The Son of Ice and Fire (Jon Snow SI)

Maekar sat in his command tent, hastily erected amidst the thick and oppressive woods of Fellwood. The shadows of the forest seemed to reach even here, creeping beneath the edges of the canvas, making the interior of the tent darker despite the lanterns scattered throughout. Around him, his commanders stood in heated debate, their voices rising in discord.

Lords Mooton, Rykker, Staunton, Longwaters, Thorne, Buckwell, and more argued fiercely about their next steps. They were deep within the lands of House Fell, a portion of the expansive Kingswood that extended into the Stormlands—a wild, tangled forest that was as much a barrier as a battleground. Stannis had chosen this path to pass into the Crownlands, avoiding the King's Road.

Maekar had been alerted by Lord Fell and had diverted his army here to give battle to Stannis.

He leaned back in his chair, allowing the arguments to continue. His eyes moved from one lord to the next as they voiced their opinions—sometimes with frustration, sometimes with fury. Mooton and Staunton advocated for caution, suggesting they find and eliminate Stannis's scouting parties before committing their full force, while Rykker and Thorne pushed for a full advance to flush the Baratheons out, using dragonfire to clear portions of the forest if needed.

"Fires in Fellwood will do more harm to us than to the enemy!" Mooton countered, his face flushed. "This isn't some open field—we'd be surrounded by smoke, and half our men would be stumbling blind."

Rykker shook his head vehemently, his hand slapping against the table. "We can't afford to sit idle. The longer we wait, the more prepared Stannis will be! We have the numbers; we should press on."

Their bickering washed over Maekar, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, his thoughts on a different plane entirely. After the capture of Edmure Tully, he'd commanded Jon Arryn to secure the rest of the Riverlands. The last raven he received indicated that Arryn was progressing well. The Riverlands were slowly but surely being brought under his control, with the forces of the Vale ensuring that any remaining pockets of resistance were swiftly dealt with.

The Westerlands had also sided with him. Cersei had sent a small force to aid Arryn, and another detachment to move south into the Reach. Cersei's loyalty was a complicated thing, fueled by her desire for revenge, and Maekar knew he would have to tread carefully. Still, the support of the Westerlands was significant. It bolstered his armies, and more importantly, Aegon still believed the West to be with him.

The truth about Neferion had been kept deliberately obscured. Whispers of the dragon had spread, but the details were contradictory and confused. Many in Aegon's camp believed the dragon to be riderless, a force of nature that could not be controlled, or even that Aegon himself had managed to claim it. Maekar's agents had seen to it that every rumor contradicted the next. By the time Aegon learned the truth, it would be too late.

The situation in the Stormlands was a political quagmire that Stannis Baratheon found himself navigating. This internal division had greatly weakened Stannis's ability to muster the full strength of the Stormlands under his banner.

Jon Connington, who held the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands in name only, had drawn some number of lords to his side and led them into the Reach to join Aegon's forces. The powerful houses of the Stormlands found themselves divided; some lords were loyal to Stannis and the Baratheon name, others to Connington.

Adding to his troubles, Stannis had recently faced a defeat in the Dornish Marches. His attempt to secure the borderlands had been repelled by a coalition of houses loyal to Maekar—namely the Dondarrions, Swanns, and Carons. The clash had not only cost him men and resources but had also dealt a blow to his reputation.

His failure in the Dornish Marches drove him to his current course of action: an audacious attack on the Crownlands, an attempt to wash himself of the embarrassment and reclaim his standing—a gamble that could either end in redemption or in utter disaster.

Maekar planned to defeat Stannis, and once it was done, he would have the Stormlands under his control, and from there, he would march west into the Reach. It was all falling into place, piece by piece, and if the pieces fell just right, he would have Aegon exactly where he wanted him—a single decisive battle that would end this war for good.

"Bah, look at them bickering," Greatjon Umber grumbled from behind.

"Time to put an end to this," Maekar declared, standing up and placing both hands firmly on the table before him. The lords around him fell silent, their arguments fading as his commanding presence demanded attention.

"Enough," Maekar said sharply. "We are not going to burn Fellwood to the ground, so Neferion will not be taking part." With that decisive statement, he ended any further discussion of using the dragon.

"The scouts confirm Stannis remains encamped south of the Wendwater, Your Grace," Lord Rosby reported, his voice steady yet cautious.

Maekar leaned over the war table, his fingers tracing the contours of the Wendwater and the dense woods surrounding it. "No movements to cross?" he inquired.

"None observed," Lord Rykker replied. "But his men are fortifying their positions along the southern bank."

Maekar's eyes narrowed in thought. "He's wary—perhaps anticipating a trap."

Lord Buckwell nodded. "Stannis is a cautious commander. He won't act unless he's certain of an advantage."

"Then we must offer him one," Maekar asserted, straightening up. "We'll use his caution against him."

Lord Staunton raised an eyebrow. "What do you propose, Your Grace?"

Maekar's gaze swept over the assembled lords. "We'll spread rumors of unrest in the Crownlands—whispers that our forces are being diverted to deal with internal strife. Let it be known that our numbers are dwindling and that we're vulnerable."

Lord Mooton frowned thoughtfully. "You intend to feed him false intelligence?"

"Exactly," Maekar confirmed. "Our scouts will be visible but unengaged. They'll appear lax, as if our guard is down."

Lord Rykker stroked his chin. "And if Stannis sends his own scouts to verify?"

"We'll stage skirmishes along the eastern woods," Maekar explained, pointing to Fellwood on the map. "Small bands that engage briefly before retreating in apparent disarray. It will reinforce the illusion of weakness."

Lord Buckwell interjected, "What if he remains cautious and holds his position?"

"Then we adapt," Maekar replied. "But if I know Stannis, the prospect of striking a weakened foe and securing a swift victory will be too tempting to ignore—especially after his failure in the marches."

He continued, "Our main forces will be concealed here," he indicated the high ground north of the ford. "Archers will be positioned along the tree line, hidden from view. Infantry will stand ready to move on my signal."

Lord Staunton nodded. "And the reserves?"

"Stationed discreetly in Fellwood and the hills to the west," Maekar said. "They'll be our hammer when the time comes."

Lord Rykker's eyes met Maekar's. "Communication will be critical"

A slight smile touched Maekar's lips. "Messengers will relay orders swiftly. Every commander must be prepared to act independently yet cohesively."

"Additionally," he added, "we'll send patrols along the riverbanks to watch for any unexpected movements. Flexibility is key. If Stannis deviates from our expectations, we must be prepared to respond."

Lord Mooton looked contemplative. "Should we not also consider the terrain more carefully? There may be other crossing points he could use."

"Agreed," Maekar said. "We'll dispatch scouts to monitor all viable fords and crossings. No path should go unwatched."

He addressed potential countermeasures. "We must anticipate that Stannis might suspect a trap. To make our deception convincing, we'll visibly move supplies northward as if preparing to withdraw. Campfires will be reduced at night to suggest fewer men."

Lord Buckwell spoke up. "And if Stannis still doesn't take the bait?"

"Then we force his hand," Maekar stated firmly. "A select group will stage a raid on his supply lines—not to destroy them, but to provoke a response. It will make him believe we're desperate."

Lord Staunton's eyes gleamed. "A calculated risk, but one that could tip the scales in our favor."

Maekar nodded. "Indeed. Throughout it all, we must remain vigilant. Contingency plans should be in place should Stannis attempt an unexpected maneuver."

He looked around the room, meeting each lord's gaze with unwavering confidence. "I will lead the central command. My presence will steady our men."

"Ensure every man knows his role." Maekar said ending the meeting.

The lords dispersed to relay orders and make preparations. Maekar lingered a moment longer, his eyes returning to the map spread across the table.

He needed to prove he could win battles without Neferion, and this was his opportunity.

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In the days that followed, the camp was a hive of calculated activity. Rumors of unrest in the Crownlands circulated, whispered in taverns and along roads where Stannis's spies were certain to hear them. Supply wagons conspicuously trundled northward under the watchful eyes of enemy scouts, and at night, fewer campfires dotted the horizon—all to create the illusion of a dwindling force.

Small bands of Maekar's men engaged in skirmishes along the eastern edges of the Fellwood. They struck swiftly at Stannis's patrols, then retreated in apparent disarray, leaving behind discarded equipment to suggest panic-stricken withdrawals. Scouts were instructed to be visible yet unengaged, appearing lax and indifferent, as if their guard was truly down.

From his vantage point on the high ground north of the ford, Maekar surveyed the landscape. The Wendwater flowed lazily between the two armies, its banks lined with reeds swaying gently in the breeze. Behind him, hidden among the trees, his archers waited silently, bows strung and arrows nocked. Further back, the infantry lay in wait, shielded by rolling terrain and dense foliage.

Messengers moved discreetly between units, ensuring that every commander was prepared to act both independently and in unison. Reserves were positioned in the Fellwood and the western hills, out of sight but within striking distance. Patrols monitored the riverbanks, vigilant for any unexpected movements from Stannis's forces.

"Your Grace," Lyonel called out, dismounting swiftly. "Lord Stannis is moving. They're heading toward the ford."

Maekar's eyes narrowed. He turned to Lord Rykker, who stood nearby. "Signal the archers to hold their fire until my command. Ensure the infantry remains hidden," he ordered.

Lord Rykker bowed. "At once, Your Grace." He hurried off to relay the orders.

Across the river, banners bearing the crowned stag of Stannis Baratheon began to emerge from the treeline. Ranks of soldiers assembled in tight formation, their armor gleaming dully under the overcast sky.

Maekar took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. "He's committing a significant force," he observed to Lord Buckwell, who had joined him.

"Perhaps more than we anticipated," Buckwell replied cautiously.

"All the better," Maekar said with a faint smile. "The more confident he is, the harder he'll fall."

Stannis's troops began to cross the ford, the shallow waters barely slowing their advance. Maekar watched as the vanguard reached the northern bank, establishing a foothold. They moved methodically, securing the area and signaling back to the main force.

"Archers, hold," Maekar commanded softly, though his voice carried to those around him. "Not yet."

The bulk of Stannis's army was now on the move, pouring across the river like a dark tide. Maekar could see the man himself, astride a tall horse, surrounded by his commanders, their eyes fixed on the terrain ahead.

"Your Grace," Lord Staunton said quietly. "Should we not engage soon? They are nearly within range."

"Patience," Maekar replied. "Let them commit fully."

He raised a hand, signaling for his men to ready themselves. The archers tensed, arrows nocked and bows drawn, still hidden among the trees. The infantry gripped their weapons, hearts pounding in their chests.

A horn sounded from Stannis's lines—a deep, resonant note that hung in the air. His troops began to advance up the slope.

"Now," Maekar commanded.

The sky darkened as a volley of arrows arced overhead, descending upon the advancing ranks. The sudden onslaught caught Stannis's men off guard. Shields were raised, but not all in time. Cries of pain and confusion erupted as the arrows found their marks.

"Again!" Maekar ordered.

A second volley followed, sowing further chaos. The front lines wavered but were quickly steadied by their officers. Stannis could be seen rallying his men, his voice cutting through the tumult.

"Infantry," Maekar said. Messengers darted off to relay the command.

From concealed positions, Maekar's foot soldiers emerged, their armor camouflaged with mud and foliage. They formed up quickly, presenting a formidable barrier to the enemy's advance.

Stannis's troops pressed forward, undeterred by the initial surprise. The two forces clashed with a resounding crash of metal on metal. The battle was joined in earnest.

Maekar observed the field keenly. His men held the high ground, but Stannis's soldiers fought with grim determination. The center lines were heavily engaged, neither side giving quarter.

"Signal the reserves," Maekar instructed. "It's time."

Across the field, horns blew distinct notes. From the Fellwood and the western hills, the reserves surged forward. They descended upon Stannis's flanks, catching his forces in a tightening vise.

Caught between the main force and the newly arrived troops, Stannis's men began to falter. Confusion spread as officers shouted conflicting orders. Some units tried to pivot to meet the new threat, while others continued to press the attack uphill.

Maekar's archers shifted their aim, targeting the rear ranks to prevent any orderly retreat. Arrows rained down relentlessly, sowing panic and disorder.

Amidst the chaos, Maekar noticed a contingent of enemy soldiers attempting to regroup on the eastern side, possibly to mount a counterattack or secure an escape route.

"Lord Buckwell," Maekar called out. "Take a unit and intercept those men. We cannot allow them to reorganize."

"At once, Your Grace," Buckwell replied, spurring his horse into motion.

The sounds of battle intensified—the clash of swords, the thud of arrows striking shields, the cries of wounded men melding into a cacophony that filled the air. The scent of blood and sweat was pervasive.

Maekar remained composed, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. He noted the positions of key units, the ebb and flow of the engagement. His commanders acted with autonomy, adjusting their tactics as needed but always aligning with the broader strategy.

A messenger arrived breathlessly. "Your Grace, the enemy's right flank is collapsing. Lord Staunton reports they are attempting to retreat toward the river."

Maekar considered this. "Good. Press the advantage but do not overextend. Ensure our lines remain solid."

He turned to Lord Rykker. "Have the cavalry ready. We need to prevent any escape across the Wendwater."

"Yes, Your Grace," Rykker said, moving swiftly to carry out the order.

On the field, Stannis's forces were in disarray. The surprise of the reserves and the relentless pressure from all sides were taking their toll. Pockets of fierce resistance remained, but the cohesion of his army was unraveling.

Maekar watched as Stannis himself rode through his ranks, attempting to rally his men. The sight stirred a grudging respect. "He is a stubborn one," Maekar remarked to no one in particular.

Another messenger approached. "Your Grace, Lord Mooton reports that enemy reinforcements are moving toward the ford from the southern bank."

Maekar's gaze shifted. In the distance, he could see dust clouds rising—signs of approaching troops. "So, he had a reserve after all," he mused. "Time to tighten the noose."

He signaled for additional units to reinforce positions near the ford. "We must hold them at the river," he ordered. "Do not let them join the main force."

The battle intensified near the water's edge. Maekar's men formed defensive lines, using the natural bottleneck of the ford to their advantage. The enemy reinforcements pressed hard but were met with staunch resistance.

Back on the slope, the main engagement was reaching a critical point. Stannis's center was buckling under the combined pressure of Maekar's infantry and the relentless volleys from the archers.

"Your Grace," Lord Staunton shouted as he rode up. "Their lines are breaking. A decisive push now could shatter them completely."

Maekar nodded. "Agreed. Signal all units to advance. Press them hard."

Horns blared, and banners were raised high. Maekar's forces surged forward with renewed vigor. The enemy's resistance began to crumble as exhaustion and demoralization set in.

Amid the fray, Maekar noticed that some of Stannis's men were attempting to flee back toward the river, only to find their path blocked by the ongoing skirmish at the ford. Others threw down their weapons, surrendering where they stood.

Stannis himself remained on the field, rallying a small group of loyalists around him. Maekar could see the determination etched on his rival's face.

"Brave but futile," Maekar thought. He turned to his standard-bearer. "Prepare my horse."

"Your Grace?" Lyonel asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"It's time I join the fray," Maekar declared. "Our men will fight all the harder seeing their king lead the charge."

As his horse was brought forward, Maekar donned his helmet, the wolf crest gleaming even in the dim light.

He raised Blackfyre high, the blade catching the muted sunlight. Around him, Lyonel assembled his personal guard.

"Men!" Maekar shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "With me!"

A cheer rose from those nearby, echoing across the field. The time had come to deliver the final blow.

"Ready to wet your blade, Umber?" Maekar asked as they prepared for the charge.

"Ha! You've kept me waiting far too long, Your Grace," Greatjon rumbled, a fierce grin splitting his face.

"Then let's end this," Maekar declared, spurring his horse forward.

The ground trembled beneath the onslaught of hooves—a storm of steel and fury descending from the ridge upon the enemy below. The sheer power of the charge cleaved into Stannis's lines, scattering men and sending formations crumbling.

Amidst the chaos, Maekar's eyes locked onto Stannis Baratheon, the grim lord astride his warhorse amidst the wreckage of his faltering lines.

Stannis spurred his horse forward, meeting Maekar head-on. They collided with a resounding crash—steel against steel—the force of their meeting echoing above the din. Their horses reared, hooves pawing at the air as they fought for balance.

Maekar's horse turned sharply as he twisted his body, parrying Stannis's fierce strike. The blow rang against his sword, sending shudders up his arm, but he held firm.

He countered with a vicious slash aimed at Stannis's shoulder. Stannis twisted in his saddle, narrowly evading; Blackfyre skimmed off his armor, leaving only a large scratch. They exchanged a flurry of blows—Stannis moving with brutal precision, Maekar meeting his strikes with ferocious intensity.

For a moment, the battle around them seemed to fade. The clamor of men clashing, the screams of the dying—all fell away, leaving only the two warriors: one older, hardened by years of duty and loss; the other a young king determined to crush all who opposed him.

Maekar feinted left, then swung right, catching Stannis off guard for just a heartbeat. Blackfyre grazed Stannis's gauntlet, nearly cutting through it. Stannis grunted in pain but pressed on, retaliating with a powerful overhead strike. Maekar brought his sword up in time, the force nearly numbing his arm.

Their duel raged, carrying them toward the edge of the battlefield, where the treacherous, muddy bank of the Wendwater awaited. Their horses struggled for footing as they drew closer, hooves sliding in the wet earth.

Suddenly, with a terrible lurch, both horses lost their footing. The mud gave way, and in an instant, they went down. Maekar was thrown clear, his body slamming into the icy, knee-deep waters of the Wendwater. The cold bit into his flesh, a shock that jarred him back to his senses, his breath stolen by the freezing water.

Across from him, Stannis splashed heavily into the river, rising to his feet with a grimace, water pouring off his dented armor. He found his footing, sword still in hand, eyes locked on Maekar with unwavering fury.

Maekar pushed himself up, gasping from the cold, his sword clenched in his hand. They resumed their duel, the freezing water swirling around their legs. Maekar advanced cautiously, testing the riverbed with each step, feeling the stones shift beneath his boots.

Stannis lunged first, his sword slicing through the air toward Maekar's side. Maekar brought his blade up in time, parrying the strike—their swords ringing out over the roar of the river. He countered quickly, a thrust aimed at Stannis's side, but Stannis twisted again, the point of Maekar's sword grazing his armor.

"You're finished, Stannis!" Maekar shouted over the tumult. "Yield!"

"Never," Stannis growled.

Maekar tensed, his gaze fixed on Stannis's every motion. Stannis lunged forward, and Maekar sidestepped, raising his sword to strike.

Suddenly, a shout pierced the air above the battle's roar.

"Father!"

The cry stopped both men in their tracks for the briefest moment.

Durran Baratheon, Stannis's son, waded into the river, sword drawn. He charged at Maekar, a cry of fury ripping from his throat, splashing through the water.

In a split second, just before Durran reached him, Maekar drew his second sword—Dark Sister. In one swift, fluid motion, he swung the blade in a wide arc.

The Valyrian steel cut through Durran's neck with shocking ease, slicing through armor, flesh, and bone as though it were parchment. Durran's momentum faltered, his sword slipping from his grasp and splashing into the river.

His hands clutched at his neck, eyes wide with shock as blood poured from the mortal wound. His mouth moved soundlessly, disbelief etched on his features as he fell to his knees, life draining away in torrents of crimson that darkened the waters.

"NOOOO!" Stannis screamed, the sound raw and full of anguish. His eyes locked onto the dying form of his son, all traces of resolve crumbling.

From the corner of his eye, Maekar saw Lyonel moving toward Stannis, sword raised. Maekar held up his hand, eyes narrowing. Lyonel halted, confusion on his face. Maekar's intent was clear—Lyonel shouldn't kill his own uncle, even if he did not yet know the truth of his heritage.

Stannis's grief morphed into pure rage, a primal fury twisting his features beneath the helm. He lunged at Maekar, throwing himself into the attack with savage intensity. His strikes were wild, driven by loss. His sword swung with reckless power, each blow harder and faster—a barrage that seemed unstoppable.

Maekar gave ground, each backward step an effort to avoid the ferocity of Stannis's onslaught. He deflected the attacks with both swords, parrying and dodging, the clang of steel echoing above the river's rush. He recognized the danger—Stannis's unchecked aggression was unpredictable; a single mistake could prove fatal.

Sidestepping a heavy downward swing, Maekar felt the force send a shudder through the air as it crashed into the water, sending up a spray. He saw his opening—a brief instant of vulnerability as Stannis's weight shifted forward.

Seizing the moment, Maekar deflected another strike aside with Dark Sister and stepped inside Stannis's guard. With precision, he drove his sword beneath Stannis's breastplate, the blade piercing through layers of armor, slipping between ribs—a perfect, fatal strike. Stannis gasped, body jerking as the cold steel impaled him. His sword slipped from his grasp, splashing into the river as his knees buckled, sending him into the icy water.

Maekar withdrew his blade, the water around them quickly turning dark as blood flowed freely. He looked down at Stannis, whose face was hidden beneath his helm, eyes barely visible—wide with shock and pain.

"It didn't have to be this way," Maekar said softly.

Stannis stared up, mouth working soundlessly before he managed to whisper, "Shireen..."

The name barely left his lips when Maekar swung Blackfyre again. The blade cleaved cleanly through Stannis's neck, ending his life instantly. The head fell forward, the body collapsing into the shallow water with a splash.

For a heartbeat, the tumult of battle hushed, an eerie silence enveloping Maekar as he stood over the fallen Stannis. The cries of war, the clash of steel, the shouts of men—all faded, leaving only the icy rush of the river in his ears.

Then, as if released from a spell, the sounds of combat surged back—the cries of men and the clang of steel filling the air once more. Maekar stood amidst it all, chest heaving, cold water soaking through his armor.

Lyonel splashed through the water toward him, face flushed, voice raised above the clamor. "Your Grace, the enemy—they're in full retreat!"

Maekar nodded slowly, gaze drifting to where Durran's body lay facedown in the shallows. He sighed, expression tightening, a flicker of something mournful crossing his eyes. "See that the dead are treated with honor," he said quietly.

"Yes, Your Grace," Lyonel answered, tone filled with deference.

Maekar turned, eyes scanning the battlefield. Stannis Baratheon was dead, and his son lay beside him.

Aegon awaited..

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Margaery lay beside Aegon, the cool night air caressing her skin, the chamber dimly lit by a single flickering candle. Aegon's face was turned toward her, his eyes weary.

"Will you come with me?" he asked softly, breaking the silence.

Margaery looked at him, her expression curious. "Do you want me to come with you?" she whispered.

Aegon nodded, his gaze dropping slightly as though he feared her response. "You calm me," he admitted, his voice trembling. "I hear the voices less when I am with you."

She gently placed her hands on his face, her fingers brushing against his cheek. Their marriage had been rushed—not the grand ceremony her father or she had envisioned. Her beloved prince had confessed that ever since that monster Euron had captured him, he had been hearing voices in his head. She understood his pain, felt it deeply, and if she could make him better, make him feel less alone, then that was her duty.

"Yes, I shall come with you," she said gently.

Aegon hesitated, his eyes searching hers. "Perhaps not. You will be safe here."

"No," Margaery said firmly, shaking her head. "I will come with you. You have one hundred thousand men with you. I am sure I will be safe."

He looked at her for a long moment, a softness in his eyes that she had come to adore. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Margaery gave him a reassuring smile before she stood, her bare feet touching the cold floor.

"Where are you going?" Aegon asked, his voice tinged with worry.

"To prepare, my dearest," she replied with a soft laugh. "I need to come with you, after all. And... I also have some happy news for you."

Aegon's brow furrowed slightly. "What news?"

She smiled playfully, brushing her fingers against her stomach. "I need to be sure first," she said, laughter in her voice, before turning and leaving the room, her gown trailing behind her.

As she stepped out of the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne were waiting outside. They bowed slightly.

"My queen," they said.

"Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur," Margaery nodded, acknowledging the knights.

Ser Barristan followed as she commanded her servants to prepare for her journey. After ensuring everything was in place, Margaery decided to take a walk in the gardens. She loved Highgarden, and she would miss it. It was her home—every leaf, every blossom, every stone path carried a memory.

She strolled through the garden, her steps light. Barristan followed a few steps behind her, his gaze alert, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"My queen, we should return," Barristan said gently but firmly. "The night can be treacherous. Who knows what lurks in the shadows."

Margaery laughed softly, turning her head to look at him, her eyes sparkling. "This is Highgarden, Ser Barristan. I am perfectly safe here. Besides, what harm could possibly find us in my father's castle?"

She turned her gaze forward again, enjoying the silence, the peace of the night—the time when the world seemed entirely her own.

But suddenly, she heard it—the sharp, chilling sound of metal clashing, a noise that shattered the calm of the garden.

She turned quickly, her heart leaping into her throat, her eyes widening in horror. Ser Barristan lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. A knife protruded from his mouth, the blade buried deep from behind his head, the light gone from his eyes.

Margaery opened her mouth to scream, but the sound never came. A strong hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her voice; her struggles were useless against the strength that held her.

Her gaze moved frantically. As she looked, her eyes fell on a figure standing behind Barristan's fallen form. The flickering torchlight illuminated a sigil on the man's cloak—a sigil she knew too well.

Her eyes went wide with disbelief, her body trembling as she recognized the man before her.

'Why?' she thought, the question echoing in her mind as her vision began to blur. Darkness closed in, and everything went black as she fell, limp and unconscious.

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Read up to chapter 102 here :

p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)