Over the Sunset, Into the West (LoTR x ASOIAF)

[RichardWhereat]

Especially if he comes in close to drop that dragon.

 

[FieryMatter]

The You is out of place.

Click to shrink...

Fixed, Oopsie

 

[RichardWhereat]

I'm guessing that they're going to need to build a second citadel or five with all these newcomers who'll want to spend time studying, as well as the hundreds of their own loremasters who'll want to transcribe or publish their own books, as well as also study what Middle Earth has to offer.

I wonder if Numenor had printing presses. They did have very long lived craftsmen and loremasters, and learned from the elves from Aman who had thousands of years each to experiment, and were immortal.

 

[FieryMatter]

Chapter 8: Welcoming Feast​

Spurred on by the prospect of food, Ar-Pharazôn's entourage returned to the Hightower in haste. Among them was the skilful sell-sword who cut down the assassin, who had accepted the invitation to dine at tonight's feast celebrating the Númenorean host's entrance and the end of the siege. The remainder of the Oldtown tour appeared to be rather uneventful, and Pharazôn soon found himself ascending the steps leading up to the Hightower. After a quick inspection of their lodgings, the entourage headed towards the great hall where the feast was held.

Pharazôn had barely passed through the doorway when a young man appeared from the crowd of guests, clad in a white doublet embroidered with a grey wolf. His dark eyes and hair accentuated the paleness of his skin.

Lord Manfred Hightower was prompt to perform his introductions. "Your Grace, this is Lord Brandon Snow, half-brother and envoy of King Torrhen Stark, King in the North. My Lord, this is Ar-Pharazôn, King of Adûnabâr and Lord of the Sunset Peoples. As you are well aware, his Grace is the guest of honour of this feast."

The discerning Manfred had placed Pharazôn at the head of the main table, with an ornate chair to boot. While the Hightowers, High Septon and several archmaesters were also dining at the main table, Manfred most likely assumed that Pharazôn would be more interested in speaking with the Stark envoy and the sell-sword, and hence arranged for them to be seated on either side of him. Meanwhile, other notable citizens of Oldtown were busy making small talk at the lesser tables - an assortment of nobles and merchants eager to receive first-hand accounts of their new overlords and the progress of the war.

Out of the background noise, Pharazôn faintly made out various points of discussion. Several guildmasters were busy arguing about how the steel-bows were produced and their advantages over traditional bows, complete with diagrams drawn on napkins or even the tablecloth in one instance, while the merchants appeared to be more concerned about the price of food, various metals, and bow-string. The nobility preferred to speculate about the strategies and tactics that would be used by the Númenórean hosts, with one particularly impetuous lord waving his hands about and using grandiose terms such as 'thunderstorm of arrows', 'decapitation strike' and 'maximum overkill' much to the derision of his peers.

All tables agreed on one subject, however. Like it or not, the reign of the Gardeners was drawing to a close. Nor were there many - or indeed any - visible Gardener loyalists around; not surprising considering the expression of such sentiments could easily cost one their head.

The guests were all seated after a while. Some haggling of seats took place, but much less than expected; the ever-shrewd Hightowers had arranged for most of the tables to be round and hence all seats appeared to be equal. Ar-Pharazôn's table being a noticeable exception, of course, and he sat right in the centre.

Servants in Hightower colours travelled to each table and announce the menu. With little to do after entering Oldtown and unwilling to further strain the city's food supply after it was besieged for days, some of the Númenórean soldiers took to fishing when not on duty. At the same time, several of the best steel bowmen also brought down scores of wildlife during their patrols beyond the city walls. Tonight's dishes will therefore include wild boar, pheasant, and an assortment of aquatic life.

Brandon Snow extended his hand. "I am beyond honoured to meet you, Your Grace, especially in circumstances like this. We rarely have feasts in the North, and almost never on such a large scale. I heard your men were rather successful at hunting too."

"Indeed archery is a popular pastime from where we came from. Anyway, why don't you tell us more about the Kingdom of the North? I imagine the North would be very different from the southern part of the continent, and would gladly hear anything of interest about it."

Ar-Pharazôn paid close attention to Brandon's introduction of his kingdom, for such information may prove very useful in the future. The Kingdom of the North was the largest kingdom in Westeros by area, though its less hospitable northern climate meant that its population was quite low for its size. House Stark had ruled the kingdom from Winterfell castle for generations, their power over the entire region established over centuries long ago in a series of conquests and strategic marriage alliances. Furthermore, the Kingdom of the North was the only remaining kingdom of the First Men, the original inhabitants of Westeros who were slowly displaced by the Andal newcomers. For that reason, House Stark and their vassals still maintained many of the 'Old Ways' as Brandon termed it, such as worshipping the 'Old Gods' or 'weirwoods', trees with white trunks and red leaves that have faces carved into them. That said, significant Andal influence had reached even the last realm of the First Men, with the old tongue of the First Men having all but disappeared.

The North also had a very interesting geography. To the south, it was bounded by a narrow band of land known as 'the Neck', marshes between the Sunset and Narrow Seas which separated the North from the rest of continent. In fact, this very bottleneck - along with Stark military prowess - was why the First Men were able to defeat invasion after Andal invasion in the first place. A formidable fortress known as Moat Cailin stood at the northern edge of the swamp, overlooking the one causeway to the North and hence acting as a natural chokepoint. The Neck was inhabited by 'crannogmen', a primitive people who nevertheless brought much ruin to the various armies that attempted to invade the North, with their mastery of the difficult terrain along with poisoned arrows and spears. Many an Andal army had evaporated in the humid swamps and bogs in their attempts to invade The North.

To the west, the Stony Shore formed the western coastline along the Sunset Sea. As it name implied, the shore had few natural harbours with its extremely rough terrain, which helped explain the relatively sparse population in that area. The Ironmen had often invaded and even at times controlled the Stony Shore during their various skirmishes with the North, yet were unable to conquer further inland; time and time again they were forced to retreat due to lack of supplies ere the Stark armies bore down onto them. The North's eastern coastline was far more hospitable, with numerous rivers and White Harbour, the kingdom's only city which sits at the river White Knife. Pharazôn listened intently as Brandon recalled the tale of Argos Sevenstar, an Andal warlord whose forces were utterly destroyed by House Stark and their now-vassals House Bolton at the Battle of the Weeping Water. King Theon Stark then raised a massive fleet and counter-invaded the Andal homeland, burning numerous settlements in retribution.

But it was the massive structure known as The Wall that piques Pharazôn's interest. A massive structure stretching along the entire northern border, The Wall was almost as tall as the Hightower and formed entirely out of ice, separating the civilised Westerosi kingdoms from the Wildlings, First Men who still abided by ancient custom. They chose their own leaders instead of kneeling to kings, and hence called themselves the 'Free Folk'. The North was defended from periodic incursions by those Wildlings by the Night's Watch, an organisation which had manned the Wall ever since the Long Night fell upon Westeros. "But another story for another time, Your Grace," Brandon said as he continued his description of the North. Yet at times even the Night's Watch wasn't enough to hold back the onslaught of Wildlings, and the Starks of Winterfell had to head north with large hosts in such occasions....

Pharazôn noticed that the sell-sword was quietly staring at the Northern lord, clearly enthralled by Brandon's descriptions and stories. Or perhaps he was a man of few words; it was hard to tell seeing that the three men had just met. Brandon Snow appeared to be a rather reserved man as well, though he had no trouble speaking once the wine began to flow and he had familiarised himself with his acquaintances.

"But the Reach is rather far away from the North, if my maps are correct," Pharazôn pointed out to Brandon. "What business then brings you to the Reach?"

"Your Grace, I was tasked to investigate a matter of utmost importance by my half-brother. As mentioned before, the North's lands are not very fertile, and His Grace King Stark would prefer to see that his subjects have enough crops to survive the winter with agricultural practices from the Reach." Yet Brandon was looking warily around the room, far too concerned for someone who was supposedly interested in only farming. His gaze came to a rest upon the sell-sword. "And you, my Essosi friend. What brings you to these strange lands?"

"Essos is far too dangerous for my liking. And besides, the Reach's wine is more than enough of a reason to come to Westeros. Here, a toast!" The sell-sword exclaimed in a booming voice as he stood, raising his cup high. "To his Grace Ar-Pharazôn!"

On the other end of the table, Lord Hightower was now also on his feet, cup of wine in hand. "To the King!"

In the blink of an eye, all of the guests were had cups and glasses in their hands.

"Long live the King! Long live his men!"

"Seven Blessings to Adûnabâr!"

"At any rate, I plan to return to the North in a few days," Brandon continued after the toast. "The Reach - or Adûnabâr, as it has now become, is a beautiful land. Yet my family is waiting back at home, and I yearn to see Winterfell's walls and towers before long."

"Very well. I'll write a letter to Torrhen Stark after the feast, I trust that you can bring it home with you?" Brandon Snow nodded, and Pharazôn turned towards the sellsword. "And you. You claim to be from Essos, which I believe, but who are you truly?"

"Your Grace, I believe I've already told you who I am. A humble man who is now seeking safer lands, after I've had enough of the fighting in Essos. There is still a lot of wars going on there, but the conflicts are too dangerous, and the pay isn't good. What's the point of risking your life if you aren't going to get adequate rewards? Besides, Essos has been going downhill anyway since the Doom little more than a century ago. Several cities had already been abandoned or sacked, and horse-nomads known as the Dothraki are rapidly encroaching on civilised lands."

As the sellsword spoke, Ar-Pharazôn bent his will towards the man to glean more information about his intent. He did not appear to be lying, at least. But Pharazôn knew far less about Westeros than he would deem sufficient, and even little of Essos which this sellsword claims to be from.

It suddenly dawned on Pharazôn that he hadn't even asked for the sellsword's name, an oversight which he immediately rectified.

"It's Valryon, Your Grace. I can trace my blood all the way back to Old Valyria itself through the Velaryon family; indeed, several of my kin are also trying their luck in Westeros under the Targaryen dragonlords. But I'm not so fortunate to inherit Driftmark or even the Velaryon name. House Velaryon has adapted many Westerosi customs ever since settling at Driftmark, and descent through the female line is not reckoned as heavily if at all."

Suspecting that further discussion on the sellsword himself would lead nowhere, Pharazôn turned his attention to the recent assassination attempts. "What do you make of the assassin?"

"My ship only docked at Oldtown this morning, I had barely left the docks when I heard about the crossbow incident and the city-wide search for the assassin. I decided to keep my eye out in the hope of a reward. I guessed he would most likely try another attempt, perhaps when there is less light so he wouldn't be easily spotted, which meant that he would need to be in front of Your Grace's route. I suppose he could catch up from behind, though that would be significantly more difficult. As luck would have it, the assassin bumbled into my way. So I cut the man down, simple as that."

"When we first met, you said that you arrived a week or two ago. Deceive the Lord of the Adûnâim at your peril."

Valryon abruptly set down his spoon, gulping down the soup he was sipping. "But Your Grace, I did arrive in Westeros just over a week or so ago. I visited Duskendale before taking the ship to Oldtown. Duskendale's a nice town, but I suppose Westeros' largest city would offer more opportunities..."

Pharazôn cut off the sellsword's explanation. "Misunderstandings happen. Continue with your analysis."

"I mentioned earlier that the bolts did not appear to be poisoned, suggesting that the assassin was not sent by a Dornish house. Though the Dornish might have exploited that reputation and deliberately chosen to forego poison. The Isle and Rivers are unlikely to be involved either since they are far more keen to cut Stormlander throats, and the animosity goes both ways. The Arryns largely keep to themselves and are honourable to a fault. It would therefore take a great leap of logic to pin blame on the Vale. Further north..."

"House Stark is not behind this," Brandon interjected as the main courses of the feast were served. "We have barely learnt about Your Grace's arrival, and the North has little interest in southern squabbles."

Valryon briefly nodded at Brandon before continuing. "Lord Snow is likely speaking the truth, Your Grace. Moving on, the Reach is known for its chivalry, yet there has been news suggesting that Your Grace's hosts had encounters with poisoned wells on the way to Oldtown. The Targaryens probably aren't involved either. They appear to have a vested interest in weakening the Sunset Peoples, but why send an assassin if they could send a Dragon?" Valryon laughs. "I wouldn't rule out some Reachman or noble house being involved, though the Kingdom of the Rock is another likely possibility. After all, they're very likely to be next. That's assuming the assassin wasn't acting independently in the first place; perhaps a disgruntled peasant or a relative of a soldier in the Faith Militant. Given recent events, this is not an impossible explanation."

Having such a sellsword might be useful in the future, Pharazôn mused as Valryon explained his deductions. An interesting man who seems to harbour a few secrets, but those can be rooted out in time.

Valyron almost casually looked at the other end of the table before digging into the freshly prepared fish, a dish which suggested that the Westerosi still had much to learn from the Adûnâim, at least in terms of maritime cuisine. "Naturally the Hightowers aren't behind this, unless Lord Manfred is foolish enough to risk not only his own life but those of his sons. Ser Morgan himself is injured to the point where he is unable to attend today's feast. Similarly, the High Septon would be insane to have allowed such an event to take place, at least at that place and time."

"What about the Citadel?" Brandon asked as he reached for the red wine - a fine beverage from the Arbor, rivalling even the various draughts of Westernesse-that-was. Yet the Redwynes were defiant, and the Arbor remained to be taken. "They may have considered His Grace to a threat to their order, and neither Lord Hightower nor his sons are members of the Citadel."

"Unlikely, for the Citadel had close ties to the Hightowers ever since the order of the maesters was founded. It was Prince Peremore Hightower the Twisted, a second son and cripple, who invited scholars from many lands to Oldtown; his brother King Urrigon granted lands to 'Peremore's pets' which became the Citadel and maesters respectively. The Hightowers and their associates are almost certainly not responsible for the attempt, not least due to the high risk and grave cost in reputation."

"Sellsword, your analysis of the situation is impressive, and I have not forgotten the great contributions you rendered today. Should you desire so, you could serve in my hosts," Pharazôn offered.

Valryon appeared to be rather reluctant, pondering the question carefully for a while. "Your Grace, your offer is much appreciated. However I do not wish to sign any contracts at the moment; most Essosi sellswords are as fickle as the wind, but I do not break my promises and do not wish to commit myself to an employer after only a day in Oldtown. That said I will be remaining in Oldtown for a while, and will consider your offer very carefully."

Slightly surprised by Valryon's answer, Pharazôn was considering his response when a servant appeared and removes the now empty plates. "Dessert will be served soon, Your Grace and my lords," he announced. "Lord Hightower has also arranged for all of the guests to meet Your Grace individually."

Table by table, the guests arose and lined up in front of the main table as they extended their greetings. Ar-Pharazôn briefly addressed each of the guests as they are introduced by Martyn Hightower. Their names blurred into each other, masters of this guild and that, lords of holdfasts great and small. Doubtlessly they were great men in their own right, yet their titles and lineages were but a trifle to the King of Men, and perhaps the reputations of some were greatly exaggerated. That is until one name piqued Pharazôn's interest.

"Your Grace, may I introduce Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt," Martyn intoned. The man's face suddenly turned sheet white as Pharazôn struggled to remember where that name came from.

 

[Neruz]

with one particularly impetuous lord waving his hands about and using grandiose terms such as 'thunderstorm of arrows', 'decapitation strike' and 'maximum overkill' much to the derision of his peers.

Click to shrink...

That lord has a neckbeard, an ornate smoking pipe and a giant lounge chair from which he dispatches ravens with letters of 'military advice' to all the other lords doesn't he?

The Targaryens probably aren't involved either. They appear to have a vested interest in weakening the Sunset Peoples, but why send an assassin if they could send a Dragon?" Valryon laughs

Click to shrink...

Definitely Not Aegon: *Because those fucking steel bows would ruin a Dragon and I only have 3 of them goddamnit!*

Having such a sellsword might be useful in the future, Pharazôn mused as Valryon explained his deductions. An interesting man who seems to harbour a few secrets, but those can be rooted out in time.

Click to shrink...

I do hope that Pharazôn will remember be careful about who he trusts after the whole Sauron incident.

Valryon appeared to be rather reluctant, pondering the question carefully for a while. "Your Grace, your offer is much appreciated. However I do not wish to sign any contracts at the moment; most Essosi sellswords are as fickle as the wind, but I do not break my promises and do not wish to commit myself to an employer after only a day in Oldtown. That said I will be remaining in Oldtown for a while, and will consider your offer very carefully."

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Definitely Not Aegon: *I'd much rather stay near you and learn all your precious secretses thanks.*

"Your Grace, may I introduce Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt," Martyn intoned. The man's face suddenly turned sheet white as Pharazôn struggled to remember where that name came from.

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Oh come on Pharazôn, you took that place like a week ago, that was where your men got poisoned for chrissake!

 

[FieryMatter]

That lord has a neckbeard, an ornate smoking pipe and a giant lounge chair from which he dispatches ravens with letters of 'military advice' to all the other lords doesn't he?

Click to shrink...

Yup

These sorts of people exist everywhere lol. Nowhere uniquely a modern phenomenon.

 

[RichardWhereat]

He has an ornate smoking pipe, as a medieval lord. Who wouldn't have one if they smoked, as a medieval lord?

 

[FieryMatter]

Chapter 9: Just Desserts​

"Ah, Lord Beesbury. How... glad to meet you. Would you like to join my table for desserts?" Pharazôn asked in a nonchalant tone, dismissing the guards with a flick of his hand. "Just desserts, nothing more."

Lord Beesbury accepted the offer, sweat dripping from his brow. Not that he had much choice, of course, especially not after poisoning hundreds of Númenórean men at Honeyholt. The servant who announced the arrival of desserts carried another chair to the main table and set it between Pharazôn and Brandon Snow. There would be other opportunities to chat with Lord Snow, perhaps in private, before he returned to the north. But Beesbury needed to be dealt with now, and the chat with Valryon was not over yet.

Glancing down, Pharazôn saw a small lemoncake on the plate, and reached for his fork. He took a small bite of the cake, noting that while the Westerosi were not that good at preparing food, their delicacies could rival even the best he ever had in Arminalêth, or otherwise known as Armenelos. Before even Quenya place-names were all but banned ever since Zigûr set foot on the Land of Gift. However, Pharazôn suspected it would be a different matter once he left the Hightower and onto the cobbled streets of Oldtown; what little he had seen so far suggested that the average Westerosi was clearly less well-off than the average Adûnâim.

In between further bites, Pharazôn struck up a conversation with Beesbury who was trembling in his seat.

"Of course, I hope all is well with your family; I presume you have a lovely wife? And perhaps children too? Though speaking of wells, well... there's that little incident at Honeyholt. Does that ring any bells?" Without waiting for Beesbury to answer, "Of course, you understand that our little chat will continue after dinner."

Beesbury's head drooped in a fashion not unlike a beaten dog. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good."

Having sorted out that matter, Pharazôn made small talk with Beesbury, chatting about everything from the weather to various social customs of the Reach. As he suspected from the name, the Beesburys were avid beekeepers, with their main export being honey, mead, and even honeycombs as a luxury product. Naturally the topic of poisons was not brought up, not least because it was still dinner time and such discussion might be less pleasing to one's appetite. And besides, there would be plenty of time for that later.

Pharazôn turned back towards Valryon, leaving Lord Beesbury to 'enjoy' his desserts in silence. "Take your time to consider. However would it be wise to seek out another employer? You have seen the size of my host, and that is but the vanguard of what I have brought to these strange lands. Your skills in combat are certainly admirable, yet I don't think fighting against my men would end very well for you."

Valryon finished his lemoncake. "I'll take that into account when considering my options." He said little more before the feast ended and he took his leave.

*******​

Brandon Snow pulled Pharazôn aside after the feast.

"Your Grace, you are surely aware that I won't just be here to learn about growing crops. I wish to discuss the true purpose of my visit with you, yet there are too many strange ears in the dining hall, and sharing such information would have been unwise." Puzzled, Pharazôn followed Brandon to a secluded room where the Hightowers were already waiting, along with the entire Citadel conclave.

Stepping to the centre of the room, Brandon Snow began addressing those present. "Around a month or so ago, we received a message from Lord Aegon Targaryen who declared himself as the only king in Westeros, and that he would destroy those who refuse to submit. While the Targaryens do not have a large army or indeed fertile lands, they have three dragons as the last Dragonlords descended from Valyria itself. King Torrhen was naturally quite concerned and sent me to investigate this matter, along with methods with which dragons could be defeated."

"And did you find anything of note?"

"Unfortunately not much Your Grace. Though with the help of the Citadel," Brandon paused briefly and nodded at the archmaesters before continuing, "we were able to find an account of the Rhoynish prince Garin the Great defeating three Valyrian dragons with the aid of water wizards. Yet those tales date from centuries ago; besides we have no water wizards even if the tales were true. That said, the Dornish also claim that Valyria itself responded by sending around three hundred dragons, suggesting that they were at least wary of losses, or they would not have sent such a large force if only several dragons could do the job."

"Of course, His Grace's steel bows are far more powerful than any bows we have in Westeros, and perhaps those black-tipped arrows could easily pierce a dragon's scales. If anyone in Westeros could kill those three dragons, it would be the Dornish or the Adûnâim," Lord Hightower interjected. Pharazôn raised his eyebrows, noting that Lord Hightower used the proper name of his people for the first time.

One of the archmaesters stood up from his chair. "Even if the dragon cannot be easily killed, a lucky bolt or two could still kill the rider. But this issue could be discussed later, and it's getting late in the night, surely His Grace would appreciate some rest after entering the city."

"I will be visiting Sunspear before returning to the North. Perhaps the Dornish would have a few tricks up their sleeve," Brandon announced. "My ship will be leaving Oldtown early tomorrow morning, so I don't think we will meet again until my next visit. Farewell, Your Grace." With that, he turned and departed the room, followed by the archmaesters.

Lord Beesbury was shaking as he entered the room, flanked by two Númenórean guards. His hands remained unbound, yet it was beyond obvious that his current situation was not one to be envied.

"My King, Lord Beesbury is here and ready for questioning."

Lord Beesbury was generous with his descriptions of the poison. He called it 'tears of Lys', apparently a rare poison imported all the way from the city of, well, Lys, in Essos. Clear, tasteless, and odorless, this poison was extremely effective not only because it was difficult for the victim to detect its presence, being little different from water, but also due to these traits making it effectively untraceable. However, its usefulness was severely diminished by the exorbitant cost and rarity, and the bottle of Tears which poisoned the well represented Beesbury's entire stockpile of poison and at least a year's worth of income, more likely two. For Beesbury's desperate efforts, all it achieved was to put a negligible fraction of the Númenórean army out of commission for several weeks or even days.

But now onto other matters. "And how many days ago did you arrive at Oldtown?" Pharazôn asked.

Beesbury began counting with his fingers, repeating the process several times before finally giving up. "The same day I heard Brightwater Keep fell... was taken by your host, Your Grace. I don't remember the exact day though. Not exactly good with numbers, that's my son's domain."

Pharazôn looked at Lord Hightower who curtly nodded. "He speaks the truth, Your Grace."

Most likely so. Besides, it's not as if he has anything to hide.

"I assume your family are residing at Oldtown then? Why don't you all stay at the Hightower as my personal guests, at least until the war ends? It's probably safer that way since you aren't exactly well regarded by my soldiers at the moment; while they will follow my orders, step out of line and there won't be enough of you left to bury," Pharazôn told the shivering Lord Beesbury after making him swear an oath of loyalty.

"But what happens to me and my house after the war?"

"That will depend on your conduct in the months to come. Just like everyone else, of course," Pharazôn was now smiling at Lord Hightower. "At any rate, I imagine everyone is tired and would appreciate some sleep. Manfred, I want your spies to keep a close eye on the sell-sword and regularly notify me of his activities. My men will help, but they are too conspicuous, not least because we Adûnâim are much taller than your kind."

*******​

Feasts, meetings, and speeches, each more boring than the last. Ever since Ar-Pharazôn sent off the raven to Greyshield requesting a Faithful representative to join his court, there was little to do but wait. For the Redwynes' response, for Amandil's reports of his Highgarden campaign. And of course for Elendil's reply from Greyshield - would he send one of his family or come to court himself? Luckily, Oldtown's citizenry were still supportive of Númenórean rule even after the initial fervour of their arrival and the relief over Oldtown's fate had died down. Perhaps out of fear, if not out of love. Then of course there was the matter of the assassin, though the investigation proceeded far too slowly to Pharazôn's liking. Who sent him, and why?

One of these days started off as usual, at least until a Hightower guard suddenly appeared just after noon. "Your Grace! Valryon... is... gone!" He exclaimed, panting all the while.

Pharazôn abruptly leapt from his seat. "When? And where was he last seen?"

"He was definitely seen this morning at a tavern near his lodgings. I was instructed to run here as fast as I could and report his absence once we noticed he was gone."

Oldtown's watchmen were doubtlessly mobilising even as this news is delivered, but Pharazôn's experience suggested that his own Royal Guard would be more adept at finding the sellsword at large and were in constant readiness at the Hightower itself. The only problem was that their numbers in Oldtown were limited, and the sellsword would be long gone by the time a proper citywide search could be organised. Ordering the Royal Guard to split up would greatly reduce their effectiveness, but focusing on only one location would be pointless if Pharazôn guessed incorrectly.

"Where would you go if you were in his shoes?" he asked the guard.

"The countryside or the docks, Your Grace. He probably wouldn't want to remain in the city unless he can fly, because the town guards will be watching the gates with hawk-like eyes, so his best bet would be to leave the city before he could be intercepted at the gates. But progress by land would be slow since he can't use any of the main roads, and ships depart according to schedules from the docks; he might still be there, waiting for a ship that would take him."

 

[Neruz]

He has an ornate smoking pipe, as a medieval lord. Who wouldn't have one if they smoked, as a medieval lord?

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His smoking pipe is excessively ornate even by feudal lord standards.

 

[RichardWhereat]

His smoking pipe is excessively ornate even by feudal lord standards.

Click to shrink...

That's still a thing that'd likely be seen positively, unless he couldn't lift it. If you can afford that level of bullshit, to waste on a pipe, well, you're clearly doing well.

 

[Neruz]

That's still a thing that'd likely be seen positively, unless he couldn't lift it. If you can afford that level of bullshit, to waste on a pipe, well, you're clearly doing well.

Click to shrink...

That's the thing; he can't afford that level of bullshit, he spends it anyway because he thinks it makes him look impressive and cultured.

He is, in short, a neckbeard.


e: I wonder what the Westerosian equivalent of a fedora would be. Hmm...

 

[RichardWhereat]

Trilby, unless he's an Indiana Jones wannabe.

 

[FieryMatter]

Chapter 10: Valryon​

Amidst frantic hoofbeats, just over a gross of men raced out of Oldtown. Messengers had been dispatched to the docks and city gates, with orders to let no ship or person depart from Oldtown until Valryon is found; furthermore, the city guard had been mobilised to detain any man with Essosi features and a missing eye. Though deep down in Ar-Pharazôn's heart, he suspected that Valryon would have long since disguised himself if he were half competent. But he found himself back in the open lands just beyond the city limits where he and his host, ten thousand strong, had encamped only days ago. Besides the hundred Royal Guard, Lord Hightower's son Martyn was accompanying Pharazôn with dozens of Hightower men. For Lord Manfred himself was not in the Hightower when the message was first received, and the search's urgency meant that precious little time could be spent waiting for him.

"Split into three groups, one to the left, another to the centre, last to the right. Split up further if necessary, but remember that Valryon might be dangerous."

Yet the countryside was huge, and there was no indication how far Valryon could have gotten away. Many of the group were beginning to grumble about the fruitlessness of the search when one of the Númenórean guards rode to the head of your column. "There! I see something to our left, my king!" Before long, the whole company was galloping towards a shining mound. "Faster, faster!" the men cried. "He might be there!"

Suddenly Pharazôn's horse halted, and his jaw dropped as he beheld a magnificent creature before him, clad in bright silver scales and golden eyes glittering in the sunlight. A sight not seen by Adûnâim eyes ever since the days of Azrubêl.

A dragon.

'Valryon' was mounted on the dragon's back, just behind a woman with silver-gold hair matching that of the steed. With a deafening roar and a burst of flame, the dragon flung itself high into the air as many of the spooked horses reared up, even flinging several riders onto the ground.

Some of the guards began shaking their fists in the air, frustrated at the 'sellsword' who was so near, yet just out of grasp. The few Hightower archers began nocking their bows before the King instruct them to stand down. "Don't bother. Wooden bows won't work against that beast, and I already know who Valryon is. He will be back."

Riders were sent to notify the other groups, and the company of horsemen began their slow trot back into Oldtown as the dragon flew high in the clear blue sky, leaving Pharazôn and his men behind.

*******​

Upon spotting the dragon, several Targaryen servants raced towards Dragonstone's courtyard, arriving just before Meraxes landed with Aegon and Rhaenys on her back. The most senior among the servants walked alongside Aegon as he headed into the castle proper. "Welcome back Your Grace. But we didn't expect you to return so early, in fact we didn't anticipate your appearance at all. No word has come to us from the Aegonfort after all."

"I didn't expect to come back so early either, but I do not face the same Westeros as I did when landing at the Blackwater's mouth. That's all you need to know for now. Send a raven to the Aegonfort asking Orys to return to Dragonstone as soon as possible..." The Lord of Dragonstone abruptly stopped in his tracks. "I've changed my mind. I'll go to the fort myself on dragonback. Prepare all I need without delay."

The servants began gossiping as Balerion took flight, and rumours spread like wildfire when Aegon returned with Orys the next day. Why the sudden return? Why the hurry?

*******​

An ornate table carved in the shape of Westeros stood at the topmost floor of the castle's Stone Drum.

Around this table, two men and a woman were locked in an intense argument over recent developments.

Orys Baratheon could barely restrain his outburst of anger, borne not out of hatred but of concern, as he stared at his friend and liege lord. "Why did you have to go yourself? You could have sent a lesser servant, even me. When was the last time I failed your orders?"

"There's always a first time. Reports of the 'Sunset Peoples', or the Adûnâim as they call themselves, are often conflicting but most agree on one point. Regardless of the exact nature of their sorcery, those newcomers to the west are no ordinary humans and possess weapons which no Westerosi has ever seen. Do these descriptions sound familiar? Those words could be used to describe us just as well as they were used to describe them, and I suspect they would be more than your match. And even I, the last Dragonlord, was hard-pressed over the course of this task. My friend, do you honestly believe you would have succeeded where I nearly failed?"

"Someday this reckless pride will get you killed!" Rhaenys exclaimed. "Who would be the next Lord of Dragonstone then since you have no heir? And what of our ambitions?"

"Do you really expect me to be killed, my beloved wife? Surely the Dragon will not be slain like sheep? We have received report after report, but how many are accurate, and how many are mere exaggerations or a smallfolk's fairy tales? How are we supposed to forge our kingdom if I don't even grasp what threats we are facing? I had to see them for myself."

The fierce debate continued even as night fell, moving to potential courses of action which may affect three lives. Perhaps three thousand. Certainly over thirty million, if the Citadel's figures were to believed. But as the moon slowly rose, discussion eventually died down and a consensus was reached.

"That's what we will do for now," Aegon announced as he beckoned to Rhaenys and began marching out of the Chamber of the Painted Table. "But there are other matters to be solved here or elsewhere. Rhaenys, didn't you mention that we lacked a proper heir?"

Under the moonlit sky, two dragons howled deep into the night.

[Author's Note: Short chapter, but significant enough to deserve its own chapter.]

 

[FieryMatter]

Chapter 11: Into the Lion's Maw​

After several days of travel, Lannisport loomed beyond the thick morning mists.

Small boats were lowered into the water, messengers bearing Isildur's orders to the other ships in the fleet. Signal flags might be misinterpreted by the farther ships with such low visibility, and Isildur dared not use signal lamps; it might be best if his fleet remained hidden for now.

The messengers returned. Isildur's flagship silently detached itself from the fleet and proceeded forward for a closer look, while the other ships prepared for combat should any surprises occur. The weather and unfamiliar geography were perfect for ambushing; anything could happen out of the blue. Or light grey for that matter.

Even with his keen eyesight, Isildur was just able to discern various features beyond the fog. Several wrecked ships, clearly of Númenórean build, were beached on the southern side of the harbour. Black-and-gold banners bearing the device of Eärendil could be spotted in most parts of the harbour, yet several unfamiliar designs were located at a small area on the northern side - golden lions, a red ox, even a quartered flag that appeared to be orange and black. Those strange banners could also be seen flying on three Westerosi ships docked at the northern side. Further beyond, the city walls appeared to be intact, flaming projectiles occasionally flying from the walls down to the southern harbour. Thick smoke rose from the gatehouse.

There was no sign that the presumed enemy was attempting to intercept or making preparations to counter the reinforcements. Given the conditions, it was quite likely that Isildur's ships hadn't even been noticed yet by anyone at the harbour, save perhaps a few Númenóreans looking in the right direction.

With ten thousand of Westernesse's finest warriors on her decks, the fleet inched towards Lannisport, heading towards the strange banners spotted while scouting.

The fog may be slowly dissipating, but the sun was still nowhere in sight, veiled by a thick parchment of grey that stretched all the way to the horizon. Quite a few archers appeared to be gazing hesitantly at the sky, several murmuring amongst themselves or casting worried glances at their bows - the Steel Bows may be far more powerful than anything the Westerosi could produce, yet they were no less vulnerable to water. The spearmen and men-at-arms were far less concerned; be it under sun, rain or snow, swords and spears would still carry the day.

No fires were lit, nor were any symbols displayed that could relate the fleet to their shipwrecked compatriots. But a fleet of this size was not easily ignored, and soon a wall of men could be seen lining the docks, golden lions on red cloth defying the unknown invader. But not for long.

"Steel bows head to starboard side to soften up the enemy. Swords and spears go portside so that the ship's weight remains balanced." With his men having decades or even centuries of experience, the shuffling of feet begins as Isildur finished issuing your order, dying down almost immediately afterwards. At the same time, he feel droplets of water land on his clothes and hair.

Why did Eru decide to make it rain now?

"Steel bows, nock!"

The Steel Bowmen nock, prepared to mow down those between them and their trapped countrymen.

"Draw..."

The Steel Bowmen drawed, ready to unleash a storm upon those who dared challenge the claims of Eärendil' sons to these new lands.

"Loose."

Arrows tumbled into the harbour here and there, betrayed by bowstrings snapping in half mid-shot. But more darts found their mark, racing across the water and into the crowds ashore. Then the hoarse cries and piercing screams begin, men clutching at arrow shafts emerging from naked flesh or chest-plates, throwing away shields now unbalanced by arrows embedded within; yet they had little time to do much else before the second volley struck at the now disrupted formation. Out of the corner of his eye, Isildur noticed several embroidered banners fall onto the ground, rendering various motifs indistinguishable amongst the blood and mud.

Cries of "Anadûnê! Anadûnê!" drowned out the dull thuds of armoured boots as more and more men left onto the quays. And the Faithful's banner was finally unfurled, the white tree on the device hinting at a future Isildur helped save with his very hands.

The enemy formation was broken even before the overzealous men-at-arms could have a chance at engaging them, much less the spearmen lining up on the pier. Red-cloaked enemies threw down their arms as Isildur's men advanced. He didn't blame the former; they had nowhere to run now that they are sandwiched between Isildur's men and the other Númenóreans, while his bowmen did a decent job of demonstrating the futility of resistance.

With his keen eyesight, Isildur spotted what appeared to be engines of war mounted upon Lannisport's walls, most likely the source of those projectiles he noticed while scouting earlier - and possibly what wrecked his trapped countrymen's ships. To make matters worse, the once grey clouds were now black, suggesting that the torrent of rain was here to stay for a while. Already Isildur could hear the flapping sails and whistling winds. A storm was coming.

A delegation slowly advanced towards his host.

Several droplets of water lightly struck their armour, perhaps heralding an imminent downpour. Or not - for Eru's will was not so easily discerned by his Children. Undoubtedly less obvious than the Numenorean heritage of the men Isildur and his crew were about to meet.

"Take me to your captain," one of the men from the delegation stepped forwards and addressed the sentries, who pointed in Isildur's direction.

"Aphanuzir of Andunie?" The man asked from afar, pointing at Isildur's unfurled banner.

"Nay. I am Isildur, son of Elendil the Tall, son of Amandil. And Andunie is no more."

"We thought... we thought... we were the only ones left! Never thought I would be so glad to see the Faithful survive!" The man's face turned beet red as Isildur looked at him quizzically. "I do not believe we have met, I am Aglarân of Hyarastorni." He held out his arm stiffly, clasping it against Isildur's.

One of the King's Councillors. Must have supported Sauron back in those days then. All of them did, save for Amandil.

"The King ordered us to bring supplies in case the Valinor invasion turned out to be longer than expected. And where is the King? In fact, who is the King?"

For all his faults, Tar-Calion just might be slightly less... delusional than Isildur first thought. A negligible difference, however, when considering what he was up against.

"Tar-Calion is still alive and well, though with a rather bruised ego I suppose. The Great Armament did survive, and so did we Faithful..."

Isildur suddenly remembered seeing civilians amongst the stranded Numenoreans, as his fleet was entering the harbour.

"Why are there women and even children amongst your group?" Numenoreans were never known for their fertility, especially after the Shadow fell upon the Isle. Besides, women clearly didn't have their place in war, and children even less so. Hurin and Huor of old being exceptions, of course.

"The King thought of colonising the Deathless Lands after vanquishing the Valar."

Clearly no less delusional then.

"Yet the Valar seemed to have the last laugh. In nearly a century of seafaring, I've never seen any storm more fierce than the one that struck our fleet midway into the journey. I personally witnessed dozens of ships sink outright, who knows how many made it to these shores?" The weary noble paused for a moment as he gazed towards the West, bowing his head. "Anadune's gone though. Our small flotilla passed by it as we were driven east...less said about it the better."

"Aye." She-who-hath-fallen was still a memory too close, too painful to bear. "But at least some of us are still left. Enough about the past, We came here for our kinsmen, be they Faithful or King's Men, and the war has barely begun."

Isildur could not help but notice the corpses strewn along his route to Aglarân's makeshift tent. Most were natives, yet a few bore the all too familiar heraldry of Earendil. Several of the bodies were charred, others with thick bolts protruding from armour. The natives clearly had a few tricks up their sleeves.

"Thankfully none of the civilians have been killed yet," Aglarân explained. "We placed them as far from the front lines as possible, but there is always the chance of a lucky hit from the enemy's engines."

Aglarân estimated the city had at least five thousand well-equipped fighting men, in addition to the thousands of civilians who took up arms to defend Lannisport. Days of fighting had produced an uneasy stalemate - the stranded Numenoreans were too few in number to break through the port gate and storm the city, while the native 'Westermen' charges were beaten back time and time again with heavy casualties. Yet Numenorean slain were also increasing and supplies dwindling, while Lannisport could continue to be supplied through land, and the stalemate was clearly shifting in the latter's favour until Isildur and his men arrived.

Isildur looked at the port walls looming just beyond the Númenórean barricades. His men could take the city, but how many men of Andustar would have to die assaulting Lannisport's gates with ad-hoc battering rams and hastily built ladders? Then the refugees would still need to be taken care of, and an entire city's population would need to be fed. And there was still the matter of finding the other scattered ships. To make matters even worse, a storm was coming, and Isildur knew very well from his service in the King's hosts that bowstrings, even those of steel bows, fair very poorly in the rain.

Lannisport would be taken. But not today.

Massive flames engulfed the wrecks in front of Lannisport's harbour, ensuring that no ships of the Sunset Peoples, even wrecked ones, would fall into the hands of the Westermen. As the sun's last rays licked the blood-soaked land, the lion of Lannister still lay over Lannisport's limestone ramparts as lewd insults and loud war-cries were levied by the Westermen at Isildur's leaving fleet.

The fleet arrived at Feastfires just as the downpour began. Yet another battered ship of Númenórean make lay tethered to the small dock, yet no Númenórean could be seen, only a trail of blood leading up to the nearby castle suggesting their possible fate.

"Blood for blood!" Aglarân roared as he leapt onto the dock, his sword stabbing the sky as if he meant to fight off the storm itself.

"Blood for blood!" A thousand swords sprang up into the air. "Abârada Azrubêl! Abârada Ar-Pharazôn! Abârada Adûnâim!" Cheering the morning-star and their king, a small host of two thousand men rushed towards the castle. Isildur had barely managed to make landfall himself when he saw the silhouette of falling men, and flames licking the walls of the small fort, fire and smoke shooting toward the heavens.

As Isildur finally sprinted into the castle's dining hall, deftly sidestepping groaning men clutching at their spilling entrails, Aglarân was shaking the banner of Eärendil right at the local lord's face."The blood at the docks. Are those shed by the mariners on that huge ship bearing this device?"

"Aye," the noble responded, shaking, but the sword now resting on his throat prevented more words from being muttered.

"And for that, you shall die." Aglarân lifted the sword off the noble's neck, but the latter's reprieve proved to be short, for the sword came down once again with great force and cleaved his head from the body in one clean stroke. As the head bounced off a nearby table, Aglarân slowly turned towards Isildur. "Blood calls for blood! They slew our men. Defiled our women. Slaughtered our children. But they are now avenged!" Aglarân hollered.

Isildur silently pointed towards a side-door of the dining room. A young boy and girl stood in mute horror as they stared at the noble's headless remains. Behind the two were a small group of men, women and children, several bearing bandages and slings, but all dressed in fresh garments. One man bore a makeshift banner bearing the Star of Eärendil.

"Papa! Papa!" the girl wailed as the lifeless head finally came to a stop right between her feet. With a heart-rending howl, the boy charged at the nearby Isildur, swinging his small wooden sword as he skidded across the blood-soaked floor tiles.

"Aglarân." Isildur whispered as he gently pushed the boy away with one hand, his other palm resting on his face. "Why? Just… why?"

 

[Neruz]

Well Aglarân has clearly learned nothing from the fall, what an absolute complete and total fuckup.

Ar-Pharazôn is gonna be pissed.

 

[FieryMatter]

Well Aglarân has clearly learned nothing from the fall, what an absolute complete and total fuckup.

Ar-Pharazôn is gonna be pissed.

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