Yeah, that's kind of why I'm confused as to why they're applying it to non-Ironborn Westereosi. Even if I've don't think I've ever seen Essosi characters really notice the north-south divide in Westeros they do seem to be aware of the Ironborn-Everyone Else divide.
Ser Braxton Bulwer the Red, Outside King's Landing
Ser Braxton Bulwer was a simple man, not one for overthinking or scheming. He was good with a sword and a warhammer, far from inheriting any lordships or even minor estates, so all he could do was put more effort into martial pursuits. Nothing awaited him in peace, aside from being a hedge knight and wrangling in tourneys with hundreds of others like him. He had almost sailed North to join the Watch and win some honour and glory there.
But then the banners were called, and suddenly, the Seven Kingdoms were aflame in war, and the demand for swords and lances swelled. With his well-polished skill, a measure of luck, and a valiant showing against Marbrand and Brax knights at the Battle of the Red Crossing, he had managed to secure the white–no, the red cloak atop his shoulders.
Swearing off marriage and children would be troublesome, but a man from an impoverished cadet branch like him had no means to care for either. Not that he didn't enjoy a woman's warmth–the maidens found his new red cloak and crimson suit of plate particularly dashing compared to his drab grey armour from before.
But it wasn't all glory and honour–especially standing guard on cold nights outside the king's tent. Honour had made itself scarce since the army had besieged King's Landing, and tragically, he had seen far more corpses than pairs of teats as of late, a black omen if ever there was one.
"I did not order this!" Renly's roar echoed like a thunderclap through the royal pavilion. Braxton shared an uneasy grimace with Ser Robert Errol the Orange. "Worse, whoever did it hired a bunch of incompetent lackwits. Three loaded crossbows, and they couldn't hit a target less than thirty yards away!?"
The small council had grown smaller since Hightower and Redwyne had left for the North, and the Queen was no longer here, gone along with her hefty retinue to convince the Stormlords to raise more men.
"It doesn't matter, for Joffrey has placed a price on the heads of men of noble birth as if they were common brigands. We must respond, Your Grace!" Mace Tyrell looked like an angry boar, his face dark, and a thick vein throbbed angrily at his temple. "My Uncle Garth was beset by three catspaws and barely survived by the skin of his teeth! Sooner or later, some daring wretch will succeed despite any guards employed."
"More attempts shall doubtlessly follow," Randyll Tarly's cold voice echoed, but Ser Braxton could swear there was a sliver of dark amusement in the man's cold eyes. "The war has left plenty of lands without a lord already, and even more could perish by the end so Joffrey can follow up on his promise."
Eryk Cafferen shuffled, looking through a stack of parchments.
"We should do the same," the master of whispers proposed. "A lordship for each Stark, Tully, and Lannister slain, and a chest of gold to go with it."
"Our coffers are already strained," the Rose Lord objected. "We do not sit on a gold mine like the old lion does."
Tarly's lips curled. "Well then, just dangle the Lordship if you must. Neither Starks nor the Tullys are that numerous. Or we can try storming the city again."
"It's going to be just another bloodbath, and we don't have the men to win this one," Ser Loras objected weakly. His words were faint, contrasting his usually dashing and bold demeanour–the dashing Knight of Roses' complexion had turned increasingly pale over the last three days. Ser Parmen Crane had proposed that the young Lord Commander rest for the day, but the Knight of Flowers had stubbornly declined, "A Lord Commander must lead by example."
Renly snatched a flask of wine from the pale Tyrell knight, emptied it in one gulp and glared at the map of the Crownlands.
"Penrose says he can delay Tully for another half a hundred days at most by sweeping all the supplies and pastures clean," he murmured, more to himself than to the others. "Lord Tarly. Can we take the city before the Rivermen arrive?"
Tarly grabbed a piece of cloth to wipe the beads of sweat off his glistening head. "With the plague raging inside, I'd say they would crumble in less than three moons if that thing is as deadly as Cafferen's spies claim."
Braxton wasn't good with sums and numbers, but even he knew Tully would be here long before the three moons passed.
"We also have seen plenty of men falling ill in the camps," Mace Tyrell cautioned. "I had the cases isolated to a far corner immediately, but the damned ailment spreads like the wind. Wait too long, and we will see our warriors mowed down by the Stranger's Hand as much as the Lion's men. We might have to retreat beyond the Golden Bridge and regroup."
The following silence was so heavy that everyone might as well have died. Ser Braxton dared not breathe loudly.
"The city was within my grasp," Renly hissed, face twisted with fury. "Everything was going so well–the Westermen were on the cusp of breaking without a battle. The victory was ours until the troublesome Stark showed up. How much did we sacrifice to get here?"
"Over thirty-two thousand Reachmen and ten thousand Stormlanders," Randyll Tarly recounted without hesitation as if he had committed it all to memory. "A significant number of reavers, but I'm not privy to their toll, though I would dare say it's in the thousands. Hundreds of thousands of smallfolk in the Reach and the Crownlands have perished, whether to famine, illness, or the tip of the spear. I imagine the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the North have taken similar casualties. And many more will die before the war ends."
Ser Braxton shuddered. The words were dispassionate, in the same tone one would discuss the weather outside–on days like these, Tarly scared him. Even the king and the royal council had sobered up, their previous rage replaced by grimness.
"All the more reason to win," Renly exhaled, closing his eyes. The golden rose crown atop his tired brow looked like a circlet of thorns now. "Otherwise, all these deaths will have been in vain. What is a king without the Iron Throne?"
"We will see how the situation develops in the next twenty days," Mace Tyrell proposed, face solemn. "Tywin found our sappers, and the fighting in the tunnels has turned gruesome. Men slog it in the muddy darkness and can hardly make out friend from foe. Furthermore, bringing down torches and lanterns simply results in the tunnels being filled with thick smoke, and twice now, Reachmen have tragically fought Reachmen, mistaking them for foes in the dark. It is not you, Your Grace, who benefits from this. Only Tywin Lannister."
"At least he no longer dares rush out on a sortie after we trapped and slaughtered fifteen hundred of his men outside," Tarly scoffed. "We have the siege towers, the trebuchets, and the battering rams for a full-scale assault now. I say let the plague soften the city for a fortnight and then make our move. Should we fail or the opportunity does not ripen, we can always retreat and make Lannister and Tully's forces bleed for the Blackwater crossing the same way the old lion did and buy us time for the second Stormlander muster to arrive."
"Any other plans?" Renly's gaze danced from one councillor to the next, but they all bowed their heads. "Very well. See it done, Tarly. And Lord Hand–spread the word about the Lordships. For each wolf, lion, or trout felled, I'll grant a castle."
"It shall be done."
A servant hushedly excused himself into the tent, going straight to the master of whispers, pulling the eyes of every man inside the royal council. Ser Braxton, however, was looking at his Lord Commander, the young knight whose face was damp with sweat and looked like he was in dire need of rest–despite sleeping till late morning. He was even swaying ever so slightly as if unable to stand upright.
Lord Eryk Cafferen looked at the scroll in his hands as if it were a poisonous viper.
"What is it now?" Renly urged. "Out with it."
Grimacing, the Stormlord unfurled the scroll, and his blue eyes were filled with trepidation. "Word from the Disputed Lands."
"What, did Tyrosh lose to my niece at sea again?" Renly leaned in impatiently. "Already thrice bested by an eleven-year-old girl. Had I known, I would have never approached those lackwits but negotiated with that Onion Knight. Out with it, my good lord!"
"The direwolf banner has been spotted in the Ashen Plains near Myr–they say Eddard Stark is there, leading a band of Northmen and Dothraki-"
Mace Tyrell snorted, "Preposterous. Everyone knows the Quiet Wolf drowned at sea!"
The king shuddered, looking around warily. Cafferen looked as though he wanted to disappear in his seat, while the Rose Lord did what he always did when nervous or surprised–he grabbed the nearest piece of food, a ripe peach, and hurriedly bit into it.
"Say Lord Stark survived due to his skill in dark sorcery," Tarly's voice thickened with contempt, though Braxton wasn't sure if it was for Stark or the claim that the wolf lord was a sorcerer. "Why would he ally with Dothraki? And why are we only hearing of this now?"
"Even if it's truly Eddard Stark, he's far too away to do anything," the Rose Lord said. "Perhaps he can make a play for young Arryn's regency, but Waynwood and Royce already agreed to decide the matter by a trial of the seven–even if that old fox Anya keeps trying to drag things on-"
The swaying Loras collapsed, slamming his face on the table.
Previous arguments were forgotten, and the king and Lord Tyrell rushed towards the Lord Commander. But not before the latter blindly threw his half-eaten peach, and Ser Broxton was too surprised to move when the wet fruit smacked him right in the face.
"The soles of his feet have begun to turn black," Maester Alard said. "It's not the bulbous swellings under the skin yet."
"What are his chances?" The king asked, his voice tender. Even more tender than when he spoke to the pretty Rose Queen. A silken cloth, heavily perfumed with rose water, was clutched in his fist.
"It's hard to tell yet," was the solemn answer. "Perhaps we can amputate his legs-"
"I shall not have another son become a cripple!" Mace Tyrell roared, spittle flying in the face of the maester. The poor acolytes tending to the healing incense flinched and startled at the lord's outburst. "Fix my boy, damn you!"
Alard calmly wiped his cheek, looking undaunted. "Yelling shall aid us little here, Lord Hand. Eight in ten die once their fingers go black. But half make it if the infection is incised in time."
"You're not cutting Loras' feet. I want the ten maesters best-versed in healing here yesterday," Renly's voice whipped like a thunderclap. His earlier desperation was nowhere to be seen, but his gaze kept moving towards Ser Loras' sickbed. "Summon those proud fools from the Citadel who claim they can stave off the Stranger's touch. Spread the word–I don't care if it's a maester, a hedge wizard, or a physician from the Far East. Whoever heals my Lord Commander shall be richly rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. Lands, Lordships, honours, women, riches–he can have them all upon succeeding."
Well, it seemed the treasury wasn't that empty, the knight realised with amusement. More coin could be squeezed out–but not for the Starks, Lannisters, and the Tullys.
The mood in the camp remained unchanged as Braxton walked through the orderly tents. The men did not look as enthusiastic as before. The cheer in their gazes was gone, and the meat on their arms and the swell in their well-fed belies had thinned. Supplies were already sparse, and forage parties had to go further to find food each day, though more fish, grain, and mutton flowed down the Blackwater Bay than before–it seemed that Ser Garlan Tyrell had managed to stave off the Blackfish's raids somehow. It was far from enough for everyone, though.
The once endless golden fields remained fallow–or scorched, whether from the Lion Lord's passing or for Renly's punishment for the Crownlords who wouldn't bend the knee, painting a bleak picture of a barren landscape. The pastures were swept clean, the cattle had long been butchered for food, and what few smallfolk that had escaped the slavers had fled or were taken by the army to dig trenches and build fortifications.
"The Seven abandoned us when we started consorting with slavers and pirates," Braxton heard some servants whisper once his shift ended. "This plague is a punishment from the gods, and even the proud roses cannot escape it!"
It was superstitious talk, but Ser Braxton did not entirely dismiss it–slavery was a sin in the eyes of the Seven. But his job was to obey the royal commands, keep his skills sharp, and guard the king, not to whinge like some babe, so he remained silent.
Tonight, he had no mood for sparring, so after leaving the king's protection in Ser Bryce Caron's capable hands, he joined Ser Robert Errol around his campfire as he carefully spun a piece of beef roast over the ruddy flames.
"I still don't get why you don't leave these mundane matters to the cooks and the camp followers," Braxton sighed, raising his flask of wine and letting the liquid pleasantly tingle down his throat. It was not just any wine, but a special spiced honey wine they only made in Cuy–something an ordinary hedge knight could scarcely afford once a year but an anointed member of the rainbow guard easily received. "Aye, most of the men barely get some mutton and hardtack on a bad day, but the kingsguard is always well-fed."
"But we're not the kingsguard, Ser," Ser Errol said faintly, motioning towards his orange cloak with his free hand. "We're the rainbow guard. And I roast because it helps me get my mind off things. My uncle Lyonel taught me how–before he died at the Battle of Ashford."
How many of today's foes had fought together during the previous wars?
"You're lucky–my uncles died long before I was born, and my father perished in the Battle of the Bells." Ser Braxton swallowed another gulp of wine and pushed down his apprehension. "Did something else happen?"
The Errol Knight laughed, but it was a sound of bitterness, not joy. "Too many things to count. I think… I think we're going to lose."
"Lose?" Braxton blinked owlishly. "Aye, no war is easy, but the Reach and the Stormlands are vast and have countless hardy men to call upon."
"But vast lands are the hardest to rule," came the solemn response. "Just an hour ago, I saw Lord Peake take what little remained of his men and leave–because neither his Grace nor Lord Tyrell would defend his lands while the Dornish bandits ravage them. None stopped him."
It bordered dangerously close to treason–which meant things were not going well if a High Lord such as Peake decided to leave, though some claimed he was a traitor because of his Lannister wife. Would the might of the Reach truly be defeated, or was this just a lone disgruntled man who looked for the opportunity to save what was left of his men?
Tarly made no complaints about the Dornish raiders, and his lands were also in the Marches…
"Here," Braxton offered his flask of spiced wine. His mentor always said good things were to be shared amongst friends. "Take a sip."
9th Day of the 7th Moon, 299AC
The Captain-General, The Disputed Lands coast
"I want to link up with my uncle Eddard," Aegon frowned fiercely. "His support would be invaluable."
They were in the privacy of the Captain General's tents, along with Ser Rolly Duckfield and three more trusted men Barristan had handpicked who were currently guarding the entrance against wandering ears. The Golden Company was already on the move, and a cobbled-up fleet of warships and trading cogs was recruited from the Volantine Harbour, leaving it empty once more.
"We talked about this, Aegon," Connington sighed. "Stark's heir is wedded to Robert's daughter. Even if Renly's accusations of bastardry have a grain of truth, those vows have been sealed, and your uncle will respect them regardless. Besides, what will you do with Tommen Baratheon? Do you think an honourable man like Stark will just surrender his page?"
The young king looked troubled–but ever since his proclamation, the weight on his shoulders had been crushing. He bore it shakily at first, yet Aegon looked more at ease as time passed. Alas, he craved a sense of kinship, and for good or bad, his closest family was Eddard Stark.
"It is true," Barristan agreed heavily. "Stark is made of the same stern stuff the Old Falcon was. Jon Arryn could have taken the heads of his wards and kept the oaths to his liege lord. But they were dear to him–as good as sons in all but blood, and it wouldn't be the honourable thing to do. Many say it was Aerys, Lyanna, Rhaegar, or even Brandon Stark who started the Rebellion, but they're wrong. It was Jon Arryn–and his refusal to choose duty over honour."
"I can spare Tommen," he grudgingly declared. "I have no need to kill young boys."
The Griffin Lord snorted. "Young boys grow into men with time and become dangerous. Should you leave the boy alive, he will become troublesome later on."
"There are ways to remove such candidates without resorting to distasteful things like murder or maiming," Aegon insisted. "You told me of them. Tommen can be sent to the Citadel or the Watch–both honourable callings-"
"The Watch is no longer for life," Ser Barristan reminded. "Your uncle's reforms saw to that."
"House Stark is powerful and well-connected; I must have them on my side. How would it look if my own kinsmen fought against me?"
Connington's face softened.
"The road ahead is perilous, Aegon. I understand your desire to connect with your family. No matter how much I mislike the wolves, their lineage is old–as old as the Wall, with the power to go with it. But Eddard Stark is a different breed of man. It is also a test of your character and mettle. You lack the dragons the Conqueror did, but should you beat the Starks on the battlefield and show yourself generous and merciful in victory, they will doubtlessly kneel–and do so with honour without breaking their oaths."
"All this is a moot point for now," Barristan cleared his throat loudly. "Stark is all the way at Myr, and we cannot reach him easily now. Shireen Baratheon and the royal fleet have Tyrosh and the Tyroshi Straits in a vice grip after defeating them at sea for the third time. What did Lysono Maar claim?"
"That she's methodically sweeping every outpost the Tyroshi have outside their island, leaving them isolated, and there's nothing they can do but watch," Jon snorted. "As meticulous as her father, that girl, and just as dangerous. Our best bet to reach Myr is by sea, which places the Stepstones and the little Doe on our way there. Attempting to pass her will be risky in more ways than one, and marching through the Disputed Lands to Myr would lose us precious moons–a lengthy delay that might see our opportunity to join the war at the Seven Kingdoms melt."
"So," Aegon's voice thickened. "Dorne, then. Marriage with Arianne Martell, the niece of the wife my father spurned."
"A marriage is a good way to mend fences," the old knight said. "And I can't help but feel that Doran's standing in Dorne is shaky with the sons and daughters of his most loyal bannermen held hostage in Lys. He needs us as much as we need him if rumours of his western bannermen stirring hold any truth."
"We already decided to pick up the Dornish contract anyway, and our man is in Plankytown, ready to bring our final decision to the Prince of Dorne," Connington did not look pleased. But then again, the exiled Griffin Lord rarely showed any joy. His smile had died with Rhaegar at the Trident. "Now, we only need to deal with Lys. It shouldn't be too hard. They have invested all their fleets in the Stepstones, and we can come to the negotiation table from a position of strength just by the force of our presence here."
10th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Theon Greyjoy, Mormont Keep
The seat of House Mormont wasn't anything special. It was a squat wooden keep protected by a square-shaped plastered curtain wall with a brick tower at each corner. The wall wasn't overly high, just shy of thirty feet and poorly maintained as the plaster had begun to peel at places, showing how destitute the Northerners were. It also made scaling the wall with hooks quite easier–something he had done under the guise of the night while his father's men stormed the far side of the walls as a distraction. More than half of his men had died, but they opened one of the gates, and the castle fell after a bloody slog.
The insides were just as unimpressive. The only things worth here were sealskins, a mere handful of silver ornaments, and the Lord's chair hewn from inscribed ivory.
"Good job, my son," there was the barest tinge of pride in Balon Greyjoy's voice. "You took the castle, and now you can keep it. Alas, Longclaw wasn't here as I expected. Probably the old She-Bear took it with her. A pity–this one was a fierce fighter and would have made for a good salt wife to bear you strong children."
He stared at Alysanne Mormont's plump body and resisted the urge to scoff. Theon had seen Lady Mormont's stocky, war-like daughter before, and she wasn't a beauty by any standards, especially with her muscular body, thick thighs, and crooked teeth. She was even less a beauty now, with one of his arrows sticking out of her eye, the nasal helmet offering little protection. The battle for the Bear Isle was bloody–they had been repelled twice, but in the end, the Northmen simply lacked the numbers to protect the whole length of their shore against the fleet his father had mustered. Theon had repeatedly proven himself, leading one of the bloodier landings successfully. The Ironmen looked at him with respect, so why did he feel worse than before?
"The war is far from over," Theon's voice came out hoarse. "You did most of the fighting and leading–"
"Your uncle Victarion already has Fair Isle," the Lord Reaper of Pyke leaned in, his eyes bereft of any warmth. They were so cold that Theon still felt unsettled and struggled to meet his father's gaze. "You can keep this one and show the Ironmen how you rule. Elryk Irontooth will stay to help you root out those Mormont Men and women who fled into the forests. But for now, the captured thralls will start cutting timber to season for our longboats when next year comes. We shall need to build shipyards and a proper harbour for a further staging ground."
Theon swallowed his trepidation. A whole island for himself–even one as drab and cold as Bear Island, was not a small matter. There were plenty of Houses in the Iron Islands that possessed far less. And… that overproud Redwyne could hardly keep his wife away anymore, now that she could have a keep to stay in, no matter how shabby.
Desmera would have no more excuses to avoid him now. Theon shook his head, focusing on his father's words.
"We're… going inland?"
Balon Greyjoy's smile was hard and joyless–just like everything else in the man.
"Indeed," he nodded, taking the barest sip of his flask of wine. "The forests here are good–full of old, thick oak, ash, and pine, but it's hardly a drop in the bucket compared to the Wolfswood."
"That forest is too vast," Theon said carefully. "Full of trouble–old huntsmen, wild bears, and wolves."
"Old huntsmen can be dealt with, and wolves and bears are just prey that can be hunted down with time," his father dismissed. "I'll lead two hundred ships to aid those fools Botley and Farwynd–Glover broke their siege on Deepwood Motte, sending them scurrying back into the sea."
"Didn't Weaver, Volmark, and Wynch land on Sea Dragon Point?"
"Yes–they're building another harbour and sweeping clean the place of any problems as a reward for their full support."
"Why not order them to move to Deepwood Motte?" Theon scratched his head. "Glover is one of the few Houses with his full strength remaining here, and taking their keep is going to be bloody."
"Of course, it shall be bloody," Balon Greyjoy scoffed. "I sent those most disgruntled with my rule to waste their strength against the hardest Northmen so I can sweep in for a victory. My prestige and influence shall only rise while theirs dwindle, and even their sworn men will begin to doubt them. Either way, I have another task for you."
Theon kneeled. "Anything, Father."
"I hear of some wolf pup making trouble for the Drumms at the skirts of the mountains. A direwolf with golden eyes and silvery fur the size of a horse, attacking the scouts in broad daylight."
"Must be Arya's wolf," Theon groaned. Oh, why wasn't she in bloody Winterfell? Fighting the North was one thing, but he didn't want to fight House Stark and Arya even less so–especially after he had taught the little helion so much. Last year, he would have said Arya was more of a sister to him than Asha–despite being annoying, proud, and loud, her stubbornness had grown on him.
"One of Stark's get as I thought. I'll give you three thousand men, Dagmer, and a hundred longboats–go help Drumm and capture the damn girl and take the Wull seat. A hostage would be invaluable should that fool Renly manage to lose anyway."
A massive force to capture a single girl who probably didn't even have much of a retinue to guard her.
"I…"
"Don't tell me you are attached to the chit?" Balon stared at him, making Theon squirm. "Perhaps I should give the task to your sister instead."
"No, I'll do it," Theon said, the words burning on his tongue, better him than someone else who would not care about Arya.
Then, his father smiled–almost softly, as if he had passed some sort of test.
"Good. If you like the girl so much, just take her as your salt wife when she grows up."
Theon felt queasy then but managed to give a quick nod and excuse himself to the privy.
11th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Edmure Tully, the Crownlands border
Revenge was as sweet as it was empty. Harrenhal was taken, and his grand-aunt Shelia was avenged, and so were his friends who fell to Reachmen's swords and lances. Harren's folly was broken, and Rowan was slain; everyone proclaimed him a hero, but Edmure only felt like a butcher.
But neither kindness nor weakness won wars, and he would never forget the bitter lesson learned at the Battle by the Rushing Falls.
"We have to help the North," Tytos Blackwood proclaimed loudly as soon as the request for help from Winterfell arrived. "Give me two, no, three thousand lancers, and I'll be at the Moat within fifty days and make those rabid dogs rue the day they burned a man alive!"
Edmure had also contemplated sending assistance–but he had sent his friend Patrek with the second muster to the western coast to repel and guard against the Ironmen's raids.
"Pah, what do you know of leading lancers?" Bracken scoffed. "With twenty-five hundred riders, I'll be there in forty days and smash those heretics!"
"Twenty-eight thousand men we have left after Harrenhal," Lord Piper cautioned. "We will need all the swords we have to fight Renly!"
"Numbers are hardly an advantage when you struggle to feed them," Ser Nestor Royce pointed out. "Penrose is an old fox, leaving only a barren land for us, and the lands around Harrenhal have already been squeezed dry and struggle to provide enough for us."
"King's Landing is dangerous," Ser Lynn Corbray rubbed his brow, looking tired–rightly so, for he was one of the more aggressive scouts, constantly clashing with Penrose's outriders and coming out on top. "The men have no fear of testing their mettle against the flowers of the Reach, but one can hardly fight an invisible enemy like the plague with swords and arrows."
Ser Walder Frey cleared his throat. Edmure had begrudgingly allowed Black Walder's presence here after the knight had been the first to storm Harrenhal, leading the rest of his kinsmen after they collapsed the foundations of the walls. And he had slain plenty of Rowan's knights, too.
"Sending too many men can be for nought if the Moat falls before you arrive," he pointed out. "The causeway of the Neck is dangerous even with the Crannogmen guarding it and providing guidance."
They all looked at Edmure as if he had a magical solution to everything. Each and every small decision returned to his shoulders, and he had to keep them from bickering. Favour one lord too much, and all the others considered it a slight. Or deny accolades, honour, and a chance to prove themselves, and they would grumble at best or outright start disobeying you at worst.
Things had gotten better since the Rushing Falls, though. For all it had been a disastrous defeat, it had bound the men under his command against the Reachmen, making things easier.
"The Northmen and House Stark aided us in our darkest hour, honouring our alliance," Edmure began. "I can hardly turn my back on my kin now that they are in dire need. Lord Blackwood, I will give you fifteen hundred knights and heavy lancers bolstered by twice as many outriders and mounted footmen. And a message for the elusive Crannogmen–should you succeed in finding any."
Blackwood threw a mocking glance at Bracken, making Edmure groan inwardly.
"Lord Bracken," he added. "I will give you the rest of the horse. See how hard you can harry Penrose's retreat. Bloody him, but beware of traps; this is the man who lured the Kingslayer to his death."
12th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Sansa Stark, Winterfell
She absentmindedly brushed Lady's fur as they had gathered in the lord's solar once more. At the start, things had gone well. The assaults by Orkwood, Ironmaker, Drumm, Botley, and the Farwynds had been repelled, leaving thousands of dead reavers in their wake, but that had been far from enough to deter the Ironmen.
Dark wings–dark words, for the last raven had brought word of the fall of Bear Isle. A few days prior, they had found out Seadragon Point had fallen and that the zealots led by Lord Osbold Serry and Lord Humfrey Hewett were approaching Moat Cailin. Manderly's forces had clashed with them. After a day of heavy fighting with no decisive victor, they retreated to the Moat with significant losses.
Things were not looking good–the mourning Lady Dustin arriving with a small entourage had only brought the spirits down further when she spoke of the slaughter, the burnings, and how the old barrows had been dug out–and weirwoods cut down. Many had been angry–but just as many were afraid. Sansa was amongst the latter.
And the word of the attempt on Robb's life, how he lay poisoned, and none knew if he would recover, felt like a death knell.
"There's just too many of them," her mother closed her eyes. "Balon Greyjoy must have brought the entire might of the Iron Fleet and every skiff from those pile of rocks he calls home here. To be unphased by the heavy losses at Flint's Fingers and Bear Isle... Out of a dozen members, no Orkwood survived, and the Ironmakers are down to a young man and a swaddling babe from their previous eleven, but more reavers just keep coming. We have to hold out on our own and pray the onset of cold towards the end of the year will be enough to halt them."
"Perhaps Ser Rodrik can win against Hightower and Redwyne," Sansa said, wringing her fingers nervously. "Surely that will lessen the pressure?"
Even now, the old master-at-arms was drilling the newly arrived men and organising the eight thousand swords gathered inside Winterfell's walls. But they provided her with no sense of comfort and safety. Robb had gathered even less, but all those lancers had looked like a river of steel, carrying an imposing momentum as if they were invincible, and victory was just a matter of time. These men were much less impressive, though it could be the lack of horsemen.
"Aye, he can maybe win despite being outnumbered, but he'd have to keep winning." Luwin nervously tugged his chain. "He has to win against the cunning foxes Redwyne and Hightower, the zealots gathering around the Moat; he has to win against Victarion Greyjoy and his Ironmen, and then against the flood of reavers gathered at Deepwood Motte–all in all, more than thirty thousand men that we know of. The invaders can afford to lose a dozen battles, yet if Ser Rodrik suffers one defeat, the North shall be ripe for the taking."
"They can weather the cold in Bear Island and Barrowton, too," Myrcella exhaled slowly. "Sure, not all, but enough for them to continue their campaign once the warmth inevitably returns. After Torrhen's Square falls, Hightower will move to the Rills or continue towards Castle Cerwyn and Winterfell."
Not if, but when–there was no doubt that the seat of House Tallhart would fall, especially since most of their swords had perished with the young Benfred Tallhart–a loud but headstrong boy that Sansa remembered laughing along with Robb often. But he wouldn't laugh anymore because the Reachmen burned him alive and would most likely not even spare the rest of the Tallhart women and children.
Oh, how she felt the irony of the tales of chivalry and valour from the south, which were almost always set in the Reach. Now, the truth laid bare to her: those pious knights were nothing more than savage barbarians, worse even than the wildlings.
Sansa hated this. She hated how everything had become grim and dark as an invisible noose slowly tightened around their neck. She hated the loss of the innocence she held onto, the looming sense of desperation and the bitter hatred in the eyes of the men and women here.
"The Rills still hold strong, for it is difficult to reach their castle. Glover holds on well for now," Catelyn consoled, but her voice lacked conviction as if she was trying to reassure herself more than them.
"If we lack men, perhaps the Watch-"
"No," Myrcella shook her head. "The Watch takes no part, and even if it did, half of the new members hail from the Reach and the Stormlands–they might just side with the wretched madmen."
"Many of the Reachmen are rabble with no training," her mother closed her eyes. "They are undisciplined and would surely slow the march down–even if they want to make a play for Winterfell, it will be moons before they arrive–and that's without Rodrik denying them ground resources on the way. We have Arnolf Karstark and Jarod Ironsmith linking up with Mors Umber, who ought to arrive before the Reachmen do. Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch has also sent nine hundred swords."
"Barely five or six thousand men at most. Together with what we have here, it'd still be less than half of what our foes are fielding, even without the zealots." The Princess scoffed. "Ironsmith is more a huntsman than a commander, and Mors Umber is a hoary old brigand, in your own words. Arnolf Karstark might have been a great warrior half a century prior, but now he barely fights a flight of steps with his cane. And his remaining son is well–he takes after Lord Manderly more than anyone else…"
Luwin coughed. "In war, nothing is decided until armies meet on the field."
"Indeed, but so what? Three heavy defeats in a row - Bear Isle, Flint's Fingers, and the Barrow River–and now my husband has been brought down by poison, and no word has come of his well-being ever since and only the gods know if he still lives!" Angry tears began to stream down Myrcella's reddened cheeks. "Should the worst come–my Edwyn can hardly crawl, let alone take up a sword and lead armies in defence of the North. All the skilled commanders went with Lord Stark and Robb, and there's none here to match hardy veterans like the Iron Captain, the Lord Reaper, Redwyne, or Hightower."
The silence was damning, and Myrcella only continued to weep, and Catelyn leaned closer, trying to console the princess. "Robb shall make it–he's a fighter."
Yet once again, it sounded weak and even fearful, and Sansa felt so small and useless.
"I pray for his recovery every day," the blonde-haired maiden sobbed. "But it d-doesn't change things. The numbers, the commanders, the morale–n-nothing is in our favour. We will fight to the last–" she hiccuped, and Sansa urged Lady forth. The smart direwolf wisely stood up and padded over to the princess, trying to cheer her up. "We will not surrender to zealots no matter what–but we need something. A little grain of hope–a chance of victory to make the men fight harder."
Sansa was angrily tugging on her crimson locks. She knew little of warfare, truth be told–but this talk had cleared up things for her. The North did not lack men to fight, even if outnumbered. No, they lacked a strong commander to even the odds against dangerous men like the Greyjoy brothers and the Hightower.
"There's one more," she said, realisation sinking in as hope bloomed in her heart. "Father and Robb did not take everyone."
Myrcella, sinking her fingers in Lady's fluffy fur, paused, blinking wetly at her. "Who?"
"My brother," Sansa smiled weakly.
"Rickon can barely swing a wooden sword-"
"No, mother," she sighed. "Not him, but Jon."
Myrcella, Luwin, and her mother were all taken aback. But the quick rejection she would have expected from her Lady Mother never came. Instead, she turned pensive.
"Did not Uncle Benjen claim he's a capable warrior–and a commander with thousands of wildlings, and even giants, under his banner?" Sansa continued, feeling far more bold than before. "He rushed alone to face the Cold Shadows that everyone dismissed as a tale of myths and legends and lived where men older and more experienced perished. No, he thrived if Uncle Benjen's last letter held any truth, forming his own fiefdom and even building his own castle! His skills with a blade notwithstanding, Jon attended all the warfare lessons Robb did with Father and-"
"Done against my advice–I remember," her mother coldly cut in. "Enough–you've made your case."
"Lady Sansa speaks wisely." Luwin coughed, his tone practically dripping with hesitation as he looked at Catelyn Stark. "Yes, Jon Snow has always been a bright and capable lad–and war against the Others has surely hardened him. He could muster the Mountain Clansmen against the Reavers and secure our western flank–and is technically a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms by King Robert's decree."
"You all speak true." Her mother sighed, looking as if each word pained her. "There's no need to look at me as if I am a leper. I hold no love for the boy, that is true, I do not deny the truthfulness of your words. But bear this in mind. The Jon Snow you remembered might not be the same boy–no–the same man that has made his name Beyond the Wall."
"What do you mean, Mother?"
"Time–and power changes a man." Her mother's tone was quiet and odd, but Sansa couldn't put her finger on it. "Wives and children do, too, and I heard he's now wedded with a daughter. Should you call him here, will Snow's loyalty be to House Stark or his new family? And if he succeeds on the field of battle where the rest fail while leading with your blessing, would the clansmen follow a proven son of Winterfell over a swaddling babe? Especially should the gods decide in their caprice to take away another of my sons." She laughed then, but it was a bitter, cold thing. "Regardless, the decision does not lie with me but with the Lady of Winterfell. Are you willing to gamble our future on it?"
"You speak as if Robb won't recover," Myrcella's reddened eyes turned to Catelyn. "He will, I know it. I only need to know one thing about Jon Snow. Tell me true–can he defeat the Greyjoy brothers and their endless swarm of reavers on the western shores?"
Her mother closed her eyes again and clasped her hands in a prayer. "He can."
Myrcella straightened up, though her hands did not leave Lady's soft fur.
"Good enough for me," she declared. "I'll deal with any problems his presence brings as they come later–if they ever come. Maester Luwin, draft a letter to Lord Commander Benjen Stark requesting they send their fastest messenger…"
Now that a decision had been reached, Sansa's mind wandered, not bothering to listen to the dull details. She was never close to Jon, but she knew her solemn half-brother–he loved them all–even her, despite her attempts to avoid him because of his bastardry. Yes, there was a desire in him to prove himself, a fierceness, but he was not malicious, never malicious.
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
Surely, they were worrying for nothing–Jon was Jon, wife and child or not. Sansa would never admit it out loud–not before her mother– but she couldn't help but wonder what her little niece looked like.
Would she take after her brother, dark and solemn–or that unknown wildling spearwife who managed to capture his heart?
Would the little babe like her singing like the young twins did?
Would Jon's daughter fit right in with Lyarra, Artos, and Edwyn?
How would the four of them look together in one big crib?
The last thought made her giddy for some reason.
The Black Death came to Braavos, with the first men falling sick at the harbour, their flesh swelling with black, bulbous aberrations. While some claim it was the work of the gods, others believe it was our enemies aiming to weaken us. Or, more specifically, one of the many Pentoshi trading cogs anchored in our waters. There was hardly anyone else—both kings of the Sunset lands had mustered all ships for the war effort, and so had Lorath, and the Myrish were keeping theirs at their harbour in a bid to preserve some naval strength.
The greatest healers the city had to offer were quickly gathered, trying to determine whether the plague was magical in origin or if it could be fought with mortal means.
But as usual, the cautious Sealord was slow to move.
Alas, but these are matters for my other treatise.
The war of the Sunset lands continued without fail, but let it be known–may he who had unleashed that deadly disease be thrice-cursed for twelve generations.
Aegon's city was choked with the plague, and according to testimonies, thousands of corpses were being burned in the ruined Dragon Pit each night. The disease didn't spare the attackers either, for many started falling ill soon after.
It almost looked like the war would be decided soon with Edmure Tully's march to King's Landing. But despite the Northmen's initial success, the situation in the North looked ugly, as Balon Greyjoy and Baelor Hightower proved themselves seasoned commanders, knowing how to exploit each of their strengths and how to choose their battles.
There are many speculations about why Princess Myrcella did what she did, but after some research, I realised the truth was far more mundane. The sole raven in Crakehall that was trained to fly to Winterfell had been sent immediately after the Young Wolf was probably lost on the way, and thus, no word of Robb Stark's quickly improving condition arrived until much later when a rider had to go all the way to Casterly Rock to send it.
The raven from King's Landing, with word of Eddard Stark's survival that was confirmed to be sent, had never arrived in Winterfell either. Bad weather, a vicious hawk, a cunning tree cat that got the bird while it was resting–or perhaps some hungry zealot in the North who struck it down with a sling for food. Redwyne and Hightower might have helped ship many of the zealots to the cold kingdom, but they had no means to feed them, so they were released like a swarm of locusts upon the North.
Regardless, the deed was done, and the summons to the infamous Warg Lord–or, as the clansmen called him, the White Huntsman—were sent posthaste.
Meanwhile, Eddard Stark had finished sweeping through the Ashen Plains and was approaching Myr to lay siege to the city while the once mighty city of Tyrosh was humiliated by the Lady Scars's genius at sea. Of course, many had tried to downplay her success and ascribe them to the Lord of the Tides and the other skilled sailors by her side. It could not be denied that all her captains were capable, and the men who agreed to follow her were either skilled veterans, bold, hungry for glory and plunder and revenge–or all three. But all that was another mark of her skill–the ability to effectively command the loyalty and obedience of such men.
The situation in the Marches worsened significantly as bandit raids grew increasingly bold–and had even managed to kill the Blackhaven castellan, who sallied out with fifty lancers to chase them away. Only House Tarly managed to hold out rather well. House Martell in Dorne was hardly faring any better, for the lack of a fleet had come to haunt them, and thus, they lacked the means to wrangle with Lys for the Stepstones directly. The scores of hostages Lys took from the Water Gardens only added salt to the wound.
Despite the infamous motto of House Martell, just as it looked like the Prince would have to bow his head in shame and accept defeat, the Golden Company swooped to the rescue and threatened Lys from the sea. Their quick appearance was unexpected so soon after Volantis' fall, yet here they were in full, including the five thousand slave soldiers recruited from the Tiger Cloaks–an impressive show of discipline and organisation.
While the sellswords lacked the ships and naval power to best Lys at sea, the city's might was almost entirely invested in the Stepstones and thus had no choice but to come to the negotiation table. The infamous First Partition of the Steptones–later known as the Pact of Grief was made in less than two days-
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'
Author's Endnote:
Shit is hitting the fan harder–for pretty much everyone. Ned and Robb taking the elite, finally turns back to bite them in the arse, not that they could have known. The new, capable Balon Greyjoy is better than the old one, but he's still an Ironman. This was my attempt at writing a Fog of War, where things are happening all over the place, and nobody knows the whole picture. Naturally, it will only get worse from here on.
The new OC, Ser Braxton Bulwer, is a character meant to be my eyes in Renly's camp while Garlan is busy elsewhere. Could have written the scene in a third person neutral, but I decided it would be too big a deviation from my usual style.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
Tyrosh's walls loomed above the harbour, and the normally turquoise waters of the Narrow Sea had turned dark and turbulent–choked with bodies, smoke, debris, and burning ships. War sounded ugly and looked uglier still, but he was almost used to the sounds of death and agony, and the men around him were chanting with battle lust.
"BARATHEON!"
"LADY STONEFACE!"
A glance at his charge made the former smuggler feel even heavier at heart. Undaunted by the surrounding cheer, Shireen's face looked like an unreadable iron mask as she meticulously cranked up the windlass to load the crossbow Joffrey had gifted her. Davos still remembered when she employed a manservant at the first battles until she grew strong enough to do it without assistance, which took her countless hours of arduous practice.
As in every battle, she was clad in a specially fitted brigandine to protect her body, even if it tired her out faster, which was nigh impossible to notice if one didn't know her closely. Her unreadable expression reminded Ser Davos of her father, if even stonier for the stiff greyish scales that covered the left side of her cheek and neck. Now, a pair of burly Clawmen lugging heavy, door-sized shields stood by her side, ready to intercept any sudden crossbow barrage or another brave assailant like the one that had almost slain her the last time. Ser Rolland Storm was also shadowing her, always vigilant for any threats.
A look over his shoulder forced Ser Davos to squint as the sun's rays blinded him. The realisation finally sunk in; Shireen had chosen this cloudless late afternoon for the assault as it would blind a good portion of the Tyroshi as their harbour faced relatively west.
And sure enough, the Tyroshi's resistance was much laxer than he had expected–though it could be that the numbers were now in Shireen's favour after three victories, and the morale of the Westerosi was soaring.
With his good hand, the former smuggler held tight as Fury's reinforced prow rammed straight into the Purple Swan, the Tyroshi fleet's third flagship. The previous two had met their end in a similar manner at Shireen's hands in the last moons.
This one was no different, as the weirwood crossbow fired the first bolt straight into the Tyroshi captain's eye–nobody could claim the young Lady of Dragonstone didn't have a mean aim, especially after she spent countless hours practising.
The giant plank on the Fury's bow slammed into the enemy's Great Galleass, its enormous metal claws sinking into the enemy's deck, binding Fury and the Purple Swan together.
"BOARD THE SHIP!"
Shireen's hoarse cry, no longer sounding as childish as before, was followed by a horde of enthusiastic knights and mariners led by the ever-eager Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring.
The enormous Farring knight moved with heroic boldness through the enemy sailors, undaunted by the great mass of foes, and his boisterous laughs echoed above the clamour of steel as his warhammer struck the Essosi down. In contrast, the Moth Knight was the opposite. He quietly advanced with deadly precision, his sword lashing out like a viper as he spearheaded the bloody advance of Dragonstone's finest knights through the lighter-armoured Tyroshi.
Usually, Davos would be aboard the Black Betha, but she had taken a heavy hit to her hull and was under repair in one of the harbours Shireen had captured, so instead, he was here, by Shireen's side, feeling quite useless. His sons led their own ships, of course, but not undamaged. His eldest, Dale, had lost an eye in the first battle around the Tyroshi straits to a stray arrow, and his second boy, Allard, had lost his left arm in the Battle of Pryr due to a cut that later got infected. Thankfully, that had sobered Matthos and Maric, his other two daredevils, making them learn a measure of caution; foolhardy vainglory earned a swift rebuke. Many had died in this newly dubbed 'War of the Narrow Sea'.
"So long as the Tyroshi die faster than our men, we are winning," Monford Velaryon had grimly claimed after the last battle, and Davos didn't know how to dispute him or if he even should. For every one of their mariners, three or even four Tyroshi fell, and the tide of the Essosi visibly dwindled. Perhaps the Lord of the Tides had the right to it–what did a former smuggler like Davos know of war?
Even now, he could see the Skagosi chieftains to the left, Harald Crowl and Dorlaf Stane, compete with the Knights of the Brown Hollow and Red Cave to see who could slay more Essosi. The damned madmen were laughing boisterously as they were covered in blood, and their foes started to flee, unwilling to face the demons. To the right, the Valemen under Ser Jason Melcolm and Galen Grafton were seemingly at a stalemate against the Tyroshi. It was all according to plan as a glance through his far-eye saw the Sistermen flank the repurposed trading cogs.
As an island city-state, Tyrosh had a mighty fleet and could call upon seemingly countless vessels, but Shireen had always concentrated on their warships since the very beginning, slowly but surely crippling the spine of their naval might. While new ships could be rebuilt with time, Tyrosh did not have the Arsenal like Braavos to churn out a warship per day, and its naval commanders grew worse with each hefty defeat. Training skilled mariners took years, and their loss hurt the Essosi just as much as the ships, if not more.
Their foes also struggled to replace all the sunken or captured vessels, and each battle saw Shireen fight fewer and fewer foes. Worse-trained, too, for they broke far easier. At Blackwater Bay, the Lady of Dragonstone had been outnumbered nearly ten times over, but now, the Tyroshi could barely muster four ships for every ten the new royal fleet commanded.
And Shireen had meticulously exploited that advantage to the fullest.
Even though nobody doubted their victory, Stannis' daughter carefully planned everything to the last detail and always commanded the battle from the Fury. She never shied from reading more on naval warfare or consulting with Davos, Lord Velaryon, the Mermen knight, or even the Sistermen and the Skagosi chieftains about their thoughts. Now, her stormy blue eyes were roaming around the Bay of Tyrosh, inspecting every inch of the battle, doubtlessly looking for problems or making notes in her mind on what could be done better.
"Lord Velaryon," her words were steely, brokering no disobedience as the last resistance of the Tyroshi flagship was stamped out. "Get your ships to reinforce the Clawmen on the left. I can see a handful of Tyroshi cogs trying to flank them."
Horns sounded, flags were raised, and the Velaryon reserves were quickly committed, but Shireen's gaze was drawn to the Bleeding Tower at the mouth of Tyrosh's harbour.
"You seem troubled, My Lady?" Davos coughed. He thought he knew Stannis' daughter but had learned of a new side to her in the last half a year. Shireen hated leaving anything to chance and did everything she could to tilt the scales of victory in her favour, no matter how minor. The mariners loved her for it, for each battle saw fewer casualties than everyone expected.
Shireen frowned at the harbour. "I expected the Tyroshi to raise a chain to try and trap a part of my ships outside the Bay."
"The Mouth of the bay is quite wide and would require a lengthy chain," Davos followed her gaze. "Perhaps too lengthy and heavy, lest it was hewn from dragonsteel."
"Perhaps." She hummed, looking with her far-eye at the Bleeding Tower, overseeing the mouth of the Bay to the North. "I see some fighting there, but it's none of my men."
The displeased tilt of her brow remained for the rest of the battle as Shireen vigilantly inspected the Tyroshi battlements and half-hidden alcoves for surprises as the fighting continued raging. Yet no such surprise came, and, as everyone predicted, the Tyroshi fleet broke again for the fourth and possibly final time.
Vessels were sinking and burning, and the Essosi sailors had nowhere to flee as the Archon of Tyrosh had ordered all the gates to the harbour closed. Slowly but surely, the last Tyroshi mariners were slain under the eyes of all those watching from the city's walls.
"Burning the shipyards is easy enough now," Ser Rolland Storm gruffed from the side, his presence a constant shadow near Shireen ever since the fighting began. He had bested nearly a hundred hardy knights and lauded warriors for the right to be her sworn shield and took his duty more than seriously. "But while old, the city's walls are thick and tall and will be hard to take quickly. We will need sappers, trebuchets, scaling ladders, siege towers, and most importantly, time to overcome them."
"It doesn't matter," came the emotionless reply. "My royal cousin ordered the city sacked, and we must retrieve the hostages by any means necessary."
"Well," Davos rubbed his eyes as if not believing what he was seeing. "The gates are…opening?" He squinted, trying to make out the colours. "And… isn't that the Lion of Lannister?!"
The bright crimson flag was as eye-catching as the golden lion, a sight familiar to any Westerosi from the cold, snowy North to the deserts of Dorne.
"All the Lannisters ought to be in King's Landing or Casterly Rock," Ser Rolland said, suspicion dripping from his words. "Perhaps this is a ruse?"
Shireen hastily peered through her far eye, and her lips twitched. "Doubtful, unless they have the royal uncle's body double."
"I thought the Kingslayer was dead?"
"The other, shorter Uncle," she chuckled lightly before her face turned stony as she took a deep breath. "MEN, TO THE NORTHERN GATE!"
18th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
The Archon's Palace
Taking the city was far easier when the man heading its defence was a turncloak, especially the looming inner walls of fused black stone. Or, well, had Lothor Brune's cloak ever turned if his allegiance had always been to Tyrion Lannister, who had not run away to the Summer Isles as everyone had expected?
Of course, sacking the city took far more time than expected. Still, with the help of the city guardsmen recruited by Lothor Brune, who conveniently were all either former slaves or foreigners with no allegiance to the city itself, there was hardly any organised resistance–and those who had not surrendered had been slaughtered, save for the richer magisters who employed a century or two of Unsullied. Magister Zaphon Sarrios, who had five hundred eunuchs, would have been a hard nut to crack if Brune did not know his manse's defences inside out. Still, over two hundred men had died to sweep his small palace, and Tywin Lannister's son had been the one to slay the magister if the rumours were believed.
"We must kill all the magisters for good, I say," Tyrion boldly proclaimed as they gathered in the bloodied Archonate's palace, his axe still dripping crimson from the earlier fighting. Surprisingly, there was a harsh, almost bloodthirsty glint in his mismatched eyes, as the infamous Imp had participated in all the earlier fighting despite his stunted stature–a wicked wound that crossed the bridge of his nose gave him a bloodthirsty countenance, proving he had not hid behind his men during the fighting.
Rumours were he had 'liberated' a few of Sarrios' pleasure slaves, and a young translator girl with dusky skin and golden eyes was handed over to become Shireen's handmaiden. Even now, the former slave girl stood awkwardly in her purple silken robes by Shireen's side as if unsure what to do.
The Archon had poisoned himself in shame once he saw his city fall, but his pregnant wife was spared the indignity after she had surrendered. The corpses of the palace guard still littered the hallways and even the grand marble hall, but the Skagosi were meticulously stripping the fallen naked and taking everything of value, including their boots, before piling the corpses on a small hill outside.
Surprisingly, the Lord of the Tides agreed with the Imp, "We ought to put an end to their slaving ways for good."
"Indeed," Tyrion rubbed his gloved hands. "You should take the City of Tyrosh under your rule, my lady. You have the right of it, the greatest one of all–the Right of Conquest!"
Davos was hardly privy to the games the highlords played, but he knew men. Even now, he could recognise the undisguised greed mixed with the petty vengefulness in the infamous dwarf. Clearly, the Tyroshi had somehow earned the ire, no, the hatred of the usually profligate Imp. The greed need not be explained; such a large city came with plenty of opportunities for smugglers, let alone sons of highlords, stunted or not.
"Ruling such a large city is hardly an easy endeavour," Ser Merlick Manderly warned. "Handling the half a million slaves is no easy feat either. Breaking their chains is easy, but the shackles in their minds would linger, and teaching a chained man how to be free can be as hard as forcing a dog to grow wings and fly."
"Indeed, Ser." The Imp nodded with surprising geniality. "But I have spent my last moons here, figuring out a solution to some of those woes. It won't be easy by any measure, but the two islands and the City of Tyrosh would make their ruler a rich man," he grinned at Shireen's unchanging stony face, "or woman."
"A permanent force will have to be maintained here," Lord Monford Velaryon added thoughtfully. "At least two thousand well-trained men, aside from a city guard. Though it might be easier to use some of the magisters that surrendered-"
"No," Tyrion forcefully interrupted. "Weed out the dastardly slave mongers root and stem and start with a clean slate. These men smile in your face and, once you turn around, will stab you in the back while still smiling!"
Ser Jason Melcolm snorted. "There's no doubt that the City of Tyrosh will be prosperous, but the amount of coin, time, and effort you have to invest to ensure everything is smooth can easily beggar anyone, especially in times of war-"
"You speak as if we're lacking in coin," the Borrel Lord chuckled. "Most of us have looted enough to swim in gold!"
"Don't forget the dragonsteel blades." Ser Grafton patted the ornate, sapphire-encrusted handle of a fancy-looking sword. "Three dozen have been found so far–and if Maester Thurgood's inventories are half as truthful, the city should boast over a hundred and fifty of them."
"Perhaps less-"
Ser Jonothor Cave spat on the ground, half his armour splattered red with blood. "Bah! I don't give a fuck about fancy baubles and shiny trinkets! I want my daughter back, damn it. Nobody has seen an inkling of her face here! If any of you lousy lot has killed or spoiled her, I'll have your heads!"
"An auburn-haired maiden with freckles and a bountiful bosom?" At Tyrion's question, the old knight nodded grimly, though his eyes grew flinty at the dwarf. "She and dozens of others were sold to Myrish magisters."
All seasoned, old, young, battle-hardened men from almost every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, all of far more storied lineage and stature than Ser Davos, grew silent and turned to the pensive Shireen, awaiting her decision. She was hardly half the size of some warriors here yet commanded their respect. The burden looked almost crushing on her small shoulders, yet she carried it with stubborn stiffness.
"Our next course was already set to the Sea of Myrth," Shireen began slowly. "Word has arrived from King's Landing–Lord Stark is stranded in the Ashen Plains by the city, looking for a way back home."
The Imp guffawed. It was a hoarse, jarring sound, like everything else to the dwarf.
"Stranded?!" He took a deep swallow of wine from the flask on his belt and continued chuckling. "I suppose you haven't heard. The Tyroshi tracked the situation on the Ashen Plains closely and with wariness. I know not why, but I do know that Eddard Stark has joined hands with the rebelling slaves and wrecked Myr so badly they have given up on their hinterlands, now cowering behind their walls. Last I heard, the preparations for a siege were underway. I also know my nephew, Prince Tommen, is with him."
"STARK!"
The Northmen hollered as one, even the quarrelsome Skagosi and bloodied swords were raised in loud clamour, but the other lords quickly joined in with a "BARATHEON!" as if trying to outroar the Northmen.
"We must join forces with Lord Stark at all costs," the Manderly Knight spoke first once the shouts died out, a steely conviction in his voice.
"Aye, the Quiet Wolf is a dangerous man who can turn the tide of the war," Ser Jason quickly agreed. "His bountiful connections notwithstanding."
"Of course," Shireen said, and everyone quieted to listen. There was no doubt who was in command here. "We cannot leave my royal cousin stranded in Essos or the hostages taken to Myr either. I've taken one Free City, so what's one more?"
The words promised endless bloodshed, but none of the surrounding men seemed daunted.
"It will be a hard fight, but one we can definitely win." Lord Velaryon chuckled. "The Myrish fleet is not as plentiful or as good as the Tyroshi one."
"But what of Tyrosh?" Tyrion asked eagerly.
"I will give you a tenth of the loot, three moons, and two thousand swords from the men-at-arms your Father lent me for this campaign, Lord Tyrion," came the stony response. "I'll stop the sack–but the men may focus on the remaining magister's estates. If you haven't gotten the city in working order, you're to abandon this place and rejoin the war."
"Some might be disgruntled if we deny them their rightful share of the plunder, regardless of how much they had already taken." Ser Grafton pointed out gruffly.
"Tally of the loot shall be taken, and those who have failed to receive their fair share shall be compensated from mine own coffers and with other honours and positions if need be," Shireen ground out. "But let it be known that I do not tolerate disobedience." The final words were said as her gaze bore down on Tyrion Lannister. "So, can you do it or not, Tyrion of House Lannister?"
The dwarf bowed so deeply that his splattered, messy mane of pale hair brushed against the marble floor. "You honour me, Lady Baratheon."
Same day
Warg Hill
His apprehension and the unease that lingered in the air had made his mind wander towards things he had tried not to dwell on.
What happened to the Jon Snow of this world, to that boy who spent six and ten years growing up in Winterfell? It was not a topic he dwelled on because it hadn't mattered, with death and darkness looming over everything. And then, he had far more problems to think of it. Had he been sacrificed for Jon to come here?
The Old Gods could be cruel, even in their generosity. It didn't matter in the end. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he had been so happy to see his Uncle Benjen again.
He was just as he remembered. Perhaps his previous life was all a terrible dream–or an all too realistic vision by the Old Gods. A warning?
It didn't matter.
"What is it?" Jon exhaled slowly as he sat on his seat in the Warg's Hall and gazed at the approaching Thenn chieftain. It wasn't quite a lord's seat, but it was still more intricate and better carved than all the rest, standing atop the wooden dias. "I already said I will not fight against Isryn until one of his arrives to negotiate first."
"But what if he avoids negotiating?" Someone asked from the hall.
"Our blades and spears can do the talking if he keeps avoiding for another moon," he said. On days like this, Jon felt that the older chieftains were observing him like hawks—not for weakness but to understand him and figure out why and how he made his decisions. "But there's hardly any need for fighting if we can settle our dispute with words."
After word of Mance's death, Isryn had taken a few thousand men and hid in the Thenn's Valley–a place Sigorn and the rest of his kinsmen considered theirs by right. It was also technically part of the territory his Uncle Benjen conceded in his control. And now that the Others were no longer a threat and a tentative peace was forged with the crows, the remaining wildlings moved their attention to old feuds and dwellings. And there were plenty of both to occupy their attention.
It wasn't that Jon was reluctant to fight the more unruly wildlings, but instead that he expected word from his Uncle. A message that might change everything.
"It's not Isryn," Sigorn waved. "A half-dead crow rider arrived, his horse giving out under his arse from rushing too hard. Messages for you, he claimed before passing out."
Jon's heart felt full of trepidation as he accepted the two scrolls.
"Weren't the crows all using black?" Morna curiously eyed the rolls of parchment.
While the smaller message one was from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the second seal bore not the bannerless shield of the Watch on the black wax but the running direwolf of House Stark, imprinted into grey. Jon was all too familiar with this particular design, for the signet ring that bore it had once been on his finger.
"This is a message from House Stark of Winterfell."
"Ah, your infamous kinsmen, har!" Tormund burped from the table under his seat, munching on another piece of chicken leg. "What do the great wolf lords want with poor old us?"
Jon broke the seal, and as his eyes roamed over the carefully inked words, fury and frustration surged in equal measure through his chest. Both doubled when he checked the second message from the Watch. Two dozen of the direwolves stirred, and the hall was filled with a symphony of growls, forcing Jon to take a deep breath and calm himself.
"My brother has been laid low by vile treachery. Poison," Jon hissed. "Lingering between life and death, with none knowing if he will make it. My father is lost at sea, and enemies are attacking my ancestral home with reavers and zealots."
The desperation reeked from the dark ink, betraying how distressed his brother's wife, a princess of the realm, had to be to ask him, a bastard eking out a meagre living on the edge of the known world, for assistance. Your presence is direly needed in this dark hour as enemies beset the North on every side. It also lit a raging fire deep inside, lighting up the embers of something Jon had struggled to forget.
Duncan spat. "Damned Ironmen!"
"What's the problem?" Sigorn Thenn frowned. "Your Crow Uncle commands far more men than you do and is closer. Can't he help them instead?"
"The Watch takes no part," Jarod Snow said, weather-worn face turning fierce. "Besides, half of Lord Commander Stark's men are from the opposing kingdoms, and should he pick a side, he might face a mutiny."
"Indeed," Jon agreed. "There is a reason why the Watch stays out of the wars of the realm." He knew the price of breaking it all too well. "Besides, my brother's wife is requesting my assistance."
Val walked over and placed her fingers on his shoulders in a wordless show of support, and the gesture drained some of his tension.
Morna shuffled uneasily.
"So you're leaving us, Lord Warg?"
"Of course. My kin are under attack," Jon replied. "I have eaten the same food the Stark of Winterfell has eaten, I have taken the same lessons my trueborn brother has, and I have been raised under the same roof the Kings of Winter were reared for millenia, something countless souls have wished for but have forever been out of their reach. I am not some honourless cur to turn my back on the family that raised me in their hour of need."
As the final words left his mouth, the invisible burden pressing on his shoulders evaporated. Any of his lingering hesitations melted away, and Jon now knew what to do. No doubts about the future-past dead clouded his mind for the first time in what felt like years, and the road before him was clear.
"I'm coming with ye," Soren Shieldbreaker roared, raising his axe.
"Snow!" Wun Wun slammed his enormous foot in agreement, making the ground quiver.
Jon Snow slapped a hand on his knee, halting the wave of enthusiasm forming in the great hall.
"Do not be hasty," he cautioned, nodding gratefully at those who declared their support without hesitation. "I appreciate all the assistance offered. But make no mistake–it shall be a hard, bloody fight, and there will be no return to this side of the Wall."
"What do you mean?" Tormund's loud voice bellowed above the sea of confused murmurs.
"My uncle Benjen cannot technically allow wildlings to pass the Wall-"
"What-"
"Do not interrupt me, Tormund," Giantsbane shrunk under his stern gaze, swallowing his outraged retort. Many wildlings were starstruck at his current cold demeanour, but they didn't understand. The stakes were different now; the rules were no longer the same. He no longer had to be the leader of wildlings but something else. Something more. "It's the law of the land, not something my Uncle can control." Jon's lips twitched as he looked at Val's concerned face now resting on his shoulders. "But while wildlings can't pass, lords of the North and their men have always been allowed."
"So you want to make kneelers out of us in the end, eh?" The disgruntled question echoed from the lower tables.
"Any assistance would be welcomed, but this is a path I can tread on my lonesome if I must. Do what you will," Jon stood up, his hand resting on Dark Sister's hilt as all the direwolves stood up in unison, and Ghost's enormous form padded to his left as Val stood to his right. "My kin calls for aid, and I shall answer."
Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle joined his side with no hesitation, and Dalla, holding the youngest Jon in her arms, followed after her husband, if with a slight scowl on her face.
"Our promise stands. We're going with you to the end," Leaf stirred from the shutter. The rest of the Singers in the hall slowly but surely flocked to him.
"Snow," Wun Wun's rumbling response echoed across the hall, even more insistently than before.
"Pah," Sigorn spat on the ground but stood up, half the Thenns following after him. "I've always wanted to see if these kneelers were any good in a proper fight."
Soren again waved his axe, if not as enthusiastically as before. "I'm a man of my word, and I already said I'll fight fer ya. 'Suppose becoming a kneeler won't be as bad if it's you we are kneeling to."
"I want to see those infamous stone houses of yours and if they truly reach the stars," Morna, uneasily leaning on her spear, proclaimed loudly as if to convince herself more than anyone else.
One after another, more warband leaders and warchiefs stood up, but a glance told Jon they were less than half, and most of them were young, without wives and children. Of the most notable, Tormund and Gavin the Trader remained silent, the old foxes doubtlessly figuring out how to exploit the situation to their advantage.
Still, far more than he expected arose to join him.
"Well, prepare yourself, for we march at dawn for the Shadow Tower with all haste," Jon ordered with a tone that brooked no disobedience. A tinge of nostalgia tingled at the back of his mind; it was the same tone he had used as a Lord Commander and King in the North. But despite everything, even the wildlings seemed to recognise the steely authority in his voice, as all complaints and grumblings were silenced. Even Tormund swallowed his question, though the old bag of wind would doubtlessly find a way to ask him in private later.
Within a minute, the great hall of Warg Hill was emptied as the wildlings dispersed, save for one final annoyance.
"A bold move, Lord Snow," Melisandre walked over, amusement dripping from her voice. "Some might have mistaken your caution and honesty for cowardice, but it seems a wolf has been hiding underneath all along. I have seen tens of kings and khals, emperors and archons who struggle to muster half of your presence. For some reason, when I close my eyes, a most fitting image appears in my mind. A crown resting upon your brow while you order your bannermen with practised ease."
Had the Red Priestess always been so perceptive, even without the flame visions of R'hllor? Or perhaps she had grown perceptive because of their loss.
"I'm a mere Lord of the Seven Kingdoms by royal edict," Jon Snow chuckled coldly, yet the priestess caught the hint of warning and lowered her head in subservience. "But that does not mean I shall tolerate disobedience. From hereon, my men's showing will reflect on me, my name, and my children."
Dalla and Val, each with a babe in their arms, looked worried, quite possibly at his new demeanour. But even they sensed the seriousness of the situation and said nothing. The sisters had expected he would most likely return to the other side of the Wall, but Jon suspected they had not yet realised the depth of the implications. Lordship, kings, crowns, armies, laws–all those words were distant, far away and strange to them and the rest of the wildlings. Things they had heard about and oft dismissed but never seen. Jon knew a lengthy talk with Val would await him sooner or later for more reasons than one.
Still, despite the looming difficulties and the seemingly perilous situation hanging over the North, the blood in his veins sang for battle. Last time, his hands had been tied, and Jon had to stand on his post as word came of his family tragically perishing one after another. But this time?
This time, things would be different. This time, there were no vows to hold him back, and nothing could stop him.
21st Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Arianne Martell, Sunspear
She still remembered the day word arrived from Lys.
"The son of Lyanna Stark?" Arianne had ground out once the final negotiations were concluded without her knowledge or input again. "This is an outrage! An insult!"
"This insult shall make you a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," her father had said, not unkindly. "Did you not want a match worthy of your station? There is no better!"
She swallowed her furious retort, trying to think things through. Perhaps… perhaps this wasn't that bad. It would also give her her cousins back, along with other friends and allies–and, of course, the children of House Martell's most leal bannermen. Perhaps Gerold would be disappointed, but he was merely a landed knight, unfit to be her consort. And he could hardly put a crown atop her head. If what Arianne had heard, this Aegon took after his father in looks, so her father's arrangement wouldn't be such a chore.
"Will Dorne and the Golden Company be enough to win the Iron Throne?" She asked begrudgingly.
"It should be enough," Doran Martell had sighed, looking two decades older. As of late, even the healing incense in the corner brought him no respite, and his wrinkled brow was weighted by worries, especially since the Sacking of the Water Gardens. "The numbers are plentiful and fresh, and we shall have seasoned commanders like Selmy and Connington on our side. Besides, this is our chance to deal with our unruly bannermen without much trouble."
Her brother stirred from his side, seemingly waking up from a dream as he rubbed the stub of his missing finger on his left hand. Something he started doing since he lost it against those bandits up the Greenblood–Quentyn had been different since then, though her father simply alluded to him being blooded. Arianne would have agreed if not for the eerily serene smile that seemed to be constantly plastered to his face, a stark contrast to his previous nervousness.
"Because they'll be forced to answer your call to arms?"
"Indeed," had been the soft response. "You shall be the one to lead the Dornish banners, of course. And those who refuse can be smashed with the aid of the Golden Company."
"Err." They had all looked at her youngest brother, Trystane, awkwardly scratching his nose. "Why are we hearing of this son of Lyanna for the first time now? Why would he be with Connington in Essos?"
"Essos is vast, and it's nigh impossible to find a needle in a haystack if you're not looking for it," Doran had patiently explained. "It is a smart ruse by Varys, in truth. Though I have some doubts, not that it matters…"
"Doubts?" Arianne had echoed cautiously.
"The timeline certainly matches." Her father had continued, speaking more to himself than them. "I have counted the days myself more than once. Do you know how many moons passed since Lyanna Stark seduced the Silver Prince until that fateful battle at the Tower of Joy?"
Quentyn had tilted his head, his brown eyes gleaming with… something, "Two years?"
"Almost. Over twenty-one moons, and for at least eleven of them, the Silver Prince was probably fucking the Stark girl while everyone else was busy slaughtering each other." Doran Martell had exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "Then he got your aunt with babe without any care of the world before rushing to his death on the Trident. So Connington's claims that the Spider spirited away Lyanna's son on the order of Rhaegar are plausible, for even I struggle to comprehend what went in the Silver Prince's mind even after two decades."
"Wouldn't Stark know if his sister gave birth?" Trystane had asked.
"The kingsguard wouldn't leave any witnesses behind if it were Rhaegar's orders, nor would they betray his secrets," their father had laughed bitterly. "The only way Stark would ever know is if Lyanna somehow quickened at the last moment and gave birth just in time for him to show up. It is highly unlikely that such would be the case–over ten moons passed since Rhaegar finally showed up in King's Landing, and Stark rode to Starfall to return Dawn. The chance of such would be like finding a needle in a haystack–one in a million."
Arianne had scowled, "It's not like we have a choice anyway. Lys wouldn't even sit on the negotiation table without Aegon and the Golden Company, and we would have to stomach the utter humiliation of the Sacking of the Water Gardens. Even the Young Dragon didn't take so many hostages as the Lyseni did that day!"
"Sometimes you're forced to trade one humiliation for an indignity, if lesser in scope. Aegon's terms are more than generous, probably restitution for the wrongs his mother caused us-"
"Easy for you to say when it won't be you spreading your legs for a potential pretender playing us like a fiddle," Arianne had fired back, unable to hold her temper.
"You never had a problem spreading your legs, daughter mine," came the cold, emotionless response. Had she been so… obvious? Arianne struggled to keep the mortified flush rushing up her neck while her youngest brother turned red and looked away. "You would be shocked at the lengths I went to keep rumours of your affairs under wraps, Arianne."
"...But you never said anything?"
"Would you have listened?" Her father had tilted his head, his eyes hard like two black pearls, and Arianne's retort died on her lips. "A king's wife must be above all reproach, however. All of your lovers shall soon meet a tragic end–if they haven't already."
"What?!" Blood hammered in her ears as her world felt faint.
Her father had leaned forward, his face like a mask of stone. "Did I stutter? Gerold, Daemon, Aiden-"
"I hate you," Arianne had hissed.
"Everything has a price, Arianne, even your sense of unrestrained freedom. For now, others pay the price of your frivolities, but that might not always be the case." At this moment, she loathed Doran Martell, the pity that practically dripped from his gaze, but her father was not phased by such mundane things as feelings. "Hate me all you want, but know I'm doing this for your own good. There shall come a time when you will look back on this moment and be thankful for how I shielded you from future trouble and protected your good name even from yourself."
"So," Quentyn had cleared his throat loudly, and Arianne thought she heard him mutter something that suspiciously sounded like 'Mother Rhoyne grant me strength'. Had her brother abandoned the Seven for the Old Rhoynish Gods? "Must I marry a Lysene woman?"
"A year of fostering in Lys, one marriage to a Valyrian beauty from a storied lineage for two isles and dozens of hostages are terms we wouldn't have dreamed of achieving without Aegon and the Golden Company on our side," Doran said. He called it fostering, but they all knew it was just a veneer for handing over a hostage without looking weaker than they already were. "The price of peace with the Daughter of Valyria shall not be easy, but this is an opportunity to turn the disaster in our favour, and I have faith in you, my son."
Her brother nodded calmly, yet Arianne could see in his eyes that he felt apprehension. After swallowing heavily, he asked, "Who will lead our bannermen to war while I'm not here?"
"Areo Hotah or Manfrey Martell can lead this campaign while you're missing, and Trystane will squire for one of them," was the slow response. "It would be preferable if you could do it to gain experience, but Lys wants to seal the peace by blood. Still, if you can pick a suitable Lysene bride in a moon or two, I'm sure your return can be arranged earlier."
"Can't this fostering be delayed until after our war?" Quentyn frowned.
"I will see what can be done," her father had miraculously relented. "But don't get your hopes up too much. The Lyseni holds the leverage at the moment. You can always try to convince them to let you return early."
Quentyn gave a thoughtful nod, and his brow scrunched deep in thought.
"Will I also be sold for some alliance like Ari and Quent?" Trystane had asked faintly, looking even smaller in his chair.
The Prince of Dorne sighed, his face softening. "We must all do our duty when the time comes."
"Just like you did, marrying for love?" Arianne had mocked as she stood up and curtsied. "Or like Uncle Oberyn perished in pursuit of fiends, myths, and dreams of glory?"
Knowing she was testing her father's patience, she fled the solar before the undoubted chastisement coming her way.
Doran Martell had not raised the matter further, but Gerold Dayne had been found with his throat slit by a jealous whore later that night–a clear warning.
It had taken her three days, but Arianne had managed to swallow her disgruntlement. Yet the bitter taste on her tongue would not go away, nor would the fury at her father, but she held no illusions that she could escape. But even if she could, would Arianne abandon her position as a Princess of Dorne for the uncertainty of war that had crept into every corner of the world?
She had dreamed of being a queen like every other young girl–not a tragic one like her Aunt Elia, of course. Despite her initial reluctance, she had started inquiring about Lyanna's son; what little she had heard of him was rather benign. Yet Arianne vowed to reserve her judgment until meeting him in person.
There were other, more important questions she had forgotten to ask in her fury, like, wouldn't Renly and Joffrey find out about their alliance with Aegon soon enough? But after some contemplation, Arianne realised it didn't matter. The lion and the stag were facing off in a bitter struggle for Aegon's city, neither having the men to spare to deal with Dorne or the Golden Company.
Quentyn had already sailed away for his year of 'fostering' in Lys, and today was the day Aegon arrived with his retinue and the freed hostages. A part of Arianne would admit she was far more excited to see Spotted Sylva, Ellaria, and her cousins again. She badly needed a confidant in these trying times, and while Garin and Drey offered their support, she missed Sylva and Tyenne more than any other.
And so, Arianne awaited with a hefty Martell delegation under the watchful eye of Areo Hotah on Plankytown's docks as a fancy Lyseni carrack slowly sailed in, its Ynana's nubile form shamelessly fluttering on its enormous red sails.
As the ship neared, her gaze roamed over the familiar faces of her cousins, the other Dornish taken from the Water Gardens, the sailors–then paused on the very vision of beauty. Garbed in black and red with his silken pants held up by a leather belt adorned by a gilded dragonhead buckle, a dashing young man with ethereal silver-gold curls was staring at her with two purple eyes that shone like amethyst under the sunlight. If this was Aegon, she wouldn't mind. He was thrice as handsome as Gerold, and his smile made her insides flutter.
Perhaps being a queen wouldn't be so bad after all.
The ship soon docked, but there was no grand ceremony where everyone was heralded–they had decided to keep things with Aegon under wraps for as long as possible to buy time for the Dornish Banners and the Golden Company to position themselves most beneficially.
Yet Arianne's attention was drawn to her cousin's worried faces, which quickly sobered her. They all looked a tad thinner than before, with heavy bags under their eyes but otherwise unharmed. A second glance made her frown as her stomach turned. All of the noble and baseborn children who had been in the Water Garden that day were here—a list she had learned by heart out of fury and guilt—all but one.
Losing her taste for courtesies, Arianne didn't mince her words and directly asked, "Where's Nym?"
"The Lyseni would not give her up even when we offered ten times her weight in gold and gems along with a dragonsteel blade," an older knight with a stiff, hardy face and a messy mane of crimson hair grunted. "They said Nymeria Sand would be treated with the highest dignity and afforded the best luxury Lys had to offer but would not be released to us no matter what."
That was easily a king's ransom and Dragonsbane's royal brother had been ransomed for less. Last she heard, Nymeria's maternal family had fled to Qarth with their meagre possessions after Volantis' fall, so it wasn't them. Arianne stood there with a blank face until her muddled mind finally moved, finding the only reason that had made any sense.
Who had her cousin fucked of such importance that even the shameless magisters of Lys wouldn't budge with a whole army on their doorstep?!
Yet her thoughts were once again halted by the dashing sight of what could only be Aegon moving closer, and Arianne felt a flush creep up her neck again. If perfection existed, it would be the man before her; The ethereal Blood of Old Valyria in the flesh was breathtaking in a way words failed to describe, not the pale imitation like the unfortunate Ser Gerold Dayne. At that moment, all the previous thoughts in her mind were forgotten.
"Pardon me for my uncouthness," she bowed, giving her best smile and curtsy.
22nd Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
The Young Wolf
His mind felt drowsy as the distant voices echoed.
"Should have poisoned him days ago-"
"The damned beast keeps lingering around, and we can only administer small doses while it's away, and Maester Arryk keeps an eye on his supplies like a mother hen-"
Robb could not recognise the whispers, but their hostile intent was unmistakable. He struggled to open his eyes and move his mouth, but his body refused to obey. But where his body felt like a cold stone, something else, on the very edge of his mind, felt clearer than ever. Robb tugged on it, and before he knew it, an enraged growl was followed by yelps, screams, and sounds of scuffling and bones breaking before the quiet lingered.
Once he focused, Robb saw himself staring at his body, thinner than before, on a sickbed. Warm blood dripped from his snout, the hot, metallic taste pleasantly lingered on his tongue, and he realised he was seeing through Grey Wind's eyes. But unlike the previous dreams, this one was far easier to control. It felt as if he had found a new muscle he had not known existed.
It wasn't before long that a horde of angry guards rushed in with their swords drawn, and the direwolf lolled out his tongue lazily as if nothing had happened. But Robb knew things would look troublesome, so he focused, and Grey Wind tore off a flask of foul-smelling substance on the man's belt and offered it to the Stark guardsmen before darkness took him again.
The next time Robb awoke, he could feel his limbs–his real limbs again. Grey Wind's reassuring presence lingered clearly in his mind, and he could feel the direwolf curled by his bedside, seemingly asleep but still vigilant.
"So," his voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper, and his body felt weak but surprisingly full of strength. "What happened while I was out?"
"Lord Stark," Daryn Hornwood's lightheartedness was still there but tinged with a newfound grimness. "Nothing much aside from three catspaws trying to murder you and then a bunch of acolytes hailing from the Northmarches trying to finish the job by slow-acting poison with none the wiser but your direwolf. You should have seen Greatjon Umber hang each acolyte and maester by their feet from Crakehall's battlements, threatening to drop them on the rocks below, until they all started singing their place of birth, relatives, every woman they had ever lain with, along with every clandestine deed they had ever done. Lord Wells and Hallis Mollen have designed an elaborate triple-layered defence around your person at all times to guard against future assassination attempts."
"Wine," Robb croaked out, and the cold mouth of a wineskin was sealed to his lips. The liquid was bitter and spicy in equal measure but soothed his parched throat.
"Even this wine goes through three throats before reaching yours now. You were lucky as Maester Arryk claimed a lesser man would have died twice over in your stead," his friend continued to prattle on, but Robb didn't feel particularly lucky. "The maester didn't allow his acolytes near anything dangerous in sufficient amounts, or they would have probably poisoned you far earlier. All seemed fine when the maester declared you were out of danger on the third day, but you just wouldn't wake, and the men began to worry-"
"Tell me of Oakheart," he interrupted. The maesters–or the acolytes might prove a problem, but that was something to be dealt with later. "Tell me of the North and King's Landing."
"The Reachlord continues fortifying his position. Half the lords wanted to rush back North while the other half wanted to march down the Ocean Road and storm Oakheart yesterday, and Greatjon barely managed to make them hold still and wait." Daryn swallowed heavily and continued speaking while Robb's face darkened with every word leaving his friend's mouth.
While his stiff joints groaned in protest and his muscles screamed, Robb pulled himself up from the bed but was interrupted by his friend's cautious warning, "The maesters said that you ought to rest for at least a sennight more."
"I've rested enough," Robb said, cautiously putting some weight on his thinner-than-usual leg. But not all the meat on it had melted away, so he managed to stand up with some difficulty, even if the exertion felt tiring and his joints protested the sudden weight. His belly rumbled greedily, loudly requesting food. How long had it been since he had last eaten?
"There's one more thing," the Hornwood heir added, face unreadable.
"Well, out with it!"
"The Lord Hand wrote that Lord Stark is alive. It was no jest either–Lord Eddard has been spotted near Myr with a retinue of Northmen."
Robb froze. Did he dare to hope? Was this yet another feverish dream?
Yet the aches in his body, the stiffness in his joints told him otherwise, for good dreams were never so painful.
Gods, he would be glad if this was true. Yet… it felt unreal, fleeting, like the wind in the skies. A part of him would not believe it until he saw his father with his own eyes. A part of him feared that if he blinked or closed his eyes, it would all disappear, a mere product of his imagination.
"Can you… can you repeat what you said?" His words came out raw, far too vulnerable to show before a man who would be one of his future bannermen.
But Daryn gave him an understanding nod.
"Lord Eddard Stark is alive, the old lion claims. Your father was stranded in Essos until now, and no word reached us because of the wars in the East."
Robb closed his eyes. It felt unreal. It was unreal. He wanted to cry tears of joy but couldn't. He wanted to celebrate, shout out to the skies, pray before the Heart Tree, and thank the gods they had protected his father. Oh, how he wanted to talk to his father, ask for his advice and guidance, hear his reassuring voice once more.
But the colder, reasonable part of him that had awakened at this war won out. His sire was far away, and if he had failed to return to Westeros for so long, it would be long before he found his way home and his presence was felt again. The world seemed brighter for it, but… nothing had truly changed here and now.
"Get me some stew and summon my lords here," Robb barked out. "The war waits for no one, and if these Reachmen are so eager for bloodshed, who am I to deny them?"
Author's Endnote:
I couldn't fit in the other POV I planned, which has been delayed for two to three chapters now, but the next one will definitely begin with it.
We see more of Shireen "The Iron Lady" Baratheon, Tyrion "Never forgive, never forget" Lannister, Doran "I'm a hypocrite" Martell, and Robb "treachery-can't-keep-me-down" Stark and many more.
Jon finally finds a clear goal ahead of him–something he lacked before with the uncertain future of Warg Hill. I've always found that canonically, Jon Snow's character operates best under pressure. While his position as Warg Lord was somehow ambiguous because of how Jon convinced some of the wildlings to follow him, that is now gone as he chooses a road forward that he knows. I hope the shift from an uneasy but cautious leader of wildlings to a seasoned veteran lord shows well enough.
So, here comes the promised return of Jon Snow to the Great Game if done out of duty instead of ambition. I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
The true test for Aegon will be if Ned's wolf recognizes him as kin and if Aegon can hold the iceblade without it freezing his fingers.
When the direwolves were found there was one for all the trueborn Starks and only one extra for Jon.
His sons led their own ships, of course, but not undamaged. His eldest, Dale, had lost an eye in the first battle around the Tyroshi straits to a stray arrow, and his second boy, Allard, had lost his left arm in the Battle of Pryr due to a cut that later got infected. Thankfully, that had sobered Matthos and Maric, his other two daredevils, making them learn a measure of caution; foolhardy vainglory earned a swift rebuke.
Well so far this war is going better for the Seaworth's than the canon War of 5 Kings. None of Davos's kids have died in a blaze of wildfire and I would assume the 2 injured ones are probably back in Westeros recuperating, at least for now.
I can see Dale coming back to the front but I dunno if Allard will do the same.
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement. You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
19th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Eddard Stark, Outside of Myr
Unlike Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis, the walls of Myr were made of ordinary granite. It was of no surprise since, according to what Ned remembered from his childhood lessons, the town was either founded by Valyrian merchants or had started as a walled Andal town, conquered by the Freehold later.
Forty-foot tall curtain walls dotted with watchtowers, squat gatehouses, and a garrison were more than enough to keep armies out of the city until the resident dragonlord took to the skies–or assistance arrived from the Freehold itself.
But the Freehold, the Forty, and their dragons were gone, and the Myrish hadn't even bothered to dig a proper moat to protect their walls.
"Tommen, your thoughts?"
His page's brow was adorably scrunched up as he gazed at the city with a heavy frown.
"You have all the men digging trenches and building dikes," the boy slowly said as his green eyes roamed the surrounding camp, which was churning with activity. Thousands of former slaves had picked up spades, shovels, and pickaxes again to build defensive fortifications instead of enriching their masters. Yet it was done with great enthusiasm; the mere knowledge they contributed to the downfall of the hated Myrish Conclave had lit a fire in their hearts. "Which means preparing for a siege–a long one. But we already beat the Myrish!"
The Lord of Winterfell sighed; for all his cunning and wits, Tommen was merely a boy and still had much to learn.
"One should never underestimate your foe, no matter how weakened," he cautioned. "Even a cornered rat can bite, let alone such an old and powerful city with many connections and plentiful wealth. The Myrish should still have a thousand lancers left that can sally out and make trouble for us."
Tommen's face lit up. "So that's why we spent a month sweeping everything around the city. To isolate them and discover any other sally ports!"
"Indeed. A general should always secure his backlines, supply routes, and a place to retreat if he can. Sometimes, you can be cornered with little options, which is usually the result of bad planning." Ned sighed, gesturing towards the city. "But now we have about thirty thousand men besieging a city of nearly a million–while we outnumber the city guard, the defenders, and their remaining sellswords, eight in ten of our men have not held a spear or a sword until a moon ago. And there's far more to a warrior than shoving a blade and shield in his hands."
One reason Ned took his time before reaching Myr was to drill the former slaves into a semblance of discipline and bloody them so they wouldn't break at the sight of the enemy. Sweeping away the surrounding villages and walled towns was just a bonus. Sadly, it only made the Myrish retreat with any vessels they had back to the city.
Being in nominal command of such a patchwork of an army was a challenge. Each company, regiment, and wing had different equipment, different numbers, and different training, and some of their commanders and captains did not even speak the same language! Ned had the hefty task of reorganising this mess into some useful semblance, which was a heavy test of his skills in warfare. He also took the chance to familiarise himself with how the slave revolt operated.
"One man on the walls is worth at least three below," Ser Robar Royce added grimly. "Sometimes five, or even more, if the walls are good. Storming well-defended fortifications is a bloody business, so many prefer starving the defenders out. But then it becomes a game of waiting–will the defender's food run out, will their morale break first, or will a relief force arrive to aid the besieged."
Tommen rubbed his face, and his gaze moved from Myr's walls back to the Northern army camp, looking as if he were trying to decipher a vexing puzzle.
"But we killed everyone the Grand Conclave commanded outside these walls, so there's no relief force for Myr," he said, tilting his head adorably. "And… we can't starve the defenders 'cause they can resupply by sea."
Eddard couldn't help but shake his head inwardly. Gods… the boy simply had an instinct for the matters of warfare, rivalling his talent with the blade; he was earnest and hardworking, soaking up all the lessons he offered. Rarely did Ned have to repeat a lesson twice.
"Which is why we'll use layers of trenches to cover our sappers underground so they can tunnel under the walls in a few locations. Thankfully, Ser Damon has brought three men well-versed in engineering-" which had been a stroke of luck, but a welcome one, "so we can have well-made trebuchets, battering rams, and siege towers. A three-pronged assault–as long as one of the attacks succeeds, the defence will collapse. Of course, men with torches and axes will be sent to test the gates first before committing to anything significant."
Tommen's diligent nod as he gazed at the distant walls raised a serious question–what in the seven bloody hells had Pycelle and Robert been doing with the lad? Aside from basic courtesies, some heraldry and history, Tommen had been a blank slate, knowing practically nothing.
A cold cackle echoed in his mind. 'If you taught your heir half as well as you're teaching the blonde boy, then there's hardly anything to fear for the future of House Stark.'
"They can always surrender," Ser Wylis Manderly cleared his throat, coming from the side. "They have just raised a parlay flag, Lord Stark."
Belio the Black Blade, one of the slave leaders hailing from the Fighting Pits and Robar's left hand, spat.
"Beware the Magisters," he eked out with a heavy, hoary accent. "The Myrmen are indifferent sailors and feeble warriors; they favour the dirk, dagger, and crossbow, preferably poisoned. And those who rule the city are thrice worse."
"Meeting place?" Ned asked.
"Halfway between the gate and the camp," came the grim reply.
The Lord of Winterfell shook his head. Did they think him a fool? Halfway between the camp meant he would be in the range of the scorpions lining the walls.
"If they want to negotiate, they can send their envoys here, in my camp," he said slowly. "Their well-being will be guaranteed on my word-"
"But Lord Stark-" Belio hurriedly interrupted but swallowed his retort as Winter growled warningly.
"Proper rites ought to be observed, no matter the grudge." Ned exhaled slowly. "Besides, they want to negotiate–something they avoided doing until now. It reeks of desperation. Something must have happened."
Yet that only made the former slaves and Royce more worried. The Lord of Winterfell had not hidden that his main priority was going home. While the men under his direct command—Northmen, Dothraki, and recruited Freedmen—barely made three thousand, they were by far the most capable of the gathered host. If they made a deal with the Myrish to leave… not only the fighting potential but also the morale of the rebels would suffer a severe blow.
After much dallying, Ned's suspicions were proven correct, and four hours of back-and-forth later, an envoy with a small retinue reluctantly made their way to the Northmen's camp as the sun was setting and dusk quickly approached.
'I know of their sort,' his usually quiet ancestor whispered furiously. 'They don't have the guts to face you in battle, so they resort to methods that would make even cravens baulk and the gods rage. Clad yourself in steel.'
And so, the Lord of Winterfell was garbed for battle, arming doublet underneath the dragonsteel scale, and his men wearing half-plate and armed to the teeth. Winter was behind him, prowling quietly in the dark and sniffing at the air, and Tommen was sent away with Ser Gendry and a hefty escort of Dothraki lest they truly encountered treachery.
"Did they run out of men to send a woman?" Jory asked faintly underneath his helmet, though his gaze was glued to the alluring sight before them. Four Unsullied were carrying a litter, an ageless beauty sitting atop the silken cushions. Hair the colour of beaten gold flowed around a flawless olive-coloured face adorned by two lilac eyes. But what gathered most of the gazes was her attire below. If it could even be called an attire, for the gown's fabric was so thin and scarce it barely left anything to the imagination.
'A honey trap,' Theon sourly spat. 'I would be wary of her sleeves. Why have solid sleeves on such a whorish dress if not to hide tricks?'
Walder's enormous form barred their path, his hefty poleaxe laying low in anticipation, ready to sweep through the five eunuchs accompanying the litter on each side. "Only the lady may pass."
"All of you are clad in steel and armed as if going into battle," she pouted. While surprisingly well-versed in the common tongue, her voice was melodic, with a sultry lilt to her soft accent. "Do you fear a poor maiden so much?"
Some of the Northmen looked abashed, and a flush crept up Morgan Liddle's neck. But most stared stonily at her like statues.
"The City of Myr has yet to show us anything worthy of trust," Ned said, focusing his gaze on her eyes. Even he was tempted, for she was a beauty like no other, sensual in a way words failed to describe, and not even Ashara Dayne could rival her. But he had given vows before the Heart Tree and would not break them no matter what. Besides, her teats were lesser than Cat's, if by a little–did not even look as firm. Winter's golden eyes focused on her sleeves, ready to pounce. Ned could feel his four-legged companion smell something subtle, something vile. Poison.
Was there no decency left in the world?
"Very well," she conceded. "We shall do this your way."
He was tempted to strap on his helmet like the rest of his retinue, but instead, he tensed and nodded gruffly. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who am I speaking to?"
"I am Serala Vaeltigar, sister of Magister Erreno Vaeltigar, envoy of Myr," she proudly proclaimed, raising her chin. "I have heard great things about your… honour and the Sunset Lands' infamous hospitality. Yet I see nought of it here. Was it all just empty talk?"
Ned waved, and Mallo brought over a platter of the hardest dry bread in the whole army camp, along with salt.
Serala's haughty face broke as soon as her fingers touched the bread, but to her credit, she gingerly dipped the piece in the salt and slowly took a small bite, crunching through it with an expressionless face. Swallowing heavily, she smiled, even if it looked like a grimace, "This should be enough, no?"
"Very well," Ned acknowledged. With a wave of her hand, one of the Unsullied knelt before the litter, huddling up, and Serala used his back as a step.
The Lord of Winterfell scoffed inwardly. "Follow me."
The eunuchs were left under the watchful eyes of the Northmen and Dothraki, all armed with bows and ready to make pincushions out of the slave soldiers should they move a toe out of line.
Ned led the way to the specially prepared clearing while keeping an eye on Serala's movements with Winter and ensuring he was at least seven feet away at all times. They stopped before his main tent, where Vayon had hung out dozens of lanterns that illuminated everything, and he turned to face the seductress in full sight of his men and Robar Royce.
Smiling coyly, she twirled a strand of golden hair and innocently looked at him, "Surely there's no need for steel now that I've taken your rite of hospitality?" Serala took a step forth, giving him an even better view of her ample cleavage, and Ned tensed even further.
"Enough of this dallying," he said coldly, his hand visibly resting on the icy hilt of his sword. "You've come to say your piece. Do so and go."
After a coquettish pout and a long, drawn-out sigh, she finally acquiesced, "Quite direct… I like it! Lord Stark, this is a great misunderstanding. The City of Myr and the Grand Conclave have no quarrel with the North."
"Truly?" Ned raised an eyebrow. It was a lie; Winter could feel it. "My memory must be faulty, then. Perhaps I imagined the Stormcrows, Maiden's Men, and the Second Sons going out of their way to attack us unprovoked, despite having the banners of the North raised high for all to see? Was it a fevered dream when Crahar Drahan and his army came to hunt me down?"
"It was a misunderstanding, as I said." Serala sorrowfully bowed her head. "A grave one, at that. Someone from Pentos had placed a price on your head, My Lord. Our contacts traced correspondence between people of ill repute and one of the men supposedly working with one of the newly risen Cheesemongers. The sellswords did what they have always done–chase after coin."
Ned's eyes barely flinched; truth. Yet, not entirely. She was holding something back.
"We need not be enemies, Lord of Stark."
"Perhaps two moons ago," he allowed. "But the gods have decided otherwise."
Her face grew solemn, and she straightened her spine.
"The Conclave of Myr understands the hefty insult levied on House Stark and are willing to redeem themselves with gift and weregild. Two million of your Westerosi dragons, ten chests of precious gems and our finest fabrics, a dozen Valyrian Steel blades, half a hundred dragonbone bows, and two dozen of our fastest warships so you can go home as quickly as your heart desires. This should be enough to show our sincerity, no?"
A small part of Eddard Stark would be tempted if the words did not reek of half-lies. "I have heard your offer loud and clear, but I need time to consider it. I'll inform you of my decision after a sun's cycle."
'They would give you faulty ships or try to drag you into an ambush, where you'd be outnumbered.'
Usually, Ned wouldn't be one to jump to such conclusions without proof, but the subtle smell of what felt like poison, coupled with the earlier dishonesty, was more than enough for him. They wanted to get rid of him by hook or crook. His direwolf slowly prowled behind the envoy, causing the rest of the Northmen to blink, but none dared make a sound.
"Perhaps I can offer something more to sweeten the deal?" Serala's voice turned low and husky as she stepped forward with a practised sway of her hips, unbothered by the dozens of Northmen watching. Yet a heartbeat later, she froze as Winter's warning growl rumbled clearly. His silvery form was already behind her, sniffing at her sleeves.
Realisation dawned on her face, but she didn't pale from spoiling her plot as he suspected. Even Winter's presence didn't make her flinch. Instead, she flushed crimson red that looked more like purple on her olive skin in the ruddy torchlight, yet she still did not dare move an inch. Ned decided there was something wrong with her head. Or she was simply brave–too brave.
A mocking cackle came from within his mind, 'Oh, sweet summer child. I've seen a few of her ilk before. It takes a special daring and desire to volunteer for what can very well be a suicide endeavour. She wants to kill you–but not before riding you first-'
"Enough of this charade, I've heard your offer. This talk is over," he declared, also silencing the nuisance in his head. "Escort her back to her eunuchs."
"Your kingdom is under attack," she cried out, and the Northmen about to grab her paused. "Word arrived from the Sunset Lands on how zealots and the Iron Reavers have assaulted your precious North. Surely your presence is needed at home urgently?"
For the first time, the words were not a lie or a half-truth, and his retinue turned uneasy. Yet that meant little.
"As I said, one sun cycle for me to deliberate," Ned waved to his men, and they unceremoniously picked her up. Yet Serala neither screamed or raged or cussed but lifted her chin and closed her eyes, her face turning into a prideful mask.
'Sack that city,' the hungry whispers continued, far more urgent. Was that desperation in his voice? 'Your bannermen love you; the kingdoms know your justice. You must show everyone else that House Stark is not to be trifled with, especially now! Just a bit more and your enemies back home will retreat at your mere presence! Slinking away will dampen the Northmen's spirit, but a victory will raise their morale-'
'Enough. You are losing your wits.'
Ned almost laughed as he heard the teeth grinding in his mind. 'Listen, boy-'
'I liked you more when you remained silent. Be what it may, it's autumn now. Winter is coming. Northern winter.'
Theon was silenced, and Ned didn't hide the small snort this time. Once again, his ancestor was not wrong in matters of warfare. But he had failed to mention the most compelling advantage. Should Myr fall, Ned could leverage a good chunk of its wealth and power into a proper Northern campaign against the Reach and the Iron Isles. Manpower, money, weapons, and other resources could tilt the scales of victory where desperate haste would fail.
While a part of him was worried for his wife and daughters in Winterfell, another acknowledged that he could hardly do anything from here. A small source of solace was that Cat was aware of and knew how to prepare for such cases. And it would not do to dwell on far-away things he couldn't change and ignore what was before him. Any road had to be trodden step by step–even the road home, and the first step was the city before him.
Once Serala was dragged out of sight, Ser Robar Royce came, looking fearful.
"I must admit, hearing her offer–even I felt tempted. Will…."
"Will I accept?" Ned finished icily. "Hardly. It sounds good–too good. The fact that almost every word that came out of her mouth was a lie didn't help. The siege continues."
But no matter how calm the Lord of Winterfell portrayed himself to be, molten rage coursed through his veins, and his mind churned furiously with plans upon plans to break the city as quickly as possible. Yet a colder, more cautious part of him knew excessive haste could be fatal in warfare.
20th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Margaery Tyrell, the Red Watch
Margaery never felt uglier. Her hands and feet were swollen, and her body had lost all traces of the elegance and grace she was so proud of. Her once hourglass-shaped figure had swollen into an ugly mess, and her lithe, thin waist had thickened.
It made her angry; Renly barely did anything, but she had to suffer all of this for an heir, previous indignities aside.
"Three more moons," she murmured, running her fingers over her belly as her wheelhouse slowly rumbled through the gravel-covered road. "Three moons and you'll be born."
"My mother says the first pregnancy is the hardest," Talla Tarly said softly. Unlike her lordly father, who could be mistaken for a stone statue at times, everything about the young maiden was soft: her chubby cheeks, her hands, her Norvoshi wool dress, her grey eyes, and her smile. An innocent girl of four and ten and one of the ladies-in-waiting Margaery did not wish to part with just yet.
However, the Queen hoped she wouldn't 'struggle' with her first birth only to deliver a babe the likes of Samwell Tarly. The rumours had it he had weighted a whole stone at birth, almost ripping the poor Melessa Florent open. Yet for good or bad, the infamous craven had even managed to get himself killed in a rabbit hunt last year, just before the war had started.
Rhaelle Selmy's face darkened. "The birthing bed is a battle. I still remember my lady mother giving birth to my sister, her fifth child, a moon too early. She screamed from dawn till dusk, and the next morn, the maester told us both mother and daughter perished. I was only three, and the screams are all I remember of her."
The callous words made Talla shrink, edging closer to Margaery.
The Selmy maiden was named after the princess who wedded Ormund Baratheon to placate the Laughing Storm's wrath after the Prince of the Dragonflies spurned his daughter for some lowborn witch. Margaery had heard the name was given in hopes of currying favour with House Targaryen and Baratheon, but in the end, it had failed with both. Rhaelle Selmy also looked nothing like the House of the Dragon, with her chestnut hair, harsh blue eyes, and a barbed tongue.
"Enough of this morbid talk," Leonette Fossoway, Margaery's good sister, warned. "As you said, the birthing bed is our battle, one we cannot escape any more than our brothers and fathers could escape this bloody war."
While Margaery had yet to visit Harvest Hall, which was too far to the west, Lord Arstan Selmy had sent his sister to Storm's End with a small retinue, politely explaining how all of his available men were busy dealing with the large numbers of 'all-too-well organised' brigands and raiders. The holdfast of the Arron, one of the landed knights under his rule, had been sacked by one such group a moon prior.
Dondarrion and the Castellan of Blackhaven had given a similar reply, of course, but without any daughter or sister to join her ladies-in-waiting. And Margaery didn't dare to tempt the Stranger by venturing that deep into the Marches despite the hefty escort of Brienne of Tarth the Blue, Ser Guyard Morrigen the Green, fifteen knights, and four times as many soldiers, a mix of lancers and veteran men-at-arms.
Of course, there was an entourage of cooks, handmaids, and servants that doubled their total number and two more wheelhouses with seven more of her ladies-in-waiting, though they were all married or already betrothed. Margaery's guard was thrice larger than before, but they slowed her progress considerably, and she decided to send off a good part of them to aid the coastal houses that struggled with the corsair raids despite Ser Guyard's objections.
Her current defenders were more than enough, and Margaery needed to raise more support.
"What do you think Stonehelm is like?" Talla shyly changed the topic, her gaze wandering through the opened window, the green outskirts of the Red Mountains to their right and the misty Rainwood to their left. The so-called Red Watch region where Cape Wrath met the Red Mountains wasn't as beautiful as the roiling fields of golden wheat in the Reach or the endless green pastures, but it had a certain charm.
"With tall curtain walls, cold, hard, and fortified, like all the other castles in the Dornish Marches," Rhaelle provided gingerly. "And with good reason, I'd say. Barely a hundred years of peace, and the Dornish show their true colours again."
Margaery sighed. "Two more days before we arrive at this pace."
This would be her last stop of the Stormlands' progress before returning to Storm's End. To the east, lords were beset by pirates and corsairs, and the Dornish were making plenty of trouble to the west. And she wanted to give birth to Renly's heir in Storm's End, a small gesture for the Stormlords that would hopefully win her boy some of the favour his father had lost.
However, it might have been in vain. Just this morning. Ser Guyard reported that Lord Swann had ridden with four hundred men to aid Blackhaven.
Margaery feared that even if she dangled Rhaelle or Talla to the Swann heir, he would be unresponsive to her pleas–or simply have no more men to spare. Still, she had to complete the journey, show her face in Stonehelm, hear the woes of House Swann and see if something could be salvaged from this situation.
This journey could not be shirked, especially since Ser Balon Swann, the Swann spare, was loyal to Joffrey and wedded to one of the countless Lannisters of Lannisport.
Worse, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks was highly competent, and one of the reasons King's Landing lasted as long as it had was until the old lion arrived to relieve the city.
Perhaps she could learn of Ser Balon Swann's weakness from his kinsmen. There wasn't much Margaery could do to tilt the scales of victory, but she had to try. Especially since her Father's last letter was darker than usual, speaking of disease spreading through the city and Renly's army–even Loras had fallen ill. For a few heartbeats, Margaery felt vindictive pleasure at her brother's misfortune, but it had quickly evaporated once she realised that Loras could very well die. Even though Margaery was still angry at him, she didn't want him to perish.
Then, the carriage stopped.
"Why did we stop?" Talla looked around nervously, wringing her fingers.
Margaery latched open the small shutter facing towards the coach's seat.
"There's a heavy tree fallen ahead, blocking the road, Your Grace," Brienne's hoarse voice, now tight with tension, echoed from the front, sword already drawn.
"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," Margaery reassured calmly. "There was a fierce storm last night, was there not?"
The Tarth maiden shook her head.
"Our scouts have yet to return, and the tree was chopped down." The words made her heart skip a beat as if the Stranger had spoken them.
"FORM UP, PROTECT HER GRACE'S CARRIAGE," Ser Guyard's cry echoed as twangs and whistles filled the air. Many things happened at the same time.
Just as Brienne picked up her helmet and was about to strap it, she halted with a jolt, her eyes widening. A weak gurgle escaped from her throat as a bolt had lodged itself in her unprotected neck, crimson gushing around the dark shaft.
Margaery screamed.
22nd Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Garlan Tyrell, Tumbleton Hills
After nearly two moons, Garlan had a newfound respect for the infamous Blackfish. Brynden Tully's reputation as a knight was well-deserved. The man was cunning, able, and rarely made mistakes, and his skills as a scout and outrider were admirable.
He had split his men into groups of two or three hundred with the sole goal of causing as much devastation as fast as possible. Raiding supply lines, ships, carts, carriages, wagons, and villages in hours and be gone before any relief force could arrive.
But the Blackfish had grown too aggressive; he had ventured too deep into Reach territory, and Garlan had managed to mobilise the local garrisons and additional militia. The locals knew these hills better than the Rivermen, and not all the knights and scouts under Brynden Tully were as skilled as he was. With the support of the locals and the additional manpower, Garlan focused on hunting down the groups not led by the Blackfish.
It was bloody at first, but Ser Androw Crane and Gyles Rowan had been eager to prove themselves after their failure with the Mountain, and the Rivermen were gradually reduced in number. That cruel aftermath of the Battle of the Rushing Falls had come to bite him in the arse. The Rivermen were unyielding, and nobody surrendered. Each battle left hundreds of corpses in its wake on both sides, so Garlan started ordering his men to give the enemy a path to retreat.
And now, after finally chasing the Blackfish for over a sennight with nine hundred knights and lancers, Garlan had managed to corner him by a cliff at his back and a deep ravine to his right. The experienced veteran knight wouldn't have made such a mistake if he knew the terrain, but this was Reach land.
True to his name, Brynden Tully showed no sign of wealth on his person save for the small golden brooch lined with obsidian holding his cloak bearing the blue and red of his house's colours. His armour was plain mail and padded leather, with a padded surcoat bearing a black trout. His men were similarly lightly armoured, trading protection for speed. Garlan and his troops had the luxury of full armour and change of fresh horses at any small holdfast, village, or stud farm.
"We should attack," Ser Gyles Rowan advised, his tangled auburn mane growing wilder by the day since he had sworn not to shear or shave until his older brother, Mathis Rowan, was avenged. "They're too lightly armoured. Either get the marksmen and hunters here to rain arrows until they all perish, or we can end them now; three waves of lancers charging will crush them."
"Not yet," Garlan said. "Someone get me a parlay flag!"
Ser Androw Crane, the infamous wielder of the Red Wing, frowned. Just like Gyles, he was a storied and proud knight, and one might even claim them arrogant due to their dragonsteel blades, but they had the skills to back it. Garlan believed he could match them in skill should they wield a castle-forged steel sword. Still, dealing with prickly and well-connected subordinates was stretching his nerves thin.
"We're going to negotiate with heretics and heathen-lovers?"
"You're going to do whatever I order you to do lest you want to lose your head for disobedience, Ser Gyles," Garlan warned darkly. He had tired of bloodshed; he had had his fill of killing men half a year ago. He would do it because of his duty, but Garlan had had enough of this talk of heresy and blind theology. If things were different at the Rushing Falls, if he had managed to restrain that post-battle frenzy, perhaps the situation wouldn't have grown so ugly.
But the deeds were done, the lives taken, and time could hardly be rewound; Garlan would have an easier time controlling the weather. This did not mean he wanted to keep pouring oil into the flames of hatred, to stoke the fires of zealotry any further.
Just as the uneasy Rivermen seemed to gather in a desperate attempt to break free of the encirclement, a rainbow flag for parley was raised.
"What if they try to take you hostage or kill you, Ser Garlan?" His captain, Lomas, asked.
For a heartbeat, Garlan paused. Yes, this was risky. Hatred flowed both ways, and he very well could very well be going to his death. Then, there would be no honour left in the world.
"Then I die, and Ser Androw Crane shall be in charge." Ser Gyles Rowan was older and more experienced but was too proud, evidenced by his poorly hidden frown at the declaration.
The risk of death always followed him, but was there any honour or decency left even now in those lauded knights whose names stretched far and wide since before he was born? Garlan wanted to find out, even if it killed him.
Accompanied by his companions, Sers Bayard Norcross and Willam Wythers, though the former was now missing an eye after the last bloody skirmish, Garlan sallied forth, and the Blackfish rode out to meet him with two of his men halfway. Up close, the infamous knight looked just as plain as his garb: craggy, weather-worn face marred with a few fresh scars. Even half of his right ear was missing.
"Ser Garlan… the Gallant," Brynden Tully's voice was tinged with begrudging respect as he gave him a slight nod. "You have us cornered, lad. We will probably not live to see another dawn, but we can drag down a few hundred of yours in the Stranger's grasp while we're at it."
"Indeed," Garlan agreed, weariness dripping from his words. "But do we need to continue this senseless slaughter?"
A raspy, mirthless chortle escaped the old knight's chapped lips. "Senseless slaughter? It was you, Reachmen, who barged into the Riverlands, killing, looting, and burning your way in. It was you who refused to take hostages for ransom or give captives the chance to take the Black. Only a fool would dare surrender to a Reachman now!"
Garlan sighed, his lips breaking into a brittle smile.
"It doesn't have to come to this," he said.
Seven above, he was tired.
"Life is not a flowery bard's song, Ser," the Blackfish shook his head. "I know today is the day I die-"
"A duel," Garlan interrupted. "Single combat–knight to knight. You and me." The Tully knight blinked in incomprehension as if seeing him for the first time, so Garlan continued, "Should I win, you and your men shall surrender their arms and swear on their liege and the Seven to go and take the Black."
"And should I emerge victorious?"
After a moment of hesitation, he said, "You and your men can leave freely."
It wasn't quite treason, but it went against the orders his father had given him. Some would call him a fool or a lackwit. But Garlan wanted to try. He wanted to see if there could be any honour left in this savagery and madness that had taken hold of the Seven Kingdoms.
The silence stretched as Brynden Tully stared at him for what felt like an eternity before giving a slight nod. "Very well. Choice of arms?"
A more cunning man would choose a mace, a warhammer, or an axe, rendering Brynden's chainmail and padded surcoat nearly useless. Or perhaps he would choose a war lance and have them clash in the deadliest tilt, where Garlan would have a heavy advantage with a full suit of heavy plate.
"Longsword and a side-arm, no shield."
A glimmer of surprise flashed in the Blackfish's blue eyes, but he grudgingly nodded, "Fine. Here again in ten minutes?"
"So be it." Garlan simply clasped the outstretched glove and shook it. "Make it quarter an hour, and I shall bring a Septon to bear witness."
Once they returned to the rest of the Reachmen, Ser Bayard cautioned, "It will be a hard fight with just a sword."
"How do we know the Rivermen will honour the Blackfish's promise?" the Red Wing's wielder asked, his voice thick with irritation. "What's to stop them from running away and simply rejoining Edmure Tully?"
"The Seven shall bear witness to their vow, and so shall we. Should they have a smidgeon of honour left or some fear of the gods, they will stay true to their promise," Garlan said as he waved over his new Roxton squire to unstrap his plate.
Ser Gyles frowned, gripping Golden Leaf's hilt tightly as he usually did whenever anxious or annoyed. "Why are you taking off your armour? A normal blade will do nothing against your plate."
"The Blackfish only has ringmail and an arming doublet, and I will match him. It is only fair. Besides, ringmail will stop a sword's edge well enough, and the plate will weigh and tire me out. I will meet him in skill and test his endurance."
Neither his captain nor the knights seemed to approve of his idea. Garlan could see it in their eyes; they thought this was madness. Some were particularly disgruntled as the Blackfish and the men causing mayhem in the region could possibly get away. Ser Gyles was one of them, and his hatred for Riverlanders, especially House Tully, ran hot after the slaughter of his lordly brother in Harrenhal. But neither he nor anyone else raised further objections.
Eventually, a limping local septon was hastily brought here to officiate.
Garlan faced Brynden midway betwixt their forces on a small, slightly sloped grassy clearing. A dozen Reachmen and Rivermen stood fifteen yards behind the respective contestants. The Tully knight critically inspected Garlan's choice of armour but gave him a gruff nod.
"Under the eyes of the Seven, Ser Garlan Tyrell and Ser Brynden Tully have decided to resolve their differences by single combat." The septon croaked out with a mouth of rotten teeth while leaning on an old cane. "Do you both agree to surrender the outcome into the hands of the Gods?"
Providence, luck, preparation - these were all taken into account, but while a knight could prepare or try to tilt the scales into his favour, the outcome was never certain until blades were crossed, especially under the eyes of the Seven. Thus, whoever won had divine favour.
"Yes," the two knights echoed in unison, longswords drawn in their mailed fists. Just like the Blackfish, Garlan had a dagger in his left hand. While Ser Brynden Tully was slightly taller and lean, Garlan's shoulders were broader and stockier in build.
"Begin!"
After the septon's feeble proclamation, the two knights cautiously approached each other, circling and looking for weakness. Garlan grimaced; despite his ample battle experience, he saw no opening in his foe. Despite the slightly lowered sword, the Blackfish's form with his left foot forward was unorthodox but surprisingly solid. Garlan had sparred against thousands of men-at-arms before the wars and hundreds of knights afterwards, but only a handful had looked as stalwart. And they had been some of the most challenging foes to best; Garlan found himself losing more than winning in such cases.
But he could not afford to lose right now.
Yet the sun had other plans; the sky was clear, and the afternoon was turning arid. As the minutes passed, neither knight made a move to attack, but the tension mounted, and rivulets of sweat trickled down Garlan's brow underneath the visored barbute, stinging his eyes. The Blackfish showed no signs of irritation or annoyance, like a still pool of water.
Taking a deep breath to centre himself, Garlan gritted his teeth and lunged. His thrust was met and batted away with simple precision, and the rose knight was struck on his wrist by the counter. Garlan cringed in pain and almost dropped his blade, but he managed to jerk away from the next swing, aiming at his elbow.
Exhaling, the rose knight stepped sideways to avoid another strike aimed at his dagger hand, then feinted at the opening to the right the Blackfish had deliberately left. The older knight leaned in to take the hit before it reached full swing, but Garlan managed to twist his stiff wrist and land a solid hit on the shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt from the Blackfish.
Brynden's strikes were surprisingly strong for a man his age, and he tried to use his height and slight reach advantage to the fullest, having chosen a longer longsword than Garlan. Yet the rose knight gave as good as he got. After a few more painful hits, he avoided getting stuck in the joints and vitals. The duel quickly became a game of skill and endurance.
Garlan's strikes were quicker and stronger, but the Blackfish was like a slippery fish, avoiding many by a hair's breadth while constantly pulling away at the edge of his range. His longsword kept buzzing around, a constant threat at his wrists and vitals like some annoying hornet. It prevented Garlan from being too aggressive and using his strength to the fullest. Yet with the ringmail, padded surcoat, and an arming doublet, a one-handed strike was far from lethal, but each hit would leave bruises.
The minutes passed, but the end of the duel was nowhere in sight. While the Tully Knight looked winded, his breathing was heavy but still well-measured. Despite the dozens of hits Garlan had landed, none of them had done any real damage save from shattering a few links from the chainshirt, while his wrist was probably bruised blue and would soon break from the punishment it had received.
After a moment of hesitation, instead of trying to catch the Blackfish's next strike like usual, Garlan stepped back.
The unexpected move gave him two heartbeats of time, just enough to strap his dagger back to the sheathe on his belt and grasp the hilt of his sword with both hands. The duel quickly devolved into a contest of who could take more punishment, and by using two hands, each of Garlan's hits was far heavier than before. Yet the bruises on his body began to pile up as the Blackfish's strikes were faster, and he still had his dagger; his shoulders, forearms, a good part of his torso and sides were all aching and would probably be more bruise than flesh by tomorrow at dawn.
Yet his newfound tactic at leveraging his youth and superior strength proved successful. His heavy blows began to slow the Blackfish visibly.
Finally, a well-aimed strike at his side chained into attack to his forearm caused the older knight to lose his grip on his sword, and Garlan lunged forth to grapple Brynden Tully before he recovered his blade. He managed to deflect the dagger aimed at him just before the collision. The momentum had both of them painfully roll on the trampled grass, but his foe was half a heartbeat slower in recovering.
Garlan took the superior position above, pinned the Blackfish's right arm with his knee and held his dagger at the slit of the knight's helmet right over the eyes.
"Yield?"
"I yield," came the pained grunt. "You've won, Ser."
"The gods have decided that Ser Garlan Tyrell is victorious," the septon announced sleepily, but he paid him no heed. The rush of the fight was receding, and in its place, the familiar ache was striking with a vengeance.
Every bruise and hit felt sore, and his fingers were so tense that they couldn't let go of the dagger, and he was forced to pry them open with his left hand. He almost regretted abandoning the plate armour and a shield. But now, none could claim that Garlan Tyrell had won unfairly, for both sides used the same arms and armour; the only difference had been the smith who forged them and the skill of their bearers.
Groaning, Garlan stood up and offered a hand to help the Tully knight up.
Yet Brynden Tully did not accept the offered help but shakily removed his helmet, looking wearily at him.
"You would abandon that chance of Lordship your good brother promised just to spare me?"
"I've had my fill of bloodshed for a lifetime," Garlan said breathlessly.
"None would blink if you strike me down now," the Tully Knight whispered. "You would be in the right."
"Enough is enough. Go to the Wall, in peace, Ser. The Night's Watch will need men of your skill if the Others have truly returned."
The Blackfish grasped his hand, and the rose knight knew it then. The Seven had not abandoned him or his. Honour could be found even in these trying times. His body was on fire with pain and soreness, but Garlan Tyrell had never felt so good since the start of the war.
"It's been forty years since I've seen a knight of your calibre, Ser," a pained rasp escaped the old knight's throat.
"There are many as skilled as I am," Garlan eked out a brittle chuckle.
"Any brigand or fool can swing a sword or promise hefty vows when there's no cost to it. While you're quite good at it, it's even rarer to see someone with such staunch character as you. Fret not. I and all my men will take the Black, on my honour."
Garlan's mouth turned dry. A bested foe's frank yet plain words sounded sweeter than the most skilled bard. And… acknowledgement of his efforts by a man of the Blackfish's calibre was a feeling like no other.
24th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
The Redgrass Field
After much grumbling and plenty of suspicion, the remaining Rivermen had all accepted the defeat, surrendering their arms and any loot without a fight. Aside from their horses and daggers, none of the Rivermen had anything to defend themselves or attack anyone.
Solemn promises were given in the small Sept that night before Garlan had let them go, if with a small group of scouts trailing afterwards, to see if they would follow their word. While he trusted the Blackfish, he couldn't say the same for the rest of his entourage.
Still, a handful of Rivermen raiding parties remained along the Goldroad, and he had to hunt them down or cow the remaining ones as he did with the Blackfish, so he dispersed his men into regiments of four to five hundred horse each. While his brother, Loras, had fallen ill in the Crownlands and the war still looked grim, Garlan never remembered feeling so free of burden.
Loren Roxton, his young squire, was rather taciturn, and Garlan would not hear his voice for days, but he didn't mind. The silence helped him clear his mind, and the boy of four and ten did all of his duties well enough. Even the other squires didn't particularly like the silent Roxton, but Garlan cared little. The only thing that could break the boy's silence was his love for history and old lore.
"This is where Daemon Blackfyre fell," Loren said, looking around the overgrown hill. "That over there should be the ridge Bloodraven used to ambush the rebels. I wonder if I can find the stream by which Fireball was killed?"
Ser Willam Wythers chuckled. "The smallfolk still dig up bones or some abandoned daggers, shields, swords, and other pieces of armour to this day. Some even claim the sword of kings is still here, buried in some ditch."
"Bollocks," Ser Bayard clicked his tongue. "Everyone knows Bittersteel took Blackfyre with him to Essos."
"But there are hardly any records of what happens to the blade after that," the young Loren said faintly.
"It's agreed that the Golden Company has the sword. But Valyrian Steel isn't that rare in Essos," Garlan added thoughtfully. "It's not uncommon to see pirate captains have a sabre or an arming sword forged in the fires of the Freehold. They say a lucky wandering journeyman or a sellsword can find a dragonsteel sword with sufficient time and luck."
"Heh, I imagine Ser Gyles would not be strutting like a peacock with his sword if he were in Essos." Ser Bayard guffawed, "He would simply invite others to duel him for the blade."
"Or pick it up from the corpse of a defeated foe," Willam murmured. "Perhaps we ought to go to Essos once this war ends and try our luck?"
"Well, almost everything east of the Narrow Sea is at war, so strong sword hands should always be in high demand," Garlan said. Perhaps he would have joined them if he had not been a married man. Leonette was fair, shy, and quiet, but it was a union of duty, not love. They had been strangers when they wed, and the war had kept them strangers still.
Just as their party trodded halfway through the grassy field, his captain Lomas hurriedly came over, a handful of scouts in tow. The same scouts that had been sent to track the Rivermen. Garlan's blood turned to ice. Had he been mistaken about Brynden's honour?
"What is it?" He asked, his voice cracking.
"Ser Gyles wheeled his group around the Field of Fire and attacked the unarmed Rivermen early at dawn," the scout said, grimacing. "He slaughtered them all to the last man."
The words were said, but Garlan could not hear them. He could not breathe. His heart felt like it had leapt into his throat.
His honour… his honour was shattered because of overproud fools. Who would trust his word now? How can there ever be peace to this senseless slaughter? The Rivermen were unarmed, not a danger, and swore oaths! Why…
Garlan wanted to cry then, to weep for those men. He looked them in the eye and promised them safe passage to the worthy knight whom Garlan tested his mettle in a duel of honour and received respect from. A great man like Brynden Tully deserved a better death than to be ambushed by some up-jumped, overproud tourney knight!
Garlan wanted to cry, but no tears came. No, he had no more tears. Instead, a savage, angry roar escaped from his throat, spooking the nearby horses.
The Rowan Knight had famously claimed that the Blackfish was breaking his word and was aiming to rejoin his nephew, Lord Edmure Tully.
The meagre excuse was not accepted, especially when one of the guilty men-at-arms confessed about agreeing to join in exchange for becoming a landed knight once Gyles Rowan was enfeoffed as a reward for killing a Tully. After Ser Garlan Tyrell hunted down Ser Gyles Rowan and the rest of his men, he hung the nobles and knights who had ambushed the Rivermen like common brigands.
The men-at-arms were stripped and whipped with a barbed whip. The surviving ones were made to clean Brynden Tully and his men's desecrated remains and bring them to Riverrun on the pain of the death of their mothers, fathers, sisters, and children.
Golden Leaf, House Rowan's Valyrian Steel bastard sword, was tossed into the deep rapids of the Blackwater Rush. According to witnesses, Garlan the Grim had proclaimed, "It is a cursed blade. From this day on, I curse this damned sword; should some fool be lucky enough to find it, let it turn against him and all who wield it."
Garlan Tyrell's wrath was great.
Insubordination in war was a grave enough crime, but this was worse. His given word trampled by those under his command was a stain that 'only the blood of House Rowan could wash away'. Instead of rejoining Renly's forces in the Crownlands or sweeping the remaining Rivermen attacking the supply lines, he turned his forces to march on Goldengrove, making good on his word. Even the local septons condemned Ser Gyles and House Rowan, claiming them traitors and oathbreakers for besmirching the divine arbitration. All of a sudden, the remaining cousins, wives, and young children of House Rowan found themselves unwelcomed, treated like dangerous lepers by any who would sight them.
Meanwhile, the Northern Crusade under Hightower and Redwyne met heavy difficulties as they progressed further inland.
While the steady stream of vagrants and zealots provided quick numbers, the Northmen deeper in the land had fled, their abandoned fields empty, their meagre possessions and food stored in hidden caches, leaving little for the invaders. News of a new curse had spread after those who dug through the Barrows of the First Men started dropping dead not even a sennight after. Hundreds of zealots were estimated to have died of cold and starvation each day despite the usually warm middle of the year.
It didn't help that Hightower, Redwyne, and the other Reachmen hoarded each bushel of food, every woollen cloak or fur-lined garment for their army. The siege of Moat Cailin turned ugly, but despite the Crannogmen's heavy harassment, the Reachmen continuously mounted frontal assaults of zealots at the Moat's towers with the promise of food upon success. Yet progress was slow.
For once, Balon Greyjoy and the reavers of the Iron Isles made no big moves aside from besieging Deepwood Motte and some minor skirmishes along the outskirts of the Northern Mountains, seemingly satisfied with their current gains. But the number of Ironborn in the North was estimated to be above ten thousand.
Rumours of disgruntlement also spread through the Watch over Lord Commander Stark's possible involvement in the war slowly began to spread. Still, all dismissed them as baseless fearmongering, for Benjen Stark was preparing for an expedition to subdue Chieftain Harle, who had over seven thousand wildlings and was trying to claim the whole of Storrold's Point from Hardhome.
Things were not going well for Renly either. While word of the disappearance of Queen Margaery and her ladies-in-waiting took some time to spread, it did the following sennight, and Renly's cause took yet another blow. But things were far from over, especially with two major battles looming.
Upon awakening, Robb Stark immediately resumed his march down the Ocean Road, dead set on smashing through Oakheart once and for all. But while the Young Wolf was unharmed from yet another attempt on his life, word of the acolytes' betrayal spread, and the prestige of the Citadel and the Maesters took its biggest blow in centuries.
"If they dare to poison my good brother, who's to say they won't poison me?" Joffrey's infamous sentiment was shared in every corner of the realm. Acolytes and maesters were looked upon with suspicions for years to come, and none could even say what far-reaching consequences this would have. Scores of maesters and acolytes even lost their lives to their overly-suspicious lords, blaming them for one mishap or the other.
Yet another, far more important battle seemed all but inevitable.
The situation at King's Landing was getting worse for both sides, but neither was willing to give up. While Edmure Tully and his men slowly but surely approached the capital, thousands were falling ill with the black plague each day both outside and inside the walls, and just as many perished. The brutal slog underground between miners in the dark continued but to no avail, aside from more and more deaths. Tunnels were collapsed, men were buried alive, and new ones were being dug again and again.
It looked like the city would never fall, and Renly would be forced to retreat and regroup his forces to match Edmure Tully's fresh army. Just as the first preparations for a retreat were underway, the Lion's Gate exploded in green flames in the darkness of the night. It was said that the explosion could be heard from three leagues and felt from thirty, though many dismissed the claims as exaggeration. Still, the volatile wildfire bloomed into a green cloud, ejecting a good portion of the gatehouse and the surrounding curtain wall into the sky. At the time, nobody suspected unstable caches of wildfire lay buried underneath each gate, but it is commonly agreed that one of the sappers chanced upon one such trove in their brutal struggle.
Regardless, a gaping hole nearly thirty yards wide was left in the fortifications, and Renly ordered his men forth into a full assault despite rampant disease and the lingering green flames-
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'
Author's Endnote:
No stalemate lasts forever, but that doesn't mean shit can't turn ugly in every direction.
New OCs introduced this chapter: Serala Vaeltigar, sister to a Myrish magister. Belio the Black Blade, one of the leaders of the Slave Revolt of Myr. Rhaelle Selmy- Lord Selmy's younger sister.
Note—many plotlines converge at turning points, so the previous, this, and the following chapters happen in a tight time frame (you'll see). The POVs might not even be arranged chronologically (although the POVs inside the chapters themselves will be).
Also, Illyrio isn't as sneaky as he thought he was, esp without Varys to cover his arse and run the whole spy scheme. More will be revealed later on Marge.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
RIP various notable named characters. Too old for the business of war or backed the wrong horse.
And looks like there's going to be even more death shortly. Notionally Renly has to have enough numbers left to force the breach, which means it's probably over there...though if they're not fast about it I suppose the Tully army can end up hitting them before they've finished digesting everything.
Tyrek thought the world had ended after the enormous rumble that shook the world, making him leap off his bed in fright. It was a familiar rumble, something he had heard a handful of times before, if somewhat weaker–but he had been prepared back then. Yet the terrible sound was but a herald of what was to come.
"PLUMM, GET YOUR MARKSMEN ON THE LEFT PORTION OF THE LION'S WALL! BENFORD, SHIELDS TO THE RIGHT BARRICADE! PUSH THEM OUT!" Tywin Lannister's roars echoed above the clash of steel and the sounds of men dying. In the darkness, it was nigh impossible to use flags or signs to control the men. Nobody knew where the hornblowers were–or if they were even still alive with the hefty plague creeping through the city. Thus, Tyrek had the pleasure of hearing the oldest lion roar with all his anger and fury–something that he never thought the composed Tywin Lannister was even capable of.
Another terrible aspect of fighting in the dark Tyrek had never expected was that it was hard to find their arms and armour, let alone put them on, and tripping was very easy if you couldn't see the uneven ground. Lanterns, torches, and candles were suddenly in demand. Everything was chaotic at night, especially at the three armouries.
The fact that Renly had managed to muster and move in first didn't help much either, for with the ten-minute advantage, the Reachmen and the Stormlanders had spilt into the streets and past half the undermanned barricades and traps. The only reason King's Landing wasn't flooded with Renly's army was Commander Balon Swann and his valiant gold cloaks holding on by the skin of their teeth.
The retching stink of death choked the air, mingling with the overwhelming stench of brimstone. The only reason they could see was the eerie green flames that were still festering like giant sinister torches placed at the ends where the walls connecting to the Lion's Gate were gone as if a giant had decided to rip the gatehouse out. The damning alchemical flame threw a sinister emerald glow in every direction. Smaller but no less creepy fires were sizzling angrily in an enormous semi-circle from their centre, slowly but surely engulfing everything, be it wood, flesh, or bone.
If there was a scene that could belong to the Seven Hells, then this was it. The whole world flashed white for a second, and Tyrek stole a glance at his Lordly Uncle atop his stallion. The Lion of Casterly Rock looked like a cold statue with two emeralds for eyes, dispassionately observing the brutal slaughter in the dark. After the lightning came the thunder, deafening the whole battle for a heartbeat, but the men continued fighting.
A pittering sound followed, and flashes of lightning continued, some distant, some close. The drizzle turned into a fierce downpour within moments, making everything even messier. But even the rain couldn't defeat the stubborn green flames.
"FORM UP A LINE FASTER, PIKES TO THE BAKER'S STREET. I WANT MORE MARKSMEN ON THE ROOFS, SERRET-"
A small part of him realised that the enemy also knew Lord Tywin's commands could easily be heard by the Reachmen, too.
The situation was not looking good, from what Tyrek could barely see atop his pony. Thousands of Reachmen had entered the gap and taken the left wall. What remained undamaged from the barricades prevented long lines from forming, and with the fighting spilling into the nearby streets and between the houses, it became a contest of prodding and pushing, where the defeated would fall, only to be trampled to death whether by his allies or foes. The rain making the cobbles underneath more slippery didn't help, but it managed to wash out some of the stench of blood and ruptured viscera that permeated the air. The sound of sizzling and the small clouds of steam made Tyrek's spine crawl as the jade flames continued, undeterred by the water pouring from above.
His Lordly Uncle was trying everything to prevent the enemy from spilling further into the city, slinking along the walls to open the other gates, but neither side seemed to have the upper hand. There were no tricks, no clever plans like in the Bloody Crossing, just the mad rush of battle as men bulled into the bloody slog until one side broke.
And Tyrek didn't like their chances. More than half of the knights and men-at-arms in the city had fallen ill to this new black plague, too weak even to stand up, let alone pick up a blade and fight. Thousands had already perished in the last fortnight.
"Shouldn't we rush in to help?" Tyrek turned to his lordly uncle, his gloved hand awkwardly reaching for the arming sword on his belt. Another flash of lightning illuminated the hundred of the finest redcloaks in the Westerlands surrounding the two of them, personally selected by Lord Tywin.
"Only as a last resort," came the curt reply. Tywin Lannister did not even move his head; his stern gaze focused on the battle before them. "Commanding from the front leaves you blind to the greater battle, and should you be struck down or captured, the blow would be crushing to morale."
Yet another blinding flash followed by an enormous rumbling BOOM as the world shook, and his gelding neighed and reared up in fear. Tyrek instinctively held onto the reins with everything he had. His blood chilled as he saw yet another enormous green shroom blooming from the north—just where the Gate of the Gods was.
A heartbeat later, the battle continued with zeal, but the new ringing in his ears wouldn't go away.
"RENLY!" The Reachmen pushed forth into a frenzy. "RENLY! THE SEVEN ARE WITH US THIS DAY! EVEN THE GODS HAVE DECIDED TO SMITE DOWN JOFFREY THE ILLBORN AND HIS MEN!"
Any doubts that it was an explosion inside the city were soon squashed. As the young Lannister squire still struggled to get his usually calm steed back under control, an emerald shower of molten debris–including something that suspiciously looked like a large, twisted chunk of the portcullis–started falling everywhere, setting even more things aflame.
"Kevan." Tywin's face had turned grim. "Take Tyrek and your men to the Gate of the Gods and try to hold." He strapped on his helmet and turned to the captain of the red cloaks, Ser Vylarr. "It is time. Men, with me. HEAR ME ROAR!"
Had they reached the end of the rope?
Tyrek's mind was numb as he followed his uncle Kevan and his solemn men towards the other breach. They reached the Cobblers Square through the narrow alleyways, where the sounds of fighting were already spreading. Tyrek felt the heat first, the cold rainfall doing little to dispel it.
The ruddy light of the remaining lanterns was overwhelmed by the eerie green shine illuminating the night. His stomach lurched as he saw what looked like a Marbrand man-at-arms moaning with agony as his face was still steaming, half-melted by something, revealing chunks of charred bone underneath. Now, the stench of brimstone was mingling with the one of charred meat. A few more fallen were trashing in agony, green flames hungrily devouring them, making the flesh slough off their bones as they fell.
Their pained whimpers and hoarse, wheezing cries would be forever seared in Tyrek's mind, doubtlessly to haunt his nightmares if he lived through the battle.
"Green piss is a bad way to go," he heard one of the redcloaks with the retinue grunt. "But at least it's fast, unlike the Black Death."
"Not nearly as ugly either," quipped another with dark amusement. "Have you seen the dead of the latter? They look more demon than human."
The image conjured in his mind, coupled with the sight in front, was too much for Tyrek, and he heaved over, voiding his dinner from his belly.
The situation looked even worse; through a veil of choking steam, Tyrek could see the Marband men and a handful of gold cloaks, headed by a man who could only be Serjeant Gerold Waters, with his looming stature, barely holding back the tide of Reachmen pouring through the darkness.
"Tylon, grab your men-" Just as Kevan was already barking orders, Tyrek heard a voice he least expected to hear tonight.
"RIDE FORTH!" Joffrey's yells echoed through the night as the sounds of horses appeared. It would have been slightly more dramatic if a few steeds didn't slip just as they rushed through the Street of Seeds. "MINE IS THE FURY! LET US VANQUISH THIS HERETICAL RABBLE OUT OF MY CITY!"
Sadly, the momentum of the charge was killed as the horses started slowing down and resisting their riders the more they approached the emerald flames. Even warhorses had more sense than humans in approaching the green piss, it seemed. The young king was clad in an elaborate armour that couldn't be mistaken anywhere else. From the forge of Master Tobho Mott himself, the gilded metal glinted eerily in the eerie green light, giving a sickly twist to the roaring lion and the rearing stag depicted on the ornate breastplate.
Yet his royal cousin was undaunted, rushing into the first breach, if flanked by his white cloaks, swinging his ornate sword with rare eagerness. But the action seemed to wind him fast, and he quickly retreated, letting his men do the fighting.
Joffrey and the Red Keep's elites' mere presence seemed to invigorate the defenders, who fought with renewed fervour. Even all the white cloaks were here, two guarding their king at all times, while the rest dismounted and commanded the royal men-at-arms into the fray.
"Lancel," Kevan's voice sounded considerably calmer now, even though he cautiously glanced in Joffrey's direction every few heartbeats. "Take two dozen swords and secure the ramparts towards the Old Gate–I see the Reachmen already trying to take control. Tyrek, with him."
After a short skirmish through the dark alleys, Tyrek followed his cousin up the stone steps to the top of the curtain wall. Too narrow to form a proper line, it turned into another bloody scuffle, even though he had the chance to poke at a Reachman fighting against a gold cloak. Nobody expected a squire of three and ten to battle, but Tyrek hardly had any choice when all hands were needed.
Thankfully, Lancel seemed to know what he was doing, and soon, the Reachmen were being pushed out.
"There's more of these flowery heretics down the ramparts," Tyrek could hear Lancel grind his teeth, and his lion-shaped visored helmet looked almost demonic, especially now that it was splattered with blood. "Emery, Tylon, and Jarek guard the stairs. Tyrek and Jord, see if you can work that scorpion and rain some death upon the Reachmen. The rest with me!"
Up close, the angry emerald flames licked at the stone; the former gatehouse looked as if an invisible giant had ripped out the fortifications or smashed them with a titanic hammer, leaving an enormous smoking pit behind.
"Eyes up, lad," a gruff voice coming from who was probably Jord shook Tyrek awake. "Do you know how to work this contraption?"
The Lannister squire grimaced as he glanced at the scorpion that was slightly taller than him. "I have worked a crossbow before…"
How hard could it be?
Five minutes later, Tyrek wanted to cry because it was far from easy, especially in the flickering green light. As they were trying to figure out the enormous winch, pulleys, chains, and ropes, an angry roar echoed from below, "THE KING IS DOWN!"
Surely enough, Tyrek turned around to see Joffrey had fallen off his horse, and the white cloaks were lugging his unmoving body onto a steed and away from the battle. The royal forces wavered, and the Reachmen pushed forth visibly with redoubled strength…until a furious bellow came from the tall gold cloak commander as he grabbed a maul as large as he was and swept it through multiple men, broken bones and swords clattering on the ground.
"PROTECT THE KING, DAMN YOU! BRING ME YOUR BEST, FLOWERS!"
For a whole minute, Tyrek could hear Gerold Waters and his thundering challenges at anyone as he held the gap between two barricades by himself, allowing the royalists to reform behind him while Tyrek and Jord tried to operate the scorpion. Finally, the Gold Cloak was beset by eager knights thinking him the Demon of the Trident come again, poking at him with halberds and billhooks while agilely dodging away from his maul. His knee got hooked when he overextended as he turned a daring Knight's head into a pulp, and once he fell, Tyrek didn't see him stand up again. The remaining gold cloaks were already turning around to flee.
"THE SUN OF WINTER!" Only for Karstark's bellow to herald yet more reinforcements, and an uneasy stalemate was reached, but Tyrek knew no more help would come. Aside from the Northmen, everyone was already fighting–or defending the other gates. But he couldn't deny that the damned Northerners were fighting like demons, throwing themselves at their foes no matter what. The rabid attack inspired the hesitating defenders once more.
Seeing the battle was not yet lost, the two of them continued silently.
"How good a marksman are you, boy?" Jord wheezed, voice breathless from exertion as the two of them finally pushed and aimed the scorpion outside of the breach.
"Good enough," Tyrek said as his muscles groaned in protest, feeling as if all his limbs were made out of lead. His arming doublet underneath was soaked and felt heavier than a ringmail.
He could hardly see anything in the dark, let alone through the uncomfortable kettle helmet that kept falling over his eyes. The flickering green flames that made everything into an unrecognisable shade of emerald made things even harder. Eventually, they pointed the iron-tipped bolt towards the thickest part of the incoming attackers, where the armours flickered the brightest on the light–probably belonging to someone important who had his squire shine their plate constantly. Tyrek grabbed the rope that was supposed to trigger the longsword-sized iron-tipped bolt, but it didn't budge. The man-at-arms came beside him, and with grunting and groaning, they leaned onto their rope, pulling with all their strength and weight. Eventually, the rope gave, and with a clinking sound, a bolt was launched into the breach.
"THEY'VE KILLED THE LORD HAND! THE LORD HAND IS DOWN! RETREAT, RETREAT!"
"...did we just kill Mace Tyrell?" Tyrek whimpered out a laugh as his shaking legs gave out, and he fell on his arse.
Kevan Lannister, later in the morning.
"How is His Grace?"
Pycelle frowned, nervously wringing his hands under Tywin's stiff gaze.
"His Grace has received a few bruises, but nothing harmful from the night's fight," the grandmaester cautiously said. "But he's weak. He's caught the plague."
"Why am I only hearing of this now?"
For once, the old maester grimaced, no longer bothering even to look sleepy. "Because it seems His Grace has hidden his symptoms and avoided any meeting with me."
"For how long has His Grace been ill?" Kevan asked. Pycelle shrunk under their gaze, looking even more nervous than before. "For how long?"
"At least two days. The bulbous swellings have begun to grow around his ribs and armpits and have darkened considerably."
"Very well," Tywin said slowly. "Do what you can to save him. Spare no efforts. And find a bloody cure for this pestilence already!"
"Our medicine supplies have been stretched thin by the plague," Pycelle took the chance to complain. "Out of the nineteen maesters in the city, seven were killed by Joffrey for treason because they hailed from the wrong kingdom, and nine perished to the Black Death already. Some say it's magical in origin!"
"Superstitious nonsense." His brother scoffed coldly. "Well? Try harder, Pycelle, lest you want to see yourself replaced by someone more capable. I hear Renly's maesters have found ways to effectively stave off the onset of the Black Death."
"They're merely delaying, my lord," the grandmaester bowed, wiping his glistening forehead with a pale napkin. "I have heard of their ways, using extracts of garlic, cloves, poplar bark, and even thyme. But such things can be just as lethal as they are helpful if administered wrongly. Didn't you say the young flower knight perished despite their best efforts?"
"Pray Joffrey doesn't follow in his stead because you shall join my grandson in death."
An hour later, the exhausted Lannister brothers retreated into the Hand's Tower, both feeling dead tired. Even the usually stoic Tywin slumped on his chair after Tyrek helped him out of his armour, looking ten years older.
"I heard you took down the rose lord," Tywin said, closing his eyes. "You can pick any free fief after the war, as promised. Go and get some shut-eye, Tyrek. I expect you back to your duties in five hours."
Smiling as if he had just won a tourney, his nephew ran off to his quarters on the lower floor.
The royal promise of ennoblement and enfeoffing was not of a free pick of any lordship or castle but intentionally vague, and most would probably receive some minor holdfast. But such an important foe like Mace Tyrell merited an equal reward, especially when done by their dear nephew.
Even more so when Tyrek's random stroke of luck could have saved them all. If the Gate of the Gods had fallen, Tywin's forces would have been flanked and defeated, leaving the way open to the Red Keep.
There was no worse blow to morale than to have your king fall or flee. Just as he had thought his men would break, the Reachmen had retreated first. Eventually, the assault on the Lion's Gate–or the Lion's Hole, as he heard his men call it–also dwindled. As soon as the attackers retreated, the wildfire was doused with sand and new barricades and wooden fortifications were quickly raised to plug the gaps.
A knock on the door announced the presence of a guest or visitor. However, this one had to be important and urgent to bypass all the guards easily.
"My lord, Renly's army is retreating," Vylarr's muffled voice echoed. "They are breaking camp and heading towards the Golden Bridge with haste."
"Very well," Tywin said. "I will send for you should I have any orders."
"As we expected." Kevan laughed, but the sound was hoarse, like a chalk scraping on a wooden board. "Should we try and pursue?"
"With what men?" Tywin asked quietly. "This plague left us with barely seven thousand able to wield arms. Many thousands have perished not to a sword or a spear or an arrow but to the dark hand of the Stranger. Just as many are ill. See what the whims of the gods have left of the might of the Westerlands? Even though they have not counted the bodies yet, I know it in my heart. We lost more than half tonight, and our only solace is that Renly's forces suffered just as much as us, if not more. Besides, if we sally out of the city, we risk the plague spreading further before a cure is found."
"Renly's men will already spread it through the Crownlands," Kevan pointed out weakly.
"Perhaps they will, but we cannot risk crippling Edmure's Riverlanders. Besides, Penrose should still be nearby, with nine thousand fresh swords. Should we chase, we can find ourselves trapped and slain. Moreover, Renly's foolishness has begun catching up to him. I have received word from my spies in the Dornish Marches that the Golden Rose and all of her ladies-in-waiting have been abducted by Wyl's bastard of all people."
And trueborn Wyls were infamously cruel to their captives, let alone bastard ones. He shuddered to think what was done to highborn maidens, even if they were the wives and daughters of his foes.
"And now, without Mace Tyrell… Renly's support will be shakier than ever," Kevan concluded shakily. But he was too weary to feel any joy. "The war is far from over, though."
"Indeed, let us not lie to ourselves. Renly's rebellion won't end until he dies and armies sworn in his name no longer take the field. The situation in the North troubles me, and those zealots do not seem to care which king supports them."
The night had been a victory, but it scarcely felt like one. Knowing his brother, he was already scheming ways to leverage this new advantage into a fatal blow to Renly's cause, but that was a matter for fresh minds. Kevan Lannister crashed onto the nearest bed with his clothes on, too tired to even take a bath, let alone walk all the way to his quarters.
24th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Septon Glendon, Barrowton
"Bread? Does anyone have some bread to spare?"
"I'll work a day for a bowl of gruel…"
The feeble words could be heard at every corner of Barrowton, but the Hightower men-at-arms guarding the place paid them no heed.
Shivering men so emaciated that you could count their ribs, clearly visible under the rags that did little to stave off the Northern cold, lined the streets. Even the scarce sun did little to banish the chill for more than an hour or three, and it oft wasn't enough. On a particularly bad day, the clouds darkened and could drench everything in a cold drizzle for days, turning everything muddy.
Few paid attention to the white tower fluttering in the skies above. Hightower had claimed the seat of House Dustin, but Redwyne received the shores and the docks in return–along with Torrhen's Square and the enormous sentinel lake.
"This cannot continue, Your Holiness," Septon Glendon protested as the Faith's hefty retinue headed towards the large manse set aside for them. "Coming here was a mistake."
"Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, my child," the High Septon responded, not unkindly. Unlike the utter misery that spread through most zealots and vagrants, he was dressed in pristine robes of flowing white silk, his crystal crown glittering like a beacon in the Northern sun. "This is but a challenge the Seven have placed before us to test our devotion."
And what a challenge it was. The vast majority of the Northmen fled for their lives, leaving none of the expected food or valuables behind. While the empty fields and farms were being worked by the Reachmen, the soil itself was different and far harder to plant on, and the nightly chill killed most of the usual crops. Only turnips, onions, leeks, carrots, and cabbages seemed to survive here, but it would be moons until they were grown enough to feed anyone.
Dozens of men died each day, whether to the cold or hunger, Glendon could not tell. But for every Reachman who fell, three new arrived by ship, thinking they were coming to a better place for a righteous cause. What worried him the most was that fewer and fewer corpses were buried each day despite the increasing death toll, and he suspected some had fallen into the sinful ways of maneating.
Thousands foraged in every direction, but the Reachlords and their army took a vast majority of the food and game they found, continuing with their campaign. Word arrived yesterday how Redwyne had already taken Torrhen's Square. The bulk of the Hightower forces were already marching as fast as they could towards Winterfell, the pious knight had set his sights on the heart of the North. Despite the heavy losses, Grimm and Hewitt's siege of Moat Cailin had not shown any results.
"I don't like working with these Ironmen. Crude, godless barbarians, barely any better than these filthy Northmen." Septon Archibald of the Most Devout muttered with his haughty rasp. The old, balding septon was oft strong-spoken against everyone and everything outside the Reach, and even now, he was spiritedly waving about his weirwood sceptre encrusted with diamonds the size of a pigeon egg to illustrate his point further. Since they had started cutting down the weirwoods, every Septon and Septa had one, oft lined with gold or gems, if not both. Glendon suspected the sizeable amount of remaining weirwood was being sold south for profit. "Do we not risk damnation by working side by side with the faithless reaving heathens?"
It was not a new question, but the High Septon always responded the same.
"His Grace has declared we are allies, and until that is no longer the case, we are forced to work together. Even in the Seven-Pointed Star, it is written that one must join forces with the unbelievers if a greater cause demands it. Cooperation is one way to spread the holy teachings, even in the cold hearts of the Ironmen. Did I not personally anoint Theon Greyjoy with the seven holy oils in the Green Sept?"
"Indeed, Your Holiness. Of course, we bolstered Lady Desmera's numbers with a retinue of Septons and Septas on her way to her husband," Septa Myrena added knowingly. "The Light of the Seven can be spread with a velvet glove." Her wrinkled face scrunched up as she looked around the dilapidated surroundings. "But some places demand an iron fist to be brought into the fold."
"Go now, Glendon," the High Septon waved dismissively. "You should pray harder if you can be shaken by mortal suffering."
Glendon gritted his teeth inwardly but bowed deeply and excused himself, but he managed to hear some more as he walked away. "We should pick the best spot for a Grand Northern Sept. Preferably something more central. We cannot allow the heretical Sept of Snow to continue with its influence. Hightower has promised us the coin for a grand building out of marble…"
There was coin for a sept, but not to feed the men they convinced to come here. While those zealots and vagrants who followed the army managed to find some small measure of food in exchange for tasks of fighting, there were only so many additional throats the lords were willing to feed. The rest were left at their own devices and completely unprepared for living in the cold, harsh North. Despite being only early autumn, it was supposed to be the warmest part of the year, but as soon as the sun was covered by clouds, even Glendon's heavy woollen robe barely warded off the chill.
On his way back to his cottage on the outskirts, he saw a few emaciated men squabbling over a scruffy pigeon.
Far more were gathering around a warrior shouting, "I have experience commanding men! Need more volunteers for raids on the Rills! Food after each victory, and plunder is finders keepers!"
Every other direction was claimed by one lord or another, but neither Hightower nor Redwyne or the coastal lords seemed to be interested in the thorny Ryswell lands. The most important part was probably not the riches or plunder but the foraging. Every morsel of food between Barrowton and the White Knife was being cleared by the lordly foraging parties, which was not the case for the Rills. Even the roots were dug out for sustenance, leaving a barren landscape in their wake.
A patchwork of hills and plains, the youngest Ryswell son had proven fierce in the defense of his lands, striking fast and hard with his light lancers and horse archers against any Reachmen or Ironborn that dared cross his borders. But his numbers were paltry, and he could hardly be everywhere at once. With King Renly's promise to uphold the Right of Conquest, many second and third sons and landless knights seemed eager to make a play on the Rills, hoping for plunder and thinking of 'winning' the lands by cunning.
Six such groups, each more than four hundred strong, had departed, yet Septon Glendon had yet to hear from them again.
"Need more hands to dig through the barrows…"
Those criers were eyed with far less enthusiasm, though the man still managed to gather a few dozen desperate men who looked ready to keel over from the cold and hunger. Only those with nothing left to lose went to dig through the cursed barrows. Nine out of ten were empty, and most of those who dared dig died within a sennight, their limbs rotting away.
"It's cursed," many had said, rightly so. In fact, all the diggers had died two days after the first dig into the Great Barrow, and so had everyone else who followed. The treasure found in the enormous tomb was just as cursed, and every one of its owners had died so far. Not that the lauded riches had been significant; he had heard most of it had been obsidian, carved tablets, crumbling bronze, and salt, with little silver and a handful of gemstones. Things that may interest a maester or some foreign merchant but could not feed anyone.
Glendon knew that even the High Septon dared not approach stuff dug out from the Great Barrow. Curse or no curse, the allure of treasure was irresistible to those desperate enough; even an old nugget of silver was enough to buy you food for a few days, depending on its size.
Jeyck Leygood awaited him by the dilapidated cottage, cleaning out a handful of roots and by a sparse bowl of what looked like diluted gruel.
"Septon Glendon," he greeted far less enthusiastically than before. Jeyck was no longer a squire; he had decided to give up the road to knighthood and join the Faith after the day the Hound slew his brother, and Glendon was glad to take such a good soul under his wing. But the honour had turned the sinewy boy thin, eating away all the baby fat from his face since they had arrived in the North. "Any luck with His Holiness?"
"Alas, it seems the High Septon has his sights on different things than us. He refuses to even entertain the topic, let alone order Redwyne and Hightower to stop shipping more poor souls into this hellish place."
The young novice's eyes were clouded with worry. "What do we do?"
"We pray," was the quiet answer. "We pray, and we preach to the new batch coming later today."
"We can always go to Ser Clegane," the boy muttered, looking at his weather-worn boots. "He and his men never go hungry."
The Hound led an assortment of over a thousand warriors, though most were hedge knights, turncloaks, repenting brigands or deserters, or even crooks with some skill with the blade. It was the High Septon's attempt to circumvent Maegor's laws since Renly Baratheon still refused to allow holy men to bear arms. Yet Glendon suspected their existence was only tolerated because the Hound was still useful, and the force was nominally answering to Hightower in all matters of warfare.
Even now, they had participated in the siege of Torrhen's Square. But with the Faith's backing, the previous gathering of rabble was now clad and armed with the finest steel gold could buy, courtesy of the smithies of Oldtown, turning them into a significant force.
"To thread the road of the Seven is to abandon the violence in your heart and embrace virtue in its stead," Glendon said softly, stifling a sad sigh. "While Ser Sandor has the Warrior's favour, it comes at a cost. All who live by the sword die by the sword, and taking a life… it's an ugly thing. And his heart is filled with undying vengeance and anger."
"But Joffrey and the Northmen… they started everything," Jeyck protested.
"Perhaps they did. But when shall it end? Will it end when you kill all the Starks? Or perhaps all the Northmen and Westerlanders who have lost kin and kith? What happens when all of them are dead, but the fighting keeps going?"
The boy did not meet his eyes again, and Glendon sighed. "The more oil you pour into the fires of hatred, the harder they are to put out. I'm afraid peace is moving further and further away with each following day. Yet the days grow shorter and shorter, and the nights longer with each next dawn. The Starks have the right to it, I fear. Winter is coming, and the Seven's presence can hardly shield us from nature's wrath in this harsh foreign land."
Even this cottage was taken from some poor soul chased out of his home. War… war was the death of virtue.
"Then what do we do?"
The earnest question made his heart clench. Yet Glendon had no answer for him, for the cycle of hatred was not easy to break. Even the ancient teachings of the Seven-Pointed Star offered him no solution to their conundrum.
"When the times are dark, one can only do what they can and turn to the gods for guidance…" The words felt empty on his tongue. How had it come to this? All he wanted was justice and righteousness for the smallfolk, for the Faith to be better, not this grotesque charade of suffering and misery in a distant land.
Worse, all the burning and hunting of heretics and heathens went against the teachings of the script. How would they see the light if not offered a chance for redemption?
He remembered the well-groomed and richly clothed High Septon and the crony crowd of Most Devout who cared not even one whit for the surrounding woes and the suffering of the common man. Deep down, Glendon knew the answer.
It was not the Gods who were wrong. No, it was as if the Faith he loved and cherished had further devolved into deviancy and corruption even more than it had before.
A commotion started nearby, and a mob of hungry vagrants were headed towards Barrotwon's granary, where a few builders hastily abandoned the half-finished wall.
"FOOD!" The chant chilled his veins. Glendon knew this wouldn't end well. For the first time in a while, he cursed his powerlessness.
"Seven above," he clasped his hands in prayer. "Let there be no bloodshed today. Crone, let wisdom and cooler heads prevail. Father, grant us justice in these trying times…"
But the Seven did not heed his prayers today. The angry crowd were quickly met with the drawn blades of the Hightower men-at-arms. Some fled in the muddy streets, while others soldiered on, and cries of pain and death soon filled the air.
Same Day
Theon Greyjoy, outskirts of the Northern mountains near Stonegate Keep.
"It's all because of your thrice-cursed grandmother!" The angry shrieks belonged to Elinor Goodbrother, formerly Tyrell, who had been the wife of the Greydon Goodbrother, but sadly, he and his siblings had perished at Flint's Fingers, leaving the Reach maiden a widow. Not for long, though. Denys Drumm had taken the beauty as his mistress.
As for who Elinor was shouting to? It was his harpy of a wife, of course. By the gods, Desmera was a beauty. Willowy, with full breasts and wide hips, her hair was like a fiery waterfall that harboured a heart-shaped face that made his loins ache. A man's dream.
Yet underneath the beauty hid an angry shrew with a heart as cold as ice.
"Olenna is no grandmother of mine," was the cold response. Theon could easily hear the venom dripping off Desmera's tongue. She addressed Margaery Tyrell–and all other Tyrells with the same vitriol. To many's great amusement, Mace Tyrell was oft called gormless craven and a fat lackwit.
The two women were like cats fighting, trading barbs and outright insults on sight.
A few of his men laughed at the feud, while others whistled at the passing accompanying Septas who tried to shrink in their robes. The only thing protecting their virtue was Theon's word–and his desire to keep the alliance with Renly and the Reach for as long as possible. He had screwed up once and did not want to start a mess again.
But he still felt inadequate, if not in matters of warfare this time.
Theon had tried. A part of him hoped for the warm marriage that Eddard Stark had with Catelyn. Another part of him wanted to treat his proud wife like a whore and fuck her senseless for daring to ignore him. Or for her refusal to even speak to him or look him in the eyes and lay still like a dead fish on the marriage bed. He was tempted to instil some wifely manners into her, by force if need be.
But two things stayed his hand. The first one was his pride; it was rare for a woman to so blatantly resist his charm or attempts of wooing. How many pairs of teats had he seen? How many wives had he fucked with but a smile? Theon wanted to conquer Desmera with his skills. And the second reason was far more practical. Her father was powerful and commanded many men and a mighty fleet, and her ginger brother had Asha under his whims. Even now, she was with the Reachmen, probably in Torrhen's Square. Theon had learned that his father's threat to sick his sister on Arya had been just that–an empty threat. But knowing Balon Greyjoy, he could have something far nastier hiding under his cloak.
Not that it mattered. Theon had an important task. Proving himself before his father and the Ironmen could mean he was not a man to be messed with. Not a weakling or a Greenlander, as some whispered.
"My men have cleared the lands around the Stonegate Keep," Denys Drumm had reported as soon as Theon had disembarked on land. "But we don't dare siege the place. Up the damned hills is filled with tough Greenlanders–thousands of them, my scouts reckoned. If they gather up, they can give me a good fight."
"Dorne will freeze before that happens without a Stark," Theon had scoffed. "There's a saying in the North. Three mountain clans cannot even agree on who to fish in which river, and four cannot even agree on the weather above without a Stark to arbitrate."
"But there is one of those damned oversized mutts here," Denys' face had twisted in fury as his hand reached for the jewelled hilt of what could only be Red Rain. "A horse-sized beast that fears no men and preys on my scouts at night. And that little bitch that commands the beast slew my father!"
Theon almost cringed at the anger dripping off the snarl, but the new Bone Lord had continued, "And the little shit and her beast continue harassing my men at night as if to mock me! Somehow, she finds the camp's weakest spot every time and strikes true. It must be some unnatural Greenlander magic. I already summoned Drowned Priests from Old Wyk, but they'll take over a moon to arrive."
Damn it, Arya. Why couldn't she sit still in whatever place she was supposed to be? Which, knowing Catelyn Stark, was not the outskirts of the mountains fighting Ironborn with a small warband.
"Don't worry," Theon assured. "I know how to deal with Arya Stark and the mountain clansmen. With the swords I bring, the Greenlanders would pose no threat to us."
With the men he recruited and those his father put under his command, Theon brought thirty-four hundred men from various houses, totalling nearly five thousand with what Drumm already had here. If he needed more, he could always summon the Netleys and the Goodbrothers of Downdelving and of Corpse Lake, who raided northward while avoiding committing any forces on the land. With Robb taking all the horse South, Theon had little to fear aside from a few daring skirmishers.
Now… how to bait Arya? Or how did she somehow find out the weak spots in Drumm's camps?
As he was lost in thought, Theon absentmindedly looked towards the skies, only to see the familiar silhouette of a snowy eagle and a plan began forming in his mind.
Seeing the eagle above, he climbed the nearest barrel, grabbing the men's attention.
"Alright, men," he shouted, loudly enough to be heard from afar but not too loud. "Meron, Erak, and Dagon will take ten men to look for the Stark girl up the hills while the rest of us set a trap here…"
His throat went dry after three minutes of yelling, and once the damned eagle… what did Arya call it. Aba? Ava? It didn't matter. Once the bird left, Theon looked at the sky for a whole minute to make sure it was gone.
"Good, the damned bird is gone," he could see the many questions he would have to answer. Even Desmera was looking at him as if he was a lackwit. Theon wasn't sure what to tell them, for most of it was a hunch after hearing too many of Old Nan's tales and seeing Robb and his siblings with his direwolves. Perhaps he would look like a fool if his plan failed or he was wrong, but he was willing to take the risk. "Now, forget what you just heard…"
25th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Victarion Greyjoy, outside of Deepwood Motte
"Good keep," Victarion frowned at the double ring of curtain walls protecting Deepwood Motte, which did not look like a motte and bailey at all. Nor was it deep into the forest. "It will be hard, but we can take it."
Many would die, but they could win with the nine thousand men here. Unlike Flint's Fingers, where only three thousand died, a bigger part of them were Orkwood and Ironmaker's men at their first defeat. Still, it had been a surprise when they landed on the shore to find the castle right in front of them. They had expected to make the trek to where the castle was supposed to be, fifteen leagues deep into the woods. Instead, it appeared the Northern lord had pulled a fast one on them.
"Glover is an old and cautious dog." Balon clicked his tongue. "Doubtlessly, he fears my retribution after slaying my Maron." His brother was just as cautious, seeing the thralls digging trenches and fortifications around the castle, surrounding it into a second, makeshift fort.
"My nephew had a good, worthy death, man to man, in a battle against a superior foe," Victarion pointed out, feeling confused. "The Drowned God has already welcomed him in his halls. Why would you be still wroth with Glover?"
His brother barked out a laugh. "Paranoia. These Greenlanders don't trust us. Even Renly and his flowers don't. Rightfully so. A dead son is a dead son, and what father would I be if I let my boy go unavenged?"
"I have some Myrish siege engineers with me, brother. Give me a sennight, and I'll have dozens of trebuchets raining destruction upon the castle." It's how Flint's Fingers had fallen after the foolish Castellan had sallied out to face him in port.
"If only," Balon said, begrudging respect seeping into his words. "There's no stone bigger than a fist within five leagues; even the beach is made from soft sand. Glover had chosen a good place to build his new castle. The hill, the spring that fed into the moat, the two curtain walls; It has turned this castle into a dragonturtle from Ibb. Impossible to defeat lest it leaves its shell." His brother then turned his gaze towards the nearby shore, where the Iron Fleet was beached. "I want Deepwood Motte for myself, especially as it is no longer deep in the woods. With it, I can control half the Wolfswood, build a new port town for our fleet, and it will prove a powerful buwalrk against the savages up the hills."
"But how will you take it if we don't attack?" Victartion scratched his head, but no ideas came to mind. He and his men could discard all armour and brave the moat with axes and shields and try to hack the gate open in the cover of the night. Or perhaps throw hooks and try to climb the walls–but Balon would have surely tried such tactics. "Will we divert the river and wait for their moat to dry?"
"Too much work, and with this weather, we could wait till Summer for that to happen. No, the solution is far simpler. We'll starve them. Scouts have arrived from deeper into the woods. The old
castle is abandoned, and not even a single man is holding it–the walls have even been torn down while the wooden keep has had all its doors and windows removed. Glover made a mistake and has over two thousand throats to feed behind those walls from his warriors alone. Their food will run out before ours does. We can probably take the castle by force, but the price would weaken us greatly. My lords have grown cautious of the Greenlander fortifications after so many losses."
"What of the cold?" Victarion asked. "Two, three months before the cold comes here if my new salt wife is not lying."
A common fishmaid had caught his eyes along Cape Kraken; he had found her alone at sea while sailing with Iron Victory towards Flint's Fingers. While not particularly beautiful, Alyna was a young but fierce thing, raising herself after her parents had perished in a storm six years prior. Victarion would have taken her for his rock wife if she hailed from the Iron Islands, baseborn or not.
"We Ironmen are no strangers to the cold," Balon scoffed. "The army can weather it at the new ports along Sea Dragon Point or Bear Isle. If it turns too cold, we can always sail back home and return once the weather turns for the better. Besides, there's plenty of work to be done. I have to send my scouts in groups of three or more if I want them to return. This bay is full of fish to be caught, and the woods are teeming with beasts and huntsmen. I also want construction on the port to begin sooner rather than later. We have the thralls for the work, and winter is coming."
Victarion sighed inwardly; it was good that his brother was confident in their victory, but… Sieges were as interesting as watching a man dig a hole in the ground–which was to say not at all. They were far slower, too! Worse, all the worthy warriors had gone South with the Young Wolf. Alas, his brother knew him all too well. Balon had ordered to avoid provoking the wolves of the North on the open field.
"My orders?" He asked, suppressing his irritation.
"You'll sit here and wait with me," Balon said. "The more men are outside of Glover's walls, the lower his morale when nobody is coming to aid him."
And now, all the big action was in the damn South. Everyone worth their salt in battle was making a name for themselves, and Victarion was thousands of miles away, with hardly any chance to challenge or provoke them into a fight. He was especially frustrated since Flint Finger's castellan had perished to a bludgeon before Victarion could face him.
26th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Arya Stark, the Northern Mountains
Everything hurt. The feeling of a cold arrow sinking into her body and the following cold froze her mind. Arya was flying in her dream, and she had died… but she was alive. But the chill and void in her chest did not go away, and it felt as if a phantom arrow had pierced through her chest and stayed there. In her panic, Arya found herself again on four feet, running madly up the hills.
Eventually, her mind slipped back into her body for a world of pain.
Her eyes felt like lead, but with a hefty struggle, Arya forced them to open, only to be met with the visage of Sansa. No, not Sansa. She was older, nearly twenty, had some freckles up her rosy cheeks and looked far more arrogant and annoying than her sister could be on a bad day.
"Tsk, I didn't expect my fool of a husband actually to succeed," came the catty, arrogant voice. "I thought the cold had scrambled his wits, speaking of things such as wargs and skinchangers. It sounds scary, even, and one would think of some old greybeard practising in a cave, not... you. You're such a scrawny thing for the sister of a highlord. Poor girl, captured by the Ironborn like me."
"Wait…" Arya croaked out. "Did the reavers catch me?"
"Yes, Theon Greyjoy and his lot did. I have the pleasure of being his wife."
There was not even an ounce of pleasure in her words.
But as the implications sank in, Arya spat in her face, but she quickly saw stars. The stinging pain on her cheek was worth it, she decided, and the arrogance was back on the lady's face.
"I suppose your time in the wild has made you feral. Perhaps your Septa or your mother failed to teach you manners," the mocking tone and the insult towards her mother infuriated Arya even further, but now even her mouth hurt. "I expected a kindred soul but found a savage. I suppose I will leave you with the Septas for company."
With a huff, the woman turned around and walked out of what Arya recognised as a tent. For a moment, she regretted spitting in the woman's face, but the remorse quickly faded. Theon's wife… Demara Redwyne or something, it did not matter. She clearly couldn't be any good if she insulted Arya's mother.
A thousand questions swam in Arya's mind. She had failed. What of Shadd and the rest of the Winterfell guard accompanying her? What of Sara Snow and Torrhen Flint? What happened to her friend Lena?
How often had they insisted on retreating up the hills to Breakstone Hill or Little Hall, and Arya stubbornly declined, saying they could keep making trouble for the Ironmen, thinking herself untouchable in the sky? How many had died along with Ava because she felt invincible and drunk on her success?
Worse… what would happen to her?
Old Nan said Ironborn spoil all maidens. Worse, even someone horse-faced like her wouldn't be passed up; according to Lyanna Mormont, the Ironborn went to sail the seas and abduct wives because their women were just too ugly.
The Septas came, all old and wrinkled and garbed in grey and white, with faces sterner than even Mordane could sport. Each of them held a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, and Arya felt her head hurt even more.
But before they could say something, the tent's flap was pulled open, and a tall, dark figure entered.
"Out," the familiar voice was far more forceful than Arya had heard before.
"But-"
"Arya Stark is my hostage. Out. Now!"
The annoying old crones scrambled, but Arya couldn't find herself to feel any joy.
"Theon," she croaked out. But no more words left her mouth. She was too tempted to call him a craven turncloak, but even Arya knew it wouldn't end well, and she wasn't excited to find out how 'worse' looked. So she tried her best to remain silent.
"Arya," Theon greeted, his voice neutral, but his gaze lingered on her burning cheek. "I see you already made a big impression on my wife."
She almost felt a sliver of pity for Theon. Arya had suffered the stupid Demara for a handful of minutes, but he would have to suffer her until he died. Almost.
"I know you're probably angry at me," the Turncloak continued, his voice lowering to just above a whisper. "But I need you to stop making trouble. Saltcliffe and Drumm would love to get their hands on you, and you being my prisoner is the only thing that protects you."
His haughty tone irked her. Arya was tempted to spit again, but instead, she muttered, "I haven't killed any Saltcliffes."
"Robb killed three of Maren's brothers, his father, and his uncle in the Westerlands."
"Oh." A pity Robb had missed Maren.
"Regardless, just sit here and don't make any trouble. Listen, Arya, we don't have to do this the hard way. You're almost like a younger sister to me, more than Asha, who is my flesh and blood, if you would believe me. The war will drag on for some time, and if you behave, it'll be easy to ransom you back to Winterfell."
Arya said nothing, and Theon's expectant face fell as the silence stretched. She didn't trust even a word that had left his traitorous tongue–he was the one who nailed Ava with his arrow.
But her body felt too tired to move; the phantom ache in her chest still made her feel as weak as a newborn. Her feet were chained to a thick iron rod hammered into the ground; she spied the cloak of a guard standing outside the tent through the flap. Worse, her mind was muddled with a constant dull ache that just would not go away, just like the phantom arrow that felt to be stuck in her chest. She even had no idea if Nymeria lived or if anyone had escaped to alert the clansmen of her capture.
Even if they did so… Arya knew they wouldn't work together. She knew this because she tried. Many chieftains had asked her. "Who would lead?"
Harclay had stated, "You can't expect me to follow this green Liddle pup or that stubborn Knott second son. Wull, Redclay, Burley, and the rest are no better! Those fools will send my men to die while they win all the glory and plunder!"
While welcoming with a smile, when it came to warfare, all the chieftains and castellans were hoary, old, and stubborn. Each refused to contemplate fighting together and claimed they knew better than everyone else.
Arya realised she had fucked up. Colossally. And there was no one coming to get her out of trouble either.
Author's Endnote:
And so ends Mace Tyrell, randomly nailed by a scorpion bolt in the dark. Loras also pitifully expires.
Yet another long, action-packed chapter. This, including the previous two chapters, takes place in a short time span. The dates are accurate. The next chapter won't be much different, either.
Renly eats a big L, Joffrey's luck runs out, and the weather, coupled with the wildfire (or you can just attribute it to the gods), decides to fuck with King's Landing. But Tyrek Lannister turns what seems like a looming defeat into a W. Also, people around KL are dying like flies in large numbers.
The situation in the North is not particularly rosy for any of those involved, and we get to peek into the ugliness underneath. Finally, Arya's daring goes too far into the territory of arrogance, and unexplored skills meet Theon's eagerness to prove himself and come short…
Retconning the prologue, Glover altogether moved Deepwood Motte to a better economic location.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
A common fishmaid had caught his eyes along Cape Kraken; he had found her alone at sea while sailing with Iron Victory towards Flint's Fingers. While not particularly beautiful, Alyna was a young but fierce thing, raising herself after her parents had perished in a storm six years prior. Victarion would have taken her for his rock wife if she hailed from the Iron Islands, baseborn or not.
Heartwarming that he even cared enough to learn about her, I guess? Is there a cultural moor in the Iron Islands about a Rock Wife NEEDING to be an Ironlander? Or is it enough to have Iron blood like the smallfolk of Cape Kraken and the Western Shores of the North?
