— From Ryan Forrester's book 'The Life of the Unifier'

"They used sorcery, those Valyrian bastards, to take Storm's End!" roared Lord Blackbar. "Your father and uncle were slain there, Your Majesty! You cannot stand idle—you must avenge them at once!"

Argilac ignored the lords shouting and bickering around him. He simply closed his eyes. A minute to mourn. A minute to quiet the storm within his heart. Just one minute—he truly needed it. And in that moment, he felt his wife's hand resting in his, giving him strength and comfort. That alone gave him a sliver of peace.

His uncle Stannis had never been a cheerful man, but Argilac had always known he could trust him. Unlike the other lords, his uncle never lied or boasted. Argilac mourned for his loyal uncle.

His mother Alara had always been full of love. When Argilac returned from sword training, she would tend to the calluses on his hands herself. She was the kind of mother who was always proud, always worried. Argilac mourned for his mother.

And Robert Baratheon—the hero who slew the rapist prince Rhaegar at the Battle of the Trident, the king who brought about the destruction of Lys and wiped out the purest Valyrian bloodline. Argilac had not parted with his father on good terms, and he regretted it—truly regretted it. If he had one more chance, he would have told his father how proud he was to be his son.

And now, he wore his crown. He bore his duties and responsibilities. He was only fifteen years old, but he had no right to complain. Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had overthrown House Targaryen's 300-year rule when they were only seventeen. Gods and history do not accept youth as an excuse.

Argilac remembered the times his father told him about the rebellion. He had said again and again that without Ned Stark, they could never have won the war. Later, when Argilac met King Stark, he had asked him about it. The king had laughed and said the opposite was just as true. Without Robert, they would have lost. It had been Eddard who devised the Trident battle plan and lured the Targaryen host into a trap—but it was Robert who had driven a hole through Rhaegar's chest and ended the war standing over the dead dragon prince. They had both been brilliant in their own ways—and they completed each other perfectly.

Argilac had no one to complete him. And to be honest, he had never felt the need for such a person. Until now. Now, he could begin to understand what his father had meant. He understood why he had trusted Ned Stark and Jon Arryn with his life.

"King Robert's final orders were clear," declared Ronnet Connington. "We must march to Riverrun and join our forces with King Eddard's."

"If we do that, the Reach will be wide open to a Valyrian assault," objected Lady Arwyn Oakheart. "They'll do in our lands what they did in the Stormlands."

The tales of the horror that had befallen the Stormlands were enough to chill the blood of even the most hardened men. Civilians—women and children alike—were slaughtered or enslaved. And the Dothraki… It was better not to think of them at all.

Before the Targaryens, Westeros had been seven separate kingdoms constantly at war with each other—but even in those wars, such atrocities had never been seen.

"We've gathered eighty thousand men. That is not enough to defeat the Valyrians. The Dothraki alone have sixty thousand, and they are invincible on open ground," reasoned fat Lord Samwell Tarly. "Only by uniting our army with the Northerners do we stand a chance."

"Words of a coward! You're not even half the man your father was!" roared Lord Mertyns. "If that is the case, then King Eddard should come to us, not the other way around!"

"If we gather in the Riverlands, our army will have more strategic advantage," said Ser Baelor Hightower. "King Eddard is a seasoned war commander. Under his command, we can save our realm and take revenge."

Under his command? Save realm? Argilac clenched his fist in anger. He could already see where this would end. The only ones who would suffer would be the Storm Kingdom—no enemy soldier would even set foot in the North, and by the end of this war, King Eddard would be hailed and praised as a hero. And Argilac? He would be king of the ruins.

"I've made my decision," he declared, suddenly rising to his feet. "We will strike at Storm's End. They have only just completed the siege—they've lost many men and they're exhausted. Even if they fall back into defense, I know a way inside. We'll trap them there with a swift strike—and kill them all."

"Your Majesty, this is madness!" Lord Jason Massey objected. "Their numbers are twice ours!"

"If we strike fast and sharp, we can break their lines before they even take cover," Argilac declared. "Just like at the Battle of Tarbreck. King Jaime Lannister scattered an army four times the size of his own—we can do the same. The Valyrians don't know this land or its terrain. They won't know where we're coming from. This attack will catch them off guard."

He drew his sword and raised it high in the air.

"To vengeance, my lords! Are you with me?!"

As the vassals of the Storm Kingdom roared for victory, Argilac's heart swelled with pride and confidence.

"Stupid fool made our job far too easy," Lord Nuhr chuckled as he looked up at the young Storm King's head, now hanging from a spike. "Attack Storm's End from behind? Really? That might have worked—if he were only facing a Valyrian army. But the Dothraki? They're not defeated by such simple tactics as flanking or pincer movements."

The Dothraki khals had the best horses and scouting parties in the world. If a bird flew within twenty kilometers of the army, the Valyrian alliance would know about it. A surprise attack was nearly impossible.

"We've killed around twenty thousand Westerosi, my lord. About five thousand prisoners. The rest fled."

"Tell Khal Drogo to unleash his khalasars across the plain to hunt down the deserters," Lord Nuhr ordered. "We don't want any of them joining King Stark's army. Any other news?"

"According to Lord Varys's reports, a force of around ten thousand men broke away from Argilac's army before the attack began and headed north," reported his cousin Rhovon. "Seems they saw through the young king's foolishness and left early. Their banners bore a tower and a hunter holding a bow."

"Hightower and Tarly," one of the Volantis commanders guessed. Clearly, he had studied Westerosi house sigils before arriving.

"How many losses have we taken?"

"We came here with 120,000 soldiers and 60,000 Dothraki. We've lost about 40,000 so far—most during the Storm's End siege." Lord Layran Rogare tapped his finger on the table in frustration. "King Stark has roughly 100,000 men. The fleeing Reach lords and soldiers will add another 15,000 to his numbers. Also, the Crownlands nobles didn't join Argilac's army; they've raised about 12,000 men and are marching to join Stark. Velaryon and Celtigar—the traitors, despite their Valyrian blood—have refused our alliance offer."

The generals in the hall murmured in discomfort. They could see the creeping danger. If these reinforcements reached the Northern army safely, the numbers on both sides would be nearly even. And the Vale hadn't even entered the war yet—if they ended their civil strife quickly, they could field another 30,000 men. The longer they waited, the stronger the Northern Kingdom's army would grow.

"Can we repeat the spell we used to kill Robert Baratheon?" asked heir Nahan. "If King Stark dies, this war ends quickly."

"Repeating that spell is not possible," answered the High Sorcerer of Qohor, bowing with respect. "To cast it, we had to sacrifice thousands of animals and humans—and even then, the chance of success was low. The ancient mana trapped within Storm's End's walls aided us. Without it, the ritual cannot be replicated."

"Then what do we do? We've won two major victories already, but time is working in the Westerosi's favor."

"You're all wrong," said Lord Nuhr with a laugh. "Time is not on the Westerosi's side."

"Time is on the Valyrians' side," said Ned.

The nobles in the hall stared at King Stark in surprise. "What do you mean, Your Grace?" asked Domeric Bolton. "Every day more men join our army. Since the Valyrian invasion began, the lords who once sided with Petyr Baelish have betrayed him and sent you letters of fealty. Lord Baelish was thrown from the Moon Door. Soon, thirty thousand Vale soldiers will join our reinforcements. We'll outnumber the Valyrian army."

"Time is on the Valyrians' side," King Stark repeated, letting out a weary sigh. A dead father and a dead brother… there was no time to grieve. Ned felt as if he had returned to the days of the Rebellion—but this time, he was alone.

"Soon, news of their victory will reach Essos. Lord Nassarin will promise land and wealth to the nobles and wealthy men there. The longer we wait, the more Essosi lords and people will move to Westeros. They'll be placed in castles, and they'll bring soldiers and gold to aid the war effort. Once enough refugees arrive, even if we win the war, we'll have trouble driving them out. In the end, we'll be forced to kill them all. And once that happens, we won't just be enemies of the Valyrian people—we'll be enemies of all of Essos. A true intercontinental war."

The room fell silent, the air heavy with held breath. Being the enemy of the Valyrian people was one thing; being the enemy of all Essos was something else entirely.

Looking back at history, the Andal invasion had played out in a similar way. Despite being repelled and defeated many times—even when King Theon Stark had crossed the sea and punished them directly—the Andals kept attacking Westeros for a thousand years. In the end, outside of the North, no First Men kingdom remained that worshipped the Old Gods. The rest were either destroyed or assimilated.

If colonization by Essosi began in Westeros, history would repeat itself and the invasions would become continuous. In the centuries to come, Westeros would be dyed in red blood. Until the two sides learned to live together. Just like the Andals and the First Men. But even achieving that would take at least a thousand years.

King Stark was right. Westeros's army had no time.

"We must win a victory in a short time. A great victory," murmured King Stark. "When the Essosi hear of this victory, they must abandon the idea of coming to Westeros. An ordinary victory won't create the same effect."

So what should be done? Ned examined every corner of the map and searched for a suitable location and at last he set his eyes on a very familiar place. The Trident plain was full of rivers and muddy marshes. Robert, Ned and Jon had ended Targaryen rule on that plain.

Khal Drogo and the Dothraki soldiers had begun raiding along the Riverland borders. This army was in fact a greater danger than the Valyrians because the Dothraki were known to be unbeatable in open fields. They had defeated armies five times larger than themselves before. The only way to beat them was with castle defenses. But that would waste time. It wasn't an option.

In Ned's hands were parts of the old Golden Army. He also had the Rose Legion. These were professional soldiers and when the Northern army's elite unit was added to the count, Ned gathered them and calculated whether the wolf shields and spears he had been having made for the last two years would be enough. There were enough.

Ned had been preparing for this war ever since he heard of the Dothraki's potential invasion two years ago. He had made his own private plan and had the shields and spears crafted accordingly. Still, many people didn't understand the purpose of these new inventions. Ned had only told a few elite lords about the ideas in his mind.

"How many soldiers do the Dothraki have?" Ned asked.

"More than fifty thousand, my lord," reported Baelor Hightower. "As you know, they are currently raiding the Riverland borders and each day they push further in."

Ned nodded in approval and picked up a piece from the map. "We are dividing the army. You will march toward Storm's End under the command of Brynden Tully. And I…" he placed the piece on the Trident. "I am heading to the Trident with twenty-five thousand soldiers."

Those in the room looked at King Stark in shock. For Ned, it wasn't hard to read what was on their minds.

The Trident, yes, it was muddy and watery land, but those wouldn't slow the Dothraki down much. Above all, the Trident was a flat plain and the Dothraki would have twice as many troops as Ned's forces. Even when your numbers were five times theirs, you could not win. But King Stark was going to challenge the Dothraki with only half their number in open terrain. To the lords in the room, this was clearly suicide.

Fighting the Dothraki on an open field was considered madness. This rule had become a principle for everyone who knew the art of war.

But Eddard the First, the Unifier, was about to break that principle to pieces.