The camp was buzzing with activity, men sharpening swords and preparing for the next day’s march. Roselyn Baratheon, now known as one of the fiercest commanders in the Rebellion, paced before her war council, her dark hair tied back tightly from her face. Her yellow surcoat billowed in the wind, her eyes sharp as she listened to the reports.

“Your Grace,” one of her bannermen spoke up, his voice tense, “we’ve lost more men than expected at Ashford. It seems we underestimated Lord Tarly.”

Roselyn’s jaw clenched, the weight of her father’s death and her own vengeance driving her forward. She paused, her gaze shifting to the flames of the nearby campfire. “We cannot afford delay. We push tomorrow—all of us. The royalists will learn we do not break.”

She turned sharply, dismissing them with a flick of her hand. “Prepare for battle. Tomorrow, we make them fear us. Oh! Wait, fetch me my squire, I want to get out my armor before bed."