Gendry got yoinked by Red Wake Walder as his square.
Gerold is another one of Bobby B's bastards though, an older OC, this time, cause Bobby B had two more years to fuck around in this timeline. I introduced him in one of the Renly's chapters earlier.
"We found 'em," Mero, the Captain of the Second Sons, came to their weathered camp with a posse of his sellswords.
"Who did you find?" Daario Naharis asked, stroking his painted beard. "Was it another group of rebels? Or perhaps some of the fools that aid them?"
"I found both," Mero said, and a savage smile spread across his scarred face, reminding Daario of a crimson ape from the Summer Isles with his long, bushy, gold-red beard. "My scouts traced a group of fleeing slaves towards the Wolfpack. They're out in the open on the road to Pentos."
Daario was one of the three captains of the Second Sons, a company hired by the Grand Conclave of Myr to suppress the slave uprising in the Ashen Plains, the expanse of land between the Free City, the Crystal Lake and the River of Myrth. It had another name, now forgotten–after a Dothraki Khal named Jhoro had set everything ablaze two centuries prior, the people had called it the Ashen Plains or the Grey Expanse. Of course, that did not mean it remained uninhabited, for the fertile land suffered little and quickly recovered, attracting even more people than before.
A year prior, the plains were flush with farms, villas, small villages, pastures, and quarries from end to end.
Now, the whole place was filled with death and rebelling slaves.
"Take a piss in the shrubbery, and you'll hit a corpse or a hiding slave," his men oft japed.
Myr employed thirteen companies across the Ashen Plains to quell the uprising. It wasn't as easy as they expected. The slaves were as numerous as the mosquitos at the Rhoyne. They hid amidst the fields and mines, dug in barrows, and even pretended to be obedient before stabbing you in the back. Most rebels had a spear or a bludgeon–of proper make instead of hoes, sickles, and rakes, which meant someone was pouring coin into the so-called uprising.
Worse, despite having little martial training, the slaves were well-coordinated, hinting at the existence of hidden masterminds and plotters. With coin and leadership, the chaotic and disunited revolts turned into a war–at least those outside the walls of Myr.
What was an easy contract had turned into an ugly slog of slaughter and desperation. Oh, the Storm Crows would still finish it–while looting everything the Ashen Plains had to offer under the easy pretext of aiding the slaves. The casualties suffered only meant everyone would have a greater share of the plunder.
At the northernmost side of the Ashen Plains, the Storm Crows operated with the Maiden's Men and the Second Sons. The former was led by Yven Irontooth, a bowlegged, stocky man hailing from Ibb, while the latter was by Mero, the Titan's Bastard, a greedy man with an unsavoury reputation.
Their strength was just over twenty-three hundred men combined, over half lancers, and the rest mounted foot and marksmen.
Even though they were somewhat disjointed in command, the three companies were happy enough to team up for any fighting. It prevented the chance of being ganged up by the paltry sellswords helping the rebels, like some of the more confident companies at the start of the turmoil.
That did not mean that the loot would be split evenly, of course.
So before they mustered to chase down the Wolfpack, Daario met up with Prendahl na Grazen and Sallor the Bald, the other two captains of the Stormcrows, and men just as greedy as he was, if more proud.
"Mero will doubtlessly try to take all the plunder from the Wolfpack for himself," Sallor grunted. "We have to send a group to claim their supplies first."
Prendahl scoffed. "How much wealth can two hundred sellswords boast?"
On days like this, Daario wondered how such lackwits had climbed to the position of captain. But he knew how–with low cunning, brutish cruelty, and undeniable skill at arms.
"Word is the Lyseni are paying them a hefty amount of coin," he supplied. "Then, whoever is commanding the rebelling slaves is paying a second time for gold and jewellery looted from their masters."
After half an hour of squabbling and posturing, they agreed that Sallor would be the one to go around the battle and take a hundred cavalry to raid the enemy camp for plunder.
Of course, they didn't trust him. Nothing stopped him from taking the stuff for himself and fleeing, so Sallor angrily promised to leave his concubines and personal wealth behind.
An hour later, the three sellsword companies were finally on the march, rushing northwards lest the Wolfpack slip away again.
"Where's Sallor?" Mero asked after half an hour. "The bald bastard is not one to miss a battle."
"Back at camp, with his pants around his ankles, shitting his guts out," Daario laughed. "Fool drank too much of the sweetened qahwah with milk." It was one of those exotic drinks from the Island of Jhala of the Summer Isles, a bittersweet draught from dark beans roasted and ground to dust before being boiled. Daario had tried it once; it made you feel awake but also loosened your bowels too much for his taste.
Mero nodded tightly, but Naharis knew the sellsword had not trusted a word.
After another hour of fast-paced riding, they finally saw the group in the distance.
"There they are. I see no lancers with them!" Yven Irontooth, clad in a hefty byrnie, raised his curved longsword, hollering. "Charge men, charge!"
The men fanned out into a wedge, and Daario spurred his steed.
But as they gained momentum, he realised something. The wolf banner–it was wrong.
No, many things were wrong.
The Wolfpack had a brown howling wolf on red, not a grey beast running on white. The banner fluttering in the wind above looked far more imposing, and the wolf dashing in the snow seemed far different, too, fiercer somehow.
And their foes were far more numerous, at least thrice more than the two hundred and fifty that the Wolfpack had cobbled together. Better armoured, too. It was rare to see so much steel on one man, let alone hundreds.
It didn't matter, though. While Daario knew numbers mattered, six or seven hundred men would still be nothing against their two thousand. He would be wary if they were Unsullied, but none of the men sported the pointed bronze caps the eunuchs always wore. More foes meant they had a bigger war chest and more corpses to plunder!
Their charge approached, but their foes did not break.
Daario couldn't help but feel a tinge of apprehension. The line of armoured footmen did not look daunted at the tide of cavalry bearing down on them, even though they hid behind their shields. He was close enough to see the whites in their eyes; those eyes did not have fear or worry as expected when faced with a cavalry charge, only defiance and grim determination.
A weak hail of arrows and slinging stones spluttered from behind them, and he caught an arrow with his shield.
Fifty yards, thirty, and suddenly, a bone-chilling howl erupted from behind the lines, and all their foes kneeled on the ground, picking up long-shafted pikes hidden among the tall grass. When the butt of the spears were all braced against the ground, ice chilled his veins.
This was a trap.
Daario's instincts screamed for him to continue charging, for there was no way he could steer or stop the charge, not with hundreds of horsemen behind him.
His steed, which had so far proven to be trusty and well-trained, had flinched horribly at the sudden sinister howl. Daario tried to urge it on, hoping he could find a gap in the spear wall barely a dozen feet from them, but it was not to be. At the very last moment, his horse slammed its forelegs to the ground in a vain attempt to stop, unwittingly exposing its neck and belly to the pikes. He couldn't even leap off his steed, for the charging horsemen behind would trample him into meat paste.
The inevitable collision came, and everything grew chaotic. He felt his horse die beneath his legs as it impaled itself into a pike, and the momentum flung Daario into the enemy lines.
The feeling of weightlessness dazed him as the world spun around, and even his sword slipped from his grasp. The air was choked with cries of agony, pained neighing and the sounds of men and horses dying.
The expected pain from hitting the ground or the foes never came.
The last thing Daario saw was a pair of chilly grey eyes and coldness as a blade of frost plunged into his chest as if his ringmail were made of straw.
The Red Wake's Squire
Gendry was a stubborn young man, tall and muscled from all his work in the smithy. But that day in King's Landing, he had met one more stubborn than him and an entire head taller. A veritable giant of a man, a mountain of muscle, had come to Master Tobho's smithy for a complete set of heavy armour and a mighty halberd.
Many warriors came to Master Tobho because he was the best mastersmith in King's Landing and the finest in Westeros. A few of the masters from the city's blacksmithing guild disputed that over the years, but all had been humbled, for Tobho Mott had learned the secrets of moulding steel in the distant Qohor, the City of Sorcerers, and his make was second only to the long-gone spellsmiths of the Freehold.
Not only could he make the finest arms and armour but also infuse the steel with colour at no expense of sharpness and durability.
From every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, knights and lords flocked to Master Tobho's smithy, desiring the finest armaments. Many turned away at the hefty prices, for the best work in the Seven Kingdoms was worth a lord's ransom; even more would turn away at the waiting time, for only the highest lords and royalty could afford Master Tobho's expedient rates.
Then, one day, things had changed for Gendry during the Northern Tourney. Aside from being nearly as tall as the Mountain, the giant was even wider at the shoulders than him. His brown hair framed a face that looked hewn from a block of stone, with two beady eyes staring down at him under furrowed brows. It was the first time one of those customers paid attention to himself.
"I want you to become my squire," the Red Wake Walder had stated, his voice rumbling. It was not a question. It was not a proposal but a demand.
"I refuse," Gendry had thought him fooling around. The man was a Northman, not even a knight. Why would he want a squire?
The Giant of Winterfell had not turned away, then. No, he laughed at Gendry's face; he honestly thought it was thunder from the booming sound.
"I refuse your refusal. I will leave here with you as my squire, or not at all. Boy, I can see it in you. You have the make of a great warrior, and I will bring it out."
It turned out that the Lord Hand's powerful retainer could not be kicked out of Master Mott's shop even by the Gold Cloaks. He had not been breaking any laws or disturbing anyone but Gendry. None of the city watchmen wanted to tangle with the Lord Hand's personal guard and banner bearer; not even the young tall guard who looked suspiciously similar to him desired to annoy the Red Wake. The man patted his shoulder in defeat and wished him luck.
On the third day, Master Tobho came to Gendry and told him, "You should take his offer, boy. The man can turn you into a great warrior."
"But I want to become a master smith like you! I don't care about knighthood or serving arrogant lords," he had whispered, defeated. "Why would a man-at-arms want a squire anyway?"
The Master Smith sighed, placing a calloused hand on Gendry's shoulder. "Lad, the Red Wake might not be a Ser, but he's better than most and also the champion of the Grand Melee, besting hundreds of knights. I know you're stubborn, but you're of age within three moons, and there isn't much I can teach you that won't come with practice. Listen to some wisdom from an old man like me. It's better to know how to fight and not need it than to need to fight and not know how."
The words were laden with sorrow, and the young apprentice listened.
And so, an unwilling Gendry had accepted. He had thought Master Tobho had been demanding, but Red Wake Walder showed the young man hell.
For over half a year, he awoke bruised and went to sleep with bruises over his previous bruises and all his muscles sore. Each night, he felt more tired than after hammering at a piece of ruddy red steel for hours. Alas, Gendry had shown little talent in most weapons, except for the war maul. He was good at swinging hammers, even if it was at flesh, wood, and armour, instead of hot pieces of steel and iron.
Escaping had crossed his mind, even in this foreign, unfamiliar land full of slavers, but that would mean Gendry would have to leave his new friend behind. Jory Cassel's squire–the gregarious and cheery Edric Wells, a spindly young man a year younger and a head shorter than him, always sporting an optimistic smile.
"Welcome to the family," Edric had welcomed him upon joining Lord Stark's retinue. It had not been an empty platitude either, for the Stark guardsmen and household started treating Gendry as one of their own, and any thoughts about leaving fled his mind.
So, he put his all into training to prove himself worthy.
Alas, even a normal maul felt light in his hand, so Gendry had made himself a heavier one in a village smithy they passed after Pentos. Heavy enough that his peers struggled to lift it, but it felt comfortable in his palm.
"Some might laugh at you for wielding a heavier weapon," the Red Wake had told him. The Giant of Winterfell rarely spoke, so in the rare cases he did, Gendry listened carefully. "But pay them no heed. Should you have the strength to wield it with swiftness, few would ever rival you. I was on the Trident that day the king won his crown. 'The Demon of the Trident', they called him, for he used a monstrous warhammer to smash over two dozen knights easily before besting the Silver Prince."
He then forced Gendry to eat more and train even harder than he thought was possible. His heavy war maul was never to leave his grasp, and Walder had ordered him to even hug it to sleep!
Life on the road was hard, and training was harder, as his palms blistered until they bled the way they had not since he was a green apprentice smith. Yet, it wasn't as terrible as he had feared, for his hands were already rough from years of hammering. At the start, Gendry struggled with swinging a fifteen-pound maul for hours upon end, but little by little, it no longer felt as tiring.
The Northern squires treated him as their equal–Errenford, Stout, Burley, Ironsmith, and many more. True, they were younger and smaller than Gendry, but there was none of the arrogance he had seen in the highborn in King's Landing, although they all clung to their pride. Edric was their unofficial leader and spokesman, and he always ensured they got the best rations and whatever treats they could scrounge from their journey.
Being one of two squires to Lord Stark's Captain had many benefits.
Being Red Wake's squire meant something to those Northmen. It took him some time, but Gendry realised it. It meant he was in service to Lord Stark himself. Even Prince Tommen knew him by name and politely asked for help balancing his training blade or fixing his dented armour. It surprised him to learn he was among the few proper smiths in the army; the Essosi hardly counted. In fact, one of the younger women, a pretty maid with almond-shaped eyes and copper skin, begged him in broken common to take her young brother as an apprentice!
How could he when he wasn't a master himself?
Gendry was still shocked that the golden-haired princeling did not mind mingling with the lower rungs of commoners like himself. Even the freed slaves who had joined as servants under Vayon Poole fascinated him with their foreign looks, tongues, and tales of the distant places they hailed from. Most had been just tillers, hunters, or shepherds, but quite a few knew a craft and hailed from some town or the other, some even as far as Yi Ti, which was said to be on the other side of the world!
Of course, that was when the young prince was not punished by Lord Stark with even more work. Seeing a royal slug down with the lowborn and the servants at the end of the day without a single complaint for moons made Gendry like the golden-haired princeling more.
If this was the make of highlords and kings, it was no wonder many would follow them to the death.
Yet despite all the training as a squire and the fact that he had his shield, helmet, arming doublet, and ringmail, Red Wake did not let Gendry join the battles and prove his mettle. The bull-horn helmet was of his own make, just like the maul, but the other three were parting gifts from Master Mott himself. "You've more than earned this with your work here."
And now they had gone to battle with some sellswords, and Gendry remained behind with the Prince and other Squires as Vayon Poole and his small army of servants began setting camp.
He and Edric Wells were responsible for preventing the prince from sneaking away into the battle again.
"No sneaking away, Your Highness," Edric chortled with a smile. "I pray you have not forgotten the many weeks of latrine duty?"
"I have not." The prince slightly shuddered as his nose wrinkled, yet Gendry understood–he, too, had to help dig the latrines duty occasionally. Lord Stark was insistent on always digging latrine pits every night they camped.
"But the scouts said the sellswords are two thousand strong and outnumber Lord Stark almost two to one," Tommen objected, his tanned face filled with worry. What was once a pale, milky skin had turned a healthy hue of bronze under the unrelenting Essosi sun. "They will need every hand to fight!"
Gendry saw he still carried his sling. Even the two pouches with the pebbles, just the right size for slinging, were hung upon the prince's belt.
"And all hands to fight are already sent." Gendry motioned at the surrounding camp. It was Vayon, the steward, along with the other stewards, the household servants, and the freed slaves who had joined them. And the younger squires like him, of course. "Lord Stark knows what he's doing."
"Aye," Edric bobbed his head. "There's no need to fret. The scouts saw the foes approaching on time, and Lord Stark has never lost a battle, even against far better foes."
Tommen's eyes turned despondent, and he sat on a rock, his shoulders sagging.
"It's just… I want to prove myself," he sighed, running his hands over his shoulder-length hair–the prince had declined to have it cut, opting to mimic the shaggy Northmen's hairstyles. "All my life, I've been the spare, the useless, fat young brother that will have nothing. Lord Stark was the first man to care for me, and I just want to make him proud."
Gendry understood that desire. It had been the same for him with Master Tobho, the desire to prove that he was no longer a snot-nosed boy who knew nothing and couldn't even hammer a piece of iron into a proper shape. He wanted Walder to acknowledge him, to prove he was an able warrior.
There were other, slightly more selfish reasons–to grab a piece of glory for himself. Many things came with fame, glory, and knighthood–he had heard from the other squires. Knights were rich, many doors were opened for knights forever barred for smallfolk, and ladies loved Sers, according to Ethan Stout.
It didn't sound all that bad.
But unlike Gendry at six and ten, the Prince was still a scarcely ten-year-old boy, if a rather tall one and very good with a sword and a sling. He had heard the Northmen speak out of earshot from Tommen–how the golden-haired boy was monstrously talented with a sword in hand, the next Dragonknight or Sword of the Morning, but it would not do to praise him lest he grew arrogant like his elder brother. So poor Tommen had been squeezed out for all his worth in training without a single word of encouragement, just like Gendry, who, unlike the Prince, was barely good with the maul.
"You're still young, Prince Tommen," Edric said, patting Tommen's shoulder. "There's plenty of time to prove yourself, and a royal never lacks for chances. I've heard patience and knowing when to act is a skill more valuable than gold."
"And where did you hear that?" Gendry asked curiously. It sounded far more serious and wise than his friend would say.
"From Lord Stark, of course," Wells laughed. "I overheard him talking to Lord Robb in the training yard back home. The Stark of Winterfell seldom speaks, but when he does, it's usually with wisdom."
Tommen sighed. "I suppose some rest won't hurt. Though I still can't figure out why the sellswords would attack us on sight without even a parley."
"Very few men who sell their swords have even a shred of honour," Edric shrugged. "The only thing they respect is coin. Besides, Essos is a different, savage land, unlike the Seven Kingdoms."
Gendry couldn't help but agree. He had seen too many men and women with dead eyes, shackled and treated like cattle. He had seen countless remains of pillaged villages and enough corpses to make even someone raised in Fleabottom like him baulk. Life was almost worthless here, in this lawless land called Essos. He had seen too many men act like brigands and reavers, even those who ruled.
It made him appreciate the peace back home. Yes, he had never left King's Landing, but he had heard tales from plenty of knights, travellers, and merchants who had. The roads were safe unless there was war, and those who dared break the King's Peace were swiftly hunted down. The Northmen even claimed a maiden in her name-day suit could walk barefoot from one end of the North to the other unmolested.
It sounded fantastical, for even after Balon Swann took the Gold Cloaks, King's Landing couldn't boast a similar feat. A naked maiden wandering the streets would be despoiled a third of the way by some rogue, consequences be damned. Gendry would have thought the Northmen were jesting, but none of them had laughed or mocked him; no, they all genuinely believed it.
Soon, the sun reached its zenith, blaring down on them with its hot caresses as they waited in the camp, feeling somewhat uneasy. Edric seemed to find a nick on his blade and looked for a whetstone to sharpen it.
"I don't like this," Tommen muttered, hugging Brightroar's scabbard and gazing at the cloudy sky. Unlike the half-rotten thing falling apart from before, the lionhead pommel and handle were replaced, and so was the sheath. It was one of his finest works, along with the bull-horned helmet. "We're yet to approach Myr, yet there's trouble already. If these sellswords are employed by the Grand Conclave of Myr, we'll be denied a way back home once more."
"Surely, it's a mistake?" Gendry frowned. "Why would a Free City attack Lord Stark? He has never made any enemies amongst the Essosi, right?"
Edric shrugged, sheathing his polished sword and turning to him. "Why do men need a reason to do anything here? They take slaves because they can. It wouldn't surprise me if they attacked Lord Stark because they thought he was an easy target. Did you forget the half a dozen dragonsteel blades our group carries? None of the wielders shy away from showing off, either. The Myrish are also fighting a slave uprising, and many sellswords act as bandits when there's a lull in the fighting."
…That did not abate Gendry's worries; even the Prince started fretting, palming his sling. While there was little doubt Lord Stark would win, it would be a bitter victory if it denied them a way home again.
Then, Mallo dropped onto the ground as if sleeping, but his copper-skinned face was scrunched up with concentration as his ear was sealed to the road as if listening to the worms below. He always did this when they stopped camp, claiming it helped him hear horsemen coming from afar and avoid ambushes.
But this time, Mallo leapt up as if his arse was on fire and dashed towards Tommen.
"Golden prince," he said. The former slave's words weren't as awkward as when he first joined, and his speech flowed better. "Enemy's coming."
"What?" Tommen tilted his head. "How do you know it's not our men returning?"
"Smaller numbers, different direction," Mallo waved towards the East. "No more than a hundred horsemen."
"An ambush, then." Edric's face grew grim. "Or a raiding party."
"Mallo thinks so too," the former slave nodded gravely, palming his steel belt. It was a queer thing that had caught Gendry's eye, hewn from flexible steel that could turn into a whip-like blade when drawn.
"We must fight," The Prince declared.
"But all the warriors went with Lord Stark," Gendry pointed out almost hysterically as he felt a lump grow at the back of his throat. Was he about to have his first battle? He had begged the Red Wake to let him fight for moons, but his courage had fled now that he got his wish.
"We're here, are we not?" Tommen Baratheon's face hardened, and he stood up, his tiny fists balled.
"If we flee or hide, the horses can run us down one by one. We only need to hold out until Lord Stark returns." He explained swiftly before climbing atop the tall boulder nearby and taking a deep breath. "We're under attack! To arms!"
The camp fell into chaos then. Things would have gone far worse without Lord Stark's steward, who got everyone to calm down quickly.
"Form up around your Prince. Don't run around like headless chickens, you fools!" Gone was the genial and bookish steward, and in his place was yet another warrior as he smacked the blunt side of his sword on a servant's backside for being slow. "Bring the spears and anything to use as shields, even the bloody washboards!"
The spare spears were handed out with Mallo and Vayon Poole's help while the squires clad themselves in their meagre armour. Gendry, Ethan, and Jeor Ironsmith were the oldest, biggest, and best trained–three young squires as green as summer grass, as Walder would call them.
"Steward Vayon," Tommen urgently pointed at the wagons and carts around the camp–the things they had looted from the Dothraki camp. "Help me arrange them in a tight circle to block the horse charge."
The next few minutes were chaotic, and Gendry himself helped, pulling and pushing around carts and wagons, for there was no time to bring over the horses and mules. Hopefully, they could recover them after the chaos of battle.
Uneasy men, women, and greybeards that had never held arms had a pike shoved into their hands—each one without even an ounce of training, commanded by a boy of barely ten. Yet the defensive circle of carts gave them a slight sense of safety.
"These men have no courage," Mallo whispered to the prince, but Gendry heard him and grimaced. "Not a single warrior here. They will break at first strong foe."
Tommen, clad in a small padded jacket, climbed on the high boulder in the middle of the encirclement again and bellowed, "We need not win a battle. Nobody would expect us to fight veteran warriors. All we need to do is defend the gaps and not let the horsemen pass until Lord Stark returns!"
It wasn't the most inspirational speech before battle, especially with the prince's squeaky voice, but Gendry could see it in the servant's gazes. They were afraid but had a taste of freedom and were willing to fight for it.
But was the will to fight enough?
And then came the horsemen from the east, shaped like a wedge. They weren't innumerable as Gendry feared, but the group was still larger than fifty—more than they could hold out against. Unlike the Westerosi knights and men-at-arms, most only had a sword or axe and a shield, about half had helmets, and a third–a hauberk, even less had heavier armour.
Yet the raiders' warcries were the real deal–those were men with violence in their hearts, eager for blood and plunder.
The familiar whirl was something Gendry had heard a thousand times–Tommen's sling. As the horsemen approached, one holding a bow fell off his horse. By a stroke of luck, the foe had only the one horse archer who had fallen first, so the prince's sling continued hurling rocks with impunity, though only two more struck true.
What he would do to have a single crossbow among their numbers–he had shot his fair share of them in King's Landing, and he knew how devastating they could be against such meagre armour.
The sellswords arrived then, circling around the wall of wagons, looking for a gap, but all they found were scattered servants poking with their spears from the narrow openings.
A hoarse, angry voice echoed from their leader–a bald, scarred man clad in slightly better armour than the rest.
"He claims that he's Sallor, a Captain of the Stormcrows," Mallo translated. "If we surrender, we'll be spared."
Tommen scoffed from above and loaded another round pebble in his sling. "Tell them to surrender or face the full wrath of the North."
"I like you, lion-stag prince," Mallo laughed and yelled something that sounded outraged and insulting, along with a few rude gestures with his fingers, especially judging by the storm of curses from the other side of the wagons.
The sellswords circled the wagons, looking for weakness again, while Gendry's palms grew sweaty as his gloves as he squeezed the war maul with one hand and lugged a hefty shield with the other. Blood roared in his ears, the ringmail weighed upon his shoulders, and the maul as heavy as a mountain in his grasp.
Tommen stopped slinging stones, too, for just as the wagons and carts protected them, they impaired his vision and allowed the sellswords to hide from his sling.
"They're dismounting!" The warning came in time, and the sellswords split into two groups, rushing the smaller carts. Yet Tommen seemed to use his high vantage point to keep yelling out commands, "Ethan Stout, take ten men to the south cart. Mallo and twelve the next gap. Edric Wells, two dozen to the northeast-"
With some confusion, the servants obeyed, if not as quickly. It wasn't before long that steel clashed with steel, wood, and flesh, and the sounds of battle and death echoed around Gendry, and everything turned chaotic.
He had yet to swing his maul a single time, yet sweat stung at his eyes, and his breathing turned laboured as heat began to rise behind his navel, and his mind turned blank. A gaunt sellsword tried to slip beneath the wagons near him, and Gendry instinctively lashed out with his maul, missing and smashing at the wood instead.
The man poked at his neck with a growl, and Gendry barely managed to lift his shield, catching the sword thrust. The next swing of his maul didn't miss, and the man's head caved in with a sickly crunch as he dropped down lifelessly, blood, bone, and brain exploding over his shoulder in a shower of gore.
The blood in his ears roared even louder, deafening everything as Gendry stopped, his head pulsing heavily, and gazed at the fallen corpse. Bits of bone, blood, and brain mingled as the air was choked with a heavy, metallic scent that made his stomach churn.
He had done this. Gendry had taken a life. His hands shook like they were dunked in ice, his temples throbbed harder as if someone was hammering from inside his skull, and his breath had grown heavy as if he had run all day. His shield and maul slumped from his slackened fingers as their weight felt unbearable. The overwhelming stench of death mingled the air, then, as Walder had warned him–in death, bowels turn loose.
As Gendry sat there dazed, another sellsword slipped through the gap, but he saw him too late.
An axe rushed towards his neck. Gendry desperately tried to jerk out of the way and raise his shield, but his hand was empty. It was as if the world slowed down then, and all he could do was helplessly watch as the cold edge rushed towards his bare neck.
Gendry realised he was going to die.
And then the sellsword's eye exploded in a shower of blood and brain-bits, and the axe jerked from its course, slamming at his ringmail painfully before bouncing off.
Gods, he had almost joined the Stranger.
"GENDRY! WAKE UP!" Tommen's cry shook him from his stupor, and he turned to see the golden-haired prince angrily flinging with his sling.
Gendry, hands shaking, picked up his shield and hammer, even if his body felt faint and his knees strained as he forced himself back on his feet. The brush with the Stranger was closer than he had been comfortable with. He had been a hair's breadth away from death.
A glance around the wagons revealed a slaughter. Dozens of servants were dying, but there was nowhere to escape. Mallo was whipping out his belt sword, a cloud of blood surrounding the former slave as he moved with cat-like grace, and both friend and foe alike stayed away from him.
Then his gaze fell on Edric Wells, his friend, his brother in all but blood, and Gendry's heart froze.
The Stromcrow captain had climbed over the cart and forced his way into the circle, followed by a dozen sellswords, but his friend and the servants had met them in a brutal melee. A few raiders lay dead on the ground, but many more of their own were also bleeding out.
Gendry had eyes only for his friend as his head rolled off into the mud, and his decapitated body fell like a bag of turnips as the bald, scarred face of a man clad in steel stood atop his corpse, laughing at the trembling servants.
The roar of blood rushing to his brain reached a crescendo until something snapped… and Gendry saw red.
Suddenly, the war maul that was as heavy as a mountain disappeared as if someone had replaced it with a feather.
His legs stopped trembling, and the heat in his gut turned into a raging inferno.
Someone was roaring with fury, then. A distant part of his brain realised the savage bull-like bellow was coming from his lungs, but it didn't matter.
His legs were already carrying him towards Edric's killer.
Some sellsword got in his way, but the maul lashed out as if it had a mind of its own, and a chest caved in with a wet, clinking crunch as the ringmail did nothing against his fury, its owner flung away like some ragdoll.
Crimson crept into the world as everything slowed, and all Gendry could hear was the sound of his blood thundering in his ears, war drums in his head, and thunder booming far in the distance as if a storm was forming.
It felt both foreign and intimate, like the whisper of his dead mother.
It felt like he was hammering in the forge, but only under his hammer were the flesh of foes and the melody of steel was replaced by the song of death.
The bald captain who had slain his friend raised his shield to meet the maul, but the strength of its blow turned it to splinters. Even the hand that held it was crushed like a twig, and someone was screaming in agony in the distance. It didn't matter, for the maul was already soaring again, and the man's breastplate caved in, but the roaring continued!
Gendry continued swinging, his arms not tiring, his lungs gulping air to roar it into a fury. He swung and bashed and swung again, seeking to silence the beating war drum in his head, craving for silence!
Everything began to blur together until a deafening howl awoke him from his rage.
Eddard Stark
His wariness paid off when his scouts reported a significant number of mounted sellswords rushing their way. One of the companies was the Second Sons, where his maternal grandfather had served once. Ned knew what to expect based on his grandfather's derisive words–cutthroat men with no honour or loyalty but to gold or slaughter. Rodrik Stark had joined in order to study new Essosi tactics in case of another war. Yet, the Northman found himself quickly climbing to become their leader due to how mediocre their strategic abilities proved to be, primarily due to a lack of self-discipline and an excess of greed.
The sellswords were by no means terrible warriors, but a motley gathering of warriors was far from a well-organised army.
Ned's trap worked spectacularly, and the sellswords broke rank when Zolo struck at their rear with his five hundred screamers.
Even the battle saw only three dead and two dozen wounded, most of them from soaking the initial charge. The sellswords had foolishly underestimated him or perhaps greatly overestimated their abilities. They couldn't give chase, however, for the damned sellswords had sent someone to sneak at their camp.
His heart was heavy as he rode as swiftly as his steed allowed, but the situation was not as dire as expected.
The losses were not as bad as they had feared–only two squires, two dozen servants and twice as many wounded. If not for Winter's warning in his mind, they could have returned to base camp too late.
It was tragic, but Tommen's quick-thinking and clever arrangement of the wagons into an impromptu wall had saved them far more than anything else could. Ned lamented the losses but could do nothing against a foe that outnumbered them. He needed every one of his warriors, for those were not some soft city guards he faced but hardened veterans of many conflicts.
He could not have afforded to leave a single man to guard the non-combatants. It was his fault for overestimating the sellswords and believing they would have any lick of honour or common sense. Zolo had caught a similar group slinking around westward, but Ned had not expected a second one to sneak around unnoticed from the other side. Blinded by greed, they would naturally go for the weak and defenceless camp followers and the army's war chest and supplies, with no care for their main force's demise.
Yet, there was a silver lining to everything. It was not only the young prince who had proven himself today. Mallo was covered with blood from head to toe, smiling toothily, having slain over a dozen with his odd whip-like belt-sword.
Walder's squire was like a tired bull with his horned helmet, even though they found him crying over Edric Wells' decapitated corpse, surrounded by a score of fallen sellswords, who looked broken, for lack of a better word.
Heads had been shattered like watermelons, chests caved in, limbs smashed, shields broken–the young man who Ned suspected to be one of Robert's bastards had fallen into a battle fury. It was a savage visage that reminded him of his friend at the Trident. The boy's mother was probably from Crackclaw Point or had a sliver of Clansmen blood for it to run so strong. His father, Rickard, once mentioned that all First Men had the battle fury, but the Baratheons and the Durrandons before them had the best chance of mastering it.
"He fought like a man possessed," Tommen had confirmed later, face solemn. "Smashing through the surging sellswords like a demon. Each swing of the maul felled a man."
While done out of fury, such a brave deed deserved a fitting reward. The camp could have fallen without his battle rage that plugged the gap, and everyone could have been killed–including Tommen. It would have been a disaster.
"Gendry of King's Landing," Ned had approached the young man with his blade drawn, the frost blade as pristine as always, for blood never clung to it for long, and gently placed the flat side over his right shoulder. "Do you swear to the gods to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect the weak, the women and the children?"
"…I do." Gendry sobbed out, his head lowered and his fists tightly clenching his knees.
"Do you vow to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, provided they do not ask for service of you that might bring you dishonour?"
"I do." The lad bit through gritted teeth as tears continued to flow, his eyes staring at his friend where Jory was tending to his squire's corpse. The young Cassel looked angry, no doubt blaming himself for something he had no control over.
"Do you swear to fight bravely when needed and do other such tasks as are laid upon you, however humble or dangerous they may be, to not allow the pursuit for glory and honour blind you to your duties?"
"I do!" Gendry finally looked up at him, and Ned nodded at the resolve and determination blazing in those oh-so-familiar stormy blue eyes. He was already taking care of one of his friend's sons, so why not another?
'I have seen your memories,' the mocking voice gave him pause. 'You stubbornly declined the Old Falcon's offer for knighthood in your youth–as was proper, but some of the Andal rabble might question the boy's right to his spurs now. Unless… you wish to take up a crown?'
Neither of those problems had even entered his mind. He had seen a young man prove his worth and valour, and his first thought was to reward him. The Stark of Winterfell had the right to anoint Barrowknights–but not the Andal ones, unless he had a knighthood of his own. But even then, it mattered little, for he could simply enfeoff Gendry as a landed knight or a masterly House of the North. Lackwits and fools had risen for nobility, let alone knighthood, for doing less.
'I have no thirst for the ruinous trappings of power. As for the Andals… let all who question the boy's staunch character and deeds come to me, then.'
"Then, arise as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms," Ned helped the young man up, for his knees were shivering. This had been his first battle, and he knew how those went. "Mourn your friend, but do not hold fury in your heart, for he is avenged."
Gendry wiped his tears with the hem of his dirty sleeve, only making his face dirtier, "But… why attack us?"
"That's what I want to find out," Eddard Stark muttered. He almost regretted slaughtering all the sellswords who had failed to flee. He would have had all of them chased to the last if not for the echoing bellows from Robert's bastard that hinted at peril at camp–Winter had heard him from where he was with him at the front, and Ned had swiftly sent him to investigate. There were good spoils of battle there–including two more Valyrian Steel blades, but Ned couldn't bring himself to care about plunder right now.
Thankfully, Zolo had a few captives who had surrendered from the group of Second Sons, including their vice-captain, and Wylis had brought a gaoler's son from White Harbour with his retinue. The man knew how to extract information from prisoners swiftly.
'It's not hard to ascertain,' Theon whispered again. 'The fools doubtlessly thought you easy prey. Or on the side of the slavers. You didn't want to take Pentos, but you might be forced to take Myr instead.'
Ned could almost imagine the bloody grin on his ancestor's face as he cackled madly, the lust from the previous battle doing nothing to satiate him.
6th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Ned had suspected trouble would follow on their road to the Free City of Myr, but he hated it when his hunch was correct.
"So they were indeed hired by Myr," Ser Wylis Manderly groaned.
The rest of his bannermen had gathered around, including Tommen—or Tommen the Bold, Tommen the Daring, as the men began to call him—for his page had made a name for himself in the last battle. Even though he lacked Robert's colouring, he had his daring and thirst for battle in spades. Even Ned would admit that the defensive wagon tactic was clever and effective, and taking down seven more sellswords in battle was no mean feat.
He was not the only one with a new name. Gendry was dubbed "The Breaker" for his uncanny ability to smash through steel, flesh, wood, and bone in his fury. Unlike his half-brother, the former smith had turned sullen because he did not feel ready to be a knight, but Walder promised to up his training even more. Just because he was a knight did not mean his squire duties were gone.
"This is Ben Plumm, and he's the only one from the prisoners who knew anything. Spoke after trying to bargain for his freedom," the torturer nodded to a shivering man on the bloodstained rack in the corner of the command tent. The captive seemed to have been lucky, with all of his limbs intact and no signs of torture aside from the fear in his eyes. The other corpses were not as fortunate, as shrieks of agony had echoed into the hour of the ghost last night.
"Born and bred in Essos, a fruit that has fallen far from the Plumm tree. He claims a cloaked man arrived at the camp, warning Mero of the Second Sons about a new, very rich sellsword company with a wolf banner coming to help the Myrish rebels."
With the help of Winter, Eddard could smell the truthfulness of the words. Or at least that's what the sellsword believed to be the truth.
"Very well," the Lord of Winterfell nodded. "Let him go, then."
"Just like that?" Arlon Knott frowned. "These damned savages cannot be trusted. He will doubtlessly go running back to his masters and tell what he has seen here."
"He spoke truthfully for his life and freedom, so he has earned it," Ned inclined his head. "But strip him naked and take his thumbs and tongue before sending him on his way."
A warrior without thumbs could never hold a sword or a spear, and a man without a tongue could not speak.
Ben Plumm started to splutter for mercy as Red Wake dragged him by the scruff to fulfil his order. They ignored the squeals that sounded almost like a pig in a butchery.
Damon Dustin frowned. "This drivel doesn't make sense! We have not sold our loyalty like some sellsword scum."
"We've been framed," Eddard Stark growled. "Someone wants to borrow a knife to get rid of us. Or deny us a way back home, for I doubt the Myrish would let us in their city to use their harbour after slaughtering their sellswords."
"The curs who fled would no doubt spread the word of us joining the rebelling slaves," Rogar Wull spat.
A storm of curses erupted as grim realisation sank in. Ned hated it.
He loathed that feeling! It was as if an invisible hand was trying to prevent him from getting home, blocking his way forward.
What if his family was in peril while he was stranded here?
What if his sons died?
Eddard Stark balled his fists.
'If they're barring your way, ride them down, fool. Crush them all until nobody dares to oppose you.'
The clamour died slowly out, giving way to grim silence as everyone looked at him as if Ned had a solution for all their problems. Oh, how he wished he did.
"What shall we do now, My Lord?" Jory inquired, his countenance still solemn from the loss of his squire. "We don't have the numbers to storm a city as big as Myr."
"Can we help the slaves?" Tommen asked, shoulder slumped. The battle had taken a toll on the young boy, especially the bloody visage of all the fallen–including some of his newly made friends, who he had helped bury. "They are fighting for their freedom, a cause most righteous. The Gods, old and new, abhor slavery."
Eddard Stark was tired. He just wanted to leave this terrible land and go home. See Winterfell, kiss his wife, hold his son, hug his daughters. He wanted everything to be right in the world, but that was a young man's dream. There was a war awaiting him at home, too.
Tommen was still young and naive if kind-hearted. Helping the slaves here was not his duty, nor was fighting the Magisters of Myr. Freeing the slaves did not mean the freedmen would not turn to old practices afterwards, for that was the only thing they had known before.
It was not as simple as winning a battle or even a war. Freeing the slaves required change.
It was easier said than done, for the change had to come from within. The change had to start in men's minds and hearts, change in the way the lands were ruled, and change in men's laws. Such change was demanding; it demanded time to ripen, wits to look out for problems down the road, and an iron spine to weather through all the woes that would doubtlessly arise.
Once Tommen walked down that road, endless battles would await him; from Myr to Yi Ti, slavery was rampant, and one battle would lead to the next, and before they knew it, they would find themselves halfway to Slaver's Bay.
'Fool!' The whisper was filled with derision, even more than usual. 'Whoever is pulling the strings thinks you and the North are weak. That you can be pushed around as they wish. The best way to deal with plotters and schemers is to smash their game and flip their board. Your desire for peace is confused with weakness. Drown them in blood, and they will come to you, begging for mercy.'
Eddard Stark hated that he agreed with his ancestor, for once. He saw no other way out–the nearest port they could use to sail back home would be over a thousand miles away–Braavos. Every easily accessible harbour, large and small, on the Narrow Sea, was bereft of any vessel that could cross it, and trade was paralysed. The flames of war had spread far, and only the small fishing boats were left behind.
Even negotiating with the Myrish meant little, for they were amidst war. Worse, the rich, fat, slave-owning magisters were without honour, and their word could not be trusted.
Gods, he was tired of being denied a way back home. He was tired of trying to be calm and reasonable as everything went teats up out of greed and ambition. He was tired of following the laws of men when everyone else bent and broke them over as they deemed fit.
Ned only wanted to sail back home, away from this accursed land, yet this one simple desire was denied to him.
Taking a deep breath, Eddard Stark straightened up. "We're going to scour the Ashen Plains."
"To what end, my lord?" Damon Dustin asked, yet his eyes glowed in excitement—an act mirrored by many of his retainers.
The Lord of Winterfell hated war. But for good or bad, he had some talent for it, and his men were eager for it. He knew what had to be done, no matter how tasteless. He could ride northward, nearly a thousand miles, to Braavos to rush back home, but there was no guarantee the damned Braavosi would let him pass or for him to even find their damned city. He was done latching onto vain hopes, taking distant chances for nought.
It was time to grab destiny with his own two hands, whether he liked it or not.
If appealing to reason did not work, he would let his sword do the talking. Sure, volunteers could be sent to brave the Narrow Sea and let the Old Lion of Lannister know of his current predicament, but Eddard Stark would not leave his fate on such fleeting chances.
"Slaughter every single sellsword company working for Myr," his voice thickened with fury. At the damned slavers, at the hidden schemer, at the foolish Essosi, at the greedy sellswords for forcing him to turn into a savage. "We shall loot and burn their fields, mines, and manses, free their slaves, and starve the city out. We'll burn and kill and slay until the Grand Conclave of Myr squeals in pain and loss and comes begging us to stop. And if they don't, I'll sack the Free City of Myr and burn it to the damned ground if I have to!"
The cheer was deafening. The Dothraki and Northmen hollered as one as swords, bows, axes, and spears arose in the air in jubilation, and even Winter woke up excited and joined in with his howls. Tommen's frown turned sad once the boy realised that helping the slaves was a road paved with blood and bones like any war.
7th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Victarion Greyjoy, Fair Isle
He was back at Fair Isle. Alas, there was no Stannis Baratheon to match wits and valour this time. Unlike the Ironmen, the golden lions and the other Greenlander Houses of the West had not fully rebuilt their fleets. Each Greenlander ship from Banefort to the Feastfires was torched, sunken, or taken.
There was nobody to muster them either; their lords and sons had gone to fight with the old lion on the far side of Westeros, and the rest had perished fighting that Oakheart. A strong warrior tried and tested in battle.
Even The Young Wolf was proving his mettle, and Victarion would have gone further inland to fight him if not for Balon's orders.
"Scour their fleets so that fool Renly does not doubt our alliance," Balon had said. "Invest the Stark boy and the defences at the Westerlands' coast to attract their attention while the weddings occur on the Shield Isles and confuse the lion boy-king. But do not challenge the Young Wolf–his heavy lancers will crush us in the open. Take Fair Isle for ourselves; Renly promised that each keep taken would belong to those who win it." The last part was said mockingly with a derisive laugh.
And so, the fledgling Lannister fleet had burned once more, this time giving a slightly better battle, even if the gates of Lannisport remained closed.
Victarion would miss his nephew and niece's wedding, but it was fine, for he was not one to sit and celebrate when fighting was to be done. Besides, Balon had promised to make him the lordship of Fair Isle after the war.
Faircastle even fell without a fight. The craven old Castellan surrendered when Victarion promised not to harm anyone inside. Looting, however, was a fair game. It made him both sad and angry, but he didn't beat anyone to death with his fists, as he promised. Unwilling to look at the cravens, he took the Lord's beautiful young wife as a salt wife and shipped the rest of the Castle's Household to the Greenlands' shore.
Perhaps he should stop offering surrender and instead demand a good fight. If they proved worthy adversaries, Victarion would let the surviving ones go.
At least everything was going according to Balon's plan. The Reachmen would use Fair Isle as a resupplying point on the way to the North, and the Greenlanders of the West had no ships to thwart them, and Balon had allowed Harlaw and Volmark to raid Mallister's lands and Seagard for further distraction.
Victarion would have loved to try his axe against Jason Mallister; the man killed his nephew nine years ago, and Rodrik had been a strong warrior. Alas, he would have to be satisfied with what the North offered. But even the Red Wake and the Mad Lance were gone, lost to the wretched Storm God.
The alliance between the Greenlander king and Balon would be sealed today, even though some of the Drowned God's priests objected to his nephew taking a Greenlander woman for a Rock Wife.
With reluctant help from their brother Aeron, those voices were found and silenced for treason.
Soon, ships from the Reach would sail northwards, filled with warriors and zealots. The fools aimed at the hills, plains, and rivers, leaving the Wolfswood and Bear Isle ripe for the taking.
"These lands are flush with plunder," Nute, his right hand, noted as he struggled to carry the sacks of gold coins and silver jewellery as Victarion sat in the Lord's chair in Faircastle's Great Hall. "We have looted more in a fortnight here than in the last five years. I don't understand why we must turn to the cold, dreary North instead of continuing to take all this undefended wealth that's just sitting here begging to be taken."
"Because the Lord Reaper of Pyke commands it," Victarion coldly pointed out–not feeling like explaining to his dimwitted second for the fifth time. "My brother's word is absolute."
In the year 401 After the Doom, also known as 299 After Aegon's Conquest, madness took the known world under the form of war. It had started small, with whispers of woes with the Temple of the Lord of Light and R'hllor's Red Priests losing their abilities to gleam the future from their fires.
Yet the tensions grew as the moons turned, and word of the approaching doomsday approached, but not many believed in such tales.
Old, dark things stirred beyond the North's Wall that had even the House of Black and White growing restless but died with a whimper under the Night's Watch's iron boot. Word even arrived of problems in the cold Grey Waste from the Far East, but the Five Forts held strong against some fiendish enemy.
From Ibb to Myr, from Lorath to Volantis, nearly all of Essos was engulfed by the flames of war. After the crushing defeat of the Tiger Cloaks, The Golden Company under the infamous Sunset Knight Barristan Selmy had sieged the First Daughter of Valyria. For the first time in history, Volantis was under siege.
The devious Khal Drogo crushed the Red King Xi Tian and pillaged his way through the Golden Empire of Yi Ti.
Rumours of the Pentoshi stirring from the city of towers slowly crept into Braavos, and an envoy was sent to see if the Pentoshi were breaking the Treaty of Rylon.
While Myr and Tyrosh were busy with their woes and foolishness, Lys's seemingly effortless campaign to conquer the Stepstones was met with fierce resistance. Salladhor Saan's death in the cold Far North meant their safe trading route fell into pirates that did not favour Lys. It quickly became obvious that the disjointed, feuding pirates were not united or led by some self-proclaimed Prince of the Narrow Sea, but some other hand had involved itself in the bloody struggle.
In 299 AC, only the Dornish had the capability and the interest to meddle, even if they did not have a proper fleet. Then again, the nearest island of the Stepstones was a mere stone's throw away from their coast.
But all of the woes in Essos paled before the brutality that unveiled itself at the Sunset Lands.
The trouble in the Dornish Marches and Dorne proper started small, like a quiet whimper, but wasn't as quickly quelled.
The Siege of King's Landing also started quietly after the Tyroshi had torched the city's docks near the mouth of the Rush, and what remained was burned by the Reachmen. Renly took the opportunity to deal with all the now-homeless vagrants kicked out from the capital and consolidate the grasp on the rest of the Crownlands as Tywin Lannister was boxed inside the city.
It was said that three out of ten had perished within a moon, as all the fighting and armies had turned the ripe Crownlands barren. All the surviving fighting-age males were promised revenge, new land, and a better future and shipped to the Mander, where the Reach's naval might was turned from fighting to transport.
The divide between the Faith grew fiercer, and both claimants to the Iron Throne sought to suppress their side. While Regent Kevan Lannister not-so-secretly appointed the Septon in King's Landing, and all the dissent was quelled on the grounds of heresy and treason, Renly faced far more insidious problems.
The Rose Septon had gathered far more support and was backed by a significant part of the Most Devout. Victory on the field of battle had brought them a sense of righteous justice in their cause, and thus, many had flocked to the promises and preaching of the Septons and, of course, even more, joined for loot and plunder.
The Faith of the Seven was growing too quickly in influence and prestige; it was becoming too popular, and Renly couldn't afford any dissent within his ranks at such a crucial time in the war. So, he sent them away, along with the most zealous followers. Robb Stark's brutal victory on the Trident had reopened old wounds, for the Old Gods and the Seven had warred for millennia.
The next move was considered a strategic masterstroke, at least at the time. Not only were Renly's foes deceived, attracting their attention elsewhere and allowing him to make the first move, but he managed to send away the Rose Septon and his more than sizeable following, including the tens of thousands of vagrants dwelling in the heart of the Reach.
It helped that Balon Greyjoy had a flair for theatrics as he joined the war on Renly Baratheon's side by scouring the coast of the Westerlands as the Iron Fleet slaughtered tens of thousands and captured many more as thralls within less than a moon. Troops and defenders had to be focused on the western shores of the Riverlands and the Westerlands.
What Robb Stark thought would be a swift campaign in the Westerlands turned into a slow slog as Oakheart had managed to retreat in good order with less than three thousand losses. With the possibility of being flanked by the Ironmen, the Young Wolf was forced to put out fire after fire and consolidate a kingdom that had gone past the brink of shattering…
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'
Author's Endnote:
Hooh, boy… this was exciting and nerve-wracking to write. Gendry proves himself his father's son. Tommen rises to the occasion—wagon defence inspired by Jan Žižka's tactics for those unfamiliar.
Two more VS blades looted from sellswords, but Essos is full of that shit, and it's not that important in the chapter itself, so their fate remains obscure for now.
We see a kind, honourable man pushed into a corner. But even rats bite when cornered, let alone direwolves.
Robb's woes continue as the Iron Isles make the first move, but not as he expected.
Starring: Gendry "keep-swing" The Breaker, Tommen "Fuck-your-surrender" The Daring, Eddard "Why-do-you-have-to-force-my-hand?" Stark and Victarion, "These-foes-are-worthless. Give-me-better!" Greyjoy.
Editor's notes: This chapter was a doozy to edit. Here's an extra 2k words from yours truly.
OC places - Ashen Plains of Myr (there's no worldbuilding from GRRM there; added a flair from me)
New OCs in this chapter (damn, they keep piling up!):
Khal Jhoro - Khal who burned the Ashen Plains two centuries prior.
Edric Wells is a fourteen-year-old Squire to Jory, with an unknown relation to Lord Wells.
Yven Irontooth - a bowlegged, stocky man hailing from Ibb, Captain of the Maiden's Men.
The rest of the characters are obscure but canonical.
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.
Eddard was fostered in the Vale, so he has a closer relationship with knighthood than most Starks, additionally Eddard modified the traditional vows when he knighted Gendry. There was no mention of the Andal's seven faced god in the vows he commanded.
You have a point--definitely something that should have been addressed in the text itself (I forgot, but in my defense, the chapter is over 10k words already). That being said, fixed--or more like, expanded upon properly.
Here is the excerpt if you CBA rereading the chapter for it alone --
'I have seen your memories,' the mocking voice gave him pause. 'You stubbornly declined the Old Falcon's offer for knighthood in your youth–as was proper, but some of the Andal rabble might question the boy's right to his spurs now. Unless… you wish to take up a crown?'
Neither of those problems had even entered his mind. He had seen a young man prove his worth and valour, and his first thought was to reward him. The Stark of Winterfell had the right to anoint Barrowknights–but not the Andal ones, unless he had a knighthood of his own. But even then, it mattered little, for he could simply enfeoff Gendry as a landed knight or a masterly House of the North. Lackwits and fools had risen for nobility, let alone knighthood, for doing less.
'I have no thirst for the ruinous trappings of power. As for the Andals… let all who question the boy's staunch character and deeds come to me, then.'
Edward having the right or not is one thing that is odd... But also character wise I'm not sure why Eddard would want to award something (knighthood) for which he doesn't believe in. In canon no old gods worshipper was a knight... even if similar roles were fulfilled by Cassel and others.
Davos stared as the Fury approached King's Landing. For once, they were not turning to the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, for the docks there had been turned to cinders by the Tyroshi, and then the Reachmen prevented any efforts to rebuild.
Instead, a makeshift array of floating planks had been strapped to the pinned logs under the city wall just between the Iron Gate and Aegon's hill. It was defended by a small lagoon that went into the city proper, protected by rusted iron bars, making the only way in without a boat through the curtain walls.
While far smaller and more cramped than the original docks, it allowed the city to resupply, unmolested by the sieging Reachmen.
His mind drifted to the last moons.
Unlike what Davos had thought, fighting the Tyroshi ships was not as daunting as they expected. For good or bad, the Essosi fleet decided to cut off their losses and flee despite still outnumbering them after Shireen won their sixth battle and many more skirmishes in a row. Not all of them had left, however. Davos had seen their likes before, and the Tyroshi were poorly organised. Otherwise, they wouldn't have fled at the first sign of stiff resistance.
The Archon of Tyrosh had doubtlessly recruited each vessel and captain he could have gotten his hands on in short order, including merchants, sellsails, and pirates from the Stepstones and the neighbouring cities and towns. Many remained even after the bulk of the fleet had been defeated, hellbent on plundering as much as possible. After all the fighting, Maester Cressen had estimated that the Tyroshi numbered over seven hundred vessels, over double the initial estimate, but barely a fifth were warships.
Shireen had taken over a whole moon to meticulously hunt down every lingering slaving ship from Crackclaw Point to Massey's Hook. Just like her father, she was thorough in everything she did.
While the young Lady of Dragonstone put up a brave front before the mariners, knights, and men-at-arms, Davos had seen her puke her guts out after each battle and cry herself to sleep for a fortnight after the first battle. After that, the sobs had stopped, but Shireen's pale face each morning implied nightmares had arrived instead. How many men had fallen to the young lady's crossbow?
Davos had stopped counting after two dozen.
Would the Seven even forgive him for putting such a hefty burden on her young shoulders, even if Shireen carried it far better than he ever could?
Even if the fighting and command had taken a toll on the Lady of Dragonstone, she did it all without complaint and more. And the men loved her for it.
The Onion Knight could see it in their gazes, that look of respect and admiration with the slightest tinge of fear. Knights and lords, mariners and sailors, all who had fought for Stannis before, would follow the young Lady Stoneface, as the Tyroshi called her, into the Seven Hells should she lead them there. It was an insulting title, but Shireen took it in stride despite the Greyscale scars on her cheek.
But the troubles began to sprout like shrooms after rain once the fighting had finished. Capturing or sinking vessels was easy, but what came afterwards threatened to overturn all their achievements. The sheer logistics of war, the organisation of loot–which had to be returned, which were to be kept (mostly supplies, gold, and arms)–and how to return the freed captives to their homes nearly brought their lightning-swift campaign to a grinding halt.
They could no longer use their fast and small fleet to attack different groups of slavers. Even their captured ships could not be quickly commandeered due to their lack of sailors. Lady Shireen insisted that all captives had to be returned, threatening to slow further operations.
Truth be told, it wasn't as troublesome as Davos feared, but each situation was a new challenge, something he never had to deal with before, leaving him flatfooted. Thankfully, Shireen's other advisors helped immensely.
They had expected Shireen's call for assistance against the slavers to remain ignored. Not only was she one and ten and as green as summer grass, but she had been woefully outnumbered.
But they were all mistaken, including Davos, for nearly twenty days after the ravens had been sent out, aid started to arrive.
Dragonstone saw nearly a hundred ships approach–most were merchant cogs, but over a third were heavy warships, and there was no doubt about who they belonged to, for the sails were a colourful but familiar array of coat of arms. The yellow burning tower of Grafton, the rusty anchor of Melcolm, the blue falcon of Arryn–the Gulltown ones–the golden wings of Shett, the bronze runes of Royce, the eclipsed sun of Pryor, the black star on the pink of Elesham, the cresting sea-green wave of Upcliff.
Almost the whole naval might of the Vale had arrived, led by the charming Ser Galen Grafton and the dangerous Ser Jason Melcolm–both heirs to their Houses.
"We cannot let such vile scum as slavers and pirates dwell here," Galen had said when he kissed Shireen's hand, earning himself a stiff nod. "From the Paps to the Bloody Gate, septons denounce your uncle Renly for his blatant alliance with corsairs and manhunters."
"You live up to your father's name and his prowess at sea, Lady Baratheon," the Melcolm knight had added gruffly. "We are yours to command."
Then, the unruly Clawmen, who had not answered Joffrey's call to arms, started to trickle in.
The first one was the wroth Ser Jonothor Cave, a bear of a man and the knight of the Red Cave.
"They took me precious daughter," he had hissed through gritted teeth. "I'll fight fer ya, little doe, so long as you help me get her back!"
"My men and I don't know how to tie a seaman's knot or raise a sail," Ser Robin Brune admitted two days later as he showed up on Dragonstone with three hundred swords. "But we know all about killing."
Boggs, the two branches of the Brunes, Cave, Crabb, Hardy, and Pyne, had all lost someone to the Tyroshi raiding their coasts. Killed or taken did not matter–the Clawnmen wanted their due in blood.
According to Ser Lothor Hardy, they were vengeful, and the grudge against the slavers would not be forgotten for generations.
The previous lack of deckhands, marines, and fighters on Shireen's ships was quickly satisfied, and they even managed to man another twenty ships captured from the Tyroshi. The additional vessels allowed them to swiftly return the smallfolk and other captives to their homes. Most of them were from the Crownlands, quickly proving thankful for the Lady's actions.
For barely a sennight after the last captive was ferried to Duskendale came the knights of the Crownlands with their retinues–the boastful Ser Godry Farring, the calm Lord Harte, Rollingford, Cressey, Follard, Blounts and many more. Hundreds of hedge knights had flocked to Shireen's banner for a worthy cause. Shireen would have been unable to pay so many retainers and warriors even with the spoils taken from the Tyroshi. Still, many requested barely a third of the payment to fight against slavers, food, and boarding.
Unmentioned was the promise of loot. No man went to war expecting no loot.
Word of Renly's alliance with the Tyroshi had gone out, and the fallout was just beginning to show. It swayed all the neutral and the hesitating in the arms of Joffrey–and Shireen, by extension. The ripples in the Faith were even slower, but they echoed loudly.
"Corbray, Bellmore, and Ser Egen were talking of supporting Renly," Ser Galen Grafton had confided to Shireen. "But once the word of slavers and reavers arrived, nobody mentioned his name ever again, and each Septon denounced Renly as a heretic. The biggest factions for Lord Arryn's regency are Lord Royce and the other lords who want to support King Joffrey and Lady Waynwood, who desire to remain neutral, but even the fighting had toned down last I heard from my father. I suspect hundreds of "hedge knights" and freeriders will ride down the High Road before the moon is out to join Lord Tully, and even the stubborn Ser Vardis Egen will open the Bloody Gate for them to pass."
Just as Davos thought nobody else would show up, he was proven wrong. Northern ships were spotted on the horizon.
Sails belonging to Woolfield, Manderly, the Flints of Widow's Watch, and all of the Sistermen with all their might to a total of a hundred and twenty more ships, all led by the young but stout Ser Merlick Manderly.
Davos knew the Sistermen had no love for the Northmen, yet they all arrived together. The Lords of the Three Sisters had a black repute and none more so than Godric Borrell, Lord of Sweetsister, Shield of Sisterton, Master of Breakwater Castle, and Keeper of the Night Lamp. And yet, here they were, all grudges seemingly forgotten.
"The kings, crowns, and highlords have not bothered with the Sisters for centuries," Lord Godric had scoffed derisively. "Why would they? We are poor."
"Then why are you here?" Davos asked.
"It is not every day a Baratheon writes to us, let alone the daughter of the Demon of the Tides himself, begging us for help," he laughed. "If those sods from Old Anchor, Gulltown, White Harbour, and Witch Isles can answer the call, so can we."
There was more to his presence here, but Davos didn't ask; he did not need to be a Maester to understand the man. No man goes to war expecting no reward. As the Sisterman said, they were poor, and war was a profitable venture with plenty of opportunities. Being at the right place at the right time could see you rise high, and even Davos climbed out of the common muck into knighthood accompanied by a patch of land with a mere boat filled with salted fish and onions.
"You are in luck, Lady Shireen," the merman knight had patted his bulging belly at the welcoming feast later that night. "Our ships are plentiful, but we lacked the hands to man the sails. When your raven arrived, the Crowl, Magnar, and Stane chieftains were in White Harbour to negotiate with Lord Manderly. The haggling was forgotten in the face of food, glory, plunder, and fighting, and the deal was struck."
Which explained the over three thousand Skagosi rearing up for a fight in the Northern fleet. Davos knew they were excellent sailors, for they had to brave the dangerous waters of the Shivering Sea and Bay of Seals. Even if the Stark of Winterfell had forbidden them from building a fleet, they still sailed smaller fishing rafts and skiffs.
What had been barely sixty ships cobbled up in haste had now swelled to nearly three hundred. Even more of the captured Tyroshi ships were repurposed for war at the shipyards at Hull, Driftmark, and Dragonstone.
It was a mighty yet unruly host, but what helped Shireen consolidate her position as a leader were the decisive victories, leading in person, and her father's name. Joffrey Baratheon's unprecedented acknowledgement and invitation to the small council had silenced the naysayers. And the array of banners behind her was unprecedented in history. Old Cressen said that Clawmen, Skagosi, Sistermen, Valemen, Velaryons, and Northmen had never fought under one banner before.
At one and ten, Shireen Baratheon was also the first woman to ever sit on a royal council.
"Not the first time," Maester Pylos had corrected. "Tyanna of the Tower was Maegor's mistress of whispers."
"Bollocks, I say," Ser Lothor Hardy waved dismissively. "That's not a martial position, and the woman was not only the Cruel's wife but his pet sorceress. Clearly, she earned that position not on her own merits but in the bed."
Shireen had accepted the role of the first-ever mistress of ships, but only after the last slavers had been expelled from Blackwater Bay and the Crownlands waters.
Joining Renly or remaining neutral had become nigh impossible after his alliance with Tyrosh.
"My bannermen and new allies would rebel if such a thing were ever to happen," Shireen had admitted to Davos last night. "And my father taught me never to give an order I know won't be obeyed."
And now, they were finally arriving at King's Landing. Truth be told, Davos kept worrying–because he was officially the acknowledged regent. He felt way out of his depths when trying to run Dragonstone, let alone now with a whole fleet amidst a war. Even though Shireen did everything well, he had to give prudent advice in a bid to lighten her burden somewhat.
Oh, how he wished there was peace or that Shireen could have avoided the war, but the Tyroshi attack had made that impossible.
"Be courteous but firm, my lady," the Lord of the Tides advised as they approached King's Landing. Any of his previous disgruntlement against Shireen and Davos had been forgotten, and the former smuggler could see something in his purple eyes as the Velaryon lord looked at the young maiden. The same soft way fathers looked upon their daughters if tinged by pride. "The royal court has been the grave of many men and women, and all the vultures would circle above, looking for a sign of weakness or a chance to bend you to their will, while snakes slithered on the ground, hiding beneath fake smiles. This is but another battlefield, if no less deadly and far more insidious."
Shireen grimaced. "What can I do, then?"
"Decline all private meetings or invitations," Monford then patted his chest. "Say you're too busy, and the schemers will have no choice but to approach your retinue. Ser Davos, me, and even Ser Jason Melcolm can deal with these vipers."
Davos knew his name was only uttered out of Velaryon's wish for harmony because no courtiers would lower themselves to speak to a lowly smuggler. While his wish to hold Shireen's regency was thwarted, Monford now desired to take his position as her most trusted advisor.
But while the Lord of the Tides could navigate in the stormy dark sea that was nobility, Davos was no slouch either.
"Ser Jason seems like a man who would chop the head off a lickspittle than suffer their poisoned tongue," he pointed out. The Melcolm heir had been ruthless in the last battle against the lingering pirates–he had killed fifteen with lethal efficiency, even more than Ser Clayton Suggs, Godric Farrings' crony knight who was one of the most bloodthirsty men Davos had seen.
"Precisely," Velaryon's voice thickened with amusement. "But he has honour and restraint and would probably challenge each fool that irks him to single combat."
They arrived shortly after. Davos' eyes wandered to the curtain wall; there was no gate here, only a small postern door, though there were makeshift stairs up the fortifications to ease the flow of people. Even the harbour was smaller than he had expected, reminding him of the wharfs larger fishing villages could boast.
On the makeshift docks, they were met with a grand retinue led by the boy-king himself, clad in crimson and gold. What was a charming golden-haired teen was replaced by skittishness and scarring, and any baby fat had dwindled from his face, revealing sunken cheeks that reminded Davos of a starving man. Joffrey Baratheon's right eye had been clawed out brutally, judging by the angry scars around it, and in its stead was an emerald the size of a goose egg. Other scars ran down his chin, hidden under the red velvet collar.
Shireen's retinue all knelt, and just as she was about to do the same and swear fealty, Joffrey stepped forth.
"None of that, Cousin," his voice was genial and warm as he pulled her into a hug, making Shireen stiffen. "Your victories pleased us greatly. If I had three more with the wits and daring of you and Robb Stark, Renly's head would already be on a spike atop my gate. I have heard you are a deft hand at using crossbows. Here."
One of the white cloaks came over, holding the most opulent crossbow Davos had ever seen. Sleek polished weirwood looked impossibly smooth, and the metal bits were intricate and gilded, glittering in the sunlight and reminding him of those ceremonial swords some lords wore to show off. Yet the pale wood promised extreme lethality.
Shireen's eyes lit up as she carefully inspected the crossbow. The old smuggler had never seen her half as happy when looking at gold, gemstones, jewellery, or fine fabrics as other young maidens her age.
"It's good, isn't it?" The young king asked knowingly. "A mechanical draw of nearly a thousand pounds, enough to punch through plate up close, and the master assured me this one is functional and will never break so long as it's maintained and kept clean."
"A great gift, Your Grace," Shireen curtsied this time. All stiffness and tension had bled out of her posture.
The reply pleased Joffrey greatly, for his smile only widened further.
"It is the least I could do when you sent those Tyroshi dogs running. Regardless, I tire of these… filthy docks. Let us move to the Red Keep for a proper greeting."
Finally, the royal retinue behind the docks shuffled, and Davos could finally inspect them. An ageing, authoritative man with a full golden moustache and a shaved head who could only be the Lion of Lannister himself was just behind the king with a stony face and solemn gaze scrutinising him. Davos's knees felt weak under his gaze, and he barely managed not to topple into the nearby waters. By his side were two golden-haired maidens. The younger would be the young Queen Myrielle Lannister, especially with her swelling belly, while the other was Cersei Lannister, whose face looked as if she had swallowed a lemon whole. She no longer looked as bright and beautiful as Davos remembered, but it could be his mind playing tricks or just the vestiges of time.
Nearby was the new High Septon with his crystalline crown, twice as tall as the one the Fat One wore, and he gazed at Shireen with open approval.
While Davos felt small and unimportant, as nobody even spared him a look, the Young Lady of Dragonstone was undaunted by all of their attention and followed after Joffrey towards the postern door.
Shireen had proved to be very popular at court. The courtiers and the Faith seemed to sing her praises during the feast. Davos never felt so out of place at the high table with all these important ladies and lords who looked at him with either suspicion or scorn.
Yet he had often been met with such disdain from highborns, so it didn't bother him much, especially since the food was excellent and his tongue was in heaven.
The feast was boisterous, with mummers, bards, and acrobats entertaining the nobles; it was as if the city was not under siege. Then, the young king stood up in the middle of the celebrations, and everyone quieted.
"Cousin, you have done us a great service," Joffrey dramatically paused as he raised his golden chalice. The hall was filled with toasts and courtiers chanting, 'Baratheon!' "But I'm afraid I must request more of you."
"Your Grace?"
His face twisted in a savage snarl.
"My treacherous Uncle thinks me weak, even if he dares not storm my walls," he hissed. "Those slaving scum think they can attack my kingdom with impunity and burn my fleet?! Such an insult cannot stand. I have a new task for my mistress of ships!"
"I am yours to command," Shireen bowed from her seat, her face turning expressionless again.
Joffrey's wrath evaporated as his sole eye lit up with amusement, as his previous words had been a mummer's farce.
"Good, good. I am tired of hearing excuses and empty platitudes." The derisive insult failed to give any names, but Joffrey and many courtiers glanced at Lord Tywin Lannister, who seemed unaffected as he slowly sipped from a glass of wine.
The young king flourished his hands, and his smile returned as he gazed at Shireen.
"But I know my cousin would not disappoint me. Shireen of House Baratheon, I want you to sack Tyrosh for their insolent assault. Unlike those lauded commanders who lose battle after battle, you have proven yourself worthy. Can you do it? Can you wring that city for all its worth and kill that foolish Archon and his impudent Magisters?"
"It shall be done, Your Grace," Shireen declared without a hint of hesitation. "Many want to save their kith and kin from the hands of the slavers."
The feast continued even more fervently. Wine flowed like a river, and food that could fill thousands of bellies disappeared within hours as if the war had been won.
"Blessed by the Warrior and the Crone," Davos heard the Highsepton say. "The Seven shall lend their strength to your righteous cause, Lady Baratheon!"
After he filled his belly, the Onion Knight had more than enough of the pomp and the feast and retired to his quarters in the tower of the outer yard. The whole tower was given to Shireen and her retinue.
Glancing through the shutters down King's Landing's usually lively streets was jarring. The rest of the city starkly contrasted with the pomp and cheer in the Red Keep. Alleys, fishmarkets and squares were far less crowded, and he could see knights and men-at-arms patrolling up and down the streets.
It showed that King's Landing was under siege, Fleabottom was empty, and you could hear the rumble and crashes as the trebuchets hurled rocks at the city's wall and above it. Tywin Lannister had cleaned all the buildings within fifty yards of the city walls, and their mortar, stones, and wood were used to repair the damage of the trebuchets to the gates and walls. Apparently, Renly was trying the gates with axes and torches every day and night but had yet to commit to a full assault.
However, according to Ser Lothor, who went to gather hearsay at the inns, there were rumours that the Reachmen were throwing dead bodies into the city with their catapults in hopes of spreading fear and disease.
"None are worried," the master-at-arms scoffed as they gathered in the tower's parlour. "The Young Wolf has chased out the Flowers and will crush the Squids in the Westerlands, and the Old Lion's men can now fight calmly, knowing their homes aren't on fire. The city might be half empty, but now there's plenty of food you can buy, so nobody is starving. I sneaked a peek at the fortifications at the inner gates, and there were three barricades, rows of sharpened stakes, and traps. I heard the arbalests in the city are all churning out crossbows as fast as they can and that the rooftops will all be manned by marksmen should the walls be breached."
"So Renly can't take the city," the Velaryon lord summarised lazily; he retired early, as if not to be outdone in usefulness by Davos. "With nearly forty thousand men defending the walls, rushing in will see his forces crippled at best. According to my men, the city's food stocks are plentiful, but the Lion Lord did not take any chances; only those who had managed to stockpile three years' worth of supplies were not kicked out."
"You have seen the city of Tyrosh, Ser Davos," Ser Galen Grafton was the next to arrive from the feast, his face rosy red from drink. "Tell us, how are our chances against it?"
"Crushing their remaining fleet ought not be hard if they keep fighting the same way," he shrugged. "The walls, however, are tall, though their city guard is somewhat lax but numerous since the Nine sacked Tyrosh. Alas, I am not well-versed in matters of fighting and war, Ser."
Truth be told, Davos's heart was heavy when thinking about the coming battles. Killing and fighting were so final. It felt as if once the great lords stirred and mustered their swords, everyone lost their minds, and rivers of blood started to flow. Law, order, honour, and justice were all but forgotten at the prospect of killing and glory.
If you killed enough, you could earn a knightly title or even lands and other honours. If you killed enough, you could loot everything your enemy had and earn yourself enough riches to live in luxury till your death. Then came the mad matters of the Faith. Before, the septons preached about piety, understanding, harmony, and peace.
Now? Even the High Septon endorsed war, murder, fighting against slavery and burning heretics loudly and often.
Alas, peace would not return lest they won, so Davos steeled his heart to see Shireen through all the strife no matter what. His bones were old, and his wits not as quick as a decade prior, but he would give it his all.
To his great surprise, a red cloak arrived to invite him to an urgent private audience with the Hand just as he prepared for sleep.
Tempted as he was to call for his Lady, Davos decided to let her enjoy her sleep. He could always report to her what the Hand wanted in the morning. Besides, one did not simply refuse Tywin Lannister, even if the Old Lion was seemingly out of favour with the king.
A sleepy and tired Davos followed through the dark yard into the Tower of the Hand's private audience chamber. Lit by myriad candles, the room was filled with a pleasant, soothing aroma that only made him drowsier. Yet the man inside awakened him instantly–clad in a crimson doublet, the Old Lion Lord awaited him on the desk with his fingers folded.
Now, away from court, the Lord of Casterly Rock had a domineering presence, as if the whole world were in his grasp, that made Davos feel small and insignificant like an ant, especially those green eyes that felt like they saw through you.
"You summoned me, Lord Hand?" Davos carefully asked as he sat across the desk, suppressing his trepidation. This was not only about him; he was here representing Shireen, so the former smuggler could not make a fool of himself.
Davos tried to remember all the courtesies and manners a noble ought to know, but his mind came blank.
"Indeed. Congratulations are in order, Ser," Tywin inclined his head barely. "Your victories in Blackwater Bay were unexpected but spectacular and welcome in their apt timing."
"What?" Davos just blinked, confused. "Those were all Shireen, my lord. I was just there to advise her."
The Old Lion nodded knowingly. "Ah, I see. Very well, I suppose we can continue playing that game. It is suitably cunning, I'd say. Having an eleven-year-old girl best Renly's pirates is a heavy blow to his already dwindling repute."
"But-"
"There's no need to waste on false humility," Tywin said. "Your services will be richly rewarded with a hefty lordship by the time the war ends. You will find that no House is more generous than the Lannisters of Casterly Rock for services rendered."
Davos was too stunned to speak. Why was the Old Lion speaking like he had planned all the victories?
But Tywin continued, "Regardless, His Grace's command is far too daring, and he's too young to understand the intricacies of war. The risk of storming Tyrosh is too much, and we cannot afford to lose our ships in the Narrow Sea when my spies have reported that the Reach has mobilised all of its fleets–Redwyne, Hightower, and Tyrell. Burn Tyrosh's harbours, shipyards, and boats to prevent them from further participating in the war should the chance appear, but your main goal is denying the Redwynes passage through the Stepstones."
"Pardon?" Davos groaned. "This must be some misunderstanding. I-"
"I see you want to continue your ruse. I suppose it did serve you well, but no matter. I will make you a mighty lord should you succeed, Ser Davos." Tywin stood up. "Second only to highlords, of course."
"Err, very well," the former smuggler scratched his head, giving up trying to understand what was going on in the mighty Lion Lord's mind. Regardless, he would simply inform Shireen. "Is there anything else?"
"When the war is won, plenty of grand castles and mighty keeps would require loyal and capable men to hold them. I will even lend you five thousand of my men-at-arms, for I have far more than I need to defend this city," the austere lord finished, finally looking satisfied. "Remember, this meeting never happened."
The Old Lion left the audience chamber, leaving a dazed Davos behind. He pinched himself on the side, but the jolt of pain told him that, no, this was not a dream. The damned Tywin Lannister had barely let him speak, ordering him around like a common servant.
By the time a maid came to escort him out, Davos was certain the world had surely gone crazy.
When the morrow came, and he confided about the meeting to Shireen, she laughed so hard that her eyes were wet with tears.
11th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Tyrion Lannister, the dungeons of Tyrosh
"They probably think me dead, just like they thought you had escaped to the Summer Isles," Lewis Lydden moaned. His new cellmate, the master of ships, was a pitiful sight. His figure had gone gaunt, and his voice hoarse in the darkness. Lydden was optimistic at the beginning of his stay, claiming he would be ransomed. Yet reality was cruel, and no such talks or offers came from his family, so the man turned despondent.
Despite his prickly presence, Tyrion was glad to be no longer alone, and the lord was not wrong either. No help was coming.
But Tyrion already knew that moons before, even if it rankled him that they thought him a deserter. He might not love his family, but running away at the first sign of hardship? Never!
Even stunted lions did not lack courage.
For all the two of them knew, which wasn't much, the war was worsening even further. There were no more visits by Magister Sarrios, and only the silent guards pushed the platter of food through the locked slot in the door.
The one time Tyrion did not return the tray and bowls, he received no food the next day, which denied him another way to escape. The walls were solid stone, for the cell had been carved into the bedrock below the Archon's palace; the door was heavy and studded with iron nails from what Tyrion had seen when the magister had visited.
No guard stood outside the door, and he never heard footsteps aside from the daily meal, which meant no guards were patrolling or swapping posts. Tyrion suspected the stairwell out of the dungeon was heavily guarded, though.
Yet all the time in the silence allowed him time to plot, scheme, and plan. Thousands of plans about crushing the Archonate of Tyrosh turned through his head, some fantastical, some cruel and vile, or even silly, but all were impossible from their cell.
His eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and he had inspected each inch of the cell, and there was no escape. Even the hole for air on the ceiling he had noticed was impossibly thin, and they could not reach it.
That did not mean he was not without plans.
"Five to seven more moons, and we can try our escape," Tyrion whispered after the guards brought their daily food tray. It was just hard bread and two plain, thin wooden bowls of soup–usually mutton. There was no cutlery, of course, and the cup of weak cider only came once a week.
"Are you sure this will work?"
"Of course. Have you not heard all those knights and men-at-arms whinge when their squires let their arms or armour rust, making it useless? Most were exaggerating, but heavily rusted iron is quite brittle. Well, whoever prepared our meals started salting our mutton too much, and thankfully, nothing rusts iron like salt."
It had to be personal. While salt was not exactly expensive in Tyrosh due to their rich salt deposits, making a prisoner's meal salty was too wasteful to be anything but petty. It coincided with when Lydden arrived, which made Tyrion suspect the Tyroshi had not left Blackwater Bay completely unscathed.
Perhaps whoever cooked their meals had lost a kinsman in the fighting?
Ultimately, it didn't matter because it had given Tyrion an idea. As soon as the guards' footsteps dwindled into the darkness, he picked up the bowl, carefully poured some of the salty broth into the keyhole, and spat some more at the gap where the lock was before hungrily slurping down the rest.
Lewis Lydden did much the same, but both left a mouthful in the bottom–to pour even more salt on the keyhole and the lock later on.
Lydden slumped by his side, "Even if we manage to rust our way through the door, there's no guarantee we can escape the Archon's palace unnoticed. We look and probably smell like prisoners." Shitting and pissing in the corner wasn't exactly pleasant, but Tyrion had grown used to the smell long ago.
"The city of Tyrosh hosts over a million souls," Tyrion replied. "We'll have a decent chance of slipping away if we make it out through the night. Better than just waiting and hoping something changes. Besides, the war surely isn't going that bad. If Joffrey lost, we would be killed or handed to Renly. Yet more prisoners would join us if the Tyroshi had continued winning."
"I did see other prisoners in the cells on the way here: knights and heirs to noble houses. Undoubtedly, also awaiting ransom, but why would the Tyroshi wait so long? Perhaps we lost, our homes sacked for all they're worth, and we're already forgotten."
Perhaps they were, but Tyrion would never voice it outloud. It would make it real, but he refused. The slight that the Archonate of Tyrosh and Magister Sarrios had levied on him was not something he would forgive so long as he still drew breath.
Accepting defeat meant giving up, and Tyrion would never give up until the damned city burned and its greedy fat magisters were all either dead or squealing for mercy at his feet. His work, gold, and men were taken from him, not because he misstepped, angered, or challenged something, but because he was convenient. Because he was just a dwarf and easy to deal away with, just because he was a Lannister.
If anyone could look at his piteous appearance, they would laugh and call him delusional, but Tyrion Lannister was not one to give up.
Yet things changed that night. Lydden was already snoring, and just as Tyrion was also drifting into his sweet dreams of revenge, a faint echo called for him.
It was so quiet that he could barely catch the noise, but his hearing had grown sharper in the darkness. It was not time for food, yet the rhythm thump slowly echoed closer and closer until it stopped. As Tyrion wondered if the darkness had scrambled his wits, the lock cracked open with a rusty click, and he was blinded.
"Lord Lannister," he knew that voice. It took him a few moments to blink away the lantern's brightness, and thousands of questions arose in his mind as he saw the familiar face of Lothor Brune, clad as a Tyroshi guardsman, holding a hefty keyring. "I have come to rescue you."
Author's Endnote:
New OCs:Ser Jonothor Cave, Ser Galen Grafton, the charming heir of Grafton, and Ser Jason Melcolm, a dangerous, taciturn man.
Honestly, I am unhappy with the pace or how that chapter came out, but it had to be written. Feedback will be appreciated. I am unsure how much I want to delve into the Tyrion PoV anymore or punt his storyline to a tertiary role, occasionally told through others.
From here on, I will try to streamline the war further, eliminating most of the minor tagalong plotlines and POVs. I really might just replan the rest of the story. Do let me know what annoys you (PoVs etc), what you want to see more, which characters you don't give a flying fuck about, etc.
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.
I've never been super interested in the Tyrion pov so I wouldn't mind it fading into the background, let it stay prevalent until it's current arc is resolved and then have him start fading away.
Not that it's bad just that I always want it less than I want the others. Shireen and Davos kind of started the same way but now you're cooking something up and it's drawing me in.
As for pacing yeah it felt a bit slow, but it was a neccesary setup chapter and Davos' pov was entertaining enough I didn't mind the little bit of lethargy.
On a different note, Shireen is heading to the disputed lands just as Eddard plans to set them ablaze. The Baratheon-Stark wombo combo is back baby! The "free" cities are so absolutely fucked.
There's no way Shireen actually has the naval know how to be running the show... Even the crossbow stretches credibility. Tywin is right to be looking at who has the knowledge and skill in naval combat.... I know you really want to run with badass Shireen... And she can definitely get there, but I think this is way too fast. She didn't naturally grow into it. Davos should continue to be super humble, but should definitely be the one calling the shots in the background with outstanding and loud agreement from Shireen as a figurehead, icon and student.
On a different note, Shireen is heading to the disputed lands just as Eddard plans to set them ablaze. The Baratheon-Stark wombo combo is back baby! The "free" cities are so absolutely fucked.
I want to start this by saying that every PoV is unreliable Narrator, and there are only so many details I can cram in a single PoV without feeling stilted, and the Davos one was already pushing it.
Shireen doesn't need surface knowledge of everything, but simply enough to knowledge to command a fleet, everything else can be picked on the fly. Once his death was inevitability, Stannis spent more than half a year teaching her everything he knew, so Shireen was definitely familiar with the basic concepts of naval warfare (it does help that she's an avid reader, and I daresay she's not dumb/lackwit). What is more, Stannis paved the way for his daughter in every way he knew (loyal knights were recalled, bannermen were cowed, etc etc), with decent advisors. Davos is not one to take credit, so he simply didn't.
Lastly, the Tyroshi grew completely lax and fanned out through Blackwater Bay after wrecking the supposed main naval might of Joffrey (the juicy royal fleet), giving Shireen the opportunity to meet parts of their scattered fleet by striking first (and then equal numbers). As for the crossbow itself, she's using a manservant until she grows strong enough to use a windlass.
Simply said, Shireen (11 year old girl) and Davos (a former no-name smuggler born in Fleabottom) were greatly underestimated. Shireen didn't win through sheer genius or anything like that, but simply by being at the right place and the right time (and having the balls to take the incentive). Lastly, the Tyroshi were also burdened with plunder and slaves/hostages, so they had no reason to stand and risk their hard-earned spoils by fighting some girl who seemed like a thorn in her side with a handful of ships. In simpler terms - greed.
Funnily enough, Shireen certainly has more experience at sea than Lord Lewys Lydden(not to mention better advisors), who never ran a ship, let alone a fleet in his life before (remember, that was one of Cersei's big-brain appointments).
Shireen's rise so far is a set of unique circumstances, where her naval know-how is only a minor part of the picture. But regardless, her fame/name would grow because where a grown lord and tested fleet failed before, she succeeded. Whether she would live up to the newly gained fame remains to be seen.
Most of this has been mentioned at one point or the other, but it's very hard to convey this in a single Pov, let alone one that is an unreliable narrator. I hope this answers a big part of your qualms.
The seat of House Buckler was nothing like the bright, beautiful castles she saw everywhere in the Reach. The walls were tall, thick, and gloomy; even the lumbering bronze gate the keep was named after was dull yet scarred from who knows how many sieges it endured. Like the other holdfasts in the Stormlands Margaery had visited, this one barely had any luxury on display, and even the gardens were trim and austere, with an almost gaunt heart tree sporting a grim face carved on its bone-like trunk.
The Stormlands did not lack gold or silver, but they did not care as much about displaying it. Instead, the halls and walls were filled with tapestries of previous victories or glorious moments, hunting trophies, swords, and shields taken from their foes. The emphasis on wealth and prosperity paled before the display of martial prowess and skills in warfare.
All of the Stormlords Margaery had visited were of similar make, including Lord Ralph Buckler–warriors to the last, if prickly and proud, regardless of age.
Yet it only made her work here harder. She and her small army of ladies-in-waiting were here to cement the alliance between the Reach and the Stormlands.
When Renly first called his banners, it was under Ser Cortnay Penrose, who was quite respected in the Stormlands as the acting High Steward while her husband stayed in King's Landing. Yet, few Stormlords had answered the call in person when it became known that Renly would not lead the host. Most had sent their brothers, uncles, or cousins to lead their armies in the fast muster.
It had been fine at first, for her father thought the countless swords of the Reach were more than enough to win the war. Yet things were slowing down, and the situation at King's Landing did not look as rosy as before.
"This is going to be a long siege," her father had said before Margaery left. "We could beat Tywin in an open field, but the old lion is cunning and retreated to use the city walls in his favour. One man atop the ramparts is worth at least three below. Doubtlessly, the whole city is being turned into one giant trap."
Worse, the Young Wolf's victories had turned the tides of war against them. Even with the Greyjoys bending the knee–at the cost of seven weddings. It had left Oakheart, Cuy, Mullendore, and Ashford rather disgruntled to give their daughters to reaver lords despite Highgarden providing the hefty dowry. Even though the maidens were her ladies-in-waiting, Margaery could feel their fathers were greatly rankled, and the alliance only went through after Renly promised honours, wealth, and positions in the future–including more lands and castles from the Riverlands and the Westerlands.
Neither Margaery nor her ladies-in-waiting, who were wedded off, were thrilled about the arrangement. For Margaery, it reduced her power and prestige, and no maiden dreamt of marrying Ironmen.
Then there was Lenora Hightower, wedded to Lord Baelor Blacktyde, her foster brother and a man who followed the Seven. At least she was the only one looking happy with that whole arrangement.
Desmera felt like she was the one who was insulted to the point of betrayal, as her father was the one to put forth her hand in marriage. "They are exiling us to those barren rocks with the ugly, crude raper scum. The Greyjoy heir is pathetic."
Her grandmother had scoffed at her grand-niece then. "What a flock of silly clucking hens. As if they were not going to spread their legs and pop out an heir or two for whomever they married. The only difference is their pirate lord of a husband will steal some unwilling salt wife to occupy his attention instead of taking a mistress."
Those heirs and young lords who had to marry a maiden from the Iron Isles were not particularly happy, though Margaery did not hear any objections voiced in contrast to her ladies-in-waiting.
Woes aside, the war demanded more swords.
"If we need more warriors, why not muster all the Faith and the additional men-at-arms against Robb Stark or summon them here?" She had asked her father before she left the Crownlands.
"Untrained zealots make for poor soldiers and do not take well to command," he had explained patiently. "There's nothing worse for an army than an undisciplined rabble, and no lord wants to feed, train, or pay gold for such useless retainers. Now, the Most Devout will be forced to fork out plenty of the coin for the Northern campaign since it was their plan, thus weakening them further. Besides, the Faith's influence grows too quickly, and Renly intends to remove them and their followers as far away from his court and camp and curb them by giving them what they want most."
Margaery blinked in confusion. "But wouldn't an invasion of the North be… very difficult and costly?"
"Probably, but we aren't paying for it," he had laughed while sipping on his Arbor Gold. "The North had never been conquered from the outside."
"Why send them, then?"
Her father leaned forth. "Some would say for the Seven. To prove the righteousness of their cause with a worthy feat before the gods. To take revenge against the savage, tree-worshipping Northmen. To expand the influence of the Faith." His smile grew darker. "The North is a cold and harsh land, yet abundant in natural wealth like timber, fur, and metal; things that are sadly lacking in the Reach. Your royal husband feels wary of the Faith and the Lords that openly support it but hopes that, at worst, they would distract Robb Stark and his army, hopefully to the point of them returning home."
"And at best?"
Her father laughed jovially then, "At best, the zealots would thin their abundant ranks on Northern steel, paving the way for proper Reachmen to settle the coastal lands. We would annex parts of the North and extract its considerable wealth for ourselves. Paxter's fleet would prove vital in any future trade along the western coast. It's a crime that the Northmen never bothered developing their western shores, so we shall do it for them–Renly has already graciously granted us a city charter that we'll split with the Redwynes."
She had understood then. The support her Uncle Baelor and many others gave to the Rose Septon did not go unnoticed. Her father definitely had a hand in this–because the tens of thousands of vagrants and refugees on the Tyrell lands had gotten too close to the wandering Septons and the Most Devout, who preached to them each morning while handing out food at noon.
For good or bad, bread and prayers were all it took to earn the fervent support of the dispossessed. Margaery was a devout believer in the Seven-Who-Are-One, but the power and influence the High Septon had rapidly gathered worried her. The man was not sworn to her husband and supposedly answered only to the Seven themselves as their avatar in the mortal world.
Yet no matter how much of an avatar he claimed to be, he was as human as any other and did not shy away from hoarding influence and power like a Lannister would hoard gold.
"Yet what if they succeed?" Margaery had asked, causing her father to look at her in confusion. "What if the Faith, Hightower, Redwyne, Blackbar, Peake, and the other overly pious lords succeed in taking the North with the Iron Isles on our side?"
Her father laughed again as if she had just asked the most absurd question.
"The Starks took thousands of years to conquer the North, dear. Years would have passed if the Seven blessed Leyton and the High Septon's efforts, and they would have to share it with the Ironmen, which might as well turn into another bloody struggle. Paxter wants to expand his influence along the coast and control the trade from the North, while your uncle Baelor wants to use the Faith's interest to expand the Hightower's influence."
His eyes were alight with amusement, and he downed his cup of wine and continued, "They are too focused on the barren parts of the North that they do not realise that an extended campaign would allow the prosperous East to rally and muster. It's not known as the largest of the Seven Kingdoms for nothing; if Baelor and the rest drag the campaign for too long, they would fail. They must understand the most important goal is not to conquer the North. By then, this war would have finished, your husband would be on the Iron Throne, their forces would be greatly spent, and Renly would have fully consolidated his rule."
"And the remains of the North cannot deal with the might of the Seven Kingdoms combined," she realised. "The Starks will have no choice but to bend the knee and accept whatever terms imposed or be replaced!"
"Precisely."
And so, the second muster was happening in the Reach now. More swords were raised and trained along the Ocean Road to bolster Oakheart's numbers, who had managed to retreat from the Westerlands with some losses. Even more were being trained in the Northmarch, for the Blackfish had organised raids along the Blackwater Rush all the way across the Gold Road and even into the Northmarch, disrupting the army's supply lines.
Edmure Tully was also doing a second muster in the Riverlands while sieging Harrenhal with over twenty thousand men. If Mathis Rowan fell, Renly would quickly be outnumbered outside the walls of King's Landing.
What once looked like an easy victory now looked like a savage slog in a melee with no victor in sight.
More swords and knights were needed, or her father and husband would be outnumbered on the field. The closest and easiest to gather were the Stormlords, for their quick muster had left a good part of their strength unrecalled. Or so it would seem if the Stormlords didn't drag their feet.
"Pirates attack the coasts from Tarth to the Rainwood, the Dornish vultures roam the Marches unpunished again, and harvest season is upon us," Lord Ralph Buckler had told her. Margaery knew an excuse when she heard one, especially since the harvest season was yet to come for a few more moons. "Harvest Hall was almost sacked by those vultures because Selmy took most of his men with His Grace. My main force is already with the king, but I shall send everything I can spare soon!"
After that grand proclamation, everything he could spare was barely two hundred greybeards led by the captain of the guards, which was merely a fifth of what her father had speculated House Buckler could still muster. There was nothing she could do, too, for they did their duties and answered the call, and Renly was the one who was trying to leave the Stormlands undefended.
The rest of the Stormlords were of a similar mind, and the most she had managed to get out of a lord was the promise of five hundred swords in exchange for a hefty dowry and a marriage to Alysanne Buwler for his heir. Her quest for adding their daughters into her retinue of ladies-in-waiting was met with polite rebuffs. Some outright claimed they were ill and would not even meet her lest they risk the royal heir's health.
Margaery rubbed the swell of her belly. At over five moons, her child was growing without any complications, according to the maesters. The birthing bed was supposed to be her battlefield, yet she was now forced to try and mend the strained relationship between the prickly Stormlords and her husband. Even Brienne of Tarth, the tall, burly maid that looked more man than woman, dubbed the Blue, was no help. Her home, Tarth, was constantly attacked by pirate raids for over a sennight.
The feeling of uncertainty frayed her nerves. Margaery suspected she would have to give out almost all her dear ladies-in-waiting to squeeze out any significant help from the Stormlords, no matter how reluctant she was.
15th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Regent Kevan Lannister, King's Landing
BOOM!
The explosion thundered, rocking him even in the Red Keep. Jarring the shutter of his apartment open, he saw a green shroom bloom all the way down near the walls, sinisterly light like a bright blot in the darkness of the night.
Thankfully, there were no other mishaps or explosions, but this one had been enough to worry many as the fires continued and nearly spread through the city.
Renly seemed to have felt, or more likely heard, something was happening, and the city was soon under assault. Siege towers, catapults, battering rams, trebuchets, and climbing ladders—the assault was fierce, and Tywin went to command the defence in person.
Despite the attack, the court gathered in an hour, and Cregan Karstark dragged a snivelling alchemist clasped in irons before his royal grandnephew.
"Mercy, Your Grace, mercy! We are not traitors, we swear-"
Joffrey scoffed from the Iron Throne. "Mercy? Why would the green piss explode in my city if you didn't work for Renly?"
"Perhaps we should give him a chance to explain himself?" Varys simpered, clasping his hands. "The Alchemist guild has not produced anything significant in years, and most of their pyromancers and acolytes have relocated to the Wall to help with the effort against the Others."
That softened the Northmen in the court, and Karstark no longer looked like he would strangle the robed Wisdom with his bare hands. Joffrey leaned back on the Iron Throne, squinting at the chained man.
"Speak then, alchemist," Ser Tylon Lannett, the new master of coin, barked out.
The Wisdom grovelled deeply, his forehead touching the marble floor. "The last time the guild had made the substance in quantity greater than two jars in this city was during the Mad King's reign when I was just an acolyte." The court erupted in murmurs, and even Kevan grimaced.
"Silence!" Joffrey's yell silenced them as the young king tilted his scarred face. "Varys, what say you? Have the alchemist guild colluded with my traitorous uncle?"
"Unlikely, Your Grace," the eunuch's voice was sickeningly sweet. "While there is some unhappiness amidst the city's guilds, Renly has not reached out to any of them."
Kevan stared at the Spider. His expression was ever subservient, nearly impossible to read, but he trusted him this once.
"Tell us, Wisdom…."
"Wisdom Hallyne," the chained man supplied, still grovelling on the floor.
"What happened to all that wildfire Aerys ordered? Why would such an incident happen now?"
The alchemist only grew more nervous. "The substance grows more volatile as time passes. It also seeps into everything, including rock, stone, clay, glass, and even metal. Only a select few knew what happened to Aerys' batches, but they're no longer alive, my lords."
"What do you mean they're no longer alive?!"
"Ser Jaime Lannister hunted all of them down after he slew the Mad King, Your Grace, and one of the rocks the roses lugged over the walls must have landed on top of one of the caches." Kevan's head began to ache. Gods, what did the damned fool Aerys get to? Was this why he had made an alchemist his Hand?
Was that why Jaime had truly slain the king he swore to guard?
…Why had his nephew remained silent?
But Kevan couldn't ask him, for Jaime had taken that secret to his death.
The court had gone as quiet as a crypt. Even Karstark had a fierce grimace, and the damned Eunuch looked paler than a ghost.
"So," the Spider's voice quivered. "You're saying there are many wildfire jars across the city that could explode with a little nudge, and nobody knows their location?"
"Yes, my Lords."
17th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
With nobody alive to answer, they could only blindly grope in the darkness for the truth, no matter how risky or dangerous.
"Who would have thought Aerys could be this mad? We found caches under the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand, the Great Sept of Baelor, Fishmonger Square, and even the Street of Silk. This is a disaster, Tywin," Kevan groaned.
Renly's assault had come heavy and fast, but it was repelled, and Lancel had once again proved his valour on the battlefield. However, the thorny wildfire problem was not as easy to solve, nor was the lingering stench of sulfur and brimstone that filled the city after the first explosion.
With the help of the Wisdoms and their acolytes, searching parties combed through the city and began finding the green piss. Too much of the green piss and thrice more the city had shaken in an eruption of that green mushroom cloud. The jade flames would linger for days if the alchemists didn't bury them in sea sand, which seemed to be the only thing that could reliably put them out.
Now, there were four hellish sand-filled craters filled with the choking stench of wildfire, and everything within half a hundred yards from them was either charred or levelled by the shockwave. It was a miracle that there were few deaths, probably because the city was half-empty.
"A disaster?" Tywin shook his head. "It would have been a disaster if the wildfire had ignited while we were sacking the city nearly two decades ago. It would have been a disaster if Renly was prepared to assault the city from every direction. It would have been a disaster if they had exploded during the Septon Riot or when Penrose could have stormed the walls before we arrived. It would have been a crushing blow if the Red Keep had gone up in those green flames. This? This is not a disaster but merely an inconvenience."
Kevan slumped on his chair, defeated. "Indeed. But there is no guarantee we'll ever find all of Aerys' caches. And what will we do to dispose of the ones we found without blowing up?"
"Combust them in the dragon pit with all the bodies Renly keeps tossing over the walls," Tywin said. "That fool thinks he can demoralise us; his plan to start a plague shall fail thanks to Aerys' madness. Fire purifies all, does it not?"
Kevan chuckled lightly at his brother's attempt at levity. He was sure Tywin found it incredibly ironic that his old friend would end up helping him from the grave.
Even then, it had been close. Morale had been terrible in the city until Robb Stark's victory, and it had lifted even further once Oakheart had been expelled from the Westerlands. Most of the lords, knights, and men-at-arms were from the Westerlands, and knowing their homes were safe relieved them far more than Tywin's ironclad discipline.
"Why don't we try tossing it at Renly instead?"
His brother's lips thinned even further. "We tried–and stopped after two catapults combusted. Tossing old wildfire did far more damage to ourselves than to Renly, that's for sure."
"Alas. Things still aren't looking good," Kevan noted as his face grew heavy. "Let's put aside that we don't even know if other hidden caches are buried, and the gods know where. Joffrey is still as mercurial as ever and refuses to attend any lessons."
"No matter, this is an issue that can be addressed later," Tywin's voice dripped with distaste. Both knew Cersei failed terribly as a mother, but his brother would never admit it outloud. The sting was even larger, considering that only Tyrion proved somewhat competent of his three children, and nobody knew where he was right now, not even Varys. Yet Tywin did not even seem to care.
"For now, we must address more urgent matters," he changed the topic. "The Clawmen have begun raiding and attacking Renly's outriders, and Penrose is leading ten thousand swords to rally the remaining Crownlords. Perhaps we can sally out at dawn and try to rush Renly's quarters during the morning prayer or at least try to burn their siege equipment?"
The weight of the kingdom was upon their shoulders. As usual, the two brothers planned and plotted deep into the night with meticulous detail. From the Wall to Sunspear, everything that could tilt the scales of war was brought up.
There wasn't much they could do in the grand scheme of things, but each undecided lord and each contested castle were discussed at length. Yes, the war had turned daunting, and all the large moves had already been played. Robb Stark and Edmure Tully were preparing to deal with the Ironborn attacks along the Westerlands and Riverlands, but they could still tilt the scales of victory if they pulled over enough minor lords to their side.
Each small battle Renly's scouts lost was a victory. Each lord that didn't declare for him was another win, just like assuaging each wavering lord on Joffrey's side or collecting hostages. Each time they managed to burn down the trebuchets and the battering rams, Renly was forced to rebuild them again, wasting more time before a potential attack.
18th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Theon Greyjoy, the Summer Sea
The wedding was not what he expected, and he struggled to remember much from nervousness. It was also the most dreary celebration Theon had ever attended. The Reachmen and the Ironmen seemed grim, and Theon couldn't say if it was out of determination or dislike for each other. Or perhaps the grudging dislike between the Drowned Priests and the Septons. Despite combining seven ceremonies as one into one day, the festives and feast paled before what Robb and Myrcella had.
Yet after the ceremony in the Sept, Theon became a married man.
Yet despite being a married man, he was not allowed to touch his bride after the bedding, for the pretty Desmera Redwyne said she felt ill the next morning and excused herself behind a small army of maids.
It was bad enough that Theon was so distracted and nervous that he did not get to enjoy her nubile body as much as he would have preferred. It had been a long time since he revelled in woman's company, so the bedding was too short. Now, his wife would not allow him to touch her as if he was scum.
Even the reunion with his family did not go as he had imagined. His Uncle Victarion was not there, his sister Asha looked down on him despite being shorter, and his father…
His father pulled him the next day and told him, "I will give you one chance to prove yourself, boy."
These had been the first words Balon Greyjoy had spoken to Theon since that day he was sent as Winterfell's hostage. Even during the wedding ceremony in Greyshield's Sept, the Lord Reaper of Pyke did not spare him even a glance. His father looked far older than he remembered but even more dangerous. The grim scowl on his face had deepened, the greys in his hair had defeated the blacks, yet his gait seemed far more… agile, like that of a shadowcat.
"I am the heir of the Iron Islands!"
The moment the words left his lips, Theon realised that was the wrong thing to say because his father laughed at him mockingly.
After the most humiliating minute of his life, even more than when he had to pray and beg lest the damned zealots killed him, his father finally stopped and glared at him.
"Listen, boy," even his tone was derisive. "Nobody will follow a Greenlander boy who follows some statues or trees."
Theon's insides twisted.
"I'm not a boy! I just bathed in their seven oils to live! I have fought in a tourney, I had killed men-"
"All Greenlander make," Balon Greyjoy waved dismissively. "I have no doubt the wolf lord tried to make you into a good wolf and taught you to bark well. You claim to be my heir? Act like one!"
Deep inside, he wanted to scream and rage, but his father's beady eyes stared at him dispassionately. Theon wanted to say Eddard Stark had taught him as befitting of a Highlord's son.
Instead, he swallowed his disgruntlement and asked, "How? How can I prove myself to you?"
The faintest smile appeared on his father's lips. "I'll give you a chance, boy. We're attacking the North, and you've been to most of their castles."
"But I thought," his words were laden with discomfort, "I thought we're going to attack the Westerlands and the Riverlands?"
He didn't want to fight Robb or the Starks after ten years of friendship. The North was his home as much as the Iron Isles had been.
"Merely a distraction. Orkwood and Goodbrother are already attacking Flint's Fingers while Volmark is scouting the shore," Balon leaned closer, looking down at him as if searching for something. "I'll give you a ship, but you must recruit your crew at Lordsport. I don't care how or who you get, but you must be the one to convince them to join you. Every Ironman is a king of their ship, and if you cannot rule a ship or even your own wife, what hope do you have to rule my kingdom, boy?"
And just like that, his father walked away, leaving Theon even more anxious than before. Any attempts to meet Balon Greyjoy were rebuffed, and he was not even allowed on the Great Kraken.
If he was not to inherit the Iron Isles, who would?
All his brothers were dead… and then he saw Asha's ship–the Black Wind. His confusion evaporated as the searing ball of rage climbed up his throat when he realised that his father was even considering disinheriting him for a woman, even if it was Asha.
The Iron Isles, Pyke, were to be his and his alone.
Perhaps he wouldn't be as angry if Asha had not been cold and exchanged less than a dozen words with him. Perhaps he wouldn't be so furious if they hadn't ignored him for a decade and were now willing to toss him aside. Perhaps he wouldn't be so enraged if his dainty red-haired wife, who was almost as pretty as Sansa if with a freckled face, looked at him as if he was some ant to be squished under her boot.
A wife was supposed to stay with her husband, but Desmera had retreated to her father's ship and refused to see him.
"You have no keep," Paxter had patted his shoulder condescendingly. "You don't even have a ship. Surely you cannot expect my daughter and your wife to stay in some longboat with dozens of other Ironmen?"
Theon gritted his teeth as his nails dug into his skin at the memory, and the fiery ball in his belly grew. He gazed at the Sunset Sea's inky waves and his new longship; the Black Swordfish's nose split the roiling waters in two as they sailed towards the Iron Isles. He would prove them all wrong.
21st Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Zaphon Sarrios, Tyrosh
"Magister Sarrios," Varonar, the Archon of Tyrosh, greeted him. He was a tall, wiry man clad in a gilded robe with lilac perfume and unsettling purple eyes, hailing from one of those proud merchant families that could trace their origins all the way to the Freehold. Of course, not the blood of the Forty, but the lesser houses that served them as stewards, traders, and smiths.
His words were not as warm as usual, but the audience was still private in the Archon's gardens with no servants or guards in sight, which meant Zaphon had yet to lose his influence here despite the recent woes. Normally, the Archon was first among equals, elected every six years by the wealthy and powerful magisters, but when Tyrosh was at war, he had the power of a Tyrant.
"Archon," Zaphon bowed. "How fares my daughter?"
"Melyta has finally gotten pregnant," the words were spoken with a hint of annoyance. The magister felt just as annoyed that his daughter failed to quicken for a whole year, but it was not something he could control. "But that is not why I have summoned you here. Sit."
Zaphon took to the bench and found his gaze gliding at the marble fountain with the naked dancing maiden. "If not for my daughter, is my presence necessary for the war effort?"
"War effort?" Varonar scoffed, his face growing fierce. "It's a farce. The damn stag king lied to us about the easy plunder and no resistance. Each day, more magisters and traders complain that their ships have been sunken or taken by a little girl. A little girl of all people! Worse, now we lack the strength to oppose the damned Lyseni and prevent them from claiming the Stepstones because we lost half of our fleet, and the other half has to remain at our harbour to defend against possible retaliation from Lady Stoneface."
"I don't see how that has anything to do with me," Zaphon shrugged. "Over half of my ships are gone, just like everyone else."
Varonar's face darkened further.
"Yes, but you're the one who set this up, Zaphon," an angry finger stabbed at his chest. "Don't deny it. This was supposed to be an easy raid with plenty of loot, yet we suffered a humiliating defeat! Even the hostages are bloody worthless until the war ends, of those who did not escape."
Over a hundred highborn hostages were the spoils from the battles of Blackwater Bay, but most went to the noble family or merchant whose ship caught them. The Archon only held about a quarter of them, and all had somehow escaped, including the stunted lion, which had been a great scandal. Yet the city guard found nothing even after fervently searching for ten days, which struck Varonar's prestige as badly as the defeat.
Why was it so hard to find even a single dwarf in the bloody city?
It was one of the many failures in this war, and they tried to blame him?!
"Varonar, you have the gall to blame me for the losses after you put that lackwit Enyros in charge?" Zaphon coldly reminded, batting the finger poking at him away. "Nothing to say? You would do well to remember that I made you an Archon, and I can just as easily unmake you. You wanted to rule? You got it. You wanted my daughter? You have her. Think carefully about what you want from me now."
Varonar paled. Yes, the Archon was in command during wartime, but so what? Zaphon had done nothing wrong in this case, not even breaking some paltry laws. Archons came and went, but Zaphon and the House of Sarrios remained. Varonar might control Tyrosh, but Zaphon now had more officers in the city's administration than everyone else. He had money, he had the banks, he had the dyes, and he had seven other magisters directly in his sphere of influence.
In the end, even in wartime, the Archon was simply a figurehead that could take the fall if things went awry. And even though his daughter was married to Varonar, the Archon could never risk trying to dislodge Sarrios, for Tyrosh would be divided. The only man who ever posed any risk to him was that cretin Arvaad Marinaar who had latched onto the city guard like a hungry dog would gnaw at a bone.
Alas, the more power and wealth he grabbed, the more the other magisters attempted to thwart him. Varonar knew all this and used it to his advantage, if subtly. Still, he loved to strut around like a peacock wearing the Archon's mantle and sceptre more than anything else, so it was done in moderation.
Ah, if only he had gotten Jon Snow. If only… Zaphon would control the city guard. Lothor Brune was decent, better than any other warrior man-to-man in Tyrosh, but he lacked the lineage and magic, while Jon Snow was said to slay those legendary wraiths of darkness and death with laughable ease.
With the city guard and the North's implied backing, Zaphon could have made a play for the whole of Tyrosh.
Just thinking about how he failed to secure Jon Snow as his good-son soured his mood even further.
"So?" Zaphon grunted, standing up. "What do you want from me? Out with it–I have better things to do." Such as enjoying Velyna and Deliena's company or plotting to expand his wealth further.
"I want assistance with putting down the trouble in the city," Varonar looked like he had swallowed a lemon.
The magister frowned.
"You call a few small riots and freemen being robbed at night trouble?" It was disgraceful, even. But it would be troublesome if the slaves gathered the courage to rebel as they did in Myr.
"The Myrish revolts started as riots and troubles in the streets at night, too," Varonar closed his eyes, defeated. "There is a word from the Ashen Plains. More than half a dozen sellsword companies have been smashed one after another by the revolting slaves. If this continues, the Grand Council of Myr will starve or be forced to negotiate with bloody buzdari."
It was the most derisive word for slave, but it made Zapho weigh the costs and the benefits of assisting his wayward goodson.
"Very well," he conceded. "I'll provide you with three centuries of Unsullied, but only if my man becomes Commander of the guard."
It was a double-edged sword for the Archon; he would receive the men to solve the problem in the short term, while Zaphon profited from having the Commander in his pay for years to come. And, of course, the most crucial part was diminishing Marinar's influence.
"Fine." The single word seemed to pain the Archon as if he had spat out a nail, not a simple agreement.
Doubtlessly, the other magisters had declined his requests for sellswords or Unsullied or provided a token amount, which meant that the law and order of the city would have to be enforced out of their own coffers. After the defeat at the Sunset Lands, the enthusiastic support the Archon enjoyed had dwindled.
Varonar struggled to pay the city watch now that trade had halted almost completely for the war, with retaliation from Westeros looming close, the Myrish slave revolt spilling all over, and the Lyseni and pirate lords in bitter struggle over the Stepstones. It didn't help that the Archon loved flaunting his wealth and luxury, for he hailed from a family that had lost most of its fortune.
The defeat at Blackwater Bay and the loss of too many merchant cogs and warships were heavy blows to the Tyroshi. What would have been an easy run of hit and loot turned into a disaster. Even all the plunder and slaves brought back were not enough to offset the loss.
It also meant the watchmen would barely lift their finger without pay or, at most, extort freemen or the sparse merchants to fill their now-empty purses.
Well, this was his play. If Lothor Brune proved capable and loyal as the commander of the city guard, Zaphon could chip away at Arvaad at the opposing magisters and eventually cement his influence and rule the city from the shadows. In fact, he had been the one to catch three of the escaped prisoners and succeed where the city guard had failed.
Of course, the prisoners now belonged to Zaphon since even Varonar had no face left to lay claim to them after they escaped from his dungeons.
24th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC
Edmure Tully, Outside Harrenhal
He still dreamed of the Rushing Falls. The roars of the men, the cries of agony, the clamours as steel met steel, the banging of the shields–and the death of Hugo Vance. Oh, how he hated himself when he awoke, only to realise that he had lost most painfully. And it was a costly defeat, one that still pained his heart to this day. But his good, brave nephew had helped him wash away the shame–and most of the bitterness, but not all.
Behind him loomed the tall walls of Harren the Black's folly, casting out a long, twisted shadow that could stretch for miles at dawn. It was an ugly castle, even more so now that Rowan occupied it.
Yet Edmure's gaze settled on the long procession coming down the Kingsroad. Unlike a regular army, this one carried no banners, but they were neither sellswords nor hedge knights, but there was no mistake about who they were.
Over a thousand knights wearing pristine armour, followed by their squires and at least thrice as many outriders and men-at-arms, marching in good order. Despite the lack of banners flying in the sky above, the coats of arms were plentiful, and Edmure Tully recognised them all.
"Eleven hundred of the Vale's finest knights, according to the scouts," Jason Mallister murmured, impressed. "And with the retinue to go with it, nearly five thousand lances total."
"With no banners raised, none of them are here in an official capacity," Tytos Blackwood noticed, his face unreadable. Yet the Blackwood lord had become one of Edmure's staunchest supporters–just like Bracken, who did not want to get left behind—especially since sacrificing the Footlys, who burned his eldest son, to the dead heart tree in Raventree hall, which started blooming again.
While some were disgruntled at the savagery, others said it was a sign from the old gods that their cause was righteous. Even the septons's main objection was that the Footlys were not burned to "purify them from their sins" for the heresy.
Blackwood compromised by burning the drained husks of the corpses after the carrion birds had picked them clean, and none complained further.
"Those old cunning foxes," Jonos Bracken tutted. "Royce, Redfort, Templeton, Tollett, Hunter, Bellmore, Donniger, Dutton, Moore, and Corbray, all uncles, brothers, cousins, second, third, and fourth sons."
"And nobody can say they are taking Joffrey's side without the lords or heirs in attendance," Lord Piper laughed. "Taking a page out of the old weasel's book."
An ancient-looking septon on a lame donkey, Sers Morden Templeton, Lyn Corbray, Harlan Hunter, Creighton Redfort, and Nestor Royce approached the helm, showing they were not as disorganised as professed.
"Greetings," Edmure and his bannermen stepped forth to greet them with far more pomp than supposed 'freeriders' would merit. "May I inquire what brings so many knights down the High Road in such times of strife?"
The former High Steward of the Vale, Nestor Royce, a massive, barrel-chested man clad in heavy steel from head to toe, stepped forth.
"Lord Tully," his voice rumbled as he bowed. "We are just a band of pious men who could not stand for Renly Baratheon's vile alliances with pirates, reavers, sinners, and slavers."
While there had been no personal feelings against Renly, his alliance with the Ironmen had infuriated even the calmest of the Riverlords, and they all wanted blood now.
"The Seven themselves cannot tolerate Renly's sinister practices," the septon spoke. Despite his age, his blue eyes were as bright as stars, and his hoarse voice echoed with conviction, and he raised his sceptre that looked like a weatherworn shepherd's hook made from weirwood. "New and old, the Gods will that his cause be smashed on the field of battle!"
"The Gods will it!"
Hundreds, no–thousands of men echoed along as one. The cry clamour was so overwhelming and unexpected that Edmure almost fell off his saddle and struggled to rein in his spooked horse.
With over five thousand men coming down from the Vale and all the Houses dragging their feet getting off their arses, Edmure was in command of nearly thirty thousand swords. It was no longer a matter of coin or fulfilling their duties to the liege lord. When the banners were called, most lords brought the mere minimum just to cover the oaths of their vassalage, for each sword on a campaign had to be paid out of their purses. Yet Rowan's cruel victory and rampant looting and burning had made things personal, just like involving the Ironmen in the war.
With Lords Deddings and Perry agreeing to swear to the Black for life before ten witnesses and a council of septons, their heirs swore fealty to Edmure, while both houses gave three children hostages in Riverrun each.
Now, all the Houses of the Riverlands were united under the silver trout of Tully for the first time in generations. Even the quarrelsome Freys had moved with Lord Stevron Frey to repel the Ironmen attacking their shores and aid Mallister and Blackwood lands, if reluctantly, and Black Walder Frey and his men loudly professed their loyalty for all that could hear.
Of course, his uncle Brynden had taken four thousand outriders to disrupt the supply lines down the Blackwater and the Mander along Tumbleton.
Twenty-six thousand men camped outside the cursed seat of Harren the Black, where Rowan hid with his four thousand men. Nobody knew what happened to old Shella Whent, and the Lord of Goldengrove had not even attended the parlay in person.
After what he had done, Rowan had the audacity to request safe passage to the Reach while vowing to remain neutral for the rest of the war through his captain, as if he did not dare face them. It was too late to play with niceties, for Edmure and his men craved blood. Needless to say, things quickly devolved into tossing petty insults at each other, and the parlay ended inconclusively.
"I thought the Lords of the Vale were busy fighting each other over Lord Robert Arryn's regency?" Lord Lymon Goodbrook noted as they gathered for a council later that night. Word had tickled to the camp that tens of smaller battles and skirmishes had been fought already, though the Mountains of the Moon made moving many troops difficult.
Many of the Vale knights bowed their heads shamefully.
"It is so," Ser Nestor Royce said, his words laced with displeasure. "Yet seeing the current situation of the Seven Kingdoms and the lack of decisive success in open battle, Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood have agreed to settle the dispute with A Trial of Seven at the urgings of the Faith, though the old crone still tries to delay as much as possible."
"Of course, that does not mean Ser Vardis Egen will acknowledge the results," the Templeton knight muttered. "That old man thinks being the Eyrie's captain of the guards gives him the right to become Lord Arryn's regent."
"At least he no longer dares support vile slave-cavorting scum like Renly openly," Redfort tutted derisively.
"Even the most pious of men can be led astray by honeyed words," the old septon placated, his voice soft and calm. Edmure had found he was named Maryn, the leader of the Most Devout residing within the Vale. "Ser Egen has sworn his fealty and blade to Lord Arryn first and foremost."
That eased the disgruntlement of many, blatantly showing how significant a role the Faith played in pacifying the proud Lords of the Vale.
"We have enough men to march on Renly in the Crownlands," Ser Lyn Corbray pointed out, his gloved hand lazily fiddling with Lady Forlorn's pommel. "With Tywin Lannister's thirty thousand inside the city, we'll outnumber the damned roses."
"While important, numbers are far from everything in war," Lord Jason Mallister cautioned. "Doubtlessly, Cortnay Penrose, Mace Tyrell, and Randyll Tarly will be in charge of the fighting. They are old, seasoned, cunning, and would doubtlessly prepare for our coming. We cannot hide thirty thousand swords; if they do not think they can win, they will simply retreat south of the Blackwater Rush."
Edmure balled his fists.
"There are too many hostages in Harrenhal to leave it in Rowan's hands," he said. The memory of the battle, the pained grunts as Hugo and Kirth were slain, and the screams as his men perished were still fresh in his mind. "Some of our horsemen and the remaining muster will be sent to guard the western coast against the damned reavers." Mallister and Blackwood gave him a grateful nod.
The Royce knight frowned. "Starving out Rowan might take moons, and storming Harrenhal will be suicide. Those curtain walls must be at least a hundred and twenty feet tall and have never fallen."
"It's good then that I plan to do neither," Edmure smiled savagely.
The word had been out for over a sennight now, and thousands of smallfolk had flocked to aid him with spades, shovels, and pickaxes, eager to help him do some honest work that should have been done centuries ago. They were all digging only under the cover of the night to prevent Rowan from discovering his goals, but the day of reckoning was fast approaching.
Author's Endnote:
Renly and the Tyrells are about to realise that the d!ldo of consequences rarely comes lubed.
War's getting shittier by the week, and everything turns messier.
The new OCs in this chapter are Ser Tylon Lannett, the master of coin, Ser Morden Templeton, and Lady Lenora Hightower.
Beta Reader's note: Who knew Mace the Ace was such a planner? A colonial power in the making!
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 Seven themselves cannot tolerate Renly's sinister practices," the septon spoke. Despite his age, his blue eyes were as bright as stars, and his hoarse voice echoed with conviction, and he raised his sceptre that looked like a weatherworn shepherd's hook made from weirwood. "New and old, the Gods will that his cause be smashed on the field of battle!"
Sparrow? Is that you? I've been wondering when that old man might make an appearance, and this Civil War of the Faith would be a great starting point for him.
*Reads a bit more*
Nope! Just another cool old Septon, I should have fini9shed reading first before commenting.
Dalla's hoarse screams finally halted, replaced by a sharp, familiar wail.
Val had become an aunt.
Most of the chieftains had gathered around Duncan's cottage–including the man himself. Red Jayne and Willow were with her, their shaggy forms sitting on each of her sides like guardians. After Calla had been born, all the direwolves had abandoned Val in favour of her daughter. It was one of the reasons she was willing to let her little one out of sight–a dozen direwolves hovered around her at all times, along with Leaf. Of course, Val was not without protection; her dagger aside, the shaggy Red Jayne and Helicent padded after her.
Jon insisted their daughter receive her name now instead of waiting for two years, lest she get used to a milk name, and Val relented. Some spearwives frowned at that, claiming it would jinx her daughter, yet none dared to say it to her face…let alone her husband's, and Melisandre assured her it would not matter. If the Gods desired misfortune on their daughter, a mere name would do nought to protect them from their whims.
It was an odd way to assuage her fears, but it helped.
"Good set o' lungs," Tormund said approvingly, patting Duncan Liddle's stiff shoulder as the wails grew louder. "Gonna be a fighter just like 'er da!"
It did not placate the burly Northerner one bit. Val was also worried–the babe was fine, but what about her little sister? Yet no matter how much she wanted to rush into the house and ensure Dalla was fine, she dared not do it with Melisandre guarding the door. The Singer helping the birth had requested the priestess not to let any visitors through because it would be bad for the babe and the mother.
Val was supposed to do the same thing, but she had been distraught when Calla's eyes had come out that odd colour, and by then, it had been too late. Thankfully, her daughter was in good health, just like Val. Yet, unlike her, Dalla had spent over ten hours in labour, and the spearwife couldn't help but worry about her sister.
As they all waited, the heavy fur rug covering the door was pushed aside just enough for the petite Singer to slip through.
"Boy, it is," she said in the same singsong voice all the leafcloaks spoke in, even though some words sounded slightly wrong–in the wrong order, too. Of all of her kin, Brightspot spoke the most words in the common tongue after Leaf, but it still showed that she was new to it.
"A strong warrior," Sigorn Thenn grunted with approval and turned around to leave.
However, Duncan ignored the congratulations and pats on his shoulders; he had eyes only for Brightspot, "What of Dalla?"
"Need rest, but well your wife is. You can see Dalla and newborn, but quiet you must be."
Duncan rushed into the hallway like an arrow released from the bowstring, and soon, the rest of the wildling chieftains began to disperse.
"Too impatient, har," Tormund chuckled merrily, rubbing what remained of his right ear after a cannibal had bitten it off when Lerna attacked. "I heard Dunk vow to name the babe Jon should it be a boy."
"Aye, I'm naming my next son Jon, too," Morna nodded seriously, and Val just groaned.
Her husband was very popular, and many hoped they could borrow some of his luck, skill, or divine blessing by sharing the same name. Jon had not only led every battle at the front, winning their respect as warriors and leaders, but also saved them all. Despite the initial suspicion and mistrust towards his kneeler origins, he had done everything he had promised and more. It helped that he was fair but firm while mediating any arising disputes. After the last battle, there were plenty of lesser squabbles, easily resolved by her man.
Tormund tilted his head. "A son? You already have two, har! I say your next shall be a daughter. Besides, who's going to sire the babe? Didn't your man die to the Cold Ones over a year ago?"
"He did," the spearwife admitted, yet her words were bereft of sadness. "But it's not like there is a lack of strong men here."
Morna looked at Val, who was already reaching for her dagger, while Giantsbane guffawed.
"Snowy hair is more likely to–how did Jarod call it…" Tormund rubbed his greying beard. "Ah, yes. She's far more likely to eviscerate you than share her man, har. How many did you shank for trying already?"
"One," Val frowned, her eyes not leaving Morna while her body remained tense, ready to pounce. She was easily amongst the strongest spearwives in Warg Hill, and one of the few Val wasn't sure she could defeat, especially after her strength had yet to recover from the birth. "Jon said I can't murder people for something they didn't do anymore. I sheared all the hair off the second and the third ones."
"Gods!" Of course, Pigsbane found that even more amusing and heaved over, roaring with laughter. "Is that why Thistle and Frenya no longer dare remove their hoods?"
"I am not trying to steal your husband," Morna untied her weirwood mask, revealing a sharp face with grey eyes before raising her gloved hands as if to surrender. "Calm down, Val. I am just asking. It wouldn't be odd for a strong chieftain to take more than one wife, and there's no man greater than Jon Snow here. Each spearwife yearns to have a strong man and give birth to a strong son."
"Jon and I swore to each other before the gods," Val reminded coldly. "I am his, and he is mine. We vowed to be together until death. You were there, bearing witness along with everyone else. Or have your wits begun to fail you?"
She wasn't afraid Jon would leave her, but she knew of Morna's arrangements. Val had seen Ygon Oldfather and his eighteen wives, even if most were taken during raids. It was a bitter, underhanded struggle between the women vying for the man's affection, trying to use their children to get ahead of the rest. It was not a game Val had any desire to even contemplate for herself or her children. Trying to wrangle with a horde of half-siblings sounded exhausting and wrong; kin were meant to stand together.
Of course, Jon would never go around raiding or stealing women, but some spearwives were daring enough to try and sneak into his bed despite the sizeable pack of direwolves in the hall nearby.
Morna sighed, rubbing the scar that ran through her lips. "My wits are still there and work well, Val. But I figured asking wouldn't hurt–I just want a son, not to wed him."
"Well, the answer is no," Val snarked, sheathing her knife back and tucking it behind her shadowskin cloak. The spearwife knew her husband. If Jon sired another child, he would care for it no matter what, no matter how much Morna claimed to want only a son.
"There are fewer things more appealing to women than greatness and strength," Melisandre came over, lazily leaning on her weirwood staff. "Just like men are attracted to beauty."
"And what about you, priestess?" Tormund asked, lazily taking out a smoked fish from his bag and tearing a good chunk off with his yellow teeth before swallowing. "Any man caught yer eye?"
"My heart belongs to the gods."
He scoffed. "Tsch, keep yer secrets, then." His face lost its usual playfulness. "Speaking of the gods… are you sure the Cold Ones are gone?"
"Gone?" Melisandre chuckled hollowly. "Defeated? Yes. Gone? Not really. The Great Other has returned to his deep slumber, and his cold children have retreated to the Lands of Always Winter to join him in the protection of the cold and the darkness, so the threat still looms far in the distance. They will return. Perhaps not today. Not even in a hundred or a thousand years. The memories of men run short, and even the Watch had long forgotten their purpose just a few years prior. Once the Wardens of the Wall grow weak and forget their purpose, the Others might stir from their slumber again."
"So this is why the crows want to venture deeper North?" Morna asked, strapping her weirwood mask back to her face.
"Indeed," Jarod nodded. The greybeard's hair had turned almost entirely white in the last year. Old age was catching up to him, and his movements were not as vigorous as before. While his broken arm had healed, it was still stiff and weaker than the good one. "Lord Commander Stark wants to chase after the Others and kill them all to the last, but getting far with a sizeable ranging beyond the Frostfangs is nearly impossible unless they have a resupplying base and assistance on the way."
"The Crow Lord wants the Giant Stair for his base," Val reminded him. "He also wanted the Thenn valley, but Sigorn wouldn't budge. Neither would be feasible for him without Jon's support." They also had to deal with Isryn and his clans that had settled in the valley.
"Such preparations would take years, decades even, and would require the Haunted Forest to be peaceful and the clans, tribes, and chieftains to be on good terms with the Watch," Melisandre mused.
Val knew all too well what good terms with the crows meant. Friendly or dead. Before, the crows were few, like the fish in a small creek–even then, she had heard the huntsmen in her village grumble about how it was better to avoid them, or more would come to avenge the fallen - not necessarily clad in black either. But now, their numbers had swelled, and she had seen how dangerous they could be with her own eyes. Benjen Stark was a great warrior and just as good a commander, and if he desired to smash through all the unfriendly clans and tribes, he would doubtlessly do it.
A part of her was glad that her man was Lord Crow's nephew and had managed to forge a pact with the Watch. Those fire witches and the flames in the jar made her skin crawl, but they weren't half as scary as the sea of black cloaks. Val would never say it out loud, but she would prefer to face the Others again rather than the Crows. Like many other free folk, she had seen the power of discipline, and the kneelers were masters at it.
"And he cannot start this in any other season but summer, for the cold would end them far easier than the Others," Jarod added.
"Indeed." The priestess sighed. "Yet I fear by the time Benjen Stark succeeds in establishing a proper forward base to execute his plan, the will to see everything through would have long dwindled in the hearts of his men."
"Of course," Tormund nodded shamelessly. "We had our fight against the Cold Ones–and we won. Thousands of years later, it'll be for our blood to prove themselves worthy on the field. They'll grow soft and weak if we leave 'em no challenge."
"Many don't believe the Others have turned tail to run," Morna said. "After the last year, wariness still runs deep to the bone. The Warg Lord sent out scouts in every direction, and a third of the giants left for greener pastures, but everyone's still waiting for the cold to creep back."
"Winter is coming, even without the Others," Melisandre's smile turned forlorn. "It's the way of life. The old withers and dies, making way for new growth. But if you want proof that the Others have abandoned the fight, look no further than this."
Val followed her finger, pointing towards the crimson petals of an autumn flower nestled just by the wall of Duncan's house.
"What does frostfires have to do with this? You can find them everywhere where the sun shines."
"The Cold Ones shun the warmth of life and seek to snuff it out," the priestess' green eye gleamed, reminding Val of a warm day, while the red one remained cold and lifeless like the ruby encrusted in her staff. "Even their mere presence is often enough. Yet, life is not so easily squashed. Frostfires are the most fragile autumn flowers, yet they spread like weeds in the Warg's Grove and outside the gates. The flowers sprang to life everywhere wights and Others fell, even amidst the brittle ashes lingering after the Alchemist's unnatural flames."
Pigsbane patted his bulging belly, burped loudly, and tossed the fishbone to Red Jeyne, who deftly snatched it from the air, but Helicent came over to scramble for the treat. "Well said. By the looks of it, we'll get four, maybe five warm moons before the cold returns anyway, Others or not."
Shaking her head, Val headed up the hill towards the Keep; the hounds hastily followed in her trail, forgetting their fighting, both crunching on the fishbones they had managed to win.
Knowing the Cold Ones wouldn't return was a relief, but this meant the struggle for survival was over. And while it was a good thing, the lands were dangerous, and it would leave everyone at Warg's Hill in a tenuous position. Fighting against the Others was what united everyone under Jon, but what would happen now that they were gone?
Val didn't know.
Of course, nobody was foolish enough to fight or challenge Jon directly after he had fought, led, bled, and won for them, but the unknown was daunting on its own. It was no longer just the two of them either. Sure, Dunk would take care of Dalla and her son, but Val didn't want her Calla to be like her–wandering through the Haunted Forest and struggling to survive.
She passed through the Hall only to find Calla lazily sprawled by Ghost's enormous snowy head, giggling as she tried to tug at his whiskers. The enormous direwolf didn't seem bothered, nor did the other canines, when Calla reached out her chubby arms, attempting to tug on their shaggy tails as they circled her. The direwolves had drastically reduced in numbers, not because they had perished in the fighting but because they were going out hunting.
Over half were always out, prowling through the forest in one deadly giant pack that could easily take down even mammoths.
"She's going to be powerful," Leaf murmured. There was something that looked suspiciously like envy in her golden eyes as she gazed at the babe. But Val quickly dismissed the thought; the Singer had sworn to take care of the child before the Old Gods and would do so no matter what, and Val had no qualms about letting her watch over her daughter. "The wolves… they consider her one of their own. But it goes deeper than that, on a far more primal level. If one of the bitches whelped, Calla would doubtlessly be weaning with the litter."
"Wolf-raised," Val chuckled. "It would not be a bad thing."
"Perhaps. But power and beauty are a dangerous combination," the Singer's words turned sorrowful. "The blood of the dragon is strong in her too."
"So what if those dragonlords looked like my daughter?" The spearwife asked fiercely. "Will someone come after her just because of her colouring? If so, perhaps it is truly a curse."
Leaf gave her a wan smile. "Many blessings are a double-edged sword, especially those related to magic and blood. Not all of us have the favour of the Old Gods to shield us from it all."
Val didn't like what she heard, but she could tell it was honest.
"Where is my husband?"
"In the grove."
Sighing, the spearwife gently wrapped her daughter in her warm fur hide, earning herself a wide, toothless smile as Calla reached out to grab her hair. Val took her time to feed her daughter, who suckled as greedily as always, before making her way to the grove, the little one nestled in her arms.
Of course, she wasn't alone, as a shaggy retinue of direwolves lazily followed in her steps.
As always, the so-called godswood was teeming with life. The air was heavy with the happy chirping of snowshrikes, and crimson frostfires peeked from beneath the melting snow.
Jon was just before the Heart Tree, hands clasped in silent prayer. He must have heard them approach from afar because he stood up and gave her the softest smile that made her belly flutter. At that moment, all of Val's woes melted like snow in the sun. With her husband here, there was nothing to fear.
5th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
Garlan Tyrell, the Crownlands.
After fighting at the Rushing Falls, Garlan considered himself lucky to avoid the following battles. He was more than ready to fight. He was good at it, even. But it wasn't the fighting that worried him, but the aftermath. In mere moons, any civility, honour, and chivalry had been discarded like the scanty gown of a wanton whore.
Where was the glory and valour in cruel butchery?
Alas, Garlan had been foolish to think fighting had been the worst. Allying with pirates and rapers was one matter, but Renly and his father sent him to negotiate with the Lord Reaver of Pyke himself.
His sweet cousins had been offered to the reavers like cattle to a merchant. To add insult to injury, the offer had been made with his mouth, and now Desmera, Elinor, and poor Lenora were to spend the rest of their lives in the Iron Isles, married to Ironmen scum like Drumm, Volmark, and Harlaw. A small part of him was glad that he had wedded Leonette already, or else he would find himself abed for life with one of the reaver dames.
He had seen Asha Greyjoy and wanted nothing to do with her coarse, ribald ilk for more than a day, let alone the rest of his life. But he was a knight, and being a knight meant serving your liege, no matter how much you misliked it.
For good or bad, Garlan was forced to travel aplenty after the battle he fought. He had crossed thousands of miles by now, whether by boat or horse, but it brought him no joy this time despite his love of travel and adventure. There was no time to enjoy the scenery; the pace was often gruelling, but the physical exhaustion eased him to sleep even when his restless mind wandered.
He still remembered riding to King's Landing for the Northern Tourney. Seven games–and each was spectacular in its own right, even the boulder lifting. It was a more peaceful, cheery time. It had been summer, with all of its prosperity, along with the warmth and humidity and golden fields of wheat and barley stretched around the kingsroad as far as the eyes could see.
Yet autumn had come, and with it, war.
The loud cheer of the tourney crowd was replaced by the battle cries and whimpers of death and agony. Grim armies, slaughter, and fleeing smallfolk were now a common sight instead of churning festivities. Instead of rivers of wine and merriment, only blood and death flowed through the land.
The green pastures had turned yellowy, and the enormous herds of cattle roaming around it were nowhere to be seen. They were all doubtlessly eaten clean by the Lannister army, and what little remained was swept up by his father. The golden fields had turned black and barren, scorched by the fires of war, and the lively Gold Road was empty save for scouts and a myriad of guarded supply carts.
Now and then, his gaze settled on the fallen, emaciated corpses filling ditches by the road. Hundreds of thousands had been expelled from King's Landing, and their fate seemed grim, though a sizeable number had managed to flee to the Reach and the Stormlands.
Armies left only death and desolation in their paths.
Garlan knew that, but seeing it for himself was another matter, especially when everything had been thriving not even a year prior. He wanted to weep, but no tears were left.
He had the pleasure of hearing some of the begging brothers preaching along the way.
"The Seven punish us for our sins," one man, merely skin and bones covered up by worn-out rags, preached fervently. "The end times are nigh! Brother and sister lay together, spawning abominations, awakening those foul demons lurking in the northern darkness! Men turn to men for comfort, and lords have begun consorting with heathens, slavers, and sinners. The Father shall smite them all down!"
It wasn't long before a group of outriders wearing Baratheon colours came down upon the man and took him away in chains, probably never to be seen again.
His travelling companions, Sers Bayard Norcross and Willam Wythers and their two squires, seemed just as disheartened as Garlan.
"I don't like this," Wythers muttered, rubbing his balding head. "Ironmen cannot be trusted."
"Neither can the slavers of Essos," the Norcross knight sighed. "I heard the damned Tyroshi have turned around and are attacking Tarth and Cape Wrath."
Ser Willam scoffed. "It was some pirate prince of the Stepstones in the last inn, the Myrmen in the one before, and… what was it three days at the Dancing Lady?"
"Corsairs from the Basilisk Isles, supposedly," was the dark reply. "It doesn't matter. They're all scum that deserve the noose."
Garlan agreed with both of them. Yet he was not a common knight or man-at-arms but the Queen's brother and the Hand's son. "We can only follow our liege's orders."
"Aye. But it doesn't mean we have to like it. Should've chopped off that squid's head right there instead of giving him a beautiful maiden. It's like giving roses to a swine."
"Bah," Ser Bayard spat. "If the Greyjoy boy lost his head here, his father would probably be raiding our shores, and the war would look far worse than it does now. I mislike it as much as you do, but we had plentiful foes in this war before adding more to them."
The Wythers knight waved dismissively, "As if the Ironmen can beat the combined naval might of the Reach. The craven reavers are only good in attacking defenceless villages and empty holdfasts by surprise."
"I wouldn't discount them at sea," Garlan warned. "I have heard Lord Paxter say that the battle of Fair Isle would have been lost without Lord Stannis' leadership." And Lord Stannis was no more now.
Worse, his daughter turned away and publicly denounced Renly, and nobody could blame the girl for the Tyroshi attacking her vassals. Shireen Baratheon's success was entirely unexpected, and many pinned the victory on the Lord of the Tides or the Onion Knight. Garlan had heard some even call her a vile witch, a heathen sorceress in the inns along the way.
Some hearsay was outright ridiculous, like, "The wolf lord passed on by Dragonstone on his way before the Seven themselves saw to drown him. My Da swears Stark imparted all his dark knowledge to the king's niece, corrupting her!"
Others even claimed Robb Stark shifted into a giant direwolf and ate people alive.
It seemed hypocritical. Victory was welcomed as ordained by the gods, and their cause was proven righteous. But defeat? Defeat meant that their foes surely used dark powers and were fiends who crawled out of the Seventh Circle of Hell.
It wasn't long before they neared King's Landing. The stench of smoke, shit, and piss wafted from afar, if not as intense as he remembered. Then, the enormous army and the countless tents could be seen like a sea of ants surrounding the sandstone walls from every direction by land. The myriad of colourful banners in the skies, a grim contrast to the greyish walls, protected from above only by the defiant figures of the roaring lion of Lannister and the crowned stag of Baratheon.
Another group of outriders rode out to meet him this time. He recognised most of them–Ser Edric from Appleby and Anton of Rushford were old acquaintances—but his friend was missing.
"Where's Ser Mullendore?" Garlan asked.
"He perished from his wounds in one of the assaults," came the sombre reply.
He turned forlorn then. How many of his friends, kin, and family would perish by the time the war ended?
With a heavy heart, Garlan glanced at the surrounding tents as the men escorted him to his father while his travelling companions were dismissed. The men no longer looked cheery and confident, but as his father had said, the Seven-Pointed Star could no longer be seen fluttering in the skies above. It, along with the High Septon and his retinue, had gone North with the enormous combined fleet of Hightower, Redwyne, Chester, Grimm, Hewett, Serry, Cuy, Costayne, Buwler, and Blackbar. Of course, the bulk of the warships had already sailed ahead; they rushed to catch the warm moons of the North–four more if the Maesters of the Citadel were correct.
For good or bad, even the Ironborn and the zealots were carefully separated. Garlan had heard that Greyjoy only allowed the Reachmen to resupply on Blacktyde, for Lord Blacktyde had fostered in Oldtown for nearly a decade after the Ironborn rebelled. Baelor Blacktyde had even converted to the Seven and had chased away the Drowned Priests off his island, making him the least likely of the reaver lords to cause trouble for the Reach.
While Garlan would never say it outloud, he considered the Northern campaign–or Northern Crusade as the zealots had begun calling it, to be a waste of time and resources. They should have used the fleets and the additional manpower to flank the Riverlands or the Westerlands from the shore, essentially crippling their military power. Alas, while it would be the wise thing to do, few proposed it, rarely and without enthusiasm.
One of the thornier problems was Robb Stark and his mounted force. While the royal councillors and the Reach Lords were loud and bold at the disparagement of his meagre force of scarcely twelve thousand lancers, none proposed to go and face him on the field. Garlan knew why: if the numbers turned against the Young Wolf, he had the mobility to run away and strike somewhere else. Besides, Oakhart had already written to His Grace, expressing his confidence in fighting–or at least tying up the Northmen until the war ended.
Naturally, John Oakheart's words were taken seriously. The man had proven himself a sharp commander, and he would have his numbers supplemented further by a second muster of the Houses along the Ocean Road.
And thus, with the Crownlands already struggling to support two large armies, the Northern invasion was hatched. Yet Garlan inwardly wondered how much was this attack on the North going to help the war and how much it was purely for his father, Lord Greyjoy, Hightower, and the High Septon's interests. Renly's decision was easier to figure out; he had begun to grow suspicious of the Faith's rising power, and his open dislike of House Stark and Northmen was hardly a secret.
Alas, while the highlords and kings planned, the main struggle was done by common folk, men-at-arms, levies, outriders, and knights.
Garlan's heart grew heavier as he heard murmurs about night raids, building more trebuchets, and rotting corpses. It could be the light was playing tricks on him, but he couldn't help but notice that their faces looked gaunted and their bodies thinner. The explanation came to him quickly enough–lack of food. Or, well, not lack of it, but supplies were definitely being rationed, for no longer could he spot men eating out in the open, like before.
Within ten minutes, he found his way to the sprawling Tyrell pavilion threaded with golden silk with floral patterns across the hems, second in size only to the royal one, if barely.
His father, garbed in his green silken surcoat embroidered with a golden rose, sat at the head of a large table laden with food and ate voraciously. Though, Garlan couldn't help but notice that the guards outside were far warier than before, and his father's sword and shield were by the table.
"Garlan," his sire greeted him, raising a cup doubtlessly full of Arbor Gold.
"I have completed my task, Father-"
"No need for pleasantries between the two of us in private," a meaty hand waved him over. Unlike the grim faces of the men outside, his father still had his jovial smile plastered on his face, but it failed to reach his eyes. "Come, sit, my son. Soothe your parched throat with proper wine and fill your hungry belly with a choicer selection of meats."
His stomach growled at the sight of the steaming rib-eye steak, and his nose twitched at the succulent aroma wafting from the table. War and autumn had made the pickings slim even in the Reach; not even the inns offered good fare, no matter how much gold he offered. Sighing, Garlan helped himself to some proper food for the first time in weeks.
"I thought House Tyrell's coffers were strained after paying five hefty dowries?" It had been part of the alliance with the Iron Isles. Not many lords were particularly excited to send off their daughters in the arms of the Ironborn. Still, his father had promised to cover a good part of the dowry, preferential positions at court, and other honours in the war to get the deal moving without a hiccup.
"War is an expensive endeavour," his father sighed. "Losing even more so. The campaign in the Westerlands was going to pay most of it, you know? Even without sacking Lannisport, Lord Oakheart had gathered enough wealth to fill our coffers nearly twice over. Of course, only a quarter of that would go to us as per agreement, but it would be more than enough. Alas, now he has to defeat the Young Wolf to see another gold coin from the Westerlands."
"Isn't it better to send him reinforcements instead of shipping men to attack the North?" Garlan asked, despite already suspecting the answer. The succulent piece of steak on his plate tasted heavenly, but it no longer brought him any joy.
"We're already sending men his way. Six thousand more, and another four thousand are in training. Lord John doesn't have to defeat the Young Wolf; only keep him blocked as he claimed he could do." Clever. Enough men to tilt the scales in Oakhart's favour but not too much to dissuade the Young Wolf from engaging. "Thankfully, Stark will be busy defending the Western shores for another moon, and he has to wrangle into order with what remains of Tywin's bannermen, giving Oakheart plenty of time to prepare defences and different tactics. If the Old Lion weren't hiding behind his walls, we would've crushed him with our horse. Of the fifty thousand men we have left, half is cavalry."
"...We lost sixteen thousand men already?"
His father finally grimaced. "More, but we replenished some of our numbers from the local lords that bent the knee. The rest filled our war chest instead. Eleven thousand perished crossing the Blackwater Rush, three thousand were lost in skirmishes across the Crownlands, and seven thousand died since we sieged the city. One assault, trying the gates, and at Tywin's night or morning raids. The damned man burned all of our siege equipment in a sudden attack early at dawn. They almost reached the royal tent and managed to kill Merryweather."
Doubtlessly, his father took the chance to cull the enemies of House Tyrell during those battles. It would explain why the Florent and Peake camps were barely a third of what they were the last time he had been with the army. Both had plans to contest House Tyrell's powers in the Reach before, and that was more than enough for his father to be wary, for old ambitions died hard. Doubly more so now, for Shireen's mother had been Lord Florent's niece, and Peake was married to a Lannister if one from a cadet branch.
"So… that's why everyone's so tense," Garlan sighed. "What is that talk I hear about corpses?"
"We're generously sending the bodies of Tywin's men back to him," was the mocking reply as his father took a large gulp of Arbor Gold and wiped the grease off his chin. "And some of those citizens that he expelled who died on the roads. Now that we've tested the city walls and gates and found them well-defended, we can only hope for a plague. The thrice-cursed Lion built a makeshift wharf facing the Blackwater Bay, and we have no way of burning this one, so food still tickles into the city, no matter how little, and our spies already said the city has more than enough supplies to last at least a year."
Which would be enough time for Harrenhal to fall and Tully to ride down and threaten their flank. Even if Stark and Oakheart remained stalemated during that time, their chances of taking the city without a pitched siege or a bloody slog to swarm the walls and streets were slim.
Which meant more deaths.
Suddenly, his appetite disappeared, and Garlan pushed away the plate of half-eaten steak.
"Then… how do we win?"
"If the gods smile upon us soon, a plague will spread in King's Landing." That explained why the rotten corpses were being saved and lugged over the walls instead of boulders. It was a vile thing hidden under the pretence of piousness. Garlan could already hear the Septons preaching. If the plague started, it would be the will of the Seven, and they would merely aid it along.
His father continued with a cough, "But I'm afraid that might take far more time than we have, for Tully will not stay at Harrenhal forever. A team of sappers and miners arrived three days prior and are now digging under the cover of the night to avoid scrutiny. Within a moon, we will collapse four gates in the hour of the ghost."
"My blade is yours to command, Father," Garlan proclaimed, even if the words raked at his throat. He trusted his father to lead them to victory, for the stakes were too high. With the stakes turned so high and bitter enmity formed, defeat would be a fate worse than death.
"Very good, my son," his sire smiled, and his eyes softened. "I will give you Sers Androw Crane, Gyles Rowan and a thousand knights with their retinue to deal with the Blackfish. He's getting bolder and bolder in disrupting our supply lines."
A thousand knights with retinue meant just as many squires and thrice as many men-at-arms and lancers, if not more. Knowing his father, it was definitely more. Yet the perspective of dealing with the prickly and overproud dragonblade wielders and possibly hundreds of tourney knights made him frown inwardly. Gyles Rowan and Androw Crane would easily be mistaken for arrogant if they did not have the skills to back it up. Some of the tourney knights were even worse, boasting and overproud of their skills but with little to show for on the battlefield.
"It shall be done."
While this was clearly a test, it was doubly so an honour. It warmed Garlan's heart that he was chosen to lead such an important task, not some other capable men like Lord Tarly, Renly's Rainbow Guard or many skilled knights or second sons who had proven themselves. Perhaps Garlan could find a smidgeon of honour measuring his valour and wits against a seasoned knight such as the Blackfish now that he was in charge.
9th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
Arianne Martell, Plankytown
As heiress to House Nymeros Martell, Arianne couldn't bring her lovers inside Sunspear lest she invited her father's wrath, so she snuck to the Shadow City or one of the inns she had purchased in Planktytown.
Of course, a visit to Plankytown had other uses, like visiting Garin, her childhood friend and milk brother, who kept her abreast of the happenings within the Orphans of the Greenblood and other baser rumours.
Well… this time, it was only about pleasure.
Arianne ran her nails down Gerold's steadily rising and falling muscled chest, feeling quite satisfied, even though both of their naked bodies glistened with sweat.
"How's my brother doing in the yard?" She asked coyly. Quentyn had managed to deal away with the bandits around Vaith but came back very battered and wounded, missing a finger on his left hand. Still, his success eased some of the tension Arianne had noticed in Sunspear's court, though her father still refused to address the issue with the plotting Yronwoods, and rumours of banditry in the Marches continued.
But Quentyn's victory did not satisfy Doran Martell, and her poor brother was forced to spend almost all his time in the yard sparring or the library to learn more about warfare, tactics, and strategy. Though her brother seemed to be more serious about it than before. More focused and outgoing–Arianne had even heard rumours of him visiting the Sandy Sept and the Orphans of the Greenblood!
A silver eyebrow mockingly rose at her question. "Interested in another lover just after we fucked?"
"Quent?" Arianne gagged. "We are not the House of the Dragon here despite that drop of blood we got from them." Even if they were, her plain-looking, skittish brother would not be her choice of lover. 'Not nearly as skittish since fighting the bandits,' she amended her mind.
"Yet you have the fire of a dragoness in you." His voice was husky, and Gerold began peppering her neck with kisses that made her skin tingle pleasantly. "But to answer your query, your brother is not doing terrible."
So he wasn't doing great, either. Alas. For the first time ever, Arianne was invested in Qunetyn's success because it seemed she would have to rely on her brother in martial matters. Of course, unless Trystane grew up to be a lauded warrior. Yet, for good or bad, her youngest sibling had yet to show a special talent for anything but dancing and singing.
Still, the war in the Stepstones had grown fiercer, and ultimately, the pirate lords were not truly united enough to resist the undivided attention of one of the Daughters, especially with Matteno Pandaerys, who had proven himself a capable fleet captain with three swift victories under his belt. The Lyseni had already conquered Red Water, Scarwood, the Guardian, and half a dozen smaller Isles, and her father had reached out to Myrish sellsails for assistance for a hefty sum.
Arianne shook her head, feeling torn. Should she visit Ellaria and her younger cousins in the Water Garden as promised, or did she have enough time to climb atop her eager lover and go for another round?
Yet the decision was taken from her when the door was opened with a bang.
Gerold leapt from his bed naked as the day he was born, already reaching for his sword in the rack, but Arianne froze just as she pulled the sheets to cover herself.
"Drop that toothpick, boy," Areo Hotah's thick voice rumbled dangerously, making the Darkstar freeze. Arianne could immediately tell something was wrong, for this was the first time she had seen the Norvoshi warrior discard his ceremonial bronze scale shirt in favour of heavy steel, and the long axe was drawn in his hand as if calling for blood. The dozen Martell men-at-arms behind him all sported grim faces and were similarly armed–for war. "Princess, your father demands your presence in Sunspear immediately."
"What happened?" Arianne hated that her voice quivered.
"The Lyseni attacked the Water Gardens."
Author's Endnote:
Not a particularly long chapter, but it's a transition that had to be done narrative-wise. I might come back to touch it up later(more flavour than anything else) because I'm tired and already late in posting it, but yeah. Funnily enough, I looked at the canonical location of the Water Gardens, scratched my head, looked again, and laughed hard.
Anyway, things are going well Beyond the Wall for once in absolute contrast to everywhere else (who would have thought?); consequences begin to arrive for Renly, too, and the Lyseni don't take well to meddling.
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.
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. 8th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
The Captain-General, Volantis
Sieges were a messy affair.
For the defenders, it was a test of resolve, a trial of will, and a game of waiting and numbers, as uncertainty hung upon their heads like a headsman's axe. The fate of those behind the walls should a city fall was tragic at best. Yet the attackers were not spared the risk either–laying siege broke armies and shattered causes.
Ser Barristan had never had to defend a siege before but could imagine the woes that went into the defenders' minds.
Would the food last enough?
Was a relief force coming?
What would happen should the attackers breach the walls?
The city of Volantis was formidable with its high, thick walls and had to be sieged from both sides of the main sleeve of the Rhoyne's delta. With its sprawling harbour, the city was built to withstand a hefty siege until the dragonlords arrived. Yet the dragonlords were not coming; they were gone for centuries, and Barristan knew a wall was only as good as the stalwart men atop it. It started to seem like they would have to storm the city proper, and the engineers began building trebuchets, siege towers, and battering rams as the Golden Company prepared itself for a bloody assault.
This would have been the case if one of the city captains hadn't sent out a messenger under the cover of the night, promising to open the western gate in exchange for freedom and safe passage to the Summer Isles for him and his men.
Treachery was not honourable. Rewarding it even more so. It went against every knightly belief, against the core tenets of chivalry. It went against the oaths he had sworn. But Ser Barristan knew better than most that some vows were but words in the wind.
After some hesitation, Barristan decided to accept. He had broken his vows before.
In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.
Words are wind.
Rewarding treason was not the honourable thing to do, but it would preserve thousands of his men. Thousands of the swords that would defend Aegon's rightful claim. But where was the honour in squandering his allies just to assuage his own consciousness? Where was the treachery of a chained man yearning for freedom?
The line between right and wrong had blurred long ago, but regardless, he could not afford failure here, no matter the cost.
"Ser Barristan the Old," they called him. Perhaps it was true. Four kings he had served, and three of them he had failed. But even an old, waning man like him had grown tired of failure. In the end, it was but another stain on the not-so-white cloak of Ser Barristan the Old.
And so, here he was, fighting on the city streets as the first rays of the sun seeped from the east, just when the defenders rotated shifts. But any change of shift was useless when the traitors had already sold out the city.
The tiger cloaks were utterly unprepared, and any defence they tried to muster was poor. Unlike the calm and sunny sky above, the cobbled streets of Volantis were filled with violence and death, and the old knight was once more in the thick of it.
Ser Barristan jerked away from the spearhead aimed at his gorget and lunged forth. The rippled tip of his sword drew a quick yet lethal arc in the air as it landed on the tiger cloak's knee, just between the greaves and the silvery chainshirt that looked far more ornamental than functional. But then again, these Essosi fools wore gauntlets with cumbersome steel claws jutting out of their knuckles. The heat didn't help much. Even Barristan was forced to replace his heavy armour for a half-plate, for every pound on his back felt twice as heavy here.
Needless to say, the blade severed the leg clean. The tiger cloak crumpled on the ground, dropping his spear with a scream, but the following thrust of the old knight's sword gored him through the visor, and the man no longer writhed.
Barristan couldn't help but stop and admire for a moment as Elegance's pink ripples looked even more mesmerising when coated in crimson. The dragonsteel sword was perfectly balanced and even easier to use, even though it had taken him some time to get accustomed to it, for the weight was the same as the sword he previously used while the blade was longer and thicker. So sharp was the blade that he managed to cut through a hauberk, a steel pauldron, and a gorget, but it required the correct angle and far too much strength. Such brutish methods were reserved for the young and the vigorous, whilst greybeards like him had to rely on skill, finesse, and experience.
Besides, he had already developed his fighting style over four decades of arduous practice, and changing it was a fool's errand. The hot and humid air in the city felt heavy on his lungs, and any abrupt exertion tired him out even faster than he had been used to.
It was almost surprising how common Valyrian Steel blades were in Essos, especially here, in the lands of the First Daughter of Valyria, the richest, most prosperous, and closest of the Freehold's colonies. Barristan had taken this sword off a Volantine commander hailing from the Vhassar family in Volon Therys, and during their campaign against Volantis, the Golden Company had acquired twenty-one more.
Truth be told, a battle was no place for such musings, if this could even be called such. Pockets of Unsullied tried to block the advance of the Golden Company, but there was no unified commander to lead the effort. And without someone to coordinate the defenders, they became nought but headless chickens, if still dangerous like a dying tiger lashing out with its mighty paws. The main streets were wide enough for a score of carriages to ride abreast, so the eunuch soldiers were surrounded and taken down from the side or the rear.
"Captain General," Aegon's voice gave him pause. The former white cloak looked up to see his squire, unfazed by the heat despite his heavy armour, pointing with his heavy gauntlet at their foes, who seemed to have lost any semblance of fighting spirit. "The tiger cloaks are either fleeing or surrendering."
The young man was everything Varys had claimed he would be. Charming, learned, well-mannered, mild-tempered, lacking even an ounce of arrogance or the dragon's madness or rage, and knowledgeable of both Essosi and Westerosi history and customs. It showed that a maester had wholeheartedly poured his heart and soul into moulding the boy into a gem. Only his swordwork left some to be desired, but under Barristan's tutoring, he quickly took to that, too.
The old knight's gaze moved to the surrounding streets as the men of the Golden Company advanced in a well-disciplined fashion, leaving the cobbled streets littered with corpses. Only those who threw down their weapons were spared.
"The slave soldiers make a poor army, or one of their captains wouldn't have defected so easily." Barristan shook his head, clearing his mind. "We already crushed their best at Volon Therys and then on the plains halfway to Volantis."
Aegon's form stiffened then, and his helmet turned to the smaller alleys where some soldiers were already trying to break into the houses to plunder. Before long, a woman's wail echoed from the shattered door.
"Shouldn't we stop them?"
"Perhaps we should, but it would not be wise," Barristan's voice turned pained. "Soldiers are willing to stomach the casualties storming cities, towns, and castles for the promise of loot. Doubly so for sellswords. Sieging a city is a cruel, brutal, and risky affair, and the more it drags on, the more hatred brews in the hearts of men."
"But these women have done nothing to deserve this," Aegon pointed out.
"Have they truly? Who do you think gave birth to the Volantine men? Who do you think harbours a grudge in their hearts for the loss of their sons, brothers, and husbands? Who do you think whispers in the ears of their husbands? Who do you think owns slaves here? Women can be as vicious as men, and some wouldn't hesitate to stab you given the chance."
Aegon stiffly looked at his bloodstained gauntlets.
The old knight sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "It is good that you have mercy and kindness in your heart. Never lose them, Aegon. But there is a place for mercy and kindness, and this is not it. I can order them to halt and reform, for the city has yet to fall fully, but sacking a taken city is one of those unsaid promises of war. If I deny it, they will be disgruntled–rebel even. The terms of our contract with the company are clear."
Becoming the Captain General of the Golden Company was an… experience. The previous commander had also been their quartermaster, Harry Strickland, who had agreed to support Aegon after quite a lot of haggling. However, most of the coin was paid by Mopatis, who seemed quite influential with the exiles. Still, the negotiations turned fierce, and Barristan felt he was fighting over the price of fish with a fishmonger on the market, not negotiating with a knight.
But some knights had struck down pregnant women, brutally despoiling them in the process. Others killed little, innocent children without even batting an eye. Then, there were those who murdered the kings they swore to protect. But could Barristan judge the Kingslayer when he had lost more kings than Tywin's son had?
Those were the regrets that often plagued him as he tried to sleep. But now was not a time for regrets but action.
Ultimately, the Golden Company would fully support Aegon in exchange for wartime benefits like plundering and honours, titles, lands, and positions at court upon his victory, but Barristan would have to be the face to lead them, lending his reputation to their cause.
He would have objected sourly to lending his name to sellswords some years prior. But now… now he was just the soiled white cloak who failed to keep another king alive, dismissed with humiliation. There was nought left of his name but tatters and shame; if the Golden Company wanted it, they would have it. For Aegon.
But all those were woes for much later–the city had yet to fall, no matter how unprepared and disorganised the defenders were.
"When I take the crown, I will change things," Aegon declared, his purple eyes blazed with resolve.
He unstrapped his helmet, revealing a glistening pale face and silver-gold hair matted with sweat. If there were doubts about his identity as Rhaegar's son, they melted away when the old knight had seen him for the first time. While resembling Rhaegar, Aegon reminded him far more of another man, his great grandsire Aegon. Barristan had seen the portraits drawn of the Unlikely in his youth, and Aegon looked exactly like his namesake with his sharp eyebrows and the turn of his cheek. The way his brow scrunched up when deep in thought was all Rhaella; it was as if the wolf maid had left no trace on her son.
"But for now, you're just my squire. Like leading, ruling is a daunting endeavour, Aegon, where the lives of your subjects and all the men sworn to your service rest upon your shoulders," Barristan warned. "It's a matter of reason and force, not passion. I have even heard the same words come out of your father's mouth, but we know what happened when he let his emotions rule him. Alas…"
"I know, Ser." The young man grimaced. "I know. But the people of Volantis have suffered more than enough."
"The world is harsher than one would like. Yet time has shown me that the gods punish such vile acts sooner or later," the old knight patted his shoulder and pulled up his visor. "It did work out in our favour. The red revolt saw three of their commanders assassinated, and the replacement was indeed lacklustre. Even a team of elite and well-disciplined soldiers trained since they could walk will be lost if led by a lackwit commander. Fighting spirit and capable leadership are indispensable for any army."
And the tiger cloaks were anything but. Even the best of them–the Unsullied hailing from Astapor sported ironclad discipline but lacked the passion that drove men to victory. Warriors fought for riches, women, glory, lands, or honour, but what use did a slave eunuch have any of those?
"Well." Ser Rolly Duckfield walked over. The yellow duck on his shield looked battered, and his blade glistened with red, but Aegon's sworn sword looked in high spirits. He leaned over one of the corpses, peeled off his glove and rapped his knuckles onto a tiger-shaped helmet. "Most of these seem to be only good for… well, looking good."
"Volantis was supposed to be a fierce power," Aegon sighed. "The greatest in the world after the Freehold fell, even–after the House of the Dragon, of course. During the Century of Blood, they conquered Lys and Myr and were about to take Tyrosh, but Lys and Myr rose in rebellion, and Braavos and Pentos sent fleets to aid them. Even Argilac the Arrogant ventured into the Disputed Lands and crushed the great host threatening Myr. Yet that barely halted Volantis for less than a decade, and they only retreated when the Conqueror burned their fleet besieging Lys."
"Sounds like nothing we faced here," the young knight shrugged, standing up. "The ones at Volon Therys were the most challenging to fight."
"They were already weakened by that corsair king from the Basilisk Isles and the revolt that saw the Red Temple burn. How many have been said to have perished?"
Aegon's form stilled, doubtlessly grimacing beneath the visored barbute, and his usually melodic voice came out hoarse. "Over two hundred thousand. Enough that rumours claimed the red couldn't be washed off the streets for moons. The First Daughter was said to have five slaves for every freeman, but it was down to four to one after the red revolt."
"This is a moot point if the Black Walls of Volantis do not fall," Barristan reminded coldly, pulling down his visor. "Enough chit-chat. There is a battle to finish, and we promised to meet with Griff on the Long Bridge." 10th Day of the 6th Moon
The city had fallen without a hitch, but the thick gates of the inner city had been closed in time. Or, well, things had gone well. As well as sacking a city could be, that was. A few temples were desecrated and looted, most of the merchants had been slain, their wealth plundered, and many fools had died resisting. A city the size of Volantis would take weeks to plunder properly, but the freedmen of Volon Therys had undertaken that arduous task while the Golden Company had taken the choicer cuts from the loot.
It was an interesting conundrum. While the men of Volantis fought for their gold and homes, none were willing to fight for their city, for even a freeman civilian militia would have seen the defender's numbers bolstered by tens of thousands, making the whole battle for Volantis far bloodier.
'Chaos and the lack of discipline was truly the death of an army,' Barristan mused. It was akin to the dragonsteel on his hip–the man who carried it was an amateur in the way of the sword. What good was manpower if there was none to wield it wisely?
One of the things the old knight liked was the Golden Company's discipline; they easily kept orders, broke, or set camp faster and smoother than most Westerosi lords. It was like leading an experienced army, not greedy sellswords–which they factually were. His discomfort of doing all of this was eased because they didn't call themselves sellswords but a brotherhood of exiles, and what was Barristan but an exiled white cloak?
Discarded in disgrace like an old, rusty sword. But he had more fight left in him still, old or not.
"You cannot take the Black Walls of Volantis by force," the triarch, a plump man with pale skin and silver hair clad in golden silk, said when they negotiated at dawn the next day. He looked like one of those merchant's sons in King's Landing who had never lifted a finger for anything in their lives–four mute slaves carried his litter, and his feet never touched the ground, as per tradition.
It was easy to see why he would claim such a thing. The Black Walls of Volantis were a marvel of the Freehold. Seamlessly fused black stone tougher than diamond, looming above everything at over two hundred feet tall and a third as thick, putting even Harren's folly to shame.
"You barely have five hundred Unsullied," Jon Connington had pointed out coldly. The exiled lord had taken command of the company's heavy lancers and used them wisely. "All of the city's war supplies are in our hands, and nothing stops us from hacking down the gates and breaking the portcullis. Aye, it will be bloody until we get past the second inner gate, but we have far more men than you have stones, arrows, or boiling oil. And when that happens, you can expect no mercy. The men and children will all be put to the sword, and the women will be despoiled like common whores."
The next day, the three triarchs surrendered in exchange for keeping a quarter of their wealth and receiving safe passage out of the city. Two-thirds of the Old Blood left for Lys, Qarth, and Slaver's Bay, while some lingered, hoping to ingrain themselves with the Golden Company or preserve some semblance of power.
Taking the city was busy work, and restoring order was cumbersome despite the Company's discipline due to its sheer size and population of nearly two million. Having hundreds of thousands of freed slaves who had little idea what to do with their freedom didn't help the matter one bit, but that particular burden was left to Strickland and the freedmen from Volon Therys.
To his surprise, some of the lingering noble families tried to request an audience with him. Barristan was buried in offers for his marriage as a string of Valyrian beauties were paraded before him. However, many of the maidens were quite reluctant, and Barristan's heart still had not moved from that woman, who had perished two decades prior, and love was a young man's dream.
Ah… how things could have been different if he had won that tourney that day. Perhaps the smiles would not have died. Alas.
Some of the maidens caught Aegon's eye, especially one Talisa Maegyr with her long silvery hair and innocent purple eyes, the daughter of one of the main powers behind the now vanquished Tiger Party of Volantis. Still, seeing the young woman sneaking Rhaegar's son hesitant but warm smiles, Barristan pulled his former squire aside.
"Don't be fooled by a pretty smile and a nice pair of teats," he advised. "A king has to marry for duty, not love. Your hand in marriage is a far more powerful tool than your skills with a sword could ever hope to be. A good warrior could fell dozens of knights and win plenty of respect, but the right marriage can grant you a kingdom, and the wrong one could see your foes double."
Aegon reluctantly agreed, doubtlessly reminded of his sire's mistake. Barristan could understand what went through his head. While faint, he still remembered what it was to be a young man and how the flames of desire were nigh impossible to extinguish.
It wasn't long before the city was under proper control, and they gathered once no more problems cropped up.
"Who would have thought that freeing slaves would be so profitable," Black Balaq, the commander of the archers, said in a rare moment of wordiness. His skin was as dark as tar, yet almost every inch of it was covered by golden rings, chains, bracelets, and jewellery, supposedly because it was a tradition of the men of the Golden Company to wear all of one's worldly wealth on their person. A golden band or ring signified a year of service in the Brotherhood of Exiles. His goldenheart bow was replaced by a dragonbone one, and a newly looted dragonsteel curved blade with a gilded handle encrusted with a sapphire rested on his belt.
The upper echelons of the Golden Company had gathered deep into the Black Walls, occupying the now-empty Triarch's Palace, a building that outsiders had not seen for centuries. The sheer amount of gold, imperial jade, goldenheart wood, gemstones the size of a goose's egg and Valyrian Steel ornaments easily put Casterly Rock's famed opulence to shame. Barristan had never seen so much silk, lace, velvet, and dark Norvoshi wool in one place; there were whole tapestries and carpets made of the rarest fabrics one would struggle to find even if they had the coin.
Even the damn floor of their great hall was hewn out of impossibly smooth pink marble of Asshai and glazed porcelain, showing an elaborate mosaic of the defeat of Garin the Great as three hundred dragonlords scoured his army to cinders outside the walls of Volantis. The table and the chairs they sat on were no lesser–hewn from the infamous black-barked tree of Qarth, a blue so dark it looked black and encrusted with emeralds and diamonds.
"Paid once by the traders and freedmen of Volon Therys, paid thrice in loot, and one last time by the Old Blood of Volantis for mercy," Godorys Edoryen, the company's steward, sported a wide, satisfied smile. "There's enough wealth for all of us, even the most common soldier, to retire to Lys or the Summer Isles thrice over in a life of decadent luxury. Or," his voice grew lustful, "we can plant our banner here and rule Volantis as kings."
His proposal was not met with the enthusiasm the man expected.
Tristan Rivers, a senior serjeant, snorted, "You might hail from Volantis, but most of us are from Westeros, my friend. What of those tiger cloaks that decided to defect to us? Besides, there's too many of us, and there can only be one king."
Many defeated slave soldiers and the freed craftsmen had ultimately requested to join the Golden Company and were welcomed with open arms. It was little wonder they had taken such a choice; all they had known their entire life was service and fighting, and being a sellsword offered both alongside freedom. They had basic training and discipline, which helped greatly; thus, the Company's numbers had swelled to sixteen thousand.
Of course, the slave soldiers that did not make the cut were given to the freedmen in Volon Therys, who loved to employ every able-bodied man. The now freed city helped them, fielding another thirty thousand men, though while highly motivated to fight against Volantis, they were only slightly better than levies. Once the chaos settled down, those freed slaves would most likely return to the fields they worked for their masters, this time owning the land.
"Let us not forget the mess we must fix," Harry Strickland shrewdly interjected. "All of the city and the hinterlands ran on slavery, but we were already paid to break Volantis and free the slaves by the people of Volon Therys. It will take a generation for the unease to settle and to find a way to run the place without shackles and splitting the lands into proper fiefs… assuming we remain unopposed. No, my friend, there is only one place we're willing to sink our roots in. Let the freedmen rule after we graciously give them their freedom, for we are generous. Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!"
"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!" A forest of hands arose, holding cups filled with exotic wines looted from the Triarch's cellars that could beggar most Westerosi lords.
Barristan couldn't help but notice that despite wearing all of their wealth on their person, many seemed to favour their new dragonsteel swords over gold and precious stones. Or perhaps it was because they had plundered too much to carry. After the sack of Volantis and the surrender of the Triarchs, no commander or serjeant in the Company lacked a Valyrian Steel weapon. Even some of the captains acquired short arming swords or axes, and the old knight would admit he lost count of how many such weapons had been looted in this campaign, but the number had easily grown over half a hundred.
Never had he seen so much Valyrian Steel in one place as this room.
"What next, then?" Malo Jayn asked gruffly. The man was thickset and looked as prickly as his perpetually scowling face suggested. However, Barristan would admit he was dangerous with a morning star but had shunned looting a Valyrian Steel blade in favour of a pair of elaborate dragonsteel gauntlets.
Harry Strickland rubbed his hands, "We have plenty of options. First are the Norvoshi, who want to employ us to fight against Qohor."
"Sacking the city a second time wouldn't be too challenging," Tristane Rivers pointed out lazily. "If Bittersteel did it, so can we. Doubtlessly, Qohor wants to employ us too, though."
"Indeed. Well," the paymaster continued after the laughter died out. "The Golden Lion also offers generous pay for rising swords against the flowery stag king. Dorne's offer was not as lucrative when they inquired about fighting against Lys and saving their hostages. Lastly, the Myrish promise us a king's ransom to deal with their slave uprising that has shattered seventeen sellsword companies."
Franklin Flowers choked on his wine, and even Barristan would have done much the same. While he originally dismissed sellswords, he could now begrudgingly acknowledge that many of them were skilled warriors. Companies could be especially dangerous with skilled commanders otherwise, they would not survive so long in these lands.
"Seventeen?" Dick Cole asked, his voice dripping with disbelief as a half-eaten slice of exotic meat the old knight couldn't recognise hung from his mouth, smearing his bushy beard with reddish sauce.
"How can some slaves defeat seventeen sellsword companies?" Malo Jayn tilted his head, still frowning. "I could understand if it was Unsullied, but they never rebel. Was Myr closefisted enough to hire some fledgling fools like the Brave Companions hoping to save coin?"
"The Maiden's Men, the Jolly Fellows, the Long Lances, the Windblown, the Bright Banners, the Stormcrows, the Second Sons…" With each word, the faces around the table grew paler. Even Ser Barristan knew most of those companies were veterans who had existed for decades, some even centuries, and each sported at least more than seven hundred men.
"Impossible," Tristan Rivers shook his head as he patted Franklin's back, helping him cough out his wine stuck in the wrong pipe. "Some no-named peasants cannot defeat all of those, even with the help of the Wolfpack or the motley group of hunters calling themselves the Ragged Marksmen. Something is amiss here. Maar?"
"Indeed," the Lyseni spymaster said. With the classical Valyrian looks and clean, unblemished face and lithe androgynous body, Barristan had mistaken him for a slim maiden at first. "There has been word of a new force employing Dothraki and disciplined heavy infantry marching down from Pentos under a wolf banner."
"And why didn't you notify us?" Connington asked darkly. Even now, he maintained his facade as Griff with his hair dyed blue, despite Aegon discarding the dye and the nickname. Yet Rhaegar's son had not announced his presence, and to everyone, he was to be just Barristan's silver-headed squire, though a select few commanders Connington and Strickland trusted were in the know.
"Who would care about just another company with not even fifteen hundred men under its banner?" Lysono shrugged lazily.
"Can you describe their banner?" Strickland leaned forward, idly fiddling with his golden bracer composed of thirteen wristbands. He had another with twelve on his other forearm, signifying a quarter of a century of service in the Company.
"That's the thing. There is so much hearsay about their coat of arms that I am unsure which one is true. Some say it's a rabid beast covered in blood, a wolf the colour of frost on a field of crimson, a wolf leading a whole menagerie of wild beasts like flaming horses, green mermen, mooses, cats, stags, lions. Even a berserker riding atop a shaggy beast while wielding twin axes. Some even claim they saw a grey wolf running on white-"
"Stark," Connington barked out. "This can only be Stark with his heathen bannermen!"
Barristan was taken aback; the words were spoken with an iron surety, laced with a loathing that he did not think the exiled lord was capable of. He was far from the only one surprised; even Aegon shuffled uneasily. His understanding of the North and House Stark was lacklustre from what the old knight understood. No amount of reading and tales helped him; even Haldon the Halfmaester and Jon Connington weren't that knowledgeable of the last bastion of the First Men, and Griff held little love for the wolves or their tree gods.
Besides, reading about the vast, rugged land of snow could scarcely do it justice, for words inked down on some old roll of parchment paled before seeing the place with your eyes and struggling against the cold even in the heat of summer.
It had surprised Barristan to discover that the exile took great offence to the Old Gods. The harsh life far away from home had made the man turn to the Seven for comfort.
It was quite ironic for the Griffin Lord had seemed tolerant of the myriad of faiths here in Essos, yet when it came to the Old Gods… Perhaps it had something to do with the Wolf Maid?
"Didn't Stark drown in the Narrow Sea?" Tristan Rivers asked, frowning.
Griff scoffed. "Wolves are natural swimmers. Besides, axes, mooses, and horses are all Northern banners, and shaggy beasts, snow, and ice are best found in the North. Lions and stags for his page, Tommen Baratheon."
"That's a wild claim," Strickland noted, face turning neutral. "How can you be so sure based on some hearsay?"
"I can feel it in my bones," Connington said, his voice turning to a whisper, yet his pale eyes were alight with hatred. Barristan understood now. This man had supped himself on anger and fury, slept with zeal and hatred as his sole companions for years, nesting over them as a hen would over her eggs, hoping to hatch. "They all remember the Rebellion for Robert's rampage on the Trident, but none would have been possible without the Old Falcon's guiding hand, and Stark's tactical brilliance - the rebel army was mostly Northmen, and Stark commanded the cavalry as you should remember, Barristan."
And Barristan remembered that day as clearly as it had been yesterday. After years of contemplation, the former white cloak couldn't even say if the battle would have gone differently if Robert had been slain in that duel on the banks of the Trident. Yes, the loyalists wouldn't break as quickly, but neither would the Northmen, Valemen, and Riverlords who made up the rebels.
It would continue to be a bloody slog in the shallows until one side gave out, and it could go either way. While Rhaegar had superior numbers, the rebels were all bloodied in battle and sported high morale.
"I have studied the wolf's tactics and battles a thousand times in my mind, and this reeks of him, if far more daring than I would expect."
Alas, it seemed like with Robert and Jon Arryn's death, all of Connington's hatred had turned to the last living head of the Rebellion.
"I say it's time." Strickland turned to Barristan with a half-smile. "So… what shall we do, Captain General?"
All of the gazes turned to him, and Selmy's shoulders felt heavy; the burden made him sweat even more than the heavy, damp air in the city. It made him feel even more uncomfortable than staying guard outside Rhaella's chambers at night.
The senior commanders knew of his role, and leading the campaign against Volantis was so that he could prove himself just as Aegon needed to be bloodied. It was a test of daring and skill that was supposed to forge them together into brothers in arms. It helped that Mopatis and the Spider supplied plenty of gold, precious information, and rare supplies and gifts that opened many previously closed doors. The cheesemonger's wealth and connection were the only reasons they had managed to take control of the Golden Company so swiftly.
Was he ready to wage war against all those he had fought side by side with for decades? With those he had shared bread and salt, joys and woes? A glance towards Aegon told him the boy wasn't ready. Even at nearly one and eight and bloodied with three victories under his belt, the awkwardness and uncertainty of youth clung to him like a shadow.
Yet the moment was ripe, and word trickled in through Varys and the fat magister that Westeros was teetering at the brink as the war grew bloodier and crueller, exhausting both sides rapidly, and the chance to claim the Iron Throne would never be better. Martell's offer could never have come at a more opportune time.
Rhaegar's son might not be ready, but he would never be. After serving four kings, Barristan knew nobody was truly prepared for the burden of command and the weight of a crown, but they all grew into it.
Or they broke.
"Aegon. It is time." The old knight only prayed that the young man was ready to rise and carry the burden. Barristan and many more were prepared to stand and shoulder the weight alongside him. Even after two decades, the memories of the dragon might have faded, but they were far from forgotten.
The junior serjeants looked at the young knight with confusion, doubtlessly wondering what this was about. Even the captains and commanders gazed at him appraisingly. For a fledgling knight and a squire, he had made a good showing in the last moons while fighting side by side with everyone else. But that was hardly enough to win their respect as a commander, let alone a king.
His brow was heavy with indecision, though Rhaegar's son looked unbothered by the heat, like his father, while everyone else was sweating, even wearing thin silks. After a painfully long moment of hesitation, Aegon's pale face hardened, and he stood up. Yet it was distasteful and overly arrogant to declare yourself king.
Jon Connington also realised that and slammed his cup, coughing, gathering the gazes of all.
"Men of the Golden Company," the exiled Griffin Lord began. "Some of you might remember me despite my dyed hair."
"Aye. The drunk Griffin, who supposedly perished in his cups," came the snort from the far end of the table. "You look alive to me, I'd say, if dyed in blue."
Angry red flushed Connington's neck, but he ignored the jibe. Amused chuckles echoed in the hall, much to the man's consternation, though his stiff face eased after taking a deep breath.
"Yet it removed the watchful gazes from my person, allowing me to raise the one true king of Westeros. Behold, Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne!"
The proclamation was not met with the expected cheer, though Selmy prepared himself for that. Still, he winced internally at seeing Aegon turn crestfallen.
"Many laid claim to the Iron Throne before and failed," one of the younger captains, Caspor Hill, asked. "I must profess that he seems capable, if a bit young, but that's no reason to enter that bloodbath in Westeros. Why would we follow this Aegon?"
At least nobody questioned Aegon's status as a trueborn, and even Septon Eustace's testimony of the marriage that Connington carried in a lockbox was not brought forth. However, Barristan couldn't help but wonder if it was because they simply wouldn't care if Aegon was born on the wrong side of the sheets.
"Because he promised to lead us back home," Harry Strickland was the one to respond before even Selmy could speak up. "Because our contract is already paid, and upon success, all of us will see riches, lands, honours, and a place back home. Is this not what we always wanted?"
The former captain stood up then, pulling off an elongated wrap Barristan had often seen him carry around like a family heirloom, released the bindings, and knelt before Aegon, offering it above his head in a sign of submission.
"Is this…." Ser Barristan blinked, looking at the ruby inlaid in the pommel. The regal-looking hilt could not be mistaken for any other, and as a young boy, he had seen paintings of this sword hundreds of times.
Aegon only had eyes for the blade as he slowly reached out his hand and took the sword. He yanked it out of the silver-inlaid sheath with a single, almost rushed pull, revealing dark smoky ripples. Despite seeing dozens of dragonsteel swords, Barristan could tell this one was unique in more ways than one.
"Blackfyre." Aegon's voice trembled as he turned to Strickland, his face a mixture of awe, disbelief, and confusion. "You would grant me the Sword of the Conqueror, the Blade of Kings?"
The silence in the room was so thick that all the captains seemed mesmerised by the dark, smokey ripples that seemed to drink in all the light. They looked at Aegon as if they had seen him for the first time and found them to his liking, previous distrust or apathy completely forgotten.
"Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon, especially if willing to bring us home," Strickland looked up, a smile creeping up his scarred mouth, a trophy of his first battle against a fledgling Dothraki Khal. "Aegon!"
"Aegon!"
The cheer picked up in strength, like a rising autumn storm, as more and more captains and serjeants stood up and laid their blades at Aegon's feet. Even the younger ones seemed to be infected by the roars, their previous hesitation and distrust forgotten.
"Aegon king!" 11th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
Arya Stark, the Northern Mountains
She soared through the sky when the sun rose again. A part of her could feel the shaggy four legs prowl through the trees below, hunting for prey. The two of them were a perfect pair together. She was the eyes in the sky, and the wolf chased smaller prey out in the open.
It was their featherless sister that bound them together, and even now, a part of her mind lingered within. Together, they could accomplish many things–they had even hunted down a cave bear. Her claws had raked out the beast's eyes while her companion had torn out the thick throat, allowing both of them to feast for days.
Even an old shadowcat, a wild boar, and two mountain lions that had smelled the easy feast were successfully chased away. At night, her vision was poor, but her companion's acute sense of smell and sharp hearing were indispensable. Once the sun arose, she was the queen of the skies and could spot the barest movement from afar.
She soared and soared through the sky again, vigilant for any trouble–or prey. Then, she saw something to the west. Two legs pushing down hollowed-out tree trunks to the shore from the stormy waters. Some of her didn't care; they often did that, even if those were far more numerous and clad in their metal coats.
But another part, the connection with her young two-legged sister, stirred. There was recognition and horror at the sight of the bone hand painted on the red banner.
Arya awoke, her back swimming in a cold sweat. It wasn't the first time she had dreamt of flying in the skies or prowling through the trees, but this was the most vivid. Lena claimed it was skinchanging, but Arya never felt she could control anything; she was more of an observer than anything else, even if she could feel her companions' raw, if simple, thoughts.
Yet none of her dreams were so unsettling.
Groaning, Arya rubbed the sleep away from her eyes, stood up, pulled on a thick tunic, and threw her heavy fur-lined cloak over her shoulders to stave off the chill.
The Northern Mountains were far better than she expected. True, it was chillier than she was used to. Yet, the endless chirping streams, the calm of the pine forests that stretched all across the foothills, and the deep blue lakes swarming with salmon were a raw beauty, especially after most of the trees had shed their leaves and the ground was covered by a beautiful carpet of gold and russet.
The place was harsher and far poorer than Winterfell, and Arya lamented the lack of her comfortable feather bed, but the clansmen living here made up for all those woes. While the snow had stopped, the warm months of the year saw the chill that lingered in the air until night. The merciless surroundings bred hardy folk; none cared about trivialities like ladyship and only employed the minimum common courtesies, and her lessons lessened but didn't disappear.
They were led by Sara Snow, the niece of the Old Flint, who suffered no-nonsense and was even sterner than Lyra Mormont. She was a stout woman in her late thirties with a scarred face–a gift from when she killed a wildling raider trying to steal her when out hunting. But Arya did not complain, for this wasn't as bad as she expected. Arya could now go out to hawk, hunt, and ride through the mountain trails, quenching her wanderlust and thirst for adventure.
She was not alone, of course. Her mother had sent a dozen of Winterfell's finest veteran men-at-arms led by Shadd, a master huntsman who showed Arya plenty of tricks and how to track prey and watch out for trouble. He even taught her how to work a bow atop horseback, which her small recurve was particularly good at. Arya found that she had a talent for mounted archery - which confused her, considering her initially poor showing with the bow.
Perhaps it had to do with her talent in horseback riding. It wasn't ladylike, but who cared?
Sighing, Arya pulled on the shadowskin cloak her father had gifted her before leaving for the South, trying to take in the long-faded scent. Just remembering made her half angry, half sad. Some days, she couldn't even look at the striped cloak of black and white without crying. Arya would give all her things in a heartbeat to have her father back. But he was lost at sea.
In the end, no matter how angry or sad, she always found herself either wearing the shadowskin cloak or hugging it to sleep.
"Didn't sleep well?" Lena Harclay's hoarse voice greeted her outside her tent. Myrcella had decided to send her lady-in-waiting with Arya so she wasn't lonely. Arya would begrudgingly admit finally warming up to the girl, who wasn't annoying or tittering like the other maidens that hung around her sister. Even better, Lena knew plenty about the mountains and the clansmen and showed her around. Of course, it helped that all the clans, from the small ones like Redclay to bigger ones like Knott and Burley, welcomed her in their halls.
"I had a bad dream this time," Arya admitted.
"One of those?" Her friend asked knowingly.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, she decided not to keep what she saw to herself. Ava and Nymeria were down to the Bay of Ice, near Wull lands, and seeing Drumm banners was a problem. Ironmen did not belong in the North.
"I need to speak with Sara," she decided and headed towards the part of the camp where the Flints stayed. The young Torrhen, the boring grandson of the Flint Chieftain and her age, was already up and about, carving a piece of oak into what looked like a crude figurine of Ava.
"Lady Arya," he greeted reverently. For some reason, Arya didn't like the look of him, though she couldn't figure out why. "You're up early this morn."
"I need to speak with your aunt," she said grimly, and Torrhen dropped his smile and ran into his tent.
Five minutes later, a drowsy Sara Snow, her head looking like a bird's nest, walked out just as Shadd emerged, stretching in the morning chill.
"What is so urgent early?" The clanswoman hissed, looking like a cat with its tail pulled. She was always like that if someone woke her before her preferred time–half an hour after dawn.
"I dreamt of longboats coming down the coast of the Bay," Arya said in a small voice. "They sported Drumm banners."
She expected her words to be outright dismissed or waved away, but Shadd and Sara turned flinty, and any trace of drowsiness washed away.
"Numbers?" The Stark man asked.
"At least fifty longboats I could see split into three locations."
"Torrhen, tell Ulryk to get his arse and ride down to Stonegate Keep," the fierce woman started barking out, and the Flint clansmen began to scramble. "Tell Meron to get his arse off his cot and ride to Breakstone Hill and tell them the thrice-cursed reavers are here. Up, up, you sleepy sods!"
Within a minute, the whole hunting camp was a swarm of activity as everyone rushed to get ready to move as quickly as possible. Arya, however, didn't like the implications.
"...Why don't we attack the Ironmen?"
"Lady Arya," Shadd's face grew pained. "Your mother would have my skin if anything happened to you under my watch."
"But we can attack one of the smaller camps," Arya noted in a small voice as Nymeria silently padded out of the pine trees, her shaggy silvery shaggy tail waving in anticipation. "A quick hit and run, and I will sit from the back, I promise. We have nearly fifty men with us, and it will be safe! They will not expect to be spotted so early on?"
At her last question, Shadd closed his mouth, looking like he had swallowed a fly, and Sara Snow paused, looking at her with interest.
Word slowly tickled from the far east. The path of death and destruction Khal Drogo left in his wake had finally moved most of the reserve forces of Yi Ti's empire. Most of the military strength was invested in the Five Forts, repelling the Grand Invasion. The dark forces that had slumbered in the city of K'dath and the Grey Wastes for millenia had joined hands for the first time and even mastered the elusive shrykes that inhabited those wastelands.
Many scholars had dismissed the savage, flesh-eating half-lizard men and their poisonous bites as just an old fable, but the traders hailing from the Jade Sea all said the same thing. Hundreds of thousands of the beasts swarmed Yi-Ti's defences under the command of the malignant masters of K'Dath. Many called them deathbringers, but none could agree on what those elusive dark sorcerers looked like. Some claimed they were nothing more than shades that crawled out from the eternal darkness, while others said the deathbringers were naturally born when the depths of human depravity merged with the dark powers of the world.
Khal Drogo's rampage was about to crumble all of the supply lines and bring down the war effort for good, and the Azure Emperor was at its wit's end. Things were looking grim until Purple King Jao Song, the governor of the eastern province, proposed to give his beautiful twin daughters, known as the Pearls of Jinqi, for wives to the Khal, along with a generous "gift".
Rumour said that Drogo was so satisfied with the tribute–especially the twin beauties– that he even agreed to help the Five Forts and banish the dark maegi when Jao Song raised the topic after the wedding.
The war between Norvos and Qohor grew bloodier, and the sea conflict between Ibben and Lorath worsened as both sides began to raid whaling and trading settlements around their shores.
For the first time in decades, Braavos and the Sealord were indecisive, unsure if they should involve themselves in the wars that raged everywhere around them. Even rumours creeping from Pentos worried Ferrego Antoyon; the Sealord sent envoys south to ascertain their validity. They returned after a moon, plumper and happier than before, claiming nothing was wrong in Pentos, aside from the city's council of magisters worrying over war spilling within their territory.
For good or bad, Ferrego decided to wait and see, though the Braavosi smithies started working deep into the night, churning out hauberks, swords, and spear tips on the Sealord's coin. However, many were unsure if he wanted to arm the city further or sell it for greater profit to those knee-deep in conflict, and to my greatest shame, I, Lazyro Zelyne, were among the second.
Now, some might say, and rightly so, that I am paying too much attention to the happenings of Essos in my diary, which was all about the Sunset Lands. But in the year 401 After the Doom, the war that had gripped the world was like a spider's web, the interests of many factions in Essos and Westeros interwoven in one giant unbreakable tangle.
Eddard Stark's infamous rampage in the Ashen Plains had earned him plenty of infamy. His enemies called him The Butcher of Winterfell, the Bloody Blade, and the Icy Fiend, for he and his Northmen had left nearly thirty thousand warriors dead in his wake within a single moon with a far lesser force, by my estimate. Such losses and efficiency were unheard of, and many claimed Stark employed dark First Man magic as none could ambush or flank him, and he could always find a weakness in his foes and strike them when they were least prepared, something he did with ruthless efficiency.
Many had previously considered the seemingly silent, taciturn man who preferred peace to war as weak, but such notions were quickly disabused. The Myrish freemen trying to suppress their slave's revolt were not spared either. Manses, villages, towns–all were sacked, leaving no soul behind save for the freed slaves.
And the slaves loved him. The Breaker of Chains, Slaversbane, and the most popular "Kepa" they called him. Father, for he was stern, just and fair.
Nobody expected the First Daughter of Valyria, who threatened to devour a third of Essos on its own during the Century of Blood, to fall so easily after a single revolt. Looking back on things, it was a combination of factors. The warlike Tigers party had not held any significant power in three centuries, and the Elephants had eroded the city's military in favour of expanding trade and lining their own pockets.
Their prided fleet was burned and looted by the Corsair King Anor–who didn't live to enjoy his spoils for long, for his jealous brother slew him in his sleep within a year, hoping to take most of his riches for himself. Lastly, the Golden Company had been at the right place and the right time near the Orange Shore to crush the expedition force sent to take down the rebelling slaves that had taken hold of Volon Therys. After dozens of campaigns during the last decades, the exiled Westerosi led by the infamous Ser Barristan the Bold easily crushed the famed Volantine tiger cloaks, who had not seen any fighting for over two centuries, not once, not twice, but thrice.
All those were proven connected to the Sunset Lands one way or another, though none more so than the Lyseni, who had struck at the undefended Water Gardens, sacking the beautiful retreat that stood practically defenceless on the Summer Sea's beach and taking all of the highborn–lowborn folk hostages.
Dorne was wroth, but there wasn't much they could do, for all of the naval might of the Dornish was already aiding the pirate lords of the Stepstones–the fact that had initially invited Lyseni retaliation. It didn't help that House Martell was shown weaker than ever, and its prestige took a heavy hit when so many bannermen lost kinsmen who were supposed to be under their prince's protection.
The hostages taken were a hot commodity back in Lys, too, as the Grand Admiral Matteno Pandaerys decided to auction them off on the first day, exchanging the bothersome dealings with the logistics and negotiations of holding hostages with a quick coin that allowed him to return to the war at once. All hostages but one–Nymeria Sand, the Red Viper's bastard daughter. Some speculated the bastard girl had caught his eye, for her younger sisters were not kept, but Nymeria was already visibly with child, yet the Grand Admiral treated her like a princess and a dear guest, not a hostage.
Shireen Baratheon's fleet loomed closer and closer to Tyrosh, and the city attempted to muster a second fleet by pulling in more sellsails and gathering their raiding parties, but the stormy seas delayed the confrontation for over a moon. To many's surprise, the young Lady Scars found safe harbour and was warmly welcomed by the Estermonts of Greenstone, her paternal grandmother's House.
The fate of Renly's Rebellion turned even more uncertain as fortunes began to turn despite Greyjoy declaring for him. With great effort and thirteen marriages, Queen Margaery Tyrell had managed to weave a web of alliances and cajole most of the recalcitrant Stormlords into calling their full muster. Not all answered the second royal call, but ten thousand swords would gather within two moons, and four thousand more levies would be trained at Bronzegate.
Alas, the rest of the war was not going as well. The siege of King's Landing had come to an impasse, and the besieging army struggled to source sufficient provisions from the now-scoured Crownlands. Ser Cortnay Penrose met great trouble while sieging Rook's Rest, as Clawmen were constantly sallying out from Crackclaw Point, attacking his outriders, assaulting his supply lines, and even daring to try his camps at night.
Things weren't going well for the city either. Signs of disease had begun to spread amongst some of the Lannister men. Many began complaining about headaches, persistent chills, high fever, and pains in their limbs and stomach. Religious zeal grew on both sides of the war, and rumours of Joffrey sacrificing Septons to the Heart Tree spread suspicion within the city.
Renly's rebellion continued to grow even bloodier across the board.
Robb Stark had slayed Lord Errold Sunderly of Saltcliffe, his two sons, and his reaving parties, who had dared venture along Ocean Road, which put a bloody end to the Ironmen's distraction along the Westerlands shore.
When the first Reavers descended upon the North with their fleet, they faced stiff resistance. Goodbrother, Orkwood, and Ironmaker had tried to storm Flint's Fingers and Bear Isle, but their foes were prepared, and they suffered humiliating defeats, losing their lords and most of their captains. The situation looked so ugly for Balon Greyjoy that he sent Victarion and the Iron Fleet to raze Flint's Fingers while leading three hundred longboats and a hundred galleys to Bear Isle himself.
Lord Drumm had also been slain by a lucky arrow soon after landing on the Northern Mountain's shores. The Clansmen had not expected the Ironmen, but a lucky hunting group had spotted the reavers and ambushed them with the help of an enormous direwolf; rumour even had it that Arya Stark was the one who had landed the lucky shot in the Bone Hand's eye.
The North was considered well-prepared for the Ironmen's attack, but its vast size worked against the kingdom. Myrcella Stark had called the Northern banners, but the muster was slow with all the cavalry and the experienced commanders south with the Young Wolf. Most of the Northern Houses had taken their capable kinsmen with them to war, and a sizeable number of veterans had been considered lost in the Narrow Sea with Eddard Stark, leaving only green boys and greybeards in charge of the significant number of footmen.
The only House with full strength was Glover of Deepwood Motte, but he did not prove himself a great commander. Despite his preparation, Galbart Glover had some success repelling two raids from Botley before the Ironborn managed to land and besiege his castle.
Meanwhile, the young Artos Dustin, Lord Dustin's second son, had gathered his strength along with all the swords Benfred Tallhart could muster at the mouth of the Barrow River to repel the invaders-
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War' Author's Endnote:
A long-ass chapter. Finally, we see some of Aegon. The only OCs in this chapter are Sara Snow and Torrhen Flint, son of the Black Flint Donnel.
So many things are happening everywhere, so here's some extra thick excerpt from the Braavosi observer. It's hard to put the ridiculous amount of things that are going on at the same time.
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 air was heavy with the buzzing of flies and mosquitos; the stilted smell of the marshland nostalgically tickled his nose, soothing Howland's taut nerves after the massacre.
"Never seen man so small and so dangerous," Zolo's words came out stilted as he patted Howland's shoulder. His smile looked almost demonic as his copper-skinned face was splattered crimson with blood from the earlier battle.
The self-proclaimed Ko of Khal Eddard had proven his mettle aplenty now, and the more he fought for the Lord of Winterfell, the more he liked it. The Dothraki were no longer held in mistrust, and after the bad apples were removed, the rest proved themselves worthy of trust as they showed their valour and honour in battle.
He had even donned a chain shirt and an arming doublet beneath it, looted from some of the sellswords, and a dragonsteel arakh lay on his hip, taken as spoils from one of the slain captains of the Windblown. His previously cut hair had begun to grow again, now woven into a short braid with six bells softly tinkling as he moved–signifying the six victories he had won since he joined them as per his people's tradition. They had fought over a dozen battles, but Zolo simply did not count minor skirmishes where their opponents were lesser in numbers as true victories worthy of a bell.
Howland wiped the blood off his three-pronged spear with a brown cloak ripped from one of the fallen enemies and gave him a respectful nod.
"You're not so bad yourself," he mused. "Few riders would dare bait an enemy into a swamp they've never seen before."
Zolo's laughter grew boisterous, "There's nothing Zolo doesn't dare with such a brave Khal. If he dares fight foe thrice bigger, we only have to fight harder!"
"Great work, Reed," Damon also came, smiling widely, though his armour was caked with even more gore and muck, and its yellow colours could no longer be seen. "At least even fools back home know not to follow Crannogmen into a bog."
He had felt useless in the open plains and the clash of horsemen before, but the bog was where he and his crannogmen shined. Traps, smaller ambushes, trick attacks while the Myrish lost their footing–they had killed as many foes as any other despite their lesser numbers.
"I cannot take all the credit," the Crannoglord waved the praise away. "Most of the plan was Lord Stark's."
"Aye, but we couldn't have made it without you," Rogar Wull also came, looking exhausted after making his way through the bogs and hitting the Myrish in the rear. He and Burley oversaw the recruits - the freed slave volunteers. They had not taken everyone, of course, only the hale, the strong, those who listened to orders and had a measure of talent in fighting. Of those who volunteered, barely one in twenty-five made the cut, but that still made for shy of fifteen hundred eager men who now served as skirmishers and reserve.
After Eddard Stark's rampage through their lands and the sellswords, the Conclave of Myr did not send an envoy to negotiate but mustered a united force of over eight thousand led by Crahan Drahar to deal with them instead. Howland could easily guess what they thought: a good mix of crossbowmen, some hired heavy lancers, and pikes would easily defeat a foe barely a third of their number, so why negotiate?
Numbers in battle gave men a certain confidence, which easily turned to arrogance, so it wasn't a surprise when Ned's plan worked. His friend always took such things into account.
Zolo had baited the Myrish into the swamp where the Dothraki supposedly couldn't retreat further. They thought wrong, for Howland had found three pathways that let the horselords wheel around. Then the Essosi were met with a second line of troops led by Howland, who, after a short fight, managed to retreat even further in the swamp towards where Ned awaited, leading the Northern elite in a tight line.
By the time the Myrish met the Northern core, they had broken rank and were tired from going deep into the bog. It had given the hidden skirmishers and the Dothraki enough time to wheel around and strike Drahar's forces in the rear.
It had been yet another devastating defeat for the Myrish, although it seemed that the Northern forces didn't escape unscathed this time. It was difficult to count the dead in the bog–the number of bodies they had to fish out of the still waters felt uncountable, and many would probably remain lost there. The aftermath continued until sundown. Over three hundred lay dead, and many more were wounded–most of them the freedmen volunteers, but a few of their Northmen and Dothraki forces also fell. With such a difference in numbers, even with such a well-thought-out strategy, losses were inevitable.
"The turgid stink of the swamp will cling to us for days after this," Ryswell groaned, looking tired enough to fall asleep in his suit of plate as Eddard Stark gathered his council in the evening.
To the side, Tommen was trying to untangle the bits of mud from Winter's shaggy fur that now looked like a mix of brown and dark russet. The prince had seen no action since the day the sellswords had ambushed the camp, but Eddard Stark doubled his lessons and guard, and Howland often heard him explaining each battle and skirmish at length.
Morgan Liddle laughed, looking completely unscathed. "Look at ye, whinging like a little girl, as if you would have to deal with the cleanup. Your poor Glenmore squire has to shine your muck-covered armour, not you."
"The Myrish will not be able to muster another force for quite a while after this," Manderly pointed, his voice gratingly hoarse. The nearly endless fighting and the hellish pace Eddard Stark had set had taken a lot out of the Mermen knight, and he had lost most of his plumpness, and his armour had to be refitted thrice. He had lost his left eye in a battle three days prior, too, and an eerie eyepatch covered the hollow socket.
"We can have two or three days to rest and recuperate," Ned decided, rubbing his chin, where an angry red scar ran up towards the mouth, leaving a bald line in his beard. While the dragonsteel scaleshirt did its job admirably, it did not protect his head. The Lord of Winterfell had been in the thick of each battle, leading the most perilous tasks for himself and had not escaped unscathed. "The Myrish will have to come to negotiate; if not, finding more sellswords will take them some time."
The expected Myrish envoys never came, but a messenger from the Wolfpack and the supposed rebels approached them instead.
15th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
After much deliberation, Eddard Stark agreed to meet the ragtag rebels in a place of his choosing. After all, they had freed tens of thousands of slaves in the last moon and a half, and the revolt that was pushed out of the Ashen Plains suddenly found itself with plenty of room to breathe.
"Zolo's men counted less than four thousand spears, but there are probably more spread out." Howland heard the Dothraki whisper to Ned. "Good spirit, but not warriors."
The envoy was a familiar face for once – one Asher Forrester, the exiled son of Gregor Forrester.
"Lord Stark," he had knelt when he saw Ned for the first time, much to the other sellswords' surprise.
"So you have chosen to sell your sword for coin," Ned noted neutrally, though those who knew him as Howland could hear the subtle disapproval in the words.
"I know nought else but the sword and bow, and a man has to make a living," Asher mumbled, face flushed, but to his credit, he looked the Lord of Winterfell in his eyes without flinching. Even his spine straightened. "Besides, it's a cause better than any. I am willing to swear my blade in your service if you would have me, Lord Stark."
"You have already bound yourself to these men," he tilted his head at the other men of the Wolfpack. "I would not have you break your word on mine behalf. Perhaps after your contract expires, I shall still require your services. These are interesting times, far too interesting for my taste, and the gods have decided that one can never have enough skilled swords."
The young Forrester swallowed his disgruntlement and nodded.
Manderly leaned in, "Can you tell us anything about the revolt's leaders? I did not expect an escaped slave to be able to plan such a campaign and hold out for so long."
"Well, it's good that he has never been a slave," Asher chuckled but refused to say anything else.
The Wolfpack and the Ragged Marksmen were the two main sellsword companies aiding the rebels, with smaller bands that Howland couldn't even pronounce the name of backing them. The crannoglord noticed most had arranged themselves on the other side of the hill. Still, they made for a poor sight along with the former slaves. Gaunt, most dressed in rags, but each had a spear, a bludgeon, and a shield. Howland could spot plenty of padded gambesons, thrice as many padded jackets made of a patchwork of different fabrics, and some battered byrnies and dented kettle helmets, but he could also count the ribs on their horses. Their dilapidated tents were hardly any better; many looked like a cold gust of white wind would topple them.
There was plenty of apprehension in their gazes, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Howland couldn't blame them; the Northern retinue cut an imposing figure. Strong, well-fed, armoured to the teeth, each of them hardened even further by bloodshed and a string of victories.
Even the lauded Wolfpack, the infamous company founded by Hallis Hornwood and Timotty Snow after the Dance, barely looked Northern after two hundred years. Most of their faces were swarthy, or the colour of olives, and Howland could see a few fair-haired men who would look more at home in Lys than the North, though they were better equipped than the slaves but not nearly as good as many of the companies Ned had defeated.
A minute later, they finally met at the top of the hill where Ned had decided to meet. In a sign of good faith, the Northmen could bring as many men as they wanted–though the number was settled on a dozen, while Zolo's men and a hundred Northmen remained at the base of the hill, keeping an eye out for any deception. The rebellion's leaders were three men, two former slaves, judging by the sword-shaped brand seared on their brows–probably former pit-fighters. Their gaits were also wary, and they eyed Ned as if he would leap forth and tear out their throats with his bare teeth.
The one at the front, clearly in charge of the three, looked familiar and did not show an ounce of fear, unlike his companions.
"Wait," Damon Dustin frowned at what looked to be a scarred young man in a banged-up plate bearing the bronze rune shield of Royce. "Aren't you Bronze Yohn's boy?"
"Ser Dustin," the knight gave a respectful bow, and Howland noticed that the glove on his left hand had two fingers sagged as if they were empty. The digits were doubtlessly lost in battle. "I am indeed Robar of House Royce, second son of the Lord of Runestone."
"Well met, Ser Royce," Eddard dipped his head slightly. "I take it that my gift has reached Vaes Dothrak?"
The mention of their holy city had Zolo stiffen for a heartbeat, but he quickly recovered.
"Aye, it was given to Drogo safely and received more than well," a ghost of a smile flashed through Royce's hardened face. "The Mad King's daughter was not as happy to see us, nor was Jorah the Slaver, but it mattered not in the end. Viserys had already perished when we arrived, and the dragon's claim is dead for threatening the Khal's unborn child."
Ned's face was unreadable, but Howland knew the gift had probably succeeded. The other Northmen let out a grumble of approval; the House of the Dragon had long lost any support it enjoyed in the North, especially the Mad King's sons.
"What of Ser Donnel Locke and the rest of the retinue sent with him?" The Mermen knight asked. "At least half of them were my father's men."
"Maester Arren is still with me." The Royce's voice thickened with grief then, "Alas, most of the knights and men-at-arms died when Donnel remained behind to buy us time to retreat from a harsh battle against the Windblown and the Long Lances. Ser Donnel lives still but has lost a leg and an eye and is too infirm to move until he recovers."
"I would have expected you to return home after such a long journey," Ned noted languidly. "Yet here you are."
The unasked question hung above them, and Robar Royce sighed, rubbing his face tiredly.
"We were on our way back to Westeros in truth. From Pentos to Vaes Dothrak and then from Mereen to Myr, our eyes feasted upon the misery of men and chains, and our hearts had enough. The Red Riots were said to be bloody, but they were nothing compared with the aftermath when the slaves arose," His tone grew cold. "Donnel and I broke when we saw a pregnant woman being gutted open, unborn babe and all, near the docks–her husband was heard saying words in support of the revolt, you see. We would have both been killed for rushing out in anger if not for Arren."
"And you just decided to lead a revolt against the might of a Free City with a handful of men?" Dustin shook his head, but his eyes were ablaze with admiration.
"After a night of rest and much discussion, we decided to start slowly–aid a small group of escaped slaves outside the city and work from there. We even garnered some support from Lys, even if it was given just to spite the Myrish Conclave. Truth be told, it was folly from the beginning. We all knew it was an uphill battle that would have probably seen us all die, but it would be a worthy death."
The two freemen besides Royce nodded solemnly.
"All of us are ready to die for the hope of freedom," the taller one rasped out with a thick accent. "Death sets us all free in the end. Dāez Morghon!"
His Valyrian was weak, but after the last moons, he knew enough to understand the meaning.
Freedom or death.
"Dāez Morghon!" The other slaves down the hill chanted, and Howland wanted to weep for the tragedy. The resolve was beautiful and touching, as it was grim. Yet this was a mere corner of a vast continent.
"Truth be told, we were pushed out and on the brink of defeat," Royce continued solemnly. "Even with all of our training and Donnel's experience and tactical acumen, we would have been cornered within a moon at most. We didn't have the numbers, we didn't have the training, we didn't have the land. And then you came, cutting through the sellswords and the Myrish like a hot knife through butter. Newly freed slaves flocked to our cause, and those who had lost hope realised the gods were finally smiling upon us. We were reduced to less than fifteen hundred, yet here we stand, five times as strong with your aid."
"Admirable, but I can hardly claim all the credit." Ned inclined his head. "If the freedmen did not think you were worth following, they would not flock to your banner. A worthy thing to swing your sword for such a cause. I still remember when you were born–Robert and I were visiting Runestone. You were a loud, quarrelsome babe, but you always laughed when Robert tossed you in the air and caught you, much to your father's chagrin. He said, 'This lad is going to be a great fighter; I can feel it in my bones', and now, here you stand, fighting for greater things than many."
Royce blushed, actually blushed, like a maiden and had to cough a few times to cover his embarrassment.
"My father never told me…" he shook his head. "Nevermind. You must wonder why I approached you like this."
Ned snorted. "Wonder? Perhaps a little, but I can take a good guess. You want to unite forces against Myr."
"Aye, you have just crushed most of the last forces fielded in the Ashen Plains. Yet this is not all that Myr could muster. My sources inside the city tell me they still have three sellsword companies and four thousand city guards, a third of which are Unsullied. The training of new cohorts of crossbowmen has already begun–something we both know doesn't require much time. Should we join forces, we can scour the rest of the Ashen Plains and siege the city together."
"I guessed as much." Ned exhaled slowly, but his words were devoid of feeling, and the icy mask of the Lord of Winterfell was back. "And herein lies the issue. You want to break Myr, while I want safe passage back to Westeros. I have a prince I promised to return hale and hearty to his mother and another, just as urgent war awaits us home."
Aside from the utter slaughter through the Ashen Plains, his friend had not been idle since it became apparent that they would clash with Myr–after it became clear that the Free City would not provide a safe passage back home. A handful of volunteers from the mariners had been silently sent to the smaller port towns or fishing villages, hoping to find a smuggler or even a bigger fishing vessel willing to brave the tumultuous Narrow Sea and reach King's Landing to send a message.
How many would succeed was another matter entirely.
Word had it that Tyrosh had failed to blockade Blackwater Bay, which meant there was a good possibility of returning home if Tywin Lannister found out about their predicament. If the royal fleet came to the waters, all they had to do was take one of the smaller coastal towns–which was far easier than storming Myr's formidable walls. It was still risky, as the Myrish fleet could potentially sail out to defend their waters, but Ned was already waging a war against the city.
"But you killed the slavers," one of the men by Royce's side frowned. "Why would they listen to you?"
"They pay the Dothraki generous tributes to avoid the bigger Khalasars, so why not me?" Ned chuckled, but it was devoid of warmth.
"The Conclave of Myr cannot be trusted," the other freeman warned. "Their greed knows no end, and they smile in your face while planning to sink a knife in your back."
A cold glance from Ned had him shrink in his boots, much to Howland's amusement. If Winter were here, the freedmen would have pissed themselves on the spot.
"Regardless, I have a duty to my people and my liege," Ned said, not unkindly. "We can work together until a moment comes when my forces can reasonably return home but expect no further assistance."
"Better than the position we were in before," Royce said after a moment of thought and squeezed Ned's outstretched hand. "It will be an honour to fight on your side, Lord Stark." Then he leaned in closer, his face growing softer. "And I must give my thanks regardless. You've brought us hope where there was none."
18th Day of the 6th Moon
Myrcella, Winterfell
On heavy days like this, the castle felt empty without Rickon and Arya running around, causing a commotion in the halls or yards. There were two less direwolves now, leaving Lady practically alone. But even the well-behaved canine preferred to linger around the babes. One could mistake her for an oversized guard hound.
Myrcella had also gotten too used to seeing their young, flushed faces as they ate together in the solar and felt their loss keenly. But both Rickon and Arya were safe–just in case.
It was as if a dark cloud had hung over the North, and she struggled to enjoy the company of her ladies-in-waiting as of late; the maidens themselves were in dire need of cheer.
"That damned foolish boy!" She had never seen her good mother so wroth. Even when it became apparent that Eddard Stark had disappeared in the tumultuous waters of the Narrow Sea or that her Father, Hoster Tully, had passed away, it had been silent grief, not rage.
Had something happened to Robb? Or perhaps the Ironborn had taken another keep. At first, they thought the Ironborn were just testing the waters, looking for weakness–perhaps a reaving party over the more remote villages in search of thralls. It sounded crude, but the North could do nothing in such a case.
Robb had taken most of their horse, and there was no fleet to oppose the Ironmen on the Western coast, so the North could only bear such minor raids with indignity. Yet the Ironmen were not here for minor raids. The full might of Houses Orkwood and Ironmaker had stormed Flint's Fingers and Bear Isle en mass and were, of course, repelled after a bloody struggle.
Two days prior, word had arrived that Flint's Fingers had fallen to Victarion Greyjoy leading the Iron Fleet and a gaggle of Harlaws, a grand reaver fleet of over two hundred ships. And now, the Ironmen had a foothold in the North–a harbour they could use as a springboard for resupplying and further attacks on the northern shores. Worse, there was very little Winterfell could do. Retaking Flint's Fingers would require men to march all the way to the Neck and make their way through the Fever River and the Marshland before reaching it.
A perilous journey of over a thousand miles that would take many moons by land to accomplish, but no men could be spared for such, for the Ironborn attacks only grew fiercer. Worse, the loss of Flint's Fingers made them utterly blind to those coming from the Sunset Sea.
Myrcella shared a grimace with Sansa just as Ser Rodrik Cassel arrived in the solar; the old greying master-at-arms seemed stoic.
"You summoned me, my lady?"
"A raven from Lady Dustin arrived," Catelyn stabbed her finger at the roll of parchment on the desk by the map. Luwin sat on the chair, nervously tugging his chain.
"Has the Dustin Seat fallen under siege already?" Myrcella frowned. "I thought the young Artos Dustin and Benfred Tallhart had gathered nearly five thousand swords there?"
The red-haired woman laughed then, but it was cold and utterly bereft of joy, sending shivers down Myrcella's spine. "They had, but what good are swords led by two green boys thinking themselves Roddy the Ruin come again? Four and ten, their heads are filled with dreams of glory and valour instead of wits!"
Ser Rodrik was aghast. "Surely the Ironmen cannot defeat such numbers without the element of surprise?"
Luwin coughed, looking pale. "They saw a small army of longboats with Farwynd and Blacktyde sails land on both sides of the Barrow River and split up their forces, thinking they could defeat both at the same time. Only, they were ambushed by Hightower and Redwyne, who seemed to have landed a few miles away on both sides the previous night."
"...What are Reachmen doing here?" Myrcella uttered, tiredly rubbing her wide eyes. "I thought they would try and blockade King's Landing."
"So did everyone else," Catelyn sighed, collapsing on one of the tapered chairs. "It's not just a small force too. The whole naval might of the Reach is there–over a thousand ships. Hightower, Redwyne, Chester, Grimm, Hewett, Serry, and Blackbar. Worse, the banner of the seven-pointed star was with them."
"How did they go unnoticed?" Sansa asked, her face as pale as chalk.
"The Ironmen struck first, taking down most of the outposts and watchtowers on the coasts, and the Reachmen probably descended under cover of the night," Myrcella mused outloud. "Cleverly done to pave the way for the Reachmen. I always knew the lands along the Mander were fertile and populous, but it baffles me how they can still spare the men to attack here instead of sending more swords to support the Renly the Pretender or Oakheart."
Catelyn's face grew colder still. "It's because of the Ironmen. Hightower and Redwyne usually leave most of their forces in reserve, along with the other coastal houses, to guard against the reavers. But now that the Ironmen aren't a problem, that's at least fifteen, maybe twenty thousand men, who can enter the war."
Luwin cleared his throat, face pale. "This… they can only boast such numbers if they cleared out every men-at-arms and knight left in the reach, leaving only green boys and greybeards for garrisons."
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Myrcella ignored the sinking feeling in her gut. The North would struggle against the combined might of the Ironborn and the Reach's coastal houses, which was before the young Dustin boy had lost so many men. Worse, the North was vast, and most of the swords to spare were spread over thousands of miles.
Despite dreading the answer, she asked, "And what of Artos Dustin and Benfred Tallhart?"
"It was a well-planned ambush; The Reachmen struck at their rear while engaged with the Ironborn, broke rank–running into a second ambush, and the forces were almost completely slaughtered. The foolish Dustin and Tallhart boys were captured and burnt alive," came the sombre reply.
Ice chilled Myrcella's veins–burning meant zealots. Worse, both Brenda and Eddara had lost a brother. Seven above, they would be devastated, and Myrcella would have to be the one to bring them the ill news, for they were her ladies-in-waiting. The drowning feeling threatened to consume her.
The silence grew grave as if they were in the Crypts of Winterfell. Myrcella could see it now: the fear, the apprehension, and the disbelief. War had been a distant affair for the North; it had happened a thousand miles to the South, and everything had been peaceful from the Neck to the Wall. The Night's Watch was stronger than ever, and whatever threat loomed from the Lands of Always Winter had turned tail; four hundred marksmen manned Moat Cailin, and all the keeps on the Western coast had been well-manned and prepared for battle.
Yet the fragile sense of peace was shattered into a million fragments as if made of glass.
All those cruelties and bloodshed that sounded like a nightmare were now knocking on their doorstep, and suddenly, everything was real.
"This must be revenge for the Trident," Luwin added hoarsely as he scanned the letter. "Renly must be sending all of his zealots here."
"A bold move, considering he might need those swords in the battles of the South." Rodrik twirled his grey moustache. "It only makes Lord Robb's tasks easier, though."
"Foolish, foolish boys," Catelyn lamented. "If only they had waited. Fully manned, Barrowton could hold out for moons–enough time for the rest of the eastern lords to muster, and we would have ten thousand more swords ready to relieve Dustin. But no, rush blindly without scouting and for what? Some meagre piece of fleeting glory!"
Sansa sat by her mother, grabbing her hands in support. "But why would the Reachmen invade the North? We have no riches here, no plunder aside an abundance of clay, timber, and furs, and the winters are cold and long."
"To get rid of the zealots," Myrcella answered. "To demoralise Robb's forces. If the Stark bannermen knew their lands were under attack, they would want to go home and defend them instead of fighting in a faraway kingdom."
"Thousands of Reachmen have landed on the northern shores of the Saltspear, and even more are landing with each next day. Now, there's nobody near to oppose them. They're using the North's size against us." Catelyn picked up the parchment again, and her eyes hardened. "Lady Dustin writes her scouts saw the Redwynes using the captive Northmen to build large docks at a small bay near the mouth of the Barrow River, doubtlessly so they can anchor their cogs, galleys, and carracks easier."
Myrcella's mind raced like a doe, and she did not like the conclusion her thoughts reached.
"A one-time invasion wouldn't require docks. This means they are here to stay," she wrung her hands. "Possibly ship even more zealots. We cannot possibly deal with the Reachmen and the Ironborn simultaneously. What now?"
The silence grew stifling until Luwin coughed, "Lady Dustin writes that she's fleeing Barrowton and has ordered the citizens to do the same. Most of them are heading to White Harbor, but the lady and the rest of the remaining knights and men-at-arms are coming here."
Ser Rodrik rubbed his chin and loomed over the map of the North. "We should try to further fortify Moat Cailin. Its northern defences aren't as strong, and if it falls, any reinforcements from the South will be denied to us."
Catelyn turned to her, then, with an expectant gaze that said, 'It's your decision; you're the Lady of Winterfell now'.
"I'll write to White Harbour to call Manderly. He's closest to the Moat and can reinforce it fastest," she declared, though her voice cracked, coming out raw and jagged like a broken glass. The fate of the North rested upon her shoulders. Yes, Winterfell was a strong fortress, but it was not only her life at stake but that of countless Northmen and her son, Edwyn.
Myrcella knew what happened to the princesses and their get once castles fell. Should they lose, her precious baby would doubtlessly be fed to the fires or meet the same fate the young Rheanys had.
Plans were already swirling in her mind. First, she would try to expand the militia and train even more men, then call Alastor and triple the order of crossbows. Have the steward hoard each goose feather he can get for arrow and bolt fletchings. Perhaps a few scorpions wouldn't hurt; Alastor was certainly capable of building some. The castle also had to be prepared for a lengthy siege, and the granaries and larders filled to the brim, just in case things went awry further than they had already. The cleaners also had to check the curtain walls and remove any overgrowth of moss or ivy that could give hold for attackers to scale the walls.
Ravens had to be sent–to all the Northern Houses, even Skagos. Then to King's Landing and maybe even the northernmost Riverlords or the Vale.
"We shall try to deny the Ironmen and the zealots as much ground as possible," Myrcella frowned at the map. "How many moons until the cold season returns in full?"
"Four, maybe three, since it's autumn," Catelyn said darkly. "But we cannot let the Reachmen or the Ironborn ravage the North with impunity. It will only see the authority of Winterfell weaken."
"We can try and give them battle after the muster finishes," Ser Rodrik proposed, though his wrinkled brow was furrowed with uncertainty.
"Further plans can be made when we see how they move," Myrcella said, her heart heavy.
Oh gods, how she wanted to go and sing to her little Edwyn–to soothe her nerves more than lull him asleep, for plenty of work and woe awaited. Yet she couldn't. The weight of the North was crushing, and it felt like all of it rested upon her shoulders.
21st Day of the 6th Moon, 299
The Lord Regent, King's Landing
Tywin's face was unreadable. This wasn't new, for his brother considered bared emotions a weakness, but after years, as his right hand, Kevan recognised the slant in his eyebrow, expressing thinly veiled fury.
A glance around the Hand's audience chamber saw five red cloaks positioned along the walls–the usual protection Tywin had begun employing against assassination—that and wine and food testers, of course. Yet Kevan recognised these red cloaks; they were the cream of the crop and those Tywin trusted most in his retinue–after the barber who shaved his head daily. Anything that happened here wouldn't leave the room under any circumstance.
Kevan swallowed his questions and was content to observe. After a minute of stilted silence, the Spider entered, bowing deeply. The overwhelming scent of rosewater made him gag–the damned eunuch had overdone his perfumes today.
"My lord Hand, you summoned me?"
"Take a seat, Varys," Tywin motioned to the chair and after a moment of hesitation, the eunuch complied. "Any word from the Free Cities?"
"Some. A message from Volantis," the Spider clasped his powdered hands. "The city has fallen to the Golden Company."
"I meant nearer," his brother squinted. "If the unrest in Myr is resolved, the Myrish have enough power to tilt the scales of war. Pentos as well, should they decide to meddle."
"Alas, what little birds I had in Myr perished in the revolts," the eunuch said regretfully. "And for Pentos… they are forbidden from raising even a militia or hiring sellswords."
Tywin scoffed. "I know what their peace treaty with Braavos says, but you should know best that such matters are rarely worth the ink they are written with, let alone a century after. Forget it. I have heard a most interesting rumour from the scarce flow of merchants hailing from the other side of the Narrow Sea. There are whispers of a new force raising a wolf banner."
Varys tittered, "Indeed. Every now and then, a new group of sellswords forms up and chooses a wolf for their banner, thinking themselves a group of predators."
"But you did not mention any of this," Kevan noted neutrally.
"A new sellsword company is hardly of any import to the Iron Throne. I am aware of it, but it takes time to investigate the rumours before bringing such minor matters to the crown's attention. It doesn't help that these sellswords are constantly on the move, and the East is aflame in war."
"Intriguing," Tywin said. "Yet you returned from your short trip to Essos two days prior, trying to dig into the matters and spread your web further."
"Yes, Lord Hand."
Tywin's lips twitched. "Indeed? To my amusement, I received three visitors from Essos over the last three days, who insisted on meeting Lord Lannister most urgently."
The eunuch's obsequious expression slowly melted away as the silence grew deafening. "Envoys, My Lord?"
"One can say so," his brother hummed, inspecting Varys carefully as if seeing him for the first time. "It is not every day Northmen come from Essos, telling a most interesting tale."
For a mere heartbeat, the eunuch's face contorted. It was so fleeting and unexpected, but Kevan could swear on the Mother that it was not a product of his imagination.
Tywin's gaze remained impassive as he continued slowly.
"They told me a most riveting story, you see. It was plain and rough-spoken but sounded better than the most lauded bard's finest song." His brother slowly took a sip of wine from the gilded goblet, closing his eyes to savour it. "Lord Stark is alive, and so is my grandson and their hefty retinue, and they are trying to find a way home. They crashed in Old Andalos and rode down to Pentos, where the city declined their entry, and are now on their way to Myr. I would have thought them mummers and frauds, but lo and behold, Karstark's men recognised all three by name and face."
"This is great news, my lord," Varys smiled with a bow, but his movements were slightly stiff. "We should write to Lady Shireen to redirect her fleet to the harbour nearest to Lord Stark."
"Spare me your platitudes. You and I both know that ravens are trained to fly to castles and keeps, not vessels moving across the vast sea," Tywin reminded evenly. "But that is a moot point. The fastest galley is already sailing to the Royal Fleet with the news. Yet, I find myself curious about an entirely different matter. In your recent jaunt in Essos, you passed through Pentos. One of my trusted men claims to have seen you disembark from the sole Pentoshi trading ship that graced our makeshift docks for the last fortnight."
The eunuch frowned, seemingly confused.
"Lord Hand?"
"The Pentoshi might be excused for not recognising the grey direwolf of Stark, but he was far from the only one. The crowned stag of Baratheon, the horsehead of Ryswell, the merman of Manderly, the twin axes of Dustin, and a myriad of clansmen and other minor houses were all beside the direwolf, all unique and eye-catching. What is your excuse?" Tywin's voice grew lower. "Worse, Stark was at Pentos three moons ago, and you have said you have agents in the city before, yet you brought no word."
"My birds are stretched thin as of late, Lord Hand," Varys bowed apologetically, yet Kevan noticed his bald head glistened with sweat. "There's so much mayhem and bloodshed across the land–from Volantis to the Wall, and they must have missed it."
"Perhaps," his brother inclined his head slightly. "Eddard Stark and Tommen's mere presence can tilt the scales of victory in our favour. Yet your silence and mummery reeks of incompetence. Or malice. Perhaps you knew about Stark's presence and chose not to inform the Iron Throne."
Tywin gave the barest nod, and one of the red cloaks silently approached, unsheathing his sword.
"Give me more time-"
The eunuch's words halted as his head slid off his shoulders, and a warm splash of blood squirted in Kevan's eyes as the body and the head tumbled to the side.
"Did you have to kill him so quickly? The damned eunuch deserved worse." Kevan grumbled, wiping the stinging blood off his face and blinking at the crimson stains littering the chair, the desk, and the Myrish rug below. "Sloppy. The stain will take forever to remove, too."
"The carpet can be replaced, and Varys' usefulness ran out," Tywin said as the red cloaks carried out the corpse and the head separately. "Besides, the slippery eel knows the Red Keep and all the secret tunnels that Maegor dug like the back of his hand. The Spider would have slipped away if I had given him the barest chance."
"Joffrey will not be happy," Kevan noted tiredly.
"My grandson is never happy. Besides, I suspected someone warned Renly about Robert's demise early. I questioned the remaining white cloaks–the news was kept silent until the morning, yet the prancing stag was gone by then."
"And you think Varys did it? Why would he?"
"Does the truth even matter to one such as Varys? I find myself questioning every word that has left his tongue for years. Is it just another string or well-timed lie in his web of deceit?" Tywin Lannister snorted. "As for why–to sow trouble, of course. I have seen these old tricks since Aerys' reign but dismissed them as harmless scheming until Stark's messengers started trickling in. Worse, with his silence on the matter, I now can't help but suspect he had a hand in the poisoning attempt upon my Grandson and the Lord of Winterfell."
It indeed seemed suspicious.
Kevan sighed tiredly and finally finished wiping the blood off his face, though it still felt sticky. "We should have kept him in the black cells and wring him for everything he knew and planned."
"I have no patience for such foolery anymore, and venomous spiders are best squashed before they can bite you." His brother's face somehow hardened even more than usual, making his two green eyes look like two cold chips of sinister jade. "Ravens arrived from Winterfell and Stilwood Castle just an hour ago. Stark has Crakehall under siege and claims he can retake it within a fortnight. But word from the North does not bode well. The Reachmen are invading the North en masse–with their zealots and the Ironborn and have defeated a force led by the Dustin spare."
It certainly explained why his brother had taken such drastic measures.
"Now the whole western coast of the North bar the Wolfswood is wide open," Kevan said, groaning inwardly. Just as he thought the war was turning in their favour, victory slipped away further and further. "Yet you do not seem worried."
"Fools. There's a reason why nobody managed to conquer the North from the outside. Winter is coming," Tywin's lips twitched with amusement. "They can enjoy some measure of success for a handful of warm moons, but the snow shall take care of them when the end of the year approaches. And those who survive long enough will fall to the cold. Besides, there are many reasons to celebrate. By all three accounts, Stark has managed to recover Brightroar, and now Tommen is the one wielding it. After over three centuries, House Lannister has recovered what was lost!"
Tommen was only half a Lannister–the wrong half, and Kevan had too many questions to count, yet for the first time in over a decade, his brother looked happy. Or as joyous as Tywin Lannister could ever be–with a barely noticeable curve of his lips as Arbor Gold freely disappeared into his throat.
Sighing, Kevan was too tired to ask a thousand questions swirling in his mind–like how the dragonsteel blade lost in the Doom ended up in Stark's hands, so he raised his cup in a toast and emptied it in one breath.
A Tommen Lannister had lost Brightroar, and it only seemed right that another Tommen reclaimed it, even if this one was half a stag.
23rd Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
Word slowly spread that Varys had been caught passing vital information to Renly's spies, and both had been killed while resisting arrest by the red cloaks. It was a load of shite, but nobody questioned it.
Nobody shed a tear about the Spider, for he had not made any friends in his long tenure as a master of whispers.
Even Joffrey waved off the news as unimportant, focusing on his silver-haired paramour.
Kevan, however, was tasked with catching and cleansing all of the eunuch's 'little birds' from the city.
"Just in case," Tywin had told him. "I am still not sure who truly pulls Varys' strings. Not that it matters–the entire city must be purged."
Kevan expected to wrangle with some sort of sorcery and cunning network of informants, not a gaggle of young, pitiful children with their tongues removed. With the city no longer bustling and the aid of the Gold Cloak, hunting down the mute orphans turned out rather easy, as they stood out. All the beggars and orphans were supposed to be expelled, so those who lingered stood out like sore thumbs, even if they wore well-made garments to avoid scrutiny.
Killing so many children out in the open would cause plenty of discontent, and he would baulk at doing such a vile deed but would rather avoid such cruel bloodshed unless Tywin ordered it. Besides, slaughtering so many young orphans in cold blood might invite the Mother's ire upon his sons, which doubly stayed his hand.
So Kevan simply put them to work–digging, carrying, and fetching things for the men-at-arms.
What few souls that dared cross the streets were filled with unease–the Reachmen continued launching corpses over the curtain walls each day, and it was common to see half-mangled, half-smashed carcasses in different stages of decay being carted to the Dragon Pit. Some puked at the sight, and even Kevan averted his gaze from the gruesome spectacle.
Mace Tyrell still kept sending axemen with torches to try the wall and the portcullis deep in the night but made no further assaults. Yet despite the seeming calm, ignoring the occasional rumble of the boulders and corpses crashing into the ring of half-ruined houses near the walls, Kevan couldn't help but feel uneasy.
Later that evening, his suspicions were proven correct when one of the watchmen on the walls came to him, looking worried.
"Me bucket of water was shakin'," he reported, and Kevan grew grim. "It wasn't heavy Pate's lumbering steps either; the surface kept rippling on its own."
Sappers. It seemed like Mace Tyrell acknowledged he couldn't go through the gates or over the walls and decided to dig underneath–or even try and collapse them.
Three hours and one pulsing headache later, buckets of water were positioned across the length of the city walls to alert of any sapping activity. A task force over a thousand strong was organised to begin counter-digging to collapse the passages the Reachmen were trying to make–the only way one could counter sappers.
Just as Kevan reached his quarters in the Red Keep, already imagining his soft feather bed, his brother summoned him again.
Suppressing his disgruntlement, Kevan dragged his feet to the Tower of the Hand. But this time, he was not alone. Cersei was already waiting there, clad in a revealing crimson gown slashed with gold, tapping her foot impatiently. The last moon had been stifling for his niece, but nobody had time–or the resources to pander to her whims.
Kevan suspected Cersei would have been remarried if a worthy candidate had brought a sufficient number of swords to the table. While in her early thirties, she was still fecund enough for a child or two and was still a beauty. Yet the kingdoms were all dragged into one war or another. Dorne was in open war with Lys after the sacking of the Water Gardens, and the stalemate of the Vale continued as Waynwood continued to delay the Trial of the Seven.
"What is so urgent to wake me in this hour, father?" Cersei asked impatiently.
This time, there were no red cloaks in the room itself, which meant their talk was to remain private.
"Harrenhal has fallen," Tywin said, carefully inking a letter, yet Kevan could detect a hint of satisfaction and respect in his tone. "Literally. Edmure Tully had somehow organised tens of thousands of smallfolk to dig underneath the wall's foundations, and the main gate collapsed into rubble along with a portion of the wall. Rowan and his band of the Reachmen were all put to the sword as deserved."
Kevan could only shake his head at the numbers of smallfolk Edmure had somehow managed to gather–though the Riverlands probably united against the Reachmen's brutality. Or perhaps it was the hatred against Harren's cruel seat, built on the Rivermen's blood, sweat, and tears.
His niece's eyes flashed with self-satisfaction as if she had forgotten that this whole war had started because of her stupidity.
"So, Renly ought to retreat or be smashed, then?"
"It's still more than a moon's march from Harrenhal to King's Landing," Kevan reminded. "Perhaps even double that because Penrose probably swept clean everything worth eating on the way and is competent enough to delay and harass Tully's forces. The Riverlords will still need to handle all of those smallfolk. Returning them to their homes or even conscripting them will take even more time."
"Still, two moons, and this dreadful siege and war shall end," Cersei waved dismissively.
His brother frowned. "If it were only so simple. We might not have enough time. There are signs of plague spreading in the city. Some men-at-arms complain about fatigue, shivering, and nausea and their eyes are irritated by sunlight. The first day saw five cases, and I dismissed it as a common stomach ache. The second day saw a hundred, and the first men's digits had started to blacken; today, I was notified of nearly a thousand men falling ill. I have given orders to keep things quiet and ward off the sick near the Sept of Baelor, but only the gods know how fast it will spread."
Kevan's mouth went dry, and even his niece turned pensive.
"What does Pycelle say?"
"It's not something he has seen before, and there are no mentions of such ailment in the royal records. It would look like a common fever if not for the swollen flesh. Some of the heavily infected have nasty bulbous-like swells that darken as time passes." Tywin closed his eyes. "Pycelle estimated that up to two-thirds of the infected will perish, even if treated promptly."
His knees grew shaky, and Kevan would have collapsed if he weren't already sitting on his chair. He did the numbers in his head–with this rate of spread, the whole city would be aflame within a sennight, and if over half of them perished, there could be nothing for Edmure Tully to save.
This was worse than the Grey Death!
Why did the gods have to punish them so?
Even Cersei looked… morose, and this was the first time Kevan had seen his niece so speechless and pale. Though she had been plenty pale lately, and her figure had grown thinner in her lengthy stay in the Maidenvault.
"What shall we do?"
Tywin scoffed. "Lug some corpses back to Renly, of course. He and his carcasses caused this, and it's only right we send it back to him. Of course, the city cannot be evacuated even if we wanted to; these meagre docks do not allow us to evacuate even half of the men. Nor would I ever give Renly the satisfaction of sitting on the Iron Throne. But Cersei, you and Myrielle are leaving the city before dawn. I have arranged a vessel-"
"My good daughter can flee for her safety, but I want to stay in the city, Father," she interrupted. "Someone needs to keep the court in order-"
"Do not give me these paltry excuses, Cersei," Tywin frowned. "Do you think Pycelle did not tell me when your maid discreetly requested moon tea to cover up for your affair?"
Cersei's face turned as pale as a ghost, and even Kevan blinked in confusion.
"I… there's no lover, father. Just a moment of weakness for a grieving widow-"
Tywin's face darkened. "Do you take me for a fool? I keep tolerating your nonsense because you're my daughter. Do you have any idea what it would look like after Renly's accusations if you spawn a bastard now?!"
"Then, why did the old fool deny me the moon tea?" Cersei hissed out, and Kevan wanted to bury himself in the floor. Gods, he just wanted to sleep on his featherbed, not deal with this mess.
"Because Pycelle said your health has grown feeble enough that taking it might just kill you," Tywin sighed, looking ten years older. "You're still my daughter, even if a lackwit. You will take the boat awaiting Myrielle, retreat to White Harbour, and await Lord Stark and your younger son's return."
"Tommen is alive?" Her voice was torn halfway between hope and disbelief.
"Without a doubt, according to the Northmen," Kevan sighed. He knew that the court had shunned his niece, but to see her out of the loop to such a degree was piteous, even if they kept things under wraps. "Eddard Stark has shown up in Essos, hale and hearty with his men. Tommen was seen by his side at every step."
"Good. That's good–Stark promised me he'll keep him safe, and he is a man of his word." For a moment, Kevan gazed at Cersei's hopeful face, which looked far more tender than he ever thought he would see his niece. Her love for her sons was unquestionable. Yet her joy drained away, and she swallowed heavily as she finally looked at her father's stern visage. "And what shall I do if a child in my womb quickens?"
Tywin carefully lifted the tangle and dripped a heated wax onto the scroll before pressing it down with his signet. "Lord Manderly can be very discreet. He shall provide you with accommodations and seclusion so you can give birth to your bastard safely and without a scandal. Go now, get ready to leave, or must I get my men to aid you along?"
"There's no need, Father," Cersei stood up and curtsied smoothly. It was done all too easily, his niece doubtlessly hatching another foolish plan in her pretty head.
"You're not as smart as you think you are," Tywin warned coldly. "Play your petty games after the war is won, lest you wish to put your son's rule in peril further."
She gave them a practised smile–one of the fake ones given in court. "I shall not disappoint you, Father."
As soon as the door closed and her footsteps no longer echoed in the darkness, Tywin sighed and poured himself a generous cup of Arbor Gold.
"Where did I go wrong with my children?" He took a heavy gulp and closed his eyes. "All three of them proved weak or foolish. Is it too much to ask for one capable heir?"
Kevan awkwardly poured himself some wine and sighed.
"There are still plenty of kinsmen left to you," he said delicately. Like himself and his sons, who served loyally. "Casterly Rock and House Lannister will surely not fall into ruin."
"You are right, of course," Tywin's lips thinned. "There's always Tommen–Stark will raise him right, if a tad too honourable. But judging by the Young Wolf, that honour is just a velvet glove hiding an iron fist underneath. Tomorrow, I shall draft a new succession for House Lannister. Tommen shall be the Lord of Casterly Rock should I perish–provided he is not before burdened with other lands or is, for some reason, unable to take the Lannister name. After him comes Myrcella as my spare, on the condition that she gives birth to a second son to rule Casterly Rock. Her young husband is already defending the Westerlands well enough."
Kevan's heart clenched–of course, he wasn't even considered. He was just a dutiful brother, not a part of the precious Lannister legacy birthed by Joanna. "What if she only has daughters?"
"I suppose one of your sons can wed her then."
"What of this plague?" Kevan asked, changing the topic while trying to ignore the giddiness threatening to overwhelm him. In the end, he was a dutiful brother. "It might devastate the city."
Tywin laughed harshly, the sound as jarring as a jagged piece of steel.
"Does it matter? After Cersei's ship sails away, I'm sealing the city; we have the food to endure. The royal succession is secure. Myrielle is pregnant, Tommen is alive, and Myrcella has a son already. Should we perish to the plague in the caprice of the gods, Stark shall dutifully pick up the royal banner for us–the old or the young. We should help them and ensure Renly chokes should he try to take the city."
Author's Endnote:
OCs: Crahan Drahar. The swamp battle, which shows how Ned leverages further tactics to deal with overwhelming numbers, is loosely inspired by the Battle of Abritus (251), which saw a Roman Emperor and his son die against the Goths in a clever ruse by pulling them into the swampland.
The chapter is thick, and things grow worse–for both sides. Renly's biological warfare bears fruit–for good or bad–and Mace Tyrell's digging efforts have been uncovered.
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.
"Does it matter? After Cersei's ship sails away, I'm sealing the city; we have the food to endure. The royal succession is secure. Myrielle is pregnant, Tommen is alive, and Myrcella has a son already. Should we perish to the plague in the caprice of the gods, Stark shall dutifully pick up the royal banner for us–the old or the young. We should help them and ensure Renly chokes should he try to take the city."
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.
27th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
The Young Wolf, south of Crakehall
Rage was a curious thing. Some men said fury ran hot like a raging volcano through the veins, while others claimed it cut like the frigid chill of a blizzard in the coldest days of winter.
Then, there was the Lord of Barrowton, who received word of his son's ignoble death at the hands of zealots in the North. He did not say a thing then, looking like a statue more than anything, reminding Robb of his ancestors immortalised in stone in the Crypts of Winterfell. After the meeting, he requested an audience with Robb, but it was not about returning North to defend his land as the young Lord of Winterfell had expected.
"Let me lead the assault on Crakehall. I'll give you the castle tomorrow."
The words were plain and spoken without an ounce of feeling, and Robb almost denied him, for he had other plans to dislodge the seven hundred Reachmen hiding in the Crakehall seat. Yet the dark, simmering rage in Beron's grey eyes gave him pause.
"Very well," Robb acquiesced. "Try not to die."
Crakehall had fallen two days prior, but Beron Dustin had not died. His arm was broken, his nose crushed, and his body was bruised blue. An axe had mangled two of the fingers on his left hand badly enough to require amputating one of them, but he lived despite being the first over Crakehall's walls.
Robb couldn't help but feel a hint of admiration–the Barrow Lord had buried the rage deep inside of him, keeping a cool enough head to organise the assault properly. And then he let it all out during the battle, slaying scores of defenders and carving a bloody swathe through the Reachmen with the aid of his retinue of Barrow Knights, who fell to a battle fury of their own. They had all lost kin in the North and had been undaunted under the rain of arrows, burning pitch, and stones, rushing up the ladders while the Flint slingers and Wolfswood longbowmen provided cover from two siege towers.
In the end, some of the Dustin men had to be restrained, for they had lost their wits in their bloodlust and attacked their friends once the foes had all been felled.
What would have been a bloody storming had turned out far less costly than Robb had anticipated. Castles were hard to take, especially well-defended ones. Crakehall was a particularly strong fortress with its thick curtain walls and tall squat towers because of its position at the edge of the Westerlands.
But it hadn't mattered in the end; Dustin's mad assault had only lost Robb two hundred and fifty men, which was less than half of what he had expected. A good chunk of the losses had been Westermen led by Ser Daven Lannister, who was also baying for vengeance.
And finally, two moons later, Robb could get on with his original plan. What was supposed to be a short jaunt in the Westerlands before harrying the Reach for all it was worth had dragged on for too long.
"Each stalk of grass from here to Oakheart is either grazed clean or burned," Derek, one of his scouts, reported as the army marched down the Ocean Road.
"We were too slow," Robb frowned, looking for a way out. "It gave Oakheart two moons to prepare."
His army was mobile with over fifteen thousand men ahorse; most had a spare steed or a mule to carry their supplies–not to mention the nobles who, even on a campaign, had their own supplies and tents carried by more horses. But all those beasts of burden had to drink and eat, and thirty thousand of them could sweep a pasture clean within an hour.
At least he had managed to organise his men and propose a new method of spoil distribution. Plenty grumbled about it, but in the end, all complaints were forgotten in favour of vengeance once word of the Reachmen attacking the North had arrived.
Ser Daven Lannister frowned at the map. "The Ironmen could have cut us off. The two moons brought us five thousand men and consolidated the Westerlands. Even with no grazing grounds, supplies can be gathered for the army, even if it will be slow."
Five thousand men, yet most of them were former brigands, hedge knights, or sellswords, riff-raff that no lord would entertain unless they were out of options. But there was nothing else left in the Westerlands.
"And this gave time for Oakheart to gather just as many men, if not more," Bolton pointed out. "Doubtlessly, every road into the Reach from here is now blocked or turned into a trap, every holdfast fortified, and each able-bodied man has been called to arms."
"It doesn't matter," Dustin grunted out, his broken right hand bound by plaster to his side. "Once they're crushed, the whole of the Reach will be bared for us. We should bathe these lands in blood–everything from the Red Lake to the Hightower. Let the damned flowers cower behind their walls as they watch their kingdom turn into ashes. Let them weep with regret for sending their last swords North."
"It would be prudent to wheel through the Northmarch and strike Renly in the back. Cut off the head, and the body will fall." Umber proposed, and Robb couldn't help but shake his head. What had the world come to when the hotheaded Greatjon was the voice of reason in his army? Yet it came with a silver lining; the Giant of Last Hearth had proved himself loyal, and Robb found himself relying on him more.
Lord Rodrik Ryswell, however, did not look particularly enthused about either.
"What of our homes? With Flint's Fingers fallen and Barrowton abandoned, the damned Hightowers and Redwynes can march deep into the North." His worry was understandable; his seat, Rillbrook, was amidst the Rills, standing alone between the Stoney Shore and Barrowton without any support left. "We should try to send our fastest riders up the Kingsroad lest they manage to wrangle away Moat Cailin."
"The land entrance to the North is well defended." Ser Wendel Manderly said. "Have you forgotten the garrison we left there? The Crannogmen were also notified to expect an attack on the Neck or the Moat, were they not?"
"Aye." Robb pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite his father's lessons and his own plans, predicting everything in war turned nigh impossible.
"Besides, we're too far," Karstark drawled. "Even if we abandon all of our plunder and armament to rush back home, we'd be at the Moat in three moons and too tired to fight."
"In four moons, the cold season shall come and deal with any attacks in the North," Lord Wells added. "Even more so now that it's autumn. Winter looms upon us like a cold shadow that always swallows the unprepared."
"So it does." Bolton frowned, cautiously glancing at the scarred Matrim Wells. No love was lost between the two men. Their lands were adjacent, and minor trouble arose once every few years. "And as much as we want the wretched zealots to be lackwits, Redwyne and Hightower are cunning and ambitious men. Doubtlessly, they know of such dangers and must have planned accordingly."
None of them were wrong, nor did they say anything he had yet to consider. Yet a wise lord had to let his bannermen know their voices were heard, even if their advice was not heeded.
Robb could feel their desire. Some wanted more spoils, more plunder, of which the rich lands of the Reach could provide plenty. Others wanted to defend their homes and the North, something that was the responsibility of the Stark of Winterfell. His responsibility. Yet, there was nothing he could do in this case. They were too deep in the South, and all Robb could do was trust that his previous preparations would hold. They had to hold; a raven had been sent to Winterfell, commanding that the garrison never leave the walls, no matter what.
Even if the Reachmen and the Ironborn won almost all the battles, so long as Winterfell stood, the snow and cold that would come by the end of the year would see most of them perish.
Robb took a deep breath and cleared his mind. At war, each distraction can turn deadly. As usual, his father's words brought him solace and much-needed certainty as he was torn by indecision. In the end, a strong enemy will always try to misdirect you and divide your attention from the main goal–victory.
"I have already inked a letter to my uncle Edmure, requesting any assistance he can spare to bolster the Moat. He's far better positioned to provide such," he said. "And we're not going anywhere. Oakheart has to die, and then we'll cut a bloody swathe through the Reach." And strike Renly in the rear or cut off his supply lines completely. But Robb would not voice everything out loud, for he suspected a spy lingered amongst his forces.
It made him uneasy, especially as Oakheart had somehow found out about his movements. It could just be an unknowing informant or a willing traitor. It didn't have to be anyone from the lords but could be a cook, a smith–even one of the dozen maesters and their acolytes they were dragging in the campaign. Or a more influential man-at-arms privy to the happenings of his lord, a sellsword, or someone disgruntled from the Westerlands.
Robb struggled to trust the Westerman after their lethargic response against Oakheart and the Ironborn. Sure, some houses had fought back and mustered what little men they could, but other Castellans were slow, or perhaps reluctant, to send any men–especially those from Estren, Falwell, Jast, Vikary, Prester, and Banefort.
"It's not going to be an easy fight against Oakheart," Ser Wendel warned. "He knows we're coming, and he's prepared aplenty. Didn't the scout say he had the fields along the road ploughed?"
Lord Ironsmith snorted. "So what, should we fear them planting wheat and cabbages?"
"It's a trap meant to funnel us into the road or lose our mobility ahorse, Ethan," Ryswell drawled mockingly. "Lancers can hardly gain momentum and charge if the land underneath their hooves sinks like a quagmire."
Ethan Ironsmith scoffed at the Lord of the Rills but remained silent otherwise. The return of Alysanne's gift had seen his House return to prominence, but two centuries spent decaying in a small corner of the North had left their mark. While he was more than capable with an axe in hand, the Ironsmith Lord knew little of leading men in war beyond minor skirmishes with wildling raiders.
"We still have over a hundred miles to Old Oak, so it's useless to speculate before we arrive in the Reach," Robb said, inspecting the faces of the lords and the landed knights. Grim resolve and disgruntlement mingled in equal measure in their stormy eyes. "We shall break camp at dawn tomorrow. Dismissed."
As his lords left his tent, Robb felt stiff as he stretched his back before turning to his direwolf, standing guard by the pavilion's entrance and patting his furry neck. The situation was not as bad as it could have been, but it was far from good.
Grey Wind was also sluggish, seeking the cool shades of trees during the day while screening around the army at night. Robb felt guilty for always sending his companion to scout and explore at night, which was quite a daunting endeavour that was rarely rewarded. Sure, the direwolf had the choicer cut of meat, but it wasn't the same as hunting on his own. Despite the stringent training, Grey Wind wasn't a mere dog and the wild forests and hills called to him. Alas, there were hardly any proper forests in the Westerlands, only sparse woodlands kept by the lords for hunting.
Robb could feel a vague sense of dissatisfaction well up within his companion and decided to let him loose for one night. The surroundings had been scoured for enemies a hundred times, and Grey Wind had been eyeing the Sunset Sea with a hungry desire, doubtlessly aiming to catch some fish.
Tentatively, Grey Wind tilted his head, his golden eyes almost shining like lanterns as twilight approached.
"Go, boy," Robb urged. "Might want to take a dip in the creek. You stink, and I don't have time to wash you up." Perhaps it was time to find a proper squire to assist him with all the minor duties.
After one hesitant look, the direwolf trotted out of the camp.
Sighing, Robb dragged his feet out. The worst part about the South had to be the heat. Even the hilly Westerlands provided little respite from the persistent sun. Moreover, the cold time of the year here, at the onset of autumn, was far more unbearable than the warmest summer months at home. He missed the soothing cold of Winterfell and the fresh chill of the white veil of snow. The heat didn't help when fighting either; wearing over fifty pounds of steel in battle sapped your strength far quicker than anything else.
Not that the Saltcliffes had been much of a challenge. Ice had sliced through the lightly armoured reavers like a hot knife through butter, and the rest of the Ironmen had finally retreated. Probably because their ruse had succeeded, and the Westerlands had finally mustered men to defend their coastal holdings. Robb wished he could claim he repelled the reavers, but he knew it would be a lie.
Sure, his men had managed to crush a few overly daring raiding parties lingering for long, but the Ironmen mostly retreated to their boats once they saw the lancers riding in, and there was nothing Robb could do without a fleet to chase them at sea.
The problem in the North was not much different. Without a proper fleet to defend thousands of miles of shore on the western coast, the Northmen were doubtlessly reduced to reacting to the invaders, which never boded well in war. Robb didn't know whether to curse Brandon the Burner or his father, the Shipwright. He understood the Burner's fury better, but a fleet's strategic advantage was too much to ignore, and now his kingdom was being punished for the folly.
Wiping off the sheen of sweat from his brow, Robb headed to the nearby stream of the so-called Laughing Creek, along which most of the army was camped. It was a queer name, but he couldn't bring himself to care about its origins in this particularly sweltering evening.
Definitely getting a squire. He could always order one of his guardsmen to bring him a bucket of fresh water, but reducing warriors to menial tasks was unbecoming.
Robb tensed as he saw Bolton approach him as he walked through the forest of tents.
"Lord Stark," he greeted dispassionately. But the Leech Lord's demeanour and mannerism were always bereft of even the slightest ounce of feeling as if nothing mattered to him. It was what made the Lord of the Dreadfort so unsettling. Some might claim it was just a lordly facade, a mask, though no facade could remain forever.
But Robb had never seen the man drop the act, and he was beginning to think that this was how Roose Bolton was–simply unfeeling. Or perhaps uncaring.
"Lord Bolton," Robb greeted, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. Alas, his attempts to get Bolton slain in battle were unsuccessful. The man was a canny and cautious commander but always completed his tasks successfully, no matter how dangerous. "If I had known you required a meeting, I would have made the time."
"Not a meeting but merely a quick chat, Lord Stark," Bolton said. "I know a commander's time is precious, and I do not wish to take from it more than I must."
Despite knowing that the Flayed Man would never do something in the open, Robb tuned apprehensive, feeling naked without armour. But it was too hot and cumbersome to lug around all that steel away from the fighting. He was almost tempted to return to his tent or simply pull up some random young man as a squire.
Yet a glance at the surrounding soldiers told him they were all Stark men. Captain Derek was also lurking with a dozen guardsmen at a respectful distance–just out of earshot–shadowing him while looking for threats as always.
Robb sighed again; the day had been long and exhausting, and the coming ones would doubtlessly prove the same. Running an army was daunting, but this could be a good opportunity.
"A chat, you say," he rubbed his stubble–another downside of the damned heat was that beards and sweat made a poor combination. "Might as well, then."
Roose Bolton gave a faint nod as the tents dwindled in number, and the horses increased as they reached one of the many arms of the Laughing Creek. "I have a humble request to make."
"Very well. What is it?"
"A fortnight of respite." Bolton's pale eyes bore into him like a pair of daggers. "I mean to finalise the arrangements with Ser Josmyn Drox for his daughter's hand. As you know, I am the last of my line. Of course, my men will continue to march forth under the command of my trusted captains."
Robb knew all too well. That's why he was looking for an opportunity to do away with the blood of the Red Kings for good. But it was not a deed that could be done in the open; he was not an honourless cur like Aerys the Mad to openly slay his bannerman with no due cause. Alas, Bolton was not so easy to kill.
"You have a sennight," Robb decided after a short pause. "I planned to send you with fifteen hundred riders to slip behind enemy lines and harass Oakheart's supplies. You requested command before, yet now I find you shirking it."
There was only so much Robb was willing to trust Bolton in the end. Finding a balance between giving him an important position that would not be insulting but also not too important enough to risk victory was getting exhausting. It made Robb feel like a mummer balancing on a tightrope. At least the Leech Lord had completed every assignment he requested flawlessly, though that also had the unfortunate effect of him gaining the begrudging respect of his fellow Northmen.
Far from enough to consider entertaining a union with the cursed House Bolton, though. Two dead wives, a gaggle of stillborn sons, and the only one that lived to adulthood supposedly perished to a burst belly. That was not to mention his dead cousins, who had died mysteriously during the time of Robert's Rebellion. The man's eerie demeanour, Robb's subtle displeasure, and House Bolton's poor reputation made everyone even warier to sacrifice a daughter for an alliance that might never bear fruit.
"Dustin would be a fitting man for such a job," came the dispassionate reply. "He's certainly eager for blood."
"Hence why I don't want to send him. The man is still grieving a son, and he's more likely to look for a fight once the time comes rather than avoid it and keep burning fields and villages." Ultimately, it was far cheaper–and easier–to defeat the enemy's potential to wage war than to fight an endless number of men. Years ago, Robb would have thought it was a brutal and craven method, but now he realised that it was simply the gruesome reality of war–if his foes won't follow the same courtesies, why should they hold back?
Robb crouched by the chirping stream and splashed his face with pleasantly cool water. "I suppose Ryswell can go instead. He's a man of ample experience in warfare and an old hand at hit-and-run tactics. Still, I have lingered enough in the Westerlands. A sennight, not more. Go, wed and bed your bride, and I expect you back here. Castle Drox is not that far."
"Very well," the sinister man inclined his head. "I suppose a week should do."
It was amusing that Bolton was forced to wed a daughter from a minor lordly line. Sure, the Droxes were old, but they hailed from a union of a local First Man hero and an Andal Warlord's daughter. Plenty of masterly and knightly houses were wealthier or could control more land and men than the Droxes. The campaign and the quick pace in the Riverlands had also denied Bolton the opportunity to look for a third wife there, but alas, two moons in the Westerlands had seen the Leech Lord finally bag a bride. She was not even the lord's daughter but the child of the Castellan belonging to a cadet branch.
"Is there anything else?" Robb asked, dipping his fingers in the cool water, seeking a semblance of comfort.
"No-" Bolton paused, his pale eyes widening slightly with surprise as he looked at the other side of the Laughing Creek. Robb followed his gaze, and his heart skipped a beat. Three men emerged from the shrubbery, the tips of dark bodkins pointing at him from miniature crossbows.
His mind barely registered that they all seemed oily in the waning light, as if dipped in something purple. Poison. Their dark eyes were all filled with resolve and, more importantly–violent satisfaction.
His instincts, however, screamed for him to move. And his legs moved as if they had a mind of their own, launching him behind the nearest obstacle–Lord Bolton.
Many things happened at the same time.
The collision with the ground knocked the air out of his lungs as something whistled in the air. Bolton crumpled on the ground wordlessly.
"CATSPAWS!"
Derek's angry shout rose a mighty clamour, awakening a stampede of footsteps as the familiar sound of swords being drawn choked the air. Robb kept his gaze on the three assassins, who tossed away the small crossbows and pulled out a second loaded one each, once again aiming at him.
He tried to roll out of the way, but no other obstacle was in sight, and the burning pain as a bolt punctured his leg told him it was not enough. Desperate, Robb grabbed Roose's shoulder and pulled over the Leech Lord's body as a human shield; the searing feeling quickly turned into numbness, his vision clouded, and his breathing was shallow.
Far too shallow.
The effort proved too much, and his mind faded into darkness.
He dreamt of being a wolf. This dream wasn't particularly new, for he had often had wolf dreams, but it felt more real somehow. The colours were unnaturally vivid, and Robb's mind felt completely bereft of any bodily feeling, like a leaf fluttering in the wind, about to be blown away into the vastness of the Sunset Sea. Yet somehow… somehow, he could feel the wolf clinging onto him and refused to let go.
Then, he kept dreaming of home, of Winterfell. Despite the familiar presence in his mind, his thoughts drifted aimlessly, but sometimes, voices echoed in the distance.
"...Wolfsbane, only damned cravens would resort to poison and sulking around in the dark…"
"...There's more than aconite in this…"
"...There's some hope. Didn't reach the heart, or we'd be arranging a funeral…"
"...Bolton selflessly protected Lord Stark with his body, I saw it…"
"...Leech Lord still expired before the maester could get to him…"
"...Must have been planned. Bolton was seen valourously commanding too many…"
"...This must surely be that cretin Renly. We cannot let such vile attacks stand…"
"...What do we do now…"
"...Umber is second-in-command…."
"...Send out scouts and fortify our position in case the Flowers counterattack…"
"...Damned heathens…"
"...Know how they sneaked here..."
"...I say give the one you captured to Bolton's torturer. He'll make them sing…"
"...Wasn't flaying outlawed?..."
"...Only in the North..."
3rd Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC
Beyond the Wall, Warg Hill
"Any last words?" Jon asked solemnly as Duncan Liddle mercilessly pressed the man, Rorn, down on the block.
He had expected that his word and patience would be tested sooner rather than later now that the threat of the Others was gone.
"I just took her axe," the wildling whined as a crowd gathered in the muddy square. "She couldn't keep it from me either, so who cares? What use does a woman have for a nice, steel axe after her man died fighting the Cold Ones?"
"Perhaps her son would wield it once the boy grows up," Jon said coldly. "Perhaps she could trade it for some food. But I've long made the rules in Warg Hill clear. The rules that you agreed to but broke anyway. No stealing, no killing, and all the disputes can be brought to me. You could have left Warg Hill if you didn't like them like many others."
"Please-"
Dark Sister blurred, and the head rolled off. A spray of blood painted the mud as the body grew limp.
"Put his head on the main gate," the cold words rolled off his tongue as one of the raiders, Dryn, rushed to obey. Chopping off a hand was good enough for theft, but Jon knew how wildlings thought. They would prod and poke, testing your limits, so he decided to draw a hard line instead, especially since those unsatisfied with the state of affairs could simply pick up their things and leave.
Jon knew that true change would be hard for the stubborn wildlings, especially as there was nothing to unite them. But he had already made his bed and had to lie in it. Some groundwork had been made in the desperate fight against the Cold Ones, but the road to civility was long. That didn't mean Jon would remain complacent or tolerate some of their baser behaviours. He didn't harbour any delusions that he could unite all the wildlings under one banner and civilise them, but he saw some hope for those lingering in Warg Hill.
They had tasted the power and many boons of pooling manpower under one banner. Now, Jon planned to make them swallow the perceived drawbacks slowly–or make them more palpable, at least.
He could always let them return to their wild ways in Warg Hill, but a part of him detested their savage behaviour. Another part of him was unwilling to abandon all the effort he had poured into the place and the people here.
While the crowd dispersed, the chieftains and the warband leaders gathered around him, some looking unhappy while others pensive.
"How'd you know Erna was telling the truth?" Curiosity burned in Gavin the Trader's amber eyes.
"Direwolves," was the laconic response, making the chieftain groan with disappointment. "Liars always have tells if you're observant enough." And the direwolves had an instinctive read on human body language.
"You plan to turn us into fancy kneelers, Snow?" Tormund tutted.
"The Thenns have laws and lords, yet they do not kneel," Jon said calmly. "You have seen the benefits of law and order. If folks knew that their possessions, no matter how meagre or important, could be stolen at the tip of a spear, they wouldn't bother crafting or building beyond the basic necessities. Why do you think the Thenns are so prosperous and have managed to develop metalcraft where the rest of you failed?"
"Laws," Gavin cheerily provided. "They have laws and lords."
Sigorn Thenn stood straighter while the disgruntlement on the other faces melted, if not completely.
"You're a cunning man, Lord Snow," Morna chuckled. "And we can hardly complain when we're free to leave anytime. But you're right–I want to know my sons are not left with nought should I perish too early. We know you're worthy, so we follow."
The rest of the day was calm, but the looming sense of foreboding did not go away, and his feet led him to the Heart Tree in search of solace. Yet the usual quiet of the grove failed to soothe him this time.
Jon's gaze fell on the heart tree. The carved eyes wept crimson, and the leaves rustled with unease despite the lack of wind. One would claim it was an omen, but of what?
He had come here to clear his mind, yet was only met with more questions. His dreams had been uneasy of late, for an inexplicable looming feeling hung upon his mind like a shroud, as if something important was happening. Something that required his undivided attention.
It was not the Others. No trace of their presence lingered here. Over two moons prior, everything was covered with a veil of frost, yet now the bright sun hung above the cloudless sky. The warmth had covered the harsh lands with a carpet of green–as it did in the warmest part of the year–and all sorts of beasts had crawled out of their lairs. While some were unhappy in Warg Hill, Ghost and the direwolves sensed no hint of treachery. The rest of the wildlings were hardly a problem, and the scouts kept an eye on them just in case.
It couldn't be the Watch either; Jon had forged a tentative but decent relationship with the Order. Sure, some black brothers were doubtlessly unhappy to ally with wildlings; he knew how these things went first-hand. But Uncle Benjen was a tried and tested veteran ranger. He had spent nearly two decades laying his roots in the Watch, and he had far more support than Jon had managed to acquire–and he had left a warning to his uncle, just in case.
Jon stared at the heart tree, his fingers brushing against the pale, bone-like bark as if looking for answers. But none came. The tree remained mockingly silent as it always did.
"The gods cry out in rage," Melisandre's voice echoes from behind.
"So you feel it too?"
"I do, yet the Wall hampers all my senses, leaving only a ghostly echo behind." Jon didn't bother turning to face the priestess, but she came to him, giving him a generous view of her ample cleavage. "But it's hard to say what can bestir such fierce feelings. They barely cared when the Others retreated as if it was a natural happenstance."
He snorted. "Perhaps it is–this is the second time it has happened… that we know of. But why would I feel such a thing? I am not a priest like you are."
"No," Melisandre gave him a sweet smile, but it made his skin crawl. He had seen her do exactly the same with Stannis in private, but now her green eye looked as if it was about to weep while the red one was smouldering with desire. "You might not be a priest of the gods, but something far more important–their champion."
Jon's mouth went dry.
"I thought it was a mere title borne from a wayward blessing," he said slowly, tasting the words. They were bitter on his tongue. "A stroke of luck, perhaps, completely unearned."
Twice, he had failed now, yet the gods had seen him fit for a third chance. Yet he didn't feel worthy; the success came out of luck more than anything else.
The priestess leaned on her staff, tilting her head quizzically as if seeing him for the first time.
"How can mere mortals comprehend the minds of gods? Clearly, they saw something worthy in you. Did you not pick up the torch of hope and light the way in the fight against the Others?" She leaned in dangerously close, her ripe teats nearly spilling from her dress, and the soothing scent of jasmine and thyme tickled his nose. "Did you not rush to fight the darkness where many others fled or perished in the attempt?"
"Perhaps. I… I wanted to die, you know?" Fighting and dying against the Others was all he had amidst a Winterfell filled with the faces of people he had mourned. At least until Val sneaked into his tent that night, clumsily attempting to steal him and remind him of the sweetness of living.
"Does it matter?" Melisandre closed her eyes. "It was the gods' will to choose someone like you, and it worked quite splendidly."
"Perhaps others could have done the same with a similar blessing," Jon pointed out wryly. "The North does not lack great warriors or commanders. I was only lucky-" or cursed, "to be blessed with the knowledge of fighting the Cold Shadows."
The priestess craned her neck, gazing at the blue sky.
"I have seen great men of staunch character buckle under the allure of power, doing everything to cling to it–even falling to untold depths of depravity," she chuckled. "It is an ugly thing. Some say power twists your very being, but I believe it only removes the veneer, revealing what was underneath all along. And here you stand, a man with a sense of justice and fairness despite it all. You could have become a King Beyond the Wall. A quarter of the wildlings mutter about it every now and then, and twice as many doubtlessly think it. Yet you didn't grasp for the power within your reach."
"A fool's hope. Their hearts yearn for glory and plunder, and they imagine what could have been without sparing much thought to the consequences. A dead end." Jon couldn't tell her that he had feasted himself on power to last him for several lifetimes and found its taste far more bitter than sweet. Instead, he sighed, "I still don't see what that has to do with anything."
"The gods only unearthed what was already hiding in your lineage. I can feel it, you know. Enough weirwood sap to topple a small herd of mammoths has merged seamlessly into your flesh. A small bowl was enough to nearly kill me, and even then, it runs in my veins, which is a far cry from what you have achieved."
The old gods' will would explain why he was here; that was true enough. Jon hadn't agonised over the why or the how but the daunting challenge ahead. It had been easy to pick up the fight again after doing it for what felt to be an eternity–it was not only the only thing he knew, but it felt right.
Yet he felt empty now. Aimless. The struggle against the Others had ended for this generation–and forever, if his Uncle succeeded in his ambitious plan spanning decades to venture into the Lands of Always Winter.
But the newfound sense of unease clung to him like a shroud, refusing to melt away despite the warm kiss of the sun above.
"So," Jon pointedly looked at the heart tree, avoiding Melisandre's not-so-subtle attempts of seduction in favour of the crimson sap still weeping from the carved eyes. "So you do not know what is happening either. But surely you might have an idea?"
"I can only speculate."
"Well, speculate for me," Jon snarked.
After a minute of stilted silence, Melisandre's following words chilled him.
"Someone is committing a vile act that offends the gods again and again. Based on Westerosi history, The old gods care little about the life or death of men, so I'd say the weirwoods are cut down in large numbers. Or even burned."
The only weirwoods in the wild were Beyond the Wall and in the North, and Jon's scouts would have noticed if someone had chopped them here.
It didn't take him long to realise what was happening. His Uncle had warned him of rabid zealotry of the Faith, but to think it would reach even the North…
"It is but an idle speculation of mine," Melisandre warned. "In the end, a persistent yet vague sense of wrongness is hardly proof of anything."
Giving a final nod, she stood up and left him to his thoughts, and Jon rolled his eyes at the tantalising sway of her hips. The talk had left him with more questions than answers, but it was expected when dealing with Melisandre. Even when the Essosi woman had kept to her Red God, talking with her was like fighting against riddles and had always left him more apprehensive than before, if for entirely different reasons.
That is how his wife found him, carrying Calla's fussing bundle in her arms, a shaggy retinue of direwolves lazily shadowing after her.
"She turns restless when she doesn't see her father," Val said, sitting in one of the pale roots. "Come, hold her."
Jon carefully picked up the bundle and was met with the most striking pair of amethyst eyes gazing at him again underneath the ethereal tuft of silver-gold hair. Her pale, pudgy hands greedily reached for one of his dark locks. A warm sense of fuzziness spread in his chest at the adorable sight.
"She's going to be a lot of trouble when she grows up," Jon noted lightly. Calla adorably whined at him when his locks remained out of her reach. "A beauty like her mother, too."
It had taken him a moon for the fact that he had finally become a father to sink in. He had made this little bundle of trouble and joy. While the act of making Calla had been pleasurable, the responsibility of her now weighed upon his shoulders along with everything else.
He dreaded it–not fatherhood, but failure.
Despite commanding kingdoms, an ancient order, waging war for years, or even taking the fight Beyond the Wall, the mere possibility of failing as a father chilled his blood more than the Others' cold presence. It was why he was so insistent on slowly changing the wildlings' ways here–for his daughter. And now, the unknown trouble looming unsettled Jon. It was easy to fight the Others; they were a foe he knew well, but the problems south of the Wall were not his to handle.
The direwolves stalked off to the edges of the grove, and surely enough, Ghost's gargantuan form padded over; his companion was now a whole head taller than Jon while standing on four legs and could be easily mistaken for an overlarge if slim snow bear from afar. At least he had stopped growing.
Carefully, his enormous snout approached to inspect Calla, but she only giggled and tugged at his whiskers. It only got her hand licked, making the babe giggle harder.
"You're all spoiling my daughter too much," Val said, a heavy frown resting on her face, but there was no heat in her voice. "If this coddling continues later, she'll grow a pampered weakling."
Ghost's ears twitched, and he huffed silently before giving Calla one final playful lick and curling by Jon's feet like an enormous fur rug.
"Perhaps," Jon cooed one last time and reluctantly surrendered his daughter to Val's waiting arms. "But is it truly a bad thing if she doesn't have to struggle to survive day by day?"
His wife snorted, "Nay, but that doesn't mean she has to be weak." Her grey eyes softened, and she sighed. "You seem ill at ease still. Did the chieftains give you trouble?"
"No, some are unhappy, but it will pass with time."
"Is it that bad feeling from earlier, then?"
"Melisandre claims trouble is brewing in my childhood home," the words felt heavy on his tongue.
"Trouble?" Concern crept into her silvery eyes, making her look even more beautiful. Gods. "What trouble has she felt now?"
"Something you'd call a Southron matter. Perhaps an attack on the North…"
"And now you wonder what you ought to do," Val finished with a fierce frown.
"There's not much I can do without finding out what's actually happening," Jon admitted. "Rushing to action blindly has been the undoing of many. I'll have Deer send her owl with a message to my uncle to see if he can give me a better picture of the situation. But even then, it's a matter of whether I can help."
"But you're the finest warrior I've seen." The spearwife tilted her head, and her silver-gold braid dangled in a way that made Jon unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. Clad in white, Val looked like the very visage of motherly beauty with a svelte body and an ample bosom, especially while she slowly rocked their daughter. Birthing a child had only made her hips and bosom fuller in a way that pleased his eyes. The flames of desire stirred in him again but now was not the time.
"It's not a matter of martial skill of a single man, for no matter how good I am, I cannot best a thousand on the field alone," he said. "Even the best warriors cannot swing a sword without respite, but the issue is different. In the North, I hold no authority."
"Are you not the son of the former wolf lord? What did your crow uncle say–that you're a kneeler lord now."
"Aye, but not from his wife, so I'm named Snow instead of Stark," Jon admitted. "What good is a Lord without a castle and lands to draw power from? Nothing, that's what. Even if I wanted to help, I would be limited in what I could do. Say, a word from my Uncle confirms that Winterfell is under attack. Even if I want to aid my kin, I lack the authority to lead the Northmen in battle."
"Perhaps it is so. You understand these matters better than me, but I know some of the men here would fight for you," Val noted after a short silence.
"Less than three thousand warriors are left here after all the campaign against the Others," Jon reminded. "They call me the Warg Lord, yet there are no vows to bind them to me here. There are no oaths of fealty that they must follow. All those who followed did so because we were cornered with no way out, and I proposed a way forth where none saw any. Yet, the looming threat that banded us has faded. How many have left to return to their dwellings?"
"Less than one in six," she counted. "It's not that much. Most prefer the safety of Warg Hill's walls. Only fools dare steal cattle and poultry with you here, and Gavin is already wrangling with the Watch to buy proper tools for farming."
They proudly called it Warg's Hill as if it was a grand city, but in truth, it was merely a fledgling walled-off town with a little over eight thousand inhabitants left. The Others and the relentless chill had taken the lives of far more than just warriors.
"Yet only two moons have passed since the Others retreated, and plenty chafe under the restrictions I have imposed now that they can simply leave without dying. Less than three dozen giants linger, too; the small houses do not agree with them. How many would leave in two more moons? How many more would turn away or rebel if I tried to bring all of my kneeler ways here?"
His wife ducked her head, refusing to meet his eyes.
Jon could have clung to his position of power. He could have forced the wildlings to stay and got them in line through fear. But for how long would it last? What right did he have to dictate how they wanted to live? What right did he have to impose his voluntarily accepted position with fire and sword? This was why he had been careful with the changes he had made. Step by step, moving in the right direction, if small, would get him far over the years, but it had to be a gradual process.
Things seemed harmonious on the surface, but that was because Jon knew not to give orders that would not be followed.
Perhaps he could take bolder steps in time, but any big moves had to be made after a solid foundation was laid and certain concepts had ripened in the wildling's hearts. Jon knew that true change took time, patience, cunning, effort and, of course, a chance. If the circumstances were not right and the gods' caprice was aimed at you, no amount of preparation could ever prove enough.
"It's one thing for the men to agree to fight against a threat promising to extinguish them all, yet entirely another to follow me to a faraway land to fight for people they care not for with no vows or obligations backing them," he continued solemnly. "But should the gods decide to smile upon my cause, and half of the able-bodied warriors join me, would they still do it for no gain? I can not promise them lands, plunder, riches, or women. Even then," Jon insisted as his wife opened her mouth. "Fifteen hundred men against the armies of the South that number in the tens of thousands, even the common soldiers armed better than some of the warchiefs…they would be slaughtered in the first battle."
A well-made padded jacket, a spear, a steel cap, and a shield were deadly in a formation far more than the angry wildling armed with bone, bronze, and wood. And discipline beat numbers nine out of ten times, and the wildlings lacked both now. Sure, Jon could train them into other basic formations aside from 'hold that line' and drill them into shape… if he had another half a year.
"But surely they are one of the finest warriors after surviving-"
"Val." He stared at her eyes, conveying his seriousness with every fibre of his being. "From Sunspear to the Last Hearth, Most men-at-arms train with the sword since they can walk. Fighting a war is not the same as the skirmishes or duelling man-to-man the raiders and hunters here know. The men of the Seven Kingdoms know how to fight with an axe, mace, or sword. With and against armour. They know how to fight in a formation or ahorse and have the discipline. They know war in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. And that's assuming the Watch allows us to pass the Wall in such numbers."
Val sighed, looking baffled. "Surely your crow Uncle will not bar your way?"
"If it were just me with a small retinue, it wouldn't be as troublesome," Jon said. "But hundreds of men is another story. My uncle's duties lay with the Watch first and foremost. He only managed to aid us against the Others, but the Order takes no part in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, an important tradition that had yet to be broken for millennia. I would loathe to force him to choose between his kin and duty."
"I can feel that there's more to it," his wife squinted his eyes.
A bubble of laughter escaped from her throat; Val was quite observant when she wanted to be, and nowadays, Jon felt like an open book before her.
"Should I leave Warg Hill to go fight a battle in a land they have never seen for a cause they care not for, my position here would melt away like snow under the summer sun. Or someone else will rise to lead in my absence. Someone who might not want to surrender his newly gained standing and power easily. Besides, it would mean leaving you and Calla behind."
"Should you go South, we're coming with you," Val declared, then gently placed the snoozing babe amidst the weirwood roots by Ghost's head. The direwolf's ear twitched, and he opened a red eye, inspecting the bundle before gently moving to curl the babe in his tail like an enormous shaggy white scarf. "You still have that lordship that the kneeler king promised you."
"I thought you didn't want to become a kneeling Southron lady?"
"You are mine, Jon Snow," she came over and stole a kiss, and by the gods, it tasted sweet. "Whether it is Lord Warg or Lord Kneeler Warg to save your kin, I'll be your Lady Snow." She tugged at his belt and shrugged off her cloak. "Come now, let me give you a son–a mighty warrior that would protect his sister."
"What happened to not touching-" her lips quickly silenced his objections.
The attempt on Robb Stark's life was met with fury from his bannermen, his Uncle, Lord Tully, and his royal good brother.
"My traitorous Uncle and his band of turncloaks have crossed the line by using catspaws and poison," the young boy-king had announced at his court the morrow the word arrived from Crakehall. "Let it be known that it is the Reachmen who started this. From this moment on, I solemnly vow that for every Tyrell, Hightower, Redwyne, and Oakheart slain, I shall grant a castle–whether it is to the man who does it or his kin should he perish after succeeding. The more important the fallen, the bigger the castle. Let it be known that Joffrey Baratheon does not suffer treachery lightly!"
It sounded like an arrogant declaration as the Dark Death crept through the streets of Aegon's City, killing hundreds on a good day and weakening Lord Lannister's forces. But the hordes of headhunters and catspaws that suddenly appeared in the Reach showed that many still believed in the legitimacy of he who sat on the Iron Throne.
The king's grandfather promised a chest of gold in addition to the castle, which definitely helped. Ser Gerrick Hightower, a cousin to the main House, found his untimely end not even three days later. While the assailant was slain, his son was raised as a landed knight.
Renly's forces were not spared by the plague either; his men fell ill shortly after those in the city.
Things were turning poorly for the North, with the Reach securing a landing for their force. The burning of the young Tallhart and Dustin lads had the small folk flee for their lives, but while Barrowton was abandoned, the Castellan in Torrhen Square decided to dig in and gather as many defenders and supplies as he could muster, but the morale was low. The Tallharts knew no relief force was coming anytime soon, and their numbers weren't enough to hold.
While Hightower and Redwyne decided to march northward, Ser Mern Grimm led his forces towards the Moat, dragging along a significant part of the zealots and vagrants with him.
To add insult to injury, weirwoods, even heart trees, were being cut and burned, and some more daring fools had decided to dig up the old barrows of the first men in search of treasures buried with their owners, though they didn't live long to enjoy their spoils.
Meanwhile, the young Iron Lady proved her victory in the Blackwater was not a fluke and crushed the Tyroshi fleet, this time in direct battle near the shores of Cape Wrath-
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'.
Author's Endnote:
This chapter turned far wilder than I expected. I wanted to do a short Robb PoV, but it demanded its own due somewhat. Also, it's finally time to start untangling the seemingly stalemate situation Jon found himself in. Despite what all of you want, there's no phone, so Jon can't be called on demand, nor can he teleport around. The Wall is a significant barrier to information, and certain things need to happen for Jon to move–and the most important of them is him knowing what the fk is happening.
But don't worry; things are about to get even messier very quickly.
Starring: Roose "he-died-heroically-to-save-his-liege" Bolton, Melisandre "the-gods-willed-it" of Asshai, and Val "gimme-more-kids" Snow.
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.
"In four moons, the cold season shall come and deal with any attacks in the North," Lord Wells added. "Even more so now that it's autumn. Winter looms upon us like a cold shadow that always swallows the unprepared."
"So it does." Bolton frowned, cautiously glancing at the scarred Matrim Wells. No love was lost between the two men. Their lands were adjacent, and minor trouble arose once every few years.
This sounds like he survives, which is going to make things interesting given he'll presumably be out of commission as the army makes it's way into the reach and will have to work with whatever the lords have done. It's not like they had a coherent plan, Robb was talking about figuring it out once they got there after all.
Meanwhile, the young Iron Lady proved her victory in the Blackwater was not a fluke and crushed the Tyroshi fleet, this time in direct battle near the shores of Cape Wrath-
A small thing but I really liked this. It's Sigorn Thenn who Jon uses in the books to forge an alliance between the North and Wildlings, and here he and his people are being used as EXAMPLES to strive towards rather then derided as Northern Kneelers.
