No Greater Fury: A Horse Grenadier company in Westeros

[Balaur]

The smell of flea bottom hit her like a lance strike. It was overwhelming, the all-encompassing stink of manure human and animals, rotting corpses of horses and dogs and rats, and the blood and sweat and tears of a sea of humanity crammed into far too small a space.

She was glad she was born noble. It was her lot to live amongst luxury, not amongst filth; and in return she had only to do a highborn's duty to look after their smallfolk, and as the wife of the absent Hand of the King, the people of King's Landing, who had no other lord, were hers to look after. Today she was bringing a cartful of food to an orphanage in Flea Bottom, run by a Septon on donations from the faithful.

She could hear yelling outside as people came to watch, and a horse whickering nervously. A highborn coming anywhere near flea bottom was a rare sight.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Elinor Tyrell asked.

"They don't hate us." Margaery said, followed by a whispered "They hate the queen."

"Even so… this is still dangerous."

"No, you're right. If a mob is hateful enough, they can kill even dragons. That's why we have to make them love us. And going out into the city rather than hiding in the red keep will do that." Margaery added.

Margaery glanced at the shapes moving outside their litter. She would have preferred to be on horseback. She'd be safer if she could move freely and see clearly, and it would tell the smallfolk that she wasn't afraid of them.

The litter lurched to a halt, and she heard raised voices ahead. Voices, at least half a dozen, yelling for the whore to show her face. She felt her hand begin to shake, and wished she was in the habit, as some ladies were, of carrying a dagger.

Margaery pushed the litter open and leaned out.

"What is it?" she asked the nearest guard. Cleg the Peg, an old, weather beaten man who'd first fought in the war of the ninepenny kings. She'd managed to get the reason for his name out of a couple of comrades. He'd had his leg maimed so badly by a crossbow bolt at Storm's End the Maesters had thought they'd had to amputate it, but he'd recovered near flawlessly. His comrade's hadn't let him forget the incident, though.

"There's a man blocking the path. Says Selyse is a faithless highborn whore and wants her to come out and face him."

Margaery paused in thought. Trying to argue with fanatics would be more trouble than it was worth, but simply ignoring a problem seldom solved it.

What was it Garlan said? Facing danger, it is often safer to charge than to hesitate.

She leaned further out of the litter.

"Margaery, no!" Elinor squeaked from behind her.

"I'll have you know I'm not Selyse, faithful to the seven and no whore. Though I am, in fact, Highborn." Margaery shouted.

She heard a few boos in the crowd, but more cheers.

She retreated back into the litter, laughing to herself, half in relief and half in exhilaration. Elinor giggled with her.

The litter began to move and sway as the servants carrying her set off again. She made a note to herself to pay them extra, for having to carry her through Flea Bottom.

Septon Samwise greeted her when she arrived at the orphanage, alongside the High Septon. The two couldn't look more different. Samwise was tall and lean with a kindly smile, in plain roughspun robes. He dedicated every bit of wealth he could get his hands on to looking after his orphans, keeping them fed and clothed, or getting them apprenticeships or positions as lord's servants.

The High Septon, on the other hand, was fat, aging, and dressed head to toe in fine robes. Margaery wished more Septons were like Samwise rather than the High Septon, though she knew that if given the choice she'd happily take the latter's lifestyle.

She clambered out of the litter, letting a maid on foot take her hand as she did so, and ordered the guards to bring out the food, and the old tapestries she was donating to the faith.

*

When she returned to the Red Keep, it was nearly midday. She clambered down out of the litter as soon as they were within the walls, greeting the Tyrell guards as she was carried through. She wanted to stretch her legs.

"Want to go find something to eat?" Margaery asked. "It's almost lunch." She glanced at the sun's positions.

"Preferably something nice smelling."

Margaery laughed.

"I'll tell the tell the cook that."

Since Axell had been appointed acting Hand of the King and the Horse Grenadiers had left, the Tyrell contingent had been thrown into the Maidenvault, and they'd gotten their food from the keep's main kitchens rather the Tower of the Hand's.

They ducked through hallways and waved to servants, acting like she would have in Highgarden while trying to pretend that she didn't have half a dozen armed guards following after her, spears over their shoulders and mail clanking.

She heard angry voices up ahead, and as she drew closer they turned into words.

"The Lord of Li-"

"Bugger the lord of light and bugger your prattling."

"The Lord of Light is the one true god of our one true King."

"The false god of our queen, you mean. Stannis don't give a fuck."

"You dare insult my queen?"

She heard the noise of a sword being drawn, and then another and caught a glimpse through the doorway of a man in Renly's colours backing away, hands raised.

"Look, mate, there's no need…"

She stopped, her breath catching in her chest. They're going to kill each other in the Red Keep.

"Stop them. Now." Margaery yelled, surprised at the fear and anger creeping into her voice.

"Yes, M'lady" Cleg grunted. "On me!"

It had to be said, Mace had picked good men to protect her. They pushed forwards in a sort of wedge, the men who'd brought shields unslinging them, and rushed through the doorway. She heard bellowing to the effect of "Stand down!", only with the downright rainbow vocabulary of soldiers. It lasted for several minutes.

When the yelling had died down, she ducked through the doorway. The Handsmen and Queensmen-that was what they were calling themselves now, both claiming to be the ones truly loyal to Stannis-had been forced apart by the Tyrell footmen. One of them was on the ground, pinned by a Tyrell spearman with his sword lying out of reach.

"We are at war!" Margaery said plaintively. "Why should the followers of the true King fight when an abomination threatens his true rule?"

Because this isn't a fight between the Seven and the Red God, or between Selyse and I. This is a fight between the Florent's Baratheon puppets, and my own puppets.

But that had to wait, until the present enemy was defeated.

*

She ambushed Selyse after dinner in the great hall, glancing about to make sure they were alone.

"Your Grace" Margaery said, curtseying neatly.

"Yes?" Selyse asked, looking down her nose at her.

"I'd like to pray with you at the Nightfires."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, on one condition. In the name of peace and unity, you'll pray with the High Septon."

"I will not worship false gods."

"You just have to put on the mask of doing that. Say that you are having a crisis of faith and are thinking of reconciling."

"And why should I do this?"

"Because our men are moments away from slaughtering each other in the red keep. Because the commons are moments away from rioting because they see you as faithless. Because it would give me an excuse to worship at the night fires, and I am becoming rather curious about this red god."

 

[Balaur]

Tywin's army was supposed to be one of the finest in Westeros, but all Renly saw of his vanguard were a few thousand levied men with spears, shaking out of march columns into a ragged shieldwall. Archers were steadily appearing on the slopes of the hill behind them.

10,000 horse, against unsupported foot we outnumber. It'll be a rout. Then we can roll up the rest of his army as they try to deploy for battle, or retreat and lure them back into the infantry.

That was what they'd agreed, in the hasty council of war they'd held in the early hours of the morning after his scouts had ran into and skirmished with Tywin's. Garlan had urged caution and bringing the infantry into play, Ser Cuy a spoiling attack, and Randyll an attack aimed at overwhelming the vanguard and forcing the rest of Tywin's forces to retreat, inflicting a defeat in detail like he'd inflicted on Robert at Ashford. In the end, they'd agreed to a compromise. Renly was happy enough with that. If they relied on the infantry, men would say it was numbers and sorcery that defeated Tywin Lannister. If it was with an attack by the vanguard… well, that would be Randyll's plan, but listening to his generals was a credit to a commander.

He glanced back behind himself, checking the stream of knights and mounted men-at-arms still streaming down the hill and fanning out into line on either side of him. Knights of the Reach, mostly; the few Stormlands men were all with his personal guard.

How long? How long?

If the vanguard took too long to deploy, they would lose the advantage of numbers, and besides, he was getting a horrible itch sitting still in his saddle.

The archers on the hill were working, as if digging.

"What do you reckon they're doing?" he asked, glancing at Brienne. She'd sworn to protect his life with hers a day before the battle, and Renly had accepted. As a woman, she was absurd, but as a knight she was ideal. And he didn't much care for women.

She squinted at them. "Driving in stakes. Tywin wants to make his stand here, I believe."

"Then we'd best attack." he said.

He spurred forwards from his position on the vanguard's right, the place of honour, and watched the line forming. The right under his own command and the centre under Randyll were fully deployed. The left under Garlan was nearly finished, and the reserves under Rowan were still coming over the hill. He could attack without the reserves-by the time they were needed, they would have finished deploying-but leaving an open flank was less than ideal.

He waited until Garlan's men were done forming. It seemed like an eternity.

He returned to the lines and called for a trumpeter.

"Signal the attack."

The boy nodded and blew out the notes, and the rest of his army echoed it. Renly's squire handed his lance, and he shook out the pennon of Baratheon on its end as he spurred his horse forwards at the walk. It was about 500 yards to the first Lannister line, and his horse, a tourney-trained destrier, was stamping at the bit. He forced himself to keep pace with the knights on either side. If they got strung out, they'd have to pause to dress the lines, and that would be even more time wasted.

They worked in closer and closer, slowly and steadily. When they were two hundred yards out, he sped up to a trot, the men on either side matching his pace, and then the whole formation was moving, faster and faster.

The spearmen formed shieldwall, the front rank crouching and bracing their spears butt-first against the ground, the second rank layering their shield over those in front, presenting a wall of wood and steel. At a distance, they seemed almost a joke compared to the raw power of the chivalry Renly had at his command. This close, though… he didn't like the idea of hurling his horse against those points.

They'll break before contact, peasants always do. And besides, I'm armoured, my horse will die, not me if they don't break.

He sped up to the gallop, his powerful horse letting him move out ahead of the rest of the line. Robert had always said the best way to deal with fear was to channel it, into a desire to kill the other bastard before he killed you. They moved in, a hundred yards, fifty, twenty… he couched his lance as the men facing him began to cringe away, and he caught a glimpse of a spearmen's shocked face before his lance tore through it.

They didn't have a chance. His horse slammed into them, spears glancing off their armour, knocking men down, coming down to a halt as the mass of men arrested it's momentum with their packed bodies. Renly was first rocked back in the saddle by a spear thrust, then knocked forwards by the impact with the shieldwall. His horse paced up to a walk as it regained momentum, ploughing through the foot who were already beginning to run. That was the worst thing they could have done.

Renly hurled his broken lance aside and grabbed his warhammer, small and light, unlike the monster Robert had wielded, and began to lay on, crushing helmets and faces, pursuing the men up the slope. He glanced back and saw the first lines of the cavalry intermingled with the foot. A few clumps of infantry had kept their nerve, or the knights had lost theirs, and were holding their opponents off with spears. They would soon be flanked and rolled up, he knew, by the vast sea of horseflesh. The casualties they'd taken almost paltry compared to that. so he ignored them and kept pressing on, other riders falling in with him on either side.

He screamed for the knights to stay on him, but found he couldn't hear his own voice. Arrows began to fall, first in dribs and drabs, then in swarms that he swore made the sunlight flicker. Horses staggered and fell, and the Lannister spearmen too, but the knights were mostly unharmed except for those who had opened their visors.

He began to see why, as the air in his helmet became increasingly stale, but ignored it and kept moving, his horse heaving under him. He pricked it with his spurs, forcing it back to the gallop, rushing at the archers uphill.

As he drew in closer, though, he saw Brienne was right, and there were stakes, thick as a forest, screening their front. He kept pushing forwards, aiming to rush them down, to jump the stakes. Something slammed into him, hard, and his horse staggered, and for a moment he feared he would fall but his horse righted itself. A knight, Emmon Cuy, who had ridden up ahead of him fell, man and horse, and Renly leapt the dying beast. He felt a rush of exhilaration, and understood why Robert had loved war so.

Then they hit the stakes. His horse ploughed into them, like it had ploughed into the spears, only this time its armour didn't hold, and it twisted and fell. He was thrown forwards, visor knocked askew. He tried to get to his feet. Someone knocked him face-first into the dirt. He felt a weight straddle him, and someone grabbing at his helmet, and he tried to yell out "I yield!" but he couldn't make the words come out, and then the weight was lifted. He rolled onto his back, and threw his helmet off. Brienne of Tarth in her blue armour had managed to jump the stakes and was standing over him, laying on with her Morningstar, facing half a dozen men on foot with swords. Others had done the same, or had dismounted and were pulling up stakes.

No need to yield, no need to yield, we're winning, we're winning….

He staggered to his feet as if drunk, and went for his sword. As he looked down, he saw his surcoat and shield had half a hundred arrows shot through them. He cut down one of the men facing Brienne with half a dozen butcher's blows, was knocked staggering by a spear thrust to his back, turned to face his attacker, then hacked first his spear then his shield then his skull to splinters.

"FOLLOW ME! OURS IS THE FURY!" he screamed, the terror of mere moments before forgotten.

The archers were routing too, now, as cavalry began to spill in through breaches in the stake line. He kept running forwards, amongst knights on foot and horse, and fleeing archers. One of them turned to fight, cutting at his face; he parried and gutted the man on reflex. He'd never been an especially good swordsman, but it was enough for facing terrified, disordered peasants.

Then he saw the tips of lances coming over the hill crest, and the banners of Lannister and Crakehall and Marbrand and a thousand others, and then the riders, and then horses, and blocks of pikemen mixed in amongst them, and saw in the corners of his eyes his own knights, many of them horseless, milling about, trying to regroup after breaching the stake line.

He said a silent prayer to the warrior, for he was going to need his help.

 

[Balaur]

He relived what had happened in the rout half a hundred times.

Cavalry coming down on them at the trot, slow but inexorable. Himself screaming for his men to form up. Arrows starting to fall again, coming down from their right this time. Pikes straight ahead, pressing forwards.

Himself on a captured archer's horse, riding for his life, amidst the tumult of thousands of panicked horses galloping downhill. The reserves could have salvaged it, or the left, but the former was swept up in the rout and the latter flanked and swarmed once the rest of the line fell apart.

His horse killed under him yet again, trapping his leg. He couldn't move. He couldn't stand. He couldn't feel his leg.

Half a dozen knights surrounding him, one of them poking at him with his lance. Brienne charging back in, screaming, unhorsing two and scattering the rest in a blur of violence. The agonizing, red hot pain as he freed his leg and tried to get to his feet and collapsed straight afterwards, and one of the knights got to his feet and drew his sword.

His pleas for mercy ignored as the man stomped over and slashed his face open. Grabbing at his legs and managing to pull him down. Rolling on the ground with the man, fighting over the blade, before he managed to pull it from his hands and killed him with his own sword. Brienne on foot, staggering as if drunk, unable to stop the blows the two remaining mounted men were raining on her. The echoing crack of a lance hurling a man from the saddle, their destriers slamming together a moment later. The others turning and running. Them being hurriedly heaped onto horses and led to the rear, his vision blacking in and out over and over.

Waking with Loras standing vigil over him, his soft brown curls hanging over the hardened steel of his armour. Calling out his name. Loras staring at him puzzled before the face melted and he realized it wasn't Loras, it was Brienne.

He'd had the same dream half a hundred times, it seemed, and he had no idea how long it had been since the battle. He'd tried to work it out in the precious minutes of lucidity between sweetwine induced sleep, but it was futile.

She watched him for a very long time. Her blue eyes looked almost like they were on the verge of tears.

Ugly great fool in love, he thought, then useful fool. She saved my life.

"We won the battle. Tywin fell back after Mace came up and Stannis threatened to cut his lines of retreat." Brienne finally said. That was the first time she'd spoken to him, that he could remember.

That was cold comfort. He was maimed, and had gotten his vanguard shattered by trusting that fool Randyll. Thousands would be dead or maimed or captured.

"M'lord, a message from King Stannis!" someone said.

He didn't respond. He couldn't, because his face was swathed in plaster and bandages.

"Renly is weak-" Brienne began.

He limply waved them in, his whole body alternately numb and burning with pain.

Weak or not, I don't need you speaking for me.

"His Grace would have you return to King's Landing at the earliest convenience." the messenger read. "Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly are to have joint command of this army. Your rapid advance forced Tywin to leave the mountains, he says. The force left behind by Tywin was killed to a man, including the renegade Kingsguard Selmy Barristan. Loras insisted on seeing you, but could not be released from his duties over mere friendship. However, he would have you know he is unhurt" The messenger added.

Renly would have breathed a sigh of relief if not for his ruined face. His knight of flowers was safe.

Though if Loras would still want him, with his wounds…

He pushed the thought out of his head.

He nodded, trying to indicate that he had heard what the man said and to think through the Maester's haze.

It's not as bad as it seems.

Stannis didn't seem too displeased at his performance, and he could always point out the charge was Randyll's idea. Loras was safe, so Garlan or his horror of a mother wouldn't try to kill him. Depending on how well the wounds healed, he would have some fetching scars. He…

A surge of pain broke his train of thought, and he wanted to scream but couldn't. He clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms, and found he had just enough movement in his jaw to grind his teeth. That helped a little.

Must be why Stannis does it. To deal with the terrible, terrible pain of being Stannis.

Despite the pain, a reflex made him laugh, and he ended up sputtering and twitching.

Brienne stood over him, eyes full of concern. Like a mother watching over her sick child. He shuddered at the thought.

"Fetch a Maester!" she barked at the watching messenger. He nodded and ran off, and moments later, an old man in greying robes shuffled in, opening a bottle. Renly tried to push the bottle away, but another surge of pain hit him.

He didn't have a choice.

 

[Balaur]

The nightfire blazed, sending a column of smoke and sparks marching up into the night sky. Half a hundred lords and ladies and knights and what few smallfolk there were who worshipped the red god watched enraptured, presided over by Melisandre and the queen. They were only burning wood, of course, but she'd heard whispers that nightfires should destroy everything impure-idols of false religions, traitors, sinners.

That meant, of course, statues of the seven, Selyse's enemies, and worshippers of the seven, respectively.

Queen Selyse was utterly enraptured by the flames, watching them like a starving woman stares at food. Her arm was interwined with Melisandre's, the red priestess's red eyes reflecting the red flames. Alester Florent had given himself wholly to Selyse's cause and was in attendance too, the flickering light playing across his red doublet.

It was, Margaery thought, very red.

"These are the flames that shall burn the enemies of Azor Azhai, Warrior of Light, King of the Seven Kings, Champion of Rhllor! These are the flames that shall destroy Joffrey Waters, abomination of incest, who brought impurity to our halls! These are the flames that shall reveal the truth of Rh'llor!" Melisandre yelled.

The others chanted along with her, echoing her words. "Azor Azhai! Burn his foes! Azhor Azhai!"

"The Red Comet is a portent of his victory, and a sign that the death of that creator of abomination pleases him!" Melisandre called.

The wind changed, and the smoke blew back into them. Margaery had dragged Elinor and Meridyth along for company, and Elinor was reduced to a fit of hacking coughs, while Margaery lifted her scarf over her face. This was the sixth time she'd worshipped with Selyse, and the queen had still refused to attend the great sept, coming up with an unending series of excuses.

The rumours had somehow gotten loose into the city, that the common's beloved Margaery had forsaken the faith, though few wanted to believe them.

This, Margaery decided, had been a very foolish idea.

Not quite so foolish as Selyse rubbing her red god in the face of the seven's faithful.

Another blast of smoke blew in their faces, and burning embers. Elinor squealed in panic as sparks caught in her dress. Margaery stared, frozen in surprise, as they caught on the hem of her dress. Meridyth pushed past her, beating at them, and then Margaery joined in too, yelling for help. She remembered something she'd once seen the servants at Highgarden go, unwrapped her scarf and tried whipping at the flames. It wasn't especially effective, but it was better than nothing.

Elinor was screaming by now, the flames moving up her skirts towards her body. Onlookers surrounded them staring in shock or yelling in panic. Melisandre simply watched without any visible reaction. Finally, a knight muscled past them and beat the flames out with his cloak.

Elinor's lovely green dress had was half scorched by the time they were done.

She fell to her knees, unfocused and pale.

Margaery remembered her courtesies and thanked the knight, a burly, ugly man she remembered as Ser Narbert, then helped Elinor to her feet.

"We should find a Maester" Margaery said. She apologized to Selyse as quickly as possible and left hurriedly. Melisandre watched her the whole time with a look that chilled Margaery to the bone.

"Did you get burnt?" Meridyth asked.

Elinor shook her head. "I, I don't think so."

"Best have Maester Ballabar look at it anyway." Margaery said.

"This was a mistake." Meridyth said. "Worse than that time Mother gave me some wine and I went off to see that wood witch."

Elinor laughed nervously, despite the fact that she looked close to tears.

"Oh, that wasn't that bad, she just told you you were going to marry some hedge knight, not get thrown down a well or murdered by your little sister or anything of the sort." Margaery said.

"Why did you decide to go to the night fires anyway? They're madness!" Meredyth said, a little too loudly.

"Because I pretended that I needed her to feign reconciliation with the faith as cover for me to join the Red God. I though that might calm things down in the court a little, and make her mislike me less. Of course, she still hasn't kept her side of the bargain. A Lannister might pay their debts, but a Florent sure doesn't." Margaery said.

Meredyth chuckled. "Oh, I know you wouldn't fall for some mad prophetess, Marge. Just wondering what scheme this is now."

"A poorly thought through one. Not as poor as trying to get me to seduce Stannis, though." She said.

Elinor and Meredyth both laughed at that. Elinor already seemed a little less pale.

Laughing about, though, didn't change how potentially dangerous her little scheme had been.

And how stupid.

I need to become the Lady of Prickles before I can ascend to be the Princess of Thorns.

*

Selyse ambushed her the next morning, as she was going to the sept to pray, slipping in to walk alongside her. Elinor had been uninjured, just as she'd said, though her skirts were almost burnt through and Ballabar says it way lucky the knight had intervened, otherwise she would have had her legs roasted.

"Melisandre says those embers were most inauspicious."

"Getting set on fire tends to be." Margaery said, forgetting her courtesy.

Selyse sniffed. "The Lord of Light casts judgements upon all of us, and his judgement is that you are false."

Oh dear.

"That might be so. Elinor only came to keep me company." She said, deflecting.

"Melisandre sees true."

"It is true I am merely curious about the red god, and wished to prevent our houses coming to blows. But you wound me by saying I deceived you."

Selyse suddenly swung about, facing her and blocking her path. Margaery had never really noticed how tall she was before, but now she towered over her.

"You did not deceive me, because I was never deceived." Selyse hissed. "You wanted to lure me into your houses of idolatry."

Margaery feigned shock, hopefully convincingly.

"I wanted you to calm the fears of the smallfolk. I didn't care a whit if your worship was true."

"And was your worship true?"

"I was merely curious. I would have converted if I'd liked what I'd seen."

Of course, there was no chance of that.

"You would never have liked what you saw, because your eyes are clouded by the great others falsehood."

Selyse stormed off, a section of Baratheon guardsmen falling in after her.

A charming woman, and a perfect match for a charming man.

 

[Balaur]

They were living amongst a moving city of cloth and canvas, Tane thought as she made her way to the outskirts of the camp. She'd been in tent towns before, though more often billeted or bivouacked, but never one of this size. Armies on the march had their own economies. Sutlers sold liquid courage; laundresses cleaned clothes, farriers and armourers and fletchers offered to maintain and replace every part of a soldier's fighting gear, and of course there were whores everywhere, ranging from the high lord's personal bedwarmers to women who probably had every venereal disease known to man, and the usual assortment of sutlers and servants who complemented their income on the side.

They'd been in place for almost a week, first regrouping after the rout of the vanguard, then waiting for Stannis to return from his attempt to cut off Tywin. It hadn't worked, and his army was now camped opposite their own, planning their next move.

The noise was constant; the clack of wood on wood as spearmen drilled, yelled orders, drunken laughter, the click and scrape of a horse being shoed and the jeering catcalls that inevitably followed as soldiers and camp followers realized who was riding past them.

She spotted the great lords and knights of Renly's force, nearly fifty of them, gathered on horseback just behind the trenches Randyll had ordered put into place with escorts and squires swarming around them. Renly himself was conspicuously absent, too hurt to ride, though all the others were present.

Why Renly had been assigned to lead the Reach forces, rather than his native Stormlands, was, as far as she could tell, a bit of petty revenge from Stannis for "stealing his birthright", not that the king would ever say that out loud. Westerosi lords bickered over castles like fourteen year old girls bickered over boys.

"Anyone not arrived?" she asked as she rode up.

Randyll turned in the saddle. "You're the last one."

"Then we should set out." Tane said, Boudace and her escort lance falling in behind her.

There was only a mile or so between the two camps. The wagons had already begun to drive ruts into the grass between them. They passed a group of soldiers in an array of colours heading to Renly's camp, a gaggle of camp followers heading the other way, a wagon with a broken axle being hastily repaired while it's draft horses grazed around it.

She noticed Brienne riding across from her, staring very intently at the road ahead.

"I thought you were with Renly?" Tane asked.

"I was. Stannis insisted I attend the council of war. What for, I don't know."

"If half of what I've heard is true, you saved his brothers life. He's liable to reward you."

"I swore to protect his life with mine. I failed. He lies maimed and crippled."

The big woman sounded almost heartbroken.

"And not dead. Neither are you, though honestly, common sense would say you should be after going hand to hand with half a dozen knights."

She looked away. "I did my best."

"You won. Simple as that. This is war. Shit happens, people die, people get maimed, the best you can do is do as much damage to the enemy and suffer as little on your own side as possible."

Brienne stared at her saddle bow in glum silence.

Poor bastard.

Stannis's troops already had trenches and stakes encircling their camp, even though they'd only been encamped for days. The densely packed nature of the camp and the lack of decoy fires offended her military sensibilities, though she had to remind herself the Westerosi didn't have to deal with airships and dragons.

The guards on duty, crossbowmen with ungainly windlasses on their belts and pavises across their backs, waved them through. His camp was more ordered, with tents in neat rows and far fewer drunken soldiers and camp followers visible.

Stannis's pavilion was at the centre, a great crowned stag on a field of gold flying above it. Loras Tyrell stood guard, battleaxe in hand. The lords dismounted, chaos reigning as they passed their horses over to the squires that attended them.

He ushered them in, watching Brienne intently as they marched in single file. Stannis's pavilion was vast, with a long trestle table set up within. It wasn't long enough, though, for everyone, and she found herself standing alongside the sellsword captains, knights and lesser lords, while the great lords took their seats.

She got a few odd looks from the Stormlands men, and heard a few mutterings about "camp follower" this and "sent by a miracle that". She was getting used to it by now.

Only, what, six months?

It seemed like an eternity.

Stannis sat down at the head of the table, Balon Swann at his side, and called for silence. He was dressed only in a plain doublet, a mail shirt visible near his collar. That would've been a sensible precaution, Tane thought, if not for how weak Westerosi mail was.

"You are of course aware of the battle along the Goldroad against the forces of Tywin Lannister, his retreat, and the encirclement and defeat of the rearguard led by Ser Selmy Barristan. You will also be aware of the defeat suffered by Lord Renly and Tywin again retreating at my approach. I have also received intelligence that Stafford Lannister is leading his forces south to unite with Tywins, and that Eddard Stark is moving to break through at the Golden Tooth." Stannis said.

And not a word of his maimed brother.

"He has no stomach for open battle, only rearguards and ambush!" Mace Tyrell shouted.

"As opposed to you, who only has a stomach for waiting!" someone else shouted back.

"Tywin is no fool. He knows he's outnumbered. He's trying to bleed us dry without letting us bring our full numbers to bear. Sooner or later, though, he'll have to beat us on the open field or retreat into his castles" Randyll growled, letting his low hard voice get their attention.

You can talk.

She'd tried to find out as much as possible about how exactly the Reach's vanguard had splattered themselves against a stake line and been smeared off by pikes and knights, and apparently Randyll of all people was to blame, for repeating the strategy he had tried at Ashford. Tywin must have anticpated it, because everything about the battle with the benefit of hindsight screamed trap.

"Indeed he is. Unfortunately, as Lord Tyrell can tell you, starving out castles will take far too long. We must destroy him in the open, if we want a swift resolution to this war." Stannis said.

For fucks sake, this lot aren't as bad as fourteen year old girls, they're worse.

"He'll never face us in the field as long as our troops are united like this." A stormlands knight she didn't recognize said.

They had overwhelming numbers, but Tywin had a maze of fortifications he could fall back on in the north of the Westerlands, though they'd taken the ones in the south with ease. He was clearly trying to pick them apart piecemeal and stop them bringing their numbers to bear; exactly the strategy needed when outnumbered. He'd engage one army or the other, but only when he had the advantage, such as a pass or an isolated vanguard.

"He can't crush us because we outnumber him, but he won't allow himself to be pinned down where we can bring our numbers to bear. We have to lure him into offering battle, probably by dividing our forces so we seem weak then uniting and crushing him. Or bottle him up and force him to terms, either is good." Tane said.

"Not if it takes years to dig him out, girl." Randyll said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Tane bristled. If this hadn't been a council of war, she might well have tried to provoke a duel.

"Not if they yield when they realize they can't win. Or if we just leave them in there to rot."

"That will still take years. We could be stuck sieging that castle come winter." Randyll answered.

"Tywin knows that. He will prefer to try and defeat us on the field anyhow, since that is his only way to win rather than to delay his defeat. He has no allies to lift a siege; his men have no hope to hold out for." Stannis said.

"We should continue to advance in two separate forces, but close enough together to reinforce each other. Make them just far enough apart that Tywin will believe he can smash us one after the other, not so far that they can't support each other. We'll just have to hold out against his attacks longer than Tywin thinks we will to crush him between hammer and anvil." Tane said.

"Too risky." Randyll said. "We'll be vulnerable to being torn apart piecemeal."

Stannis ground his teeth. "There is one more thing. Tywin has Garlan Tyrell prisoner, and has threatened his life if we do not offer him terms. I have already sent word back that only unconditional surrender will be accepted."

His eyes shot to Mace, watching his reaction. The man seemed relieved. His son being taken prisoner was a damn sight better than his body being mangled and his armour looted beyond recognition.

"You tried to negotiate the return of my son without consulting me?"

"Yes. Tywin doesn't care about gold. Any terms he gives for Garlan will be something that brings him closer to victory."

"Garlan must be returned! If he cannot be freed, then-"

"He will be freed, when we sack Tywin's baggage train. There is no negotiation beyond that. You are all dismissed."

"Then I'll lead my vanguard myself, to save my son!" Mace roared, slamming down his fist. For a moment, he almost seemed like a warrior.

 

[Balaur]

The only way to describe the force marching down upon his camp was a shambles. Knights riding in clusters based on affinities rather than martial discipline, and spears and bows marching in long shambling columns.

Is this the best House Lannister can bring to bear? Is this what we've been reduced to?

He shook his head. He had his own men available, veterans, confident from their victory on the searoad. Besides, even green men would kill and die well enough with their backs to the wall. They had Garlan prisoner, making Mace reluctant to attack. Renly, from what the knights who'd witnessed his fall said, was severely wounded and unlikely to survive. He had only to kill Stannis and the whole house of cards would come crashing down.

But what then? He'd have shattered the alliance against him, but he didn't have the men to regain Joffrey's crown. The riverlands and north were now heavily garrisoned and pushing south to counterattack through the golden tooth. Tyrion and Jaime were hostages. The Vale was neutral. The Reach might switch sides, if Renly died severing their link to the crown and he was able to use Garlan as leverage. But still… it would inevitably be an uphill battle, and he suspected Joffrey would be a man by the time they seized King's Landing.

Not that that fool boy will ever make much of a man. Truth be told, he'd wished it was Tommen who'd escaped kings landing, or Myrcella. They'd be easier to control, and once mature more likely to let the hand do their job rather than interfere in the affairs of state. At least with them vanished, there would be no shortage of sellswords with golden hair causing trouble for Stannis even if they lost the present war, and mayhaps they could gather support to retake the Iron throne.

That is unacceptable. His dynasty would not be allowed to die here. It could not. He had been hours away from achieving his families dream, his grandson on the iron throne, greater even than Cersei being crowned queen, and it had all been snatched by a Baratheon catamite and a foreign sellsword men said was a miracle, a gift from the Maiden sent to throw down the abominations of incest. Joffrey was Jaime's spawn, no doubt-Why didn't I see it, Joanna must have known since they were children-but that was irrelevant. He was still a Lannister, and a Baratheon if not by blood then by might of the swords and spears backing him, and he would see him on the Iron Throne or die a martyr to the cause of the true king of Westeros.

His attempt to behead the Reach army on the riverroad had only partially succeeded, so now his plan was much simpler-link up his own 17,000 men with Stafford Lannister's 20,000, locate Stannis's force, and crush it in open battle while trying to avoid engaging the Reach force. They were the larger force and best avoided; besides, Mace would likely be tardy to come to Stannis's aid if they concentrated on Stannis, whereas Stannis would seize the opportunity to pin him down if he attacked Mace.

To the end of encouraging Mace's slowness, he'd ordered his heralds to quietly negotiate his release on the condition that Mace failed to come to Stannis's aid in time. They hadn't received a response. Subtlety or refusal, he did not know.

"My Lord of Lannister" Stafford said as he approached. He was tall and blonde, with long whiskers, but he'd gone to fat, and Tywin knew from the way he moved that there wasn't muscle lurking under it. His escorts weren't even in armour.

Good thing his men's only duty is to be bait.

"Get your men encamped, then meet me at my tent for a council of war." Tywin said curtly, then turned away. He had no time for pleasantries. They had an usurper to kill.

*

He'd very pointedly told Joffrey to attend the council of war. That was all that was needed to keep him away from it. His lords surrounded him as he laid out his great map of the Westerlands, and the sets of Cyvasse pieces painted in house colours used to illustrate deployments that Stafford had brought. Childish, but still useful.

"Our goal, in the coming battle, is to kill Stannis. Nothing else will break the rebellion but his death." Tywin explained coldly. "Therefore, everything must be to the ends of forcing him to commit his reserves and himself with them, or else isolating him from escaping. Stannis's goals, most likely, will to be fix us in the field so that Mace can catch us between hammer and anvil. Therefore, we must kill Stannis, and quickly, then retreat or fall in on Mace."

"My Lord, would a flanking attack be of use? To get to Stannis in the rear?" one of Stafford's knights asked.

"We've have to go all around his army, break his bodyguard, kill him before he can escape, and mayhaps get out again. That's no mean feat." Ser Addam Marbrand said.

Tywin nodded grimly. "If it comes to it, we'll try. But we spent the best of our men holding Stannis on the goldroad." They made him pay a high price, but not high enough.

Chivalric folly to use knights for that. Pikemen would have served and died just as well.

"A night attack, on his camp?" Stafford suggested.

"Stannis is no fool. He'll have trenches and stakes up to slow us, and pickets out to hear us coming." Ser Addam explained.

"Then how do we kill him?" Stafford asked.

"Concentrate the knights in a great mailed fist, to punch through the centre or swing around the flanks as needed, to strike at Stannis once he commits his reserves. Your men-" he nodded at Stafford-"Shall have the left and the first line of the centre. Mine own the right, the reserves, and the second line of the centre." Tywin said.

*

The rising sun shone over their shoulders, into the faces of Stannis's men as they deployed, their backs to the sea fifteen miles to the west. Tywin's own men unfurled into their lines and columns like a tent being set up. It was as planned; his best knights in his own reserves, the rest of his own host's horse on the right, most likely to be attacked if Mace was able to reach them in time. Stannis had eagerly accepted his offer of battle, his own forces fanning out. Cavalry on the flanks, Foot at the centre, archers out ahead who'd harass his men on the approach then fall back behind the shieldwall to support with archery. Mace was six miles to the west, only beginning to break camp when the last scouts had come in on half dead horses. They'd have three or four hours before he had come up and was ready to attack.

He'd started out leading forces of hundreds of men, saving House Lannister from his father, and now he commanded thousands, saving it from his children. Everything depended on this day.

"Signal the attack."

His trumpeter blew the signal, and it echoed all down the line, the footmen trudging forwards, the cavalry sweeping forwards on the flanks. His own reserves moved down to follow after them.

He watched their movements with the cold focus he had playing Cyvasse, scanning the field. Here and there, units briefly becoming visible only by the tips of their lances and pikes as they moved through the subtle graduations of the ground that could hide a man if he stood just so. The smears of colour on Stannis's ridge dissolved into men, thousands of them, guarded by oak and iron and clad in the colours of half a hundred lords and free companies.

His reserves halted on a well placed ridge, four hundred yards away from Stannis's lines, close enough to see the battle, not so far they could not intervene when necessary. The footmen paused to dress their lines, while Stannis made final adjustments to his disposition up on the long low ridge he'd posted himself on.

The Myrishmen opened up on the front of his infantry, and then his own longbowmen were throwing dark clouds back at them. Stafford's horse paced up to a fast trot, while they were still three hundred yards out from the Baratheon lines. Too early, they'll be disordered and vulnerable to counterattack, but there was no helping it. Besides, if they broke, Stannis's knights might make an overenthusiastic pursuit and leave themselves vulnerable.

Stannis's knights counter charged, just as Stafford's knights were beginning to become disordered, and the whole left of his army turned into a swirling chaos like flocks of birds fighting, raising great clouds of dust.

The front of the infantry lines met, levy spearmen awkwardly trying to maintain their shieldwall as they shuffled forwards into thrusting distance, fought, took or gave ground, regrouped only a few dozen yards from the enemy, and did it all over again. Stannis's men took more ground than they gave, while the captains in the second line began to feed reserves into the flanks, slowly forming the lines into a ragged half moon. The cavalry on the right remained unengaged, watching each other from only a few hundred yards away.

it was like a dance of ants in molasses, agonizingly slow viewed from the hill, though he knew that from up close infantry combat was terrifyingly fast and brutal when the decisive moments came.

The cavalry fight on the right began to resolve itself, as Stafford's horse, despite slightly outnumbering Stannis's men, began to break. He ordered Ser Addam to send in a thousand horse of his reserve to break them before the left could regroup then return to the reserves. That would force Stannis to commit himself to cover his right or threaten Tywin's left. Even if he didn't personally command the reserves, it would reduce the size of his bodyguard. On the right, Stannis's heavy horse charged and a second cavalry melee began, this one more ordered.

Stannis's reserves, the crowned stag flying over them, began to manoeuvre towards his left flank, trying to stem the stream of fleeing horsemen as Addam's men, fresh and well ordered, slammed into the knights of the stormlands and Stafford's men started to regroup.

Mace's forces began to appear, coming up from the south, a great column of knights moving at the trot with infantry coming after them.

They'd marched faster than expected, truth be told.

Tywin's instincts told him that now would be the decisive moments, the fulcrum the battle swung upon.

He knew what needed to be done.

"Get Joffrey out of the camp, send him to Casterly Rock. The hostages too. Kill them if it looks like they'll be rescued. Prepare the mounted reserve to flank around the left and attack Stannis. Infantry reserves go to refuse the left flank."

He loosened his sword in his sheath and took a lance from his squire. "Stannis must die."

Kevan nodded besides him. "As you wish, brother."

 

[Balaur]

"Halt! Dress… Lines" Tane barked, standing up in her stirrups and raising her spyglass to get a better look at the battlefield.

It was the usual chaos, masses of soldiers standing about in reserve or crashing and receding against each other, while people-camp followers, wounded, deserters-constantly flowed between the camp and the army. As she watched, she saw a cavalry fight reach its final stages on the nearer side of the battle, both sides feeding in reserves, the tide turning again and again like a see-saw. Dust clouded the action.

They'd been ordered to prepare to march four hours ago, gotten moving three hours ago-honestly quite an impressive feat-and deployed into fighting order in dead ground twenty minutes ago, before beginning the advance onto Tywin's flank. They were a mile distant, now, cresting a ridge. Randyll's plan was simple. The infantry would launch a head on attack on Tywin's flank, collapsing it and hopefully encircling him and cutting off his line of retreat, while the cavalry-that is, the cavalry that Randyll hadn't gotten killed-would be lead personally by Mace Tyrell to charge ahead and rescue Garlan and the other hostages. It wasn't a bad plan, on paper, but considering who she was fighting alongside, they'd probably find a way to fuck it up beyond all recognition.

She heard horn blasts on her right, as the cavalry moved down through the rolling hills at a trot. Reserve infantry in Tywin's lines began to shift, forming a second line along his left flank. Buying him time.

More horn blasts, these from the infantry. Three blasts; the signal to advance.

"At the… March!" Tane yelled. Her forces began to advance. They were in the front line of Mace's army, towards the left flank, with blocks of spearmen and pikemen and archers on either flank. She had four companies of pikemen and halberdiers, ten deep-she didn't trust their discipline or drill enough for a shallower formation-in the centre, with two companies of calivermen and crossbowmen on each wing. The Horse Grenadiers were back behind them, providing close cavalry support. She didn't trust them under the tender ministrations of Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly.

They pushed forwards, agonizingly slowly. An individual, or a mob that didn't care for order, could have crossed the ground in a third of an hour even at a walk. A group-and a not particularly well drilled group-was much slower. As she watched, Tywin's cavalry reserves broke off from his rear and began to skirt the edges of his army. For a moment, she feared they would attack the Tyrell infantry, but instead they kept moving, trying to overlap Stannis's lines, blowing through a skirmish line that got in their way.

It took her a moment to realize what they were doing.

Cutting the head of the snake off. Christ-Horus, they're really going for it.

She glanced to her right. Mace's cavalry were halfway to the camp, some of them streaming ahead, others lagging behind on blown horses. Many of them were already galloping.

Idiots was all that Tane could think of. Cavalry should only pace up to the gallop in the last moments of an attack, or when speed and surprise was more important than good order. She hoped Tywin didn't have any serious forces protecting his camp.

Barked orders of "at the double!" came down the line, echoed by a messenger on horseback, and she yelled it out too. Her silvercloaks increased their pace, and she yelled for the drummers to beat faster. They were only five hundred yards out, now. The camp was out of sight; but Mace's cavalry would be breaking in amongst it by now.

They pushed closer and closer; four hundred yards, three hundred. Infantry moved up to oppose them, men with spear and shield, armoured in the cheap mail that provided no more protection than wool. They halted to dress lines again, just out of bowshot. She dismounted, tossing her reins to Boudace and tucking her horse pistols through her sash, and accepted the pollaxe the page-girl passed to her, then jogged up to her position at the head of the pike block. They were her men too, now, and they needed an experienced commander. Her armour rattled and clicked and scraped.

At two hundred yards out, the arrows went up, though not many. They must have already spent most of their arrows, and been shooting with tired arms, because most of them thudded down short, except for a man off to her right who started screaming and didn't stop.

"Hold fire, hold fire!" Tane barked, seeing a few men beginning to level their matchlocks.

Reserve it to fifty yards or so, it'll tear right through their shields. Follow up with push of pike. Fire and shock.

The other officers, goldcloak men mostly, echoed the order. They moved in, closer and closer. The Western foot formed a shieldwall, as Tyrell archers began shooting back. Behind them, to her left she could see knights flying the lion of Lannister tangled up with Stannis's own reserves.

They shuffled in to fifty yards. "Open fire! Two ranks volleys, countermarch!" Tane roared. The pikes kept advancing as the calivers opened fire to barks of "Make ready! Present! Fire! Countermarch!" from the company officers.

The crack of the calivers, smaller calibre and with weaker powder than what she was used to, sounded almost pathetic, but she saw men falling and others beginning to back up. A second volley came in, and a third; by the time the 9th and 10th ranks had fired the 1st and 2nd should have reloaded. There was a bang, different to a gunshot, and screaming, and yells of "Put it out! Put it out!".

Matchlock must have cooked off someones ammunition.

She forced herself to concentrate on leading the pikes.

"Present!" Tane yelled as they came into 20 yards. Wood clattered around her as the pikemen lowered their weapons, the tips swaying from the natural flex of the wood. She gripped her pollaxe tighter, and shifted into a high guard, butt-spike levelled at the face and axe blade chambered back to cut. The officers in the shield wall were scrambling to fill up the gaps that had been shot in it, but the volleys were coming in faster than they could close them.

There was almost a low wall of bodies along their front, and they were shrinking away, terrified. She felt no fear besides the usual trepidation, protected behind plate harness and a hedge of pikes. Their tall oaken shields caught the pikes, locking them into a shoving match. Tane roared encouragement, watching for westermen trying to break through. A few of the men began to throw their spears, and they came down amongst the silvercloaks, biting flesh or coming shaft first. Tane batted one away with her haft; another hit her on the helmet, making her vision jar. The pikes pushed forwards as the Lannisters gave ground. A wounded man, felled by a gunshot, lurched up and rushed her, dagger drawn. She jumped back, braining him with her axe as his dagger slashed thin air; moving on trained instinct. The clack of wood on wood was constant, as was the yells and grunting and the screaming of the wounded.

Part of the Lannister foot broke out of their shieldwall and rushed in on the left of the pike block, trying to turn a vulnerable flank.

"Halberdiers left, shift left!"

There was no need. The Grenadiers under Gryff come crashing in. She saw a group of men fall down and go tumbling back like they were on a steep hill and a man turning on his own side in a frenzy as the war witch Morgan got to work, then the Grenadiers going in through the gaps before turning in on the troops facing her pike block, firing their pistols at point blank range. Swarms of calivermen with swords drawn followed them. She saw Sace break her cornet against a knight's cuirass, sending him tumbling from his saddle, saw Gryff's short pollaxe kicking up a fine red mist, saw Morgan crush the mind of a man who came at her with a spear.

She pressed forwards into the fray, halberdiers following her, a cavalry officer's instincts to charge and pursue taking over. She picked out a man to her front and rushed him, beat his spear offline, hooked the man's shield, rammed a thrust through his face, and hacked at his head to make sure he stayed down. A spear thrust scraped off her pauldron, sending up sparks, and then she was fighting two to one, against an old man and a boy, both with spears, parrying furiously, fearing for a moment that they might be able to charge and overpower her if they pressed their advantage. She tensed to try and turn the tables; a rush left, striking at the old man's unshielded side, putting his body inbetween her and the son, but before she could do that a horse knocked the boy flat, and the old man turned to catch a blow from the rider on his shield only for Tane to chop through the mail protecting his neck, blinking as the arterial spray got in her eyes. She glanced up at the rider and recognized her; Blodwen, an arrow sticking out of her buff coat, barely noticed. She called out a warning; "he's up!", and Tane turned to see the boy getting up and then going down again as a halberdier thrust through his studded leather jerkin.

The chaos was absolute, the entire left flank of Tywin's army disintegrating. Men with rose banners were on the ridge that Tywin's reserves had occupied, men with stags were on the positions that Tywin's foot had once held and the lion was flying over a furious cavalry battle to her left as Tywin and Stannis's foot struggled. It was no longer a shieldwall to her front, or a pell-mell, it was a rout.

"Restrain pursuit! On me!". She gestured to Sace to pull in. The cornet stared at her blankly for a moment, her sword dripping red, then began yelling to the Grenadiers as she realized what was going on.

It took what seemed to be forever to get her troops back into order and resume an orderly advance, wheeling to support the cavalry engaged in melee. Trying to do that got the poor silvercloaks disordered, so they had to spend more time getting them back into their ranks and files before advancing. By that time, the fight on the left was over, Lannister men fleeing in all directions or being swarmed by opponents who now outnumbered them. A dozen knights came galloping down towards them, the sun shining off their golden armour, one of them discarding a banner with the lion of Lannister on it as they came. Her shot put a volley into them, unhorsing half, felling another man and sending the rest scampering.

The fallen men began to rise, at least the ones who hadn't broken anything in the fall, while more knights came galloping down behind them. The silvercloaks made ready for another volley, but she saw the stags on some of the knight's livery and called cease fire.

Why can't these bastards decide on uniforms or at least field signs?

They swarmed in around the downed knights, relieving them of their weapons and helmets. She called halt and marched out ahead, hoping to claim her battalion's prisoners. One of the knights, she saw, had a golden crown upon his helmet, half hacked away.

Stannis.

"Orders, your Grace?" Tane asked as she jogged up to him.

He turned to her and raised his visor. As she got closer, she saw the blood running down his right arm, and a dent over his chest that she would have taken for a gunshot anywhere else. Lance strike, or crossbow bolt.

He waved at the battlefield; at the rivers of broken men running for their lives, at the men still in formation, fighting to the last or too distracted by the threat to their front to notice the threat to their flanks and rear, at the corpses, some thrown about in heaps, others scattered.

"Finish them." he said coldly. "Then pursue until the sun comes down, and regroup here."

Tane nodded and marched back to her men, calling for a horse.

 

[Balaur]

A swords length. That was how close he had come to killing Stannis, in the tumult of that desperate final charge, before the tides of war swept them apart.

Now his army was broken, scattered, their hostages lost-he had no clue if the cutthroat's he'd sent had managed to slit their throats before being overcome-and on the run. Lannisport was burning, the smoke from it stinging their eyes on the march north.

The Starks were to the north, their outriders already brushing up against the walls of Casterly rock like probing fingers. He had scarcely 10,000 men left, many of them wounded, of his original 40,000 men. The rest were dead; killed in battle or butchered in the rout, captured, or had simply failed to regroup. Stafford had been brained with a mace in the cavalry fight; Gregor Clegane had been shot full of bolts by Myrishmen and could barely stand.

Joffrey had only barely made it out of the camp as Mace's cavalry swept through it, and Tywin had thought him taken for the whole retreat, only to find him already in Casterly rock when his remnants marched there.

He'd had three chances now to kill the leadership of the rebellion, and failed all three.

House Lannister cannot fall. He could not allow that. He had saved House Lannister from his father; now he must save it from his children. The only question was how.

Greyjoy had bent the knee, and was now at once enriching themselves and currying favour with Stannis, ready to strike at the right moment. Dorne had managed to retain some semblance of independence facing the dragons, by use of knives in the back where spears to the face would not work. Even Targaryen still lived. He knew what had to be done. Smuggle Joffrey out to Essos, to gather supporters and mercenaries, and claim it was his lords doing, not his own. Yield to King Stannis and rebuild his forces, or fight to the death and damage Stannis's as much as possible. When the time came, and Joffrey returned, the west would rise again.

It would be hard. The western ocean was swarming with hostile ships, and they had already blockaded the rock. Joffrey was not like to be stealthy, and would have to travel far overland before reaching Essos. Many of those who would support an exile king would have thrown their lot in with the Targaryen's already, or were tired of this or that faction begging for their aid. His lords might not support him, Stannis might not accept his surrender, or find a way to take Casterly rock with minimal casualties, the rising of the west might fail just as this one had.

They had no other choice.

*

"M'lord, Stannis's men are bringing in lumber, for catapults and towers." The sergeant said.

"Yes, I can see that quite well already." Tywin said, looking out the window to the sieges lines below. They'd completed the outer layer of circumvallation the day after the siege began, and were working in closer, hampered by the thin layers of stone. A vast camp lay behind them, the united forces of the Stormlands and the Reach. They'd received panicked ravens from the north, informing them that the ironborn had sacked the north; no relief force would be gathered from there. One large enough couldn't be raised anyway, so it was a small loss.

Once the bombardment started, crushing his towers like he'd crushed Tarbeck Hall, and belfries were wheeled up to rake his walls and courtyards with scorpion bolts, they would have to retreat from the high towers into the caves and cellars. They could last for a year down there, if only the lords and knights withdraw. It wouldn't matter. Stannis would stop them up as sure as he'd stopped up the Reyne's, only Stannis wouldn't even have to flood them. He'd just let time take its course.

Even now, he knew, his lords would be scheming against him, racing to be the one to open the gates to Stannis.

There were only two options now: become the betrayer or betrayed. He knew what must be done.

"My loyal lords." Tywin said, turning back to the remaining nobles. Lord Flement Brax; both his older brothers presumed killed. Lord Roland Crakehall, his face split by a still healing wound and his arm in a sling. Ser Addam Marbrand, who had made it through unharmed despite being in the thickest fighting. Kevan Lannister, who had been at his side throughout the entire fight. Lord Leo Lefford, Ser Harywn Sarsfield, half a dozen others. All those who had not fled or died.

"I summon you here to decide on our course of action." Tywin said. "We have supplies to feed our current force of 5,000"-he'd sent many of his men away, to reduce the strain on the supplies-"for over a year. Unfortunately, that is irrelevant since help is not coming. All our allies have deserted us. I have not heard word from the Iron Bank or the Faceless Men. The Ironborn have attacked us. It would appear that help is not coming. Now, we have two options. Fight on for honour and glory, or yield. Which will it be?"

"Fight!" Sarsfield yelled, followed by a "Yield. There is no use laying down our lives for nothing." from Flement. Crakehall supported Sarsfield, and so did Clement, loyal as ever. The rest supported Flement.

Tywin sighed.

He knew now, at least, who would betray him if it came to that.

All of them, but three.

He needed to get Joffrey out, and soon.

His best chance, he had decided, was to offer to negotiate personally with Stannis and his other lords. Have them ambushed and killed. The next dawn, as the camp tried to work out who was in charge, have Joffrey break out in a cavalry charge and flee, riding hell for leather to escape. With Stannis dead and Renly maimed, there would be anarchy in the seven kingdoms. All the better for Joffrey to escape, gather sellswords, and return triumphant.

He didn't tell his lords that, though. Instead, he simply explained that they would begin negotiations, break Joffrey out, and then yield, letting them surrender with dignity without losing their king. The only one to be told of the assassination would be Ser Harwyn Sarsfield, a second son whose Lord brother was safely at Sarsfield, unable to lead his men in the field due to a badly healed broken hip.

The man was cold blooded, and ambitious, with no chance of inheriting; he would be promised that his archers would ride in the breakout attempt with saddlebags full of Casterly rock gold, ready to be established as a new lord when they returned from Essos with sellswords in tow, to restore order to a land in anarchy.

All of them had their part in the plan; Brax would offer to open negotiations, Kevan would ride with Joffrey and take the blame for the assassination and breakout, Lefford would probe their defences with sallies to search for the best route out. They all agreed to the plan, some reluctantly, others enthusiastically. A plan, any plan, was better than waiting to die.

It was a long shot, and they only had one arrow left, but it was their only chance.

The west will rise again.

*

He took Joffrey aside that night after supper, his guards keeping eavesdroppers away.

"You must flee." Tywin hissed. "And await while I regather my forces."

"Casterly rock is impregnable." Joffrey said. "ten men on a wall are worth a hundred on the ground. We'll kill them until he's at wits end, then make him face us in single combat. I'll kill him with my crossbow, or set my dog on him."

"Casterly rock is difficult to assail. That is not the same thing as unassailable. Sooner or later it will fall, or we will be starved out, and I have no intention of you being in there when that time comes."

"You're just an old man, like Selmy, who always wants to run." Joffrey said. "You can run, if you want. I'll hold Casterly rock. I'll defeat Stannis. Robert killed the dragons, I'll kill the usurpers."

"Selmy is the only reason you are not dead or fled with Tommen and Myrcella. I am the only reason that right now, your lords have not turned on you. You would do well to have more respect for your elders."

"I AM YOUR KING! You should have more respect for me!" Joffrey screamed, spittle flying against Tywin's doublet. "I make the plans, not you!"

He pouted like a child whose toy had been taken away.

"Do you want to die, Joffrey Baratheon? If not, I suggest you take my advice."

"I told you, I'll kill them all-"

"Stannis will kill us all, or his men, if you do flee and I do not yield. Stannis will die, but we cannot defeat his whole army. Caution is the better part of valour, if you do not know that you are no better than-"

Joffrey drew his longsword with a yell of "I am no dragon!".

Tywin reacted instantly, grabbing the hilt before the blade had fully cleared the sheath and slamming an open palm into Joffrey's chest. He fell backwards onto the tiles, looking stunned for a moment before it was replaced by a look of pure rage.

"Sandor. Help the king to his feet. He seems to have lost his balance." Tywin said, his voice flat. Sandor stalked over, chuckling darkly, but Joffrey jerked his hand away and scrambled to his feet, snarling.

"He hit me!" Joffrey screamed.

"You drew on him first." Sandor grunted. "If you don't want to get hit, don't start fights you can't win. And if you can't win, yield or run."

"You would do well to remember that, Joffrey." Tywin said, standing over him, still holding his sword. "Stannis will die by the crossbow, just like you wanted, before you break out to Essos, ready to return as the slandered heir of the good king Robert, to save a realm in anarchy. It is not cowardice. It is cunning. And you will break out."

 

[Balaur]

"It is time." Sandor said, opening the door to Joffrey's candle lit room.

He hated the rock. He hated the dark passages packed with too many men, the dark passages, the candlelight, the smoke. His eyes stung and watered. He wanted to spend as much time as he could on the outer walls, shooting at the traitors with his crossbow, but Tywin had forbidden him and demanded he hide within the rock itself.

That was just like the cowardly old man, of course. He was a traitor, he knew it. Tywin wanted to kill Stannis, and then get him killed, thus letting himself rule Westeros for himself. Joffrey would not let that happen. He had a plan and Tywin, by asking him to watch Stannis die, was going to help make it happen.

He scrambled to his feet, putting on his best clothes and fetching his crossbow and a quiverfull of bolts, and the sword Tywin had taken from him then handed back like an old fool. Tywin wouldn't know what hit him. The thought was enough to make him smile.

His dog stomped ahead of him, armour rattling, carrying his lantern.

He was a traitor too. He had laughed when he'd seen his king assaulted in front of him. There would be consequences.

They came down through the Rock, through the twisting passages packed too tightly with soldiers, past servants who bowed and muttered "Your grace" when they saw him. They marched through the hall of heroes, lined with a thousand gilded swords and suits of armour, and out through the front gates. The sunlight stung his eyes as they marched into the yard. Tywin was already on horseback, clad in his own armour, while the archers of House Sarsfield milled about, stringing longbows and winding crossbows.

"You intend to witness the negotiations?" Tywin asked, eyebrow raised.

Joffrey nodded. "I want to see you kill Lord Stannis."

Someone snickered behind him, and Joffrey and every other archer on the wall turned to glare at him.

Tywin glanced at the crossbow. "Don't shoot until the signal is given. A torch, from the left tower." He pointed at one of the towers that protected the screening wall. "Ser Harwyn will throw it, when the time is right, overseen by Kevan. I will go forth and negotiate. It is a risk, but it is a risk that must be taken. Now, go."

Joffrey climbed up the walls, his legs hurting by the end, and peered over the battlements. The trebuchets were half built, and a pair of belfries, while trenches sheltering the attackers from the hail of scorpion bolts launched from the rock proper slowly crept forwards. They'd take the outer walls, and then what? They'd have the stone hulk itself to storm. They could last for years. Tywin was just trying to trick him into fleeing.

The archers marched up onto the walls around him, arrows rattling in their quivers. Their armour stunk to high heaven, though not as badly as it would have in the tunnels. Some of them looked at him queerly, and he heard mutters of "What's the king doing here?" and "Should we ask Harywn?"

Smallfolk. So little faith in their betters.

Below, trumpets blew, and Tywin Lannister rode forth, alone. Stannis rode out to meet him, a good 300 yards from at the edges of scorpion-shot. He was armoured head to toe, but had taken off his helmet. Joffrey fidgeted in annoyance as he came closer and closer, taking seemingly forever, Tywin staying in the shadow of the walls. Finally, Tywin trotted out to meet him, well within bowshot.

They would be talking, babbling about peace and mercy, he knew, though they were out of earshot. The men crouched behind the crenulations, glancing at the left tower.

Any moment now.

Both men were still ahorse, circling, watching, talking. His trigger finger was itching. One bolt amongst hundreds, one shooter amongst dozens, going astray would not be traced, and if it was, a good king could face his enemies himself. He had to do it himself. The footpad he'd sent to kill that cripple had failed. His armies had failed him, as had his family. He would have to be like the warrior kings of old, with only his sword and his cunning to win his crown when all else had failed. He remembered what Robert had told him, that a king was strong and brave and cunning, and must rely on that above all else, else he was no true king. And Joffrey was a true king.

A horn blew, and a torch dropped. He stepped up over the battlements, aiming. He'd never practised much with the crossbow, but it couldn't be that hard. Point and shoot. He brought it down to aim at Tywin, his hands shaking, forcing himself to breath steadily, hoping no-one noticed who he aimed at. Tywin stood still, while Stannis began to turn to flee, having seen the archers taking aim.

He deserves it. The traitor deserves it. Kill him! He'd do the same to you.

He pulled the trigger, as did half a hundred others. The thrum of the crossbows made him almost jump, as the bolts whirred down around them. Tywin's horse twisted and fell, while Stannis kept galloping.

He leaned over the battlements. Tywin was staggering to his feet, his surcoat like a hedgehog, his horse twitching and dying beneath him. He heard a strangled scream, and looked up just in time to see a knight in gilded armour plunging from the tower, and heard someone yelling for his men to open the gates again.

What? Are they helping me? Do they know Tywin's a traitor, and Kevan too?

He saw a scorpion bolt take Tywin through the chest, and then someone grabbed him, pulling him back.

"Unhand me!" he yelled, but someone kicked out his leg and he went to his knees.

He snarled in fury, clutching for his sword, but his hand was twisted behind his back and he was slammed to the floor, his face ground against the splintery boardwalks. He screamed for Sandor, but no answer came.

"Do we kill him? Do we kill him?" someone yelled him, then "Save Stannis the trouble!" and a cut off, gurgling scream. "Get him hostage! Get him hostage!" Feet came pounding past his head, and then yells of "Secure the gates!" and "You fucking heard the captain, get to cover." were all around him.

Are there no loyal men left?

"No, please! Mercy! Mercy! I am your trueborn king!" Joffrey screamed, desperate, terrified.

An arrow landed in the floorboards, quivering, an inch from his head.

"Fuck it, move to the tower!"

He was wrenched to his feet, a burly arm almost crushing his neck, and bundled along amidst a river of men in mail and boiled leather. He saw Sandor up ahead of him and called out to him again, but he was grappling with a man, using him as a human shield against other archers looking for an opening to shoot him. He turned and saw Joffrey, and then leapt off the battlements, wordlessly, disappearing down below, taking the dead man with him.

There were archers shooting at them, up on the battlements carved into the rock itself that overlooked the walls, but he saw fighting up there as well swords rising and falling.

"No!" Joffrey screamed. He was alone. He was alone, in a world of traitors who had killed his mother and father and taken his home, who had hounded him to the ends of the earth, who had stolen his crown.

"Traitors! Save your king!" he cried. No one answered. They threw him into the tower, cutting away his sword belt.

"What now?" someone asked.

"Brax and Lefford will be securing the main gate and spreading the word that Tywin was going to murder Stannis in cold blood, but we killed him instead, and that we'd best all surrender." An archer growled. "Best lie is the truth. Should just sit tight here."

"Should get the king out to Stannis as quick as possible. He'll like that."

"If you let me go, I'll give you all the gold in Casterly rock. Listen! I am your-"

He was silenced by a blow that cracked across his face. His vision swam, he felt blood filling his mouth, and worse pain than anything he'd ever felt before, like his head was dipped in wildfire.

A man in Sarsfield colours, old, his face pox marked, loomed over him.

"Because, son, nothing good happens to those who lose the game of thrones. And me and my boys don't intend to be on the losing side."

His boot slammed into the side of Joffrey's head, and then there was nothingness.

 

[Balaur]

She was taking her supper with her cousins when the news arrived.

"M'lady, a raven from the King." A servant girl called, from the doorway.

"Oh, gods be good." Elinor murmured besides her.

She knew what it would concern. The outcome of the battle with Lord Tywin. She hoped it didn't turn out as badly as the last one. Thousands killed, wounded or captured, including Garlan vanished, her lord husband crippled and maimed…

She'd had to retire to her rooms when she'd heard news of that clash, besides herself with fear. Not for Renly, as most supposed; he was a good enough man, and a loyal friend to the Tyrells if a little reckless, but he wasn't family like Garlan was. She hadn't grown up alongside him, watched him go from a young page into one of the finest knights in the realm.

The uncertainty only made it worse; she did not know whether he was alive or dead, whether he would be set free or killed, whether to mourn for him or pray for his escape or release.

Mother have mercy on him, Warrior win him free…

She forced herself to focus on the present. "What news does it bring?"

"Selyse will tell the news to all the court tomorrow, but Archmaester Nymos wishes you to know that Stannis was victorious, and that Garlan is unharmed, and Loras too."

Margaery smiled openly. He's alive. He's alive.

"Your name?" She asked, smiling her most grateful smile and looking at the girl like she was an equal. Smallfolk liked that, even more than the nobles raining down wealth from on high. That was why Stannis was so popular amongst his retainers, in spite of all sense.

"Uh, Tansy, M'lady."

She curtseyed.

She would have offered her a coin or trinket, some sign of thanks, but had none on her. You could learn all sorts of interesting things if the servants liked you.

She glanced at the food on her table, the usual sumptuous variety that the red keep's cooks offered up.

"You have my thanks." Margaery said.

The maid curtseyed again and left the room. She would need to find out who sent her, and why. If Selyse had decided to give her the news early, that could be a sign she was attempting to smooth things over after the apostate fiasco. If the new Grand Maester was quietly sending her information, then she had a potentially valuable ally. Either way, she would need to be wary. The queen met her in public only with cold courtesy, and the few times they'd met in private, with barbs that weren't half so well hidden as she would have liked.

The feud would only get worse when Stannis returned, she knew; both would struggle for his favour, Tyrell against Florent, Hand against Queen, Seven against the Lord of Light. For now, though, neither dared move decisively. Selyse would not risk the wrath of Stannis if he returned to find she had moved against his brothers wife, even if Stannis personally personally cared little for her. She could not do much herself, with no swords, no hard power and the Faith disarmed.

Only gather information, and wait.

They finished their supper, telling stories about Garlan and speculating about how he'd been rescued or escaped, laughing with relief. It passed in a pleasant blur, before they set off for the sept to give their thanks to the Seven for their mercy.

They were walking through the courtyard towards the sept when a fat old woman stepped out of the dusk shadows in front of them, her head coifed.

"It does warm an old maid's heart that so gallant a knight still lives." The woman said, before walking off, vanishing into the shadows.

"Wait!" Margaery called, but she was ignored.

How does she know that?

Margaery swore she'd seen her face before.

Varys.

"Who was that?" Elinor asked.

"Our informer." Margaery said, her heart sinking. Having the Grand Maester on her side was rather useful, even if only for such minor matters. Having Varys feeding her information simply meant she was being manipulated. Why he still had his head was beyond her.

*

Selyse Baratheon held court the next morning, Alester Florent and Melisandre at her side, all of them clad in red. There was something off about her, her face both dead eyed and wild as she watched the courtiers-mostly women, and the knights of the small garrison force-assemble around the empty Iron throne.

Alester Florent stood up, clearing his throat. "It pleases me greatly to announce the news that Seven days before, His Grace Stannis Baratheon and Lord-Paramount of Highgarden Mace Tyrell clashed with and put to rout the army of Tywin Lannister. Tywin in his perfidy had many of the hostages put to the sword." He began to read off names of knights of the Reach. She'd met many of them, feasted with them, watched them train. All killed by a butcher because he couldn't bear to lose.

Is this some trick? Did Selyse lie to me that Garlan survived, to break me in front of court?

She doesn't have the cunning for that.

"However, a number of others, led by Garlan Tyrell, escaped when His Grace's knights stormed the camp."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"His forces now march north to place Lannisport and Casterly Rock under siege, and crush the usurper of Stannis's birthright and his cronies."

We won. Baratheon, Tyrell, Florent, Tarly and Stark, Andal and Northerner and Essosi and Genian, united under one banner. Until the outbreak of peace.

After that, the usual array of border disputes, pleas for protection from bandits, lawsuits and flattery began. Alester handled them well enough, except for the occasional case of Selyse berating some unfortunate petitioner or another and telling them that their concerns were irrelevant to the welfare of the realm.

Finally, after nearly an hour, as her legs began to cramp, an aging, hard faced man all in black stepped out from the crowd.

"Your Grace, I come bearing ill news from the wall."

Something about sounded it sounded rehearsed.

"What news?" Selyse asked, naked fear crossing her face.

"That the dead walk."

He marched right up to the Iron Throne and took something out from under his cloak. Selyse looked horrified, though not shocked. Alester almost fainted. Melisandre's eyes blazed with cold fire as always.

What is it? What is it?

She remembered old stories, of the long night and the Others, of armies of the dead and ice spiders big as hounds.

This has to be some jape.

But this man of the Watch wouldn't come this far for a joke, and Selyse was no mummer.

He turned around, and she saw what he held in his hand. A jar of vinegar, something in it. She stepped closer, squinting.

A hand. A rotting hand.

It twitched, then jolted to life, thrashing and grappling with nothing.

Elinor fainted, Megga catching her. Someone screamed, and then another, and then she heard people at the back yelling "What is it?" and "May I see?" and "Only a mummer's trick!"

"Two dead bodies, of rangers killed beyond the wall, came to life and tried to murder the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They were stopped. This is one of their hands…"

Margaery just stared, her mind unable to process what it was seeing.

"King Stannis, Azor Ahai, Warrior of Light is all that stands between the realms of men and the Great Other." Melisandre's voice boomed from the dais.

She forced herself to think.

At best, this was some sorcerer's trick, to justify bolstering a false faith and throwing down the true.

At worst….

The Maesters say a long summer means a long winter, the dead walk, a red comet was in the sky…

The Long Night is coming again.

Mother have mercy, Father have justice, Warrior grant us courage, Smith grant us strength, Maiden keep us safe, Crone give us wisdom. We will need all of it for what is coming.