The courtyard of Casterly Rock was already awake when I stepped outside, far livelier than it had been even an hour before. Men were everywhere—hauling crates of supplies, checking straps on saddlebags, sharpening blades on whetstones, and fitting fresh strings to crossbows. The air rang with the rhythmic clatter of metal, the grunts of labor, and the low rumble of Lannister soldiers preparing for war.
I watched them silently for a moment. A hundred small details filled my eyes—the way some men tightened their belts nervously, the way others greeted their comrades with forced laughter, the way a few Redcloaks carried themselves with the rigid discipline drilled into them by my father's training masters. It struck me suddenly: these men would follow me into battle. They would fight under my command. Some of them might die there. The thought settled heavily on my chest.
Then I saw him—Uncle Tygett.
He stood near the supply wagons, his posture straight, his expression sharp, barking commands with that natural authority all Lannister men seemed to possess. He pointed, corrected, adjusted, and every soldier within reach obeyed without hesitation.
I had never been particularly close to him. Truthfully, I had never been truly close to any of my uncles. Uncle Kevan was the most approachable, but even he carried a strictness that made true familiarity difficult. Uncle Tygett, though—he was different. Stern. Explosive, even. Fearless on a battlefield, reckless in a duel, a man who lived by the sword and would one day die long before his time. Pox would claim him. And even the son he had yet to father would die young during a riot in King's Landing, ending their branch of the family forever.
Knowing all that, watching him now—full of life, full of purpose—made a strange feeling twist in my stomach.
I was lost in those thoughts when his voice suddenly rumbled behind me.
"Are you nervous about leading this campaign?"
I nearly jumped. He had moved silently for a man wearing plate and mail.
"Not entirely," I answered after a breath, though that wasn't true—not fully. "It's just… I don't have any real battle experience."
Uncle Tygett studied me closely. Not critically—just… carefully. "You don't need to worry about that," he said, his tone softening. "That is why I'm here. To help you, to guide you, and to make sure you don't lead these men blindly into danger."
His confidence made something unclench in me. "Uncle… when did you fight your first battle?"
A flicker of memory crossed his face, and his posture shifted—the way a man shifts when opening a door he thought he had locked long ago.
"A decade ago," he said slowly. "I must have been thirteen, maybe fourteen. Two of our strongest bannermen rose against House Lannister. Foolish pride. Dangerous pride." He exhaled heavily, as if the memory itself carried dust.
"I didn't join the initial clashes with your father," he continued. "But I was there for the siege of Castamere."
I swallowed. Even in my old world, the name Castamere carried a terrible weight.
"We had to fight our own people," he said grimly. "Brothers by oath. Men who broke their vows but were still Westerlanders… still Lannister subjects. We offered them mercy. I even proposed terms for the Reynes—your father and Kevan agreed with me."
He paused, jaw tightening.
"But that proud, stubborn Red Lion refused. So House Reyne paid the price for its defiance. Every last one of them."
His tone turned hollow, but only for a heartbeat before steel returned to it.
"War is not glory," he said. "It's a duty. One your father believes you must learn now. Which," he added with a dry smirk, "is why he assigned me to keep you alive."
"I see." And I did. More than he knew.
He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Go. Prepare yourself. Rest. Tomorrow we ride."
"Yes, Uncle."
---
[Next Day]
Dawn had barely broken when the horns sounded. A cold breath of wind swept across the courtyard as our horses were brought forward, snorting and stamping against the morning chill.
The sky was still painted grey-blue, and the first rays of sunlight gilded the red-and-gold banners fluttering above us. Everything felt sharper somehow—the scent of oiled leather, the weight of my sword belt, the steady clank of armor.
"Mount up," Ser Benedict called out behind me.
I swung onto my horse. My heartbeat drummed in my ears—too fast, too loud. Uncle Tygett noticed.
"Your first march always feels like standing at the edge of a cliff," he said, adjusting his gauntlets. "Don't look down. Just ride forward."
Easy for him to say.
Behind us, two hundred soldiers assembled—armored men-at-arms, crossbowmen, and a contingent of Redcloaks sent by Father. Their discipline was impeccable, their faces unreadable. Some looked eager, others resigned. A few looked terrified.
I wondered which of them would survive.
"Form ranks!" a captain roared.
The lines shifted as men moved into position. Horses snorted, hooves kicked at the dirt, shields clattered. The sound of readiness—real readiness—sent a chill down my spine.
This was it.
I turned to Uncle Tygett. "Is it always like this?" I asked quietly. "Before a battle?"
He smiled faintly. "The first march is easy. The day before the battle is when fear bites hardest." His eyes met mine, steady and unwavering. "Your task isn't to be fearless. Your task is to lead, even when fear claws at your throat."
I nodded slowly.
"Good," he said. "Remember this feeling. It means you're alive."
The gates of Casterly Rock creaked open, revealing the road that wound down the mountainside. The winter air swept in, sharp and biting. The sight ahead was breathtaking—the vast expanse of the western hills, sunlit and rugged, stretching out like a promise of glory… or death.
Ser Benedict signaled the start, and the column began to move.
The rhythmic thudding of hundreds of boots and hooves filled the air, echoing off the stone walls. Villagers along the nearby road stopped to watch, some waving weakly, others simply staring with the solemn understanding that men were marching toward bloodshed.
Uncle Tygett rode beside me, silent but vigilant. Every so often, he studied the men behind us, scanning their faces, their stances, their morale. A true commander. A true warrior.
"How long until we reach the enemy?" I asked after a while.
"Two days," Tygett replied. "Maybe less, if we push hard."
"And when the battle begins?"
He gave a humorless chuckle. "You'll know. Battle has a way of announcing itself."
I knew what he meant—but hearing it spoken aloud sent another shiver through me.
As we rode, I looked back at the towering walls of Casterly Rock, slowly shrinking behind us. For the first time, I felt the true weight of stepping away from its safety. The Rock was a fortress, a symbol of unyielding strength. Out here… I was just a young man marching toward his first taste of war.
My first battle.
The thought echoed in my mind over and over.
But there was no turning back.
Not now.
Not ever.
----------
If you like this chapter drop your review and some power stones