.
Balon, drenched in his own men's blood, snarled, "Everyone—attack the north bank! Break that camp!"
He still believed raw ferocity could carry the day.
"Fools," Randyll muttered.
Then the sky itself seemed to darken.
A blood-red shadow fell over the river.
Screee—!
Caraxes dove like a crimson thunderbolt.
Daeron's voice rang out across the water.
"Dracarys!"
A roaring pillar of flame slammed into the clustered Ironborn ships.
Balon looked up in pure terror. "NO—!"
The dragonfire swept the deck clean. Masts snapped like twigs. Men became living torches, screaming as they leapt into the river only to be boiled alive.
The Battle of the Mander had begun.
And the Ironborn were already burning.